Happy Thanksgiving!

Extra! Extra! We interrupt this weblog for some important news. We, the Lao Wai Central--that is, the newspaper that reports on the strange customs and ways of the foreigners here in this little town, have been amazed at the way our foreigners acted today. We shall follow the American family at the college to see just what those foeigners are up to.

This morning, at 9:35 AM, our reporter, Guh Ja Di, saw the two girls in this family emerge from their apartment building, flushed and excited. The older girl had a folded piece of paper in her hand. She produced from her pocket a length of cloth (which she folded and tied 'round her sister's head) and a feather (which she put in the cloth to create a strange headdress). She did the same with a headband and another feather for herself.

Then they began their walk, giggling madly. They took the usual route to the Hua Shu and went through there to Qishan Lu. They crossed at the safest crossing, and then walked down to the newest apartment complex. They knocked on one door, still giggling madly. When the other foreigner opened it, they both said "Hah". The other foreigner (the one they call Kiana) giggled. Soon, more foreigners came and they commenced to painting stools with strange symbols abounding in orange and red and brown. "This is what we are thankful for," one of them said, when asked by the reporter what the heck they were doing.

The two girls skipped home and immediately went to lunch at the cafeteria where they ate vegetables that they say are good for preventing cancer. They seemed pleased with their lunch.

At 4:00 PM, the whole family set out with two other foreigners to the farm outside of here. There there were many people and everybody was caught up in the festivities. When they were asked what they were thankful for, they spoke of turkey, friends, turkey, China, turkey, Thanksgiving, turkey, happiness, and turkey. They also mentioned turkey. They are enamored with those birds, it seems.

All in all, they seemed to be very happy and celebrated quite a bit. Now, we ask you--what is it that foreigners celebrate that makes them so happy?

Thanksgiving Proclamation

I have never wanted to be President or take a high political standing. Not only can I not stand politics, I just could not stand to have half the country think you're wonderful and half not or something like that. Also, being in charge of a whole country must be pretty tiring.

Still, I think there would be one nice thing about it...no, I'm not talking being in control or having a cool house (white) or a plane or stuff like that--I don't really care about that stuff (as I write this my family is not even in possession of a car, we're in a foreign country with no control over practically anything and in an apartment that is smaller than the first floor of our two-floor house!). But I think it would be fun to write proclamations for holidays.

My mom was just looking for this year's Thanksgiving proclamation, and that was actually the first time I'd ever heard about such a thing. It's interesting--to have to write all that in a manner that the whole nation would want to read it. And the whole nation might read it. Thankfully, to have this challenge and joy you don't have to be president (and thankfully, most people can avoid the job if they don't want to). If you write a book you want many people to want to read it and there might be a bunch of people from all fifty states who read it.

Oh, and thankfully there are people who seem to like being president or don't mind or whatever so that those who don't want to be president don't have to be.

Yes, I know Thanksgiving's on Thursday. I just like to be kind of "awares" of things to be thankful for most of the time (when I'm bummed I have to be plain old bummed first, before I can look on the bright side. Who doesn't?), plus, it seems so sappy to have to come up with things spontaneously when you're groaning from indigestion. I prefer to think about it, ponder it, and do it before the meal. You might be thankful for a lot to eat before the meal and still afterwards, but afterwards you might be too full to want to think about food.

So, aside from the obvious that you could probably list for me (e.g., food, clothing, food, family, etc.), here they are, in order:

Words
Books
Pencils
Keyboards (computer and musical)
Finale NotePad
Computer games (especially my new favorite, a science fiction one)
The fact that the Chinese people actually know how to cook vegetables, unlike most Americans (except they're tied in the potato department and Americans do tomatoes better)

How do the days run?

