On the train again…

img_20190420_120241 I’m rolling into the Baltimore station yet again, and since my last trip north on the exact same train, in the quite car again, where I sat just two months ago when our train struck a human on the tracks. Since we pulled out of the last station, I’ve been head down in my book, hoping for the best — we’re cruising through Baltimore’s tunnels now and should hopefully arrive at the station without incident. For weeks after the accident, I scanned the news for mention of the poor soul that was struck – that poor woman whose life will never be the same. For now, it seems that we’re cruising slowly, and peacefully into the station.

Several questions have dogged me since that train ride in March, and all of those questions revolve around trauma. May is Mental Health Awareness month and since today is the last of the month, I find myself really pondering how we as a society can emphasize the importance of mental health check-ups. Part of the marketing campaign for the month revolves around the phrase “breaking the stigma” — which I completely support; part of breaking the stigma is turning things from oddities into routines.

For a woman to find herself on a set of train tracks — most certainly involved trauma, not just the accident, but whatever