I just realized that no one knows how exactly we spend our days. I thought you might like to know, so...
Monday, Thursday and Friday I wake at 7:00 or so and read my history over breakfast. Tuesdays and Wednesdays are the same, only I wake around 7:30. I then generally goof off until later in the morning, when I do science and English. Math is only for part of the year because the math curriculum is made for three or four times a week, instead of five. So I do five, skipping occasionally, so that around Christmastime my schooling will be light. Actually, to be fair, I don't do both science and English most of the time.

Twelve o'clock is lunchtime. We all go to the cafeteria and get some food there. Yes, it's Chinese food, but it's good for everyday. I generally get a vegetable, with or without rice, or noodles, topped with lots of green onions and crushed garlic.

After lunch Becky and I usually play or read until Becky's school starts and then I generally start doing the rest. After that I do other things until it's time to be "checked" (when it's really my schoolwork that's being checked, not me!). Then I have to pick up completely, and then I'm free 'til supper. After supper I'm also (generally) free.

Weekends are completely unstructured, which is the way weekends always should be. I mean, they may be structured to the hilt, but they're always different. Saturdays have a different flavor than Sundays, and we do a lot!

This week is as unstructured as a weekend, actually. Wednesday's a wedding, Thursday's Thanksgiving at the farm, and Friday is "do-school-early-pack-up-and-go-to-KUNMING!!!" day. How cool is that?

London Bridge is Falling Down...

...my fair lady!

Yeah, I know, that's a weird way to announce that we saw a musical tonight. Can you guess which one? :)

Okay, this movie was okay...not great but not as good as I thought it would be. With a little bit of luck I might actually watch it again, you think?

I'll have to do some research and see if there is a plain in Spain that gets a lot of rain. Or, if I were to get really technical (spoiler warning!!!) how did Zoltan Karpathy "discover" that Eliza was "Hungarian". Hmmm... Zoltan Karpathy was funny, though.

Is it just me or does the style of hat that Eliza's father wears in the start of the movie ring a bell with anybody? It seems to me like I've seen it on folks in Seattle. But, then again, not since 2005 sometime, and here it is November 2006.

Oh, well. It's a fun movie. See it, but do yourself a favor and see it with subtitles...or in your primary language if at all possible...

P.S. I watched a musical and now I have "'Til There Was You" from the Music Man and "Papir iz doch vays" (sp?) from Folksongs and Footnotes by Theodore Bikel. No idea why...

Dancing at the Crossroads

I can make up so many jokes with that CD title from my favorite Celtic group. See, I have a favorite American folk music group, my favorite Balkan group, and my favorite Celtic group. If you aren't srict about initials it's A-B-C. If you are it's A-D-B-C. Whatever. Anyways, I made up a joke about finding people from the band dancing at the crossroads in a non-serious story* and telling the main character all sorts of dumb puns on their CD titles as they give her directions. This, unlike many of the strange people that wind up in non-serious stories, had no basis in reality--I have never met anyone in the band, unlike the other two. In all, by the way, I've met three people between the two but even that gives you a little more to work with. I haven't even seen this group live.

But I was just thinking about CD titles and how nice they would be as book titles (I always do) and I realized that there's another joke about "dancing at the crossroads"--my favorite Balkan group is impossible to sit still to, and the first time I saw them was at Crossroads mall in Bellevue (And I wasn't dancing, per se, but my feet were, and that sort of counts).

Yesterday, in desperation, Kiana and I got together to paint, though our teacher is all of a sudden a bit too busy every time a lesson comes up. Now, it could be that she all of a sudden had a work overload, or she could be putting us off. I suspect the latter, but mostly because Mum does so, too, and she's the best source of Chinese culture in my family. Of course, a Chinese person who was western enough not to mince words would be invaluable, but since you have to find a person, then become really close friends with them, and then take care of the rest, I'll stick to my mom, or another foreigner who's been here much longer than we have. Those are my best bets.

I didn't really know what to paint--so I started painting something from home. I enjoyed filling in every detail I could remember adn put down, though I did make the roof too dark, the windows too yellow, the sign too close to the main building, and skipped (intentionally) the "window boxes" that lined the walkway.

Then I decided that I would paint another picture (after a little break that involved a woman and her son and a duck going to America on a ship captained themselves, picking up some pirates who turned out to be Vikings and slept all the time, and finally sang a song about "Hey, hey, it's the New World!" In the middle of it, Kiana did something I used to do, and still do sometimes--sing prose to a very strange twist of melody like a recititave only singing it like an aria. And no rhymes. It was like I was playing with my past self for a minute). I didn't know what to draw, so I painted (contrary to watercolor style) a wash of the deepest, darkest blue I could mix, and then I painted a black hill, then I made a mix of green and black practically out of the tube and painted it on with very little water. Finally, I used white straight out of the tube to make the limbs snowy and the snowflakes falling fast. Ah, if only--sometimes I wish that we could live, not in Beijing, but in northern China where it would look more Christmas-y and we could have central heat. Oh, well, it's just an idle wish come Christmas and Easter time. Now, don't say that I haven't seen snow because it does snow in Seattle--every two years or so, a day or two in January.

Anyways, I now have got to work on Christmas presents--I have Daddy's practically finished, know what I'll make for the three women in my family, and am hopelessly lost on my sister. I asked her what she'd want and now I'm torn between giving my sister something she wants and would enjoy or doing less of a "sacrifice" but something she'd still enjoy. It sounds cruel, but everyone will understand when I tell them: She's awfully clingy and wants to sit on your lap and kiss you and hug you and everything and she won't get off even when we tell her to stop. I can barely stand it when I want to--I don't think a present has to be that much of a sacrifice. I am not selfish, I just don't think it will end the way she hopes (i.e. I'll be mad because I got into this, and she'll be mad because I promised and am not exactly keeping my word). Even though she said it wouldn't have to be Christmas Day...hmmm...maybe I could play EV Nova with her extra...?

Of art and watercolors

I love to draw. In fact, I love to doodle more than I like to do practically anything else--it's right up there with reading.

I used to hate poetry and spending a long time looking at art, but now I like both, go figure. I also attempt to write poetry and paint nice--not stupendous--but nice pictures. I've found that if I'm really into a picture it has more life, more substance to it. Even if I decide I want to paint a picture of an animal (my worst subject) but I don't want to draw a night sky (now, they're easy), the animal will look better even though it's worse. You know what I mean?

Well, lately I've been looking at art and I am impressed with the symbolism in some art. In some it's blatent, and in some it's just little things you notice. I have a lot of respect for both, but more for the latter. Anyways, I once made up a little story-book (that I never finished) for somebody in my family with "blatent symbolism" in the illustrations. One page for each of our favorite bands, and a page for Star Wars, and a plain page. So. On the first page you have a very dumb book title (though broken up into CD titles it's perfect) How to Daily Grow in Simple Sentences (now, that's two CD titles, "Daily Growing" and "Simple Sentences"). The next page had some harder in-jokes about another band...the princess was playing a lute and singing with her eyes closed, there was a shoe on the table, the lady's-maid was sort of dancing, and one of them had sunglasses in her pocket. The fourth page was extremely dumb. The princess was wearing a white dress. Her dark hair was being coiled about her ears by the lady's-maid. There were two others, one reasonably tall and the other short and squat, in the middle of an argument. In the backround were a couple of crazed siblings swinging on ropes. Anyways, it was a way to pass the time, though the aforesaid family member never got it because it was taking too long and I needed something...

Anyways, great artists can do better than that, and I love looking for things like that in art. I think art is like a poem--which is like an onion, layers. No Shrek jokes, please. It is the outer skin and the heart which you must consider. And sometimes only the poet knows the heart.

That's what I like to do, though I don't do it very sucessfully. Take a private emotion and tell the world...but first, throw on so many veils that you can barely find it. And the veils change to emotion to something different, something beautiful.

Of course, it's easier to do in a painting, and a picture is worth a thousand words--but one must come up with those thousand words. So it's harder to be a writer...but more satisfying, in my opinion.

Anyways, I didn't mean to write this much, sorry. Have a good one

My forte?

I just got into writing a short story (set in my latest favorite computer game, of all things) and realized that I am more suited to that than longer-length stories. At least for now. I have a million different stories I'd love to write, though, mostly set in a made-up time and/or place. It's like historical fiction but easier.

Anyways, if I ever write anything that I feel like posting online and that I feel comfortable posting online at this time it'll be here. Don't worry!

Ciao for niao...

------/\--/\--------
----(0------0)-------
-----(---o--)--------
---------------------- (Miao!)

Ah, now I remember!

Now I remember what it was I wanted to tell you. My dad and I like to make up new words for folksongs. Now, how many of you know "So Long, It's Been Good To Know You"? Well, we made new words up for this.

First the background story: I first learned this song out of Theodore Bickel's songbook--Folksongs and Footnotes. I then heard the song from the Weavers. It's got a different part in the chorus than the first.

At first, the Weavers version sounded awkward, and then I could sing both, but now I barely know the Theodore Bickel version. So here is a verse for "So Long, It's Been Good to Know You" that Daddy and I made up:

Now, the Weavers their version was so strange to me
And Ted Bickel's score was a joy for to see
But Ted and I parted--the Weavers hung on,
And now I am singing a Weavers-style song, and its

So long, it's been good to know you...etc.

Random Thoughts

I was sure that I heard rain on the roof this morning--then I realized it was the neighbor's shower.

I feel so guilty. I wish it would rain and be cold all winter. It was wonderful that it lasted as long as it did.

Don't misunderstand--I want what's best for the crops. But everybody wants something for himself, sometimes big, sometimes small, and I see no harm in wishing for something a little bit selfish--so long as it isn't wrong--if you know what's selfish and what isn't. And if your wish is selfish because it's not best for other people, you should only be half-serious. But otherwise I think it's fine.

Now--the connection has been down, and I really want to type down the random thoughts I had all formulated into a blog post last night as I was falling asleep. You know the problem with that? It gets connected to my dreams and when I wake up I don't remember the dreams.

Well, as soon as I remember it, connection or no I will make a cyber copy. Or at least type it into the computer. Don't worry!

I will wind up with a riddle:
Who can murder people, marry people, start and end wars and countries, and cure the common cold? (answers are on the comments page)

Just Like Martin

I know, I know, I said I wasn't gonna do book reviews. I meant it!

This is something else. It's a blog post about a book: Just Like Martin by Ossie Davis.

I've read it about six times. And when I read a book six times I'm either stumped for reading or enjoy it a lot. Or perhaps both.

I like it a lot. It's set in Alabama, 1963. It's a small town and there's this teenager, Isaac Stone, and the book is about him. He wants to be nonviolent. His mom died and his dad is really hurting about something from the Korean war. And Isaac's hero is Martin Luther King, Jr., and he really likes the speeches Martin Luther King, Jr. makes. Oh, and Isaac and his family and friends are Black.

Anyways, one day, somebody bombs the church and it kills two kids. And, anyway, well, it's hard to explain without giving it all away.

Anyways, I like this book because the characters are really interesting. They've got many layers. And when you start reading it it's like your immersed in the culture and ways of this little town. And it tells me about a time in history. I feel like I'm almost really there, invisible, able to maybe understand a little of what the people feel like.

Finally, I realize that people all over the world are alike. What made me realize this was actually the fact that the people in the town, even as they were different, were the same in so many ways. Like, there's this one woman, Big Mother, and one time Isaac's dad says, "Is there anything to eat around here," and this other guy says, "Big Mother's in the kitchen, and you know what that means." I guess they aren't exact quotes, but you get the gist of it. I know people like that :).

It's fascinating. I really recommend it. I sure hope it's in the Seattle library systems, 'cause we're returning it to Uncle John and Aunt Trish in a couple weeks.

Sorry!

Ai-yah, I am so bad at updating. Nothing really is happening, except for school--it's biography time these few weeks. I am currently reading Leonardo da Vinci and will finish it next week, when I begin on Luther. I am also reading The Second Mrs. Giaconda, which is a mixture of funny and serious and is really enjoyable, despite its low rating. Rrr.

But that's boring. Who cares a whit what I read? (Besides Mum, who makes sure I don't read bad stuff, and Daddy, whose interest in my school books I cannot understand, try as I might) So that's why I don't blog about that. My dad has book reviews, check them out, though they're heavy on the Sonlight side--no, that's spelled right. Sonlight is a curriculum. I don't have the URL with me now, but it's the curriculum they're using for me. And I like it a whole lot. But that's straying from the point.

Oh, I could tell you about my Christmas preparations, I suppose. Or Gail's, but that's another story. She asked my mom to write a simple Christmas skit and according to what she's told us, it's getting very interesting. I'm looking forward to it. Anyway, my Christmas preparations involve presents and programs (only one, and that's Becky's and mine to do) and, most importantly, trying to turn a few limp sheets of posterboard and make it into a suitable tree. Unless my parents take the hint and give me an artificial tree for my birthday. Or a Douglas Fir gets abandoned by the side of the road the way our palm branch was...

Let's see--I'm thinking aloud here--I'll need to make more snowflakes. Also, I'll need to buy or beg a sheet of red posterboard for a secret that will be very funny, and I want to decorate everything--this year I can use the TV. No specials this year. Rats. Ummm, what else do I need to do? Oh, yeah, somehow make some more suitable decorations. Hm. Well, that plus eight Christmas presents, half of which are not figured out yet, the other half are mid- or pre-production, and...well, Christmas is my time to get stressed.

And it's really not too early to start thinking about it. I do this every year and this year it's even more important. Pre-Christmas last year was a disaster, but Christmas was great. I want all of the Christmas season to be a success, even if I have to work my tail off.

Anyways, this was just an apology and "nothing to write about" post, so I will close here. Happy Thanksgiving, everybody!

(Oh, and if you think this is early for Christmas, the other day I was looking at St. Patrick's Day cards. But, then again, I'm in a Celtic mood...)

Oh, where is a violin teacher?

FINALLY! Yesterday Mum, with the help of her Chinese teacher, got my
violin fixed. The Chinese teacher's English is really good, and she
also teaches Japanese, if I remember correctly. She took Mum (I was
afraid to go) to a guy on campus and according to Mum he got the bridge
fixed and even tuned it. Gone are its fuzzy sounds! Oh, it sounds so
wonderful now!

I really want to play a joke on Mr. Yarr, my (former) violin teacher.
He jokingly said, "Send me some Chinese music" and I would like to pick
up a copy of the "Yellow River Sonata" or whatever it's called, which
is all written in Chinese musical notation as well as being Chinese
music and send it to him with an accompanying note about it being the
"real deal". Oh, well.

I just can't wait to start taking violin again in the States. Only, I
think I want to get some lessons in how to play in the Celtic style.
Vibrato and the other hand positions would be nice, too.

Now, I know your heads are probably muddled, but I will clear them up
by simply stating what the problem was. The violin bridge had slipped
(and if anybody is really experienced with the violin or has a teacher
who offhandedly mentions these things like mine did, you'll know that
it wasn't glued on in the first place) and I was afraid to play it,
thinking perhaps the violin would implode. I couldn't (and still can't)
remember what makes it implode, taking out the bridge, taking out that
post inside it, or taking off all the strings in the wrong way.
Anyways, we got it fixed and it's working beautifully!

Anyways, I was playing a few songs from the fiddle tunes book Mr. Yarr
kept bringing to class, and I was so wanting to play the other songs in
it that I finally went out and bought the same book! And I was just
wishing that there was someone to play the harmonies with. But since
the violin was sounding so bad I took most of my books and all of my
duet stuff home. Oh, well...

random pictures

Becky is the Death Star for Hallowe'en! And it was her idea. I was so proud of her ideas...

Hallowe'en was "Interview your favorite Star Wars characters"--take your pick, Luke Skywalker or the Death Star?
My latest profile pic. I hate the way my face comes out on camera, so these computer paintings are a way to soften and yet tell the truth.

Leaving on a rocket

My sister, the cartoonist, is doing a (in her words) "boring comic strip" about astronauts going to Neptune. It's instead of a plain old normal report like I did about Venus when I had that assignment. (If I could go back, I would either do Uranus or Pluto because no one wants Pluto anymore). In her research, we discovered that it would take twenty years to do a round trip there.

Here I am, for two years on the same planet, with the same basic way of life, and sometimes I thought (and still think) that it'll be forever, that I will never live on the blue house on the corner again. But I got to thinking--and, understand, I hate to put things in perspective. Sometimes it does not help, but it was okay in this case because I am at peace living here--and what I thought was this:

I imagined myself an astronaut, on a voyage to Neptune (and I have dreamed of being an astronaut occasionally) and I was watching Earth get smaller and smaller, and I realized that I would spend twenty years away from any of this planet, the one planet that is habitable, going to a cold other planet I cannot even land on. Not even to the moon, where the comforting blue glow of earth would be there sometimes, and I could walk on its poor dead surface. Where other people have set their feet.

Right now, I am caught up in a computer game about space travel--the science fiction kind. I don't know how I'd like it if I were really there, but that is no danger. Instead, I play the game, shipping people's valubles, helping scientists, and looking for adventure (in this game, by the way, I have yet another name--Rhia, short for Rhiannon Carter). And, actually, although I can't stand most science fiction, my favorite movie is sci-fi, though for about three reasons--good story, one planet is forested with redwoods that for some reason remind me of Washington State, even though it's California, and it made me cry. But to be really tossed into space, to really live a life of danger...? I would not like that.

So I guess the point of this all is--Earth is home and that is where I will stay, even if I were qualified to be an astronaut; and there is a difference between wanting to be thrown into a book or a movie for a time and wishing to live it for real.

What's in a Name?

Names DO matter.

I am not kidding, for I have been four people, depending on my name.

There was Cathy, the little girl with the round glasses and the blond
hair who loved so many things. And the essence of her still remains
when one uses the name. But I don't like that name anymore. Of another
person, it is a good name all the way throughout her life. But for me,
it's finished; outdated.

There was Ga Dai, the girl who doggedly studied Cantonese and loved the
characters, but frustrated herself trying to commit them and their
meanings to memory. There were people who called her Ga Dai and they
addressed another person entirely.

And now there are two. Catherine, the girl who has so many faces in and
of herself...a girl who fiercely loves books, music, and movies that
make her cry, a girl who loves to play and be silly no matter how
grown-up she looks, and yet likes to be the "quiet" girl in front of
strangers--no matter how annoying it is, it is a complement to have me
talk a lot to you.

And then there is Ja Di, the girl who can't speak more than a couple
words of Mandarin, but loves to draw and is delighted that her art
teacher calls her by her Chinese name. Ja Di is the one who, with help,
painted the Wa women dancing, and the Christmas star shining in an icy
dark sky.

It's interesting, you must fully accept a name or nickname before it
becomes part of you and highlights a part of your many-faceted
personality. Then, you must use it consistently and constantly, and it
will become you and yours. And THAT'S what's important.

Sometimes I think I need a fifth name to cover a fifth facet. I have a
pondering, poetic streak that fills my serious stories and poetry, the
ones I want to publish someday.

And it makes me wonder. Do people still publish under pseudonyms? It
may be that my creative streak will be highlighted in the future by a
pseudonym under which I publish. I don't think a pseudonym is exactly a
lie. I think it's a way of distancing one part of yourself from
another, keeping your, say, gardening streak away from your, say,
musical streak. Just for an example. Janet can garden, be the real
person and the person of the heart. But Leah can be the person who puts
her soul into music and something.

Forgive my ramblings, they're probably very boring. I just like to
ramble. It's interesting for me, and that is what I believe my blog is
for. Me. But I would be very happy to take you along on the ride.

Seattle Busses

"My Friday regulars."

"My Monday regulars."

"My Wednesday regulars."

Only the first was actually spoken to us by any bus driver, but I think
they probably all had that feeling. I am not saying we are the center
of the universe, I am simply saying that people tend to notice people
that ride the bus often.

Of course, the guy who drove the 24 probably had a lot of regulars. I
tend to notice individual people, and who knows? Perhaps more than one
bus driver noticed the quiet, often serious little Chinese girl, the
quiet, often serious middle-aged woman, and the girl who read or wrote
or drew and was sometimes serious, often quiet (yammering away inside
her head like she often does when confronted with a crowded room full
of strangers). For those were the "regulars".

Or perhaps they took no more notice of us than they did of the Chinese
grandmothers shouting across the bus in lyrical Cantonese what they
bought at the markets in Chinatown. The markets! From our passing on
the bus, I could not smell the fresh produce, but I could see and hear
the little old grannies. Oh, how I would miss them! But I do not.
Instead, they chatter away in a lyrical dialect as unknown to me as
Cantonese and I meet them everywhere.

And they knew my mother--here it is always, "hello Eunice" from the
younger crowd, but in Seattle, once a week or more we would meet a
little old grannie who came to her community English class and could
say a few things to her in broken English. Those Saturdays were often
days of Chinese delicacies, brought home from generous students. But I
digress.

Whether it was to downtown from the bus stop up the hill from our
house, filling with Chinese grannies and then filling with other people
from all walks of life, or back up from downtown, often on a sunny
evening or a dark cold night, when I was only too glad to get on and
hope to squeeze a seat, or if it was to Rainier Beach from the bus stop
on Walker Street (an ongoing joke between me and Becky) or
back--through the greenbelt, of course--or sometimes taking the Kinnear
bus to the Seattle Center, the 36 route (changing to the 1) was and
probably still is my favorite.

You'll never know where you'll meet a bus driver (and I won't go into
that now). We have met a bus driver we're pretty sure has driven us on
the 36 once or twice. We don't remember every bus driver. But we do
some of them.

I know at least SOME drivers might have noticed us...I recognized all
sorts of regulars. A British woman from Magnolia on the 24...long blond
hair, a strange but almost beautiful face; a man on the 55 to West
Seattle--always in a thickly lined coat, bald, and sort of belonging
among coat like a snowy owl. People like that. And our bus drivers,
too. The one who noticed us was somewhat nice and a bit heavy, with a
beard and looking like a cross between Henry VIII and my violin
teacher, who, by the way, bears a striking resemblance to the aforesaid
Bluebeard. In looks, I mean, not personality!

Now in my head is "Shule Aroon". And I know why. Once off the bus and
home for good, what better than to play a CD or two? And I know what
CDs we played often enough. What little music I have I don't play
enough of...I popped in our meager Atwater-Donnelly collection last
night and tears stung my eyes as the memories flew back and socked me
in the face. I should play them more often. Then again,
Atwater-Donnelly always makes me cry, even at home under perfect
"playing conditions" ("Where the Wild Birds do Whistle"--hot summer
night, "Culled from the Garden"--sunny morning, late night, or, best of
all, down to Portland). Well, not CRY, but my eyes are certainly not
dry. Whatever.

And, all those who I've seen on the busses and remember so clearly, and
others as well--I'm thinking of you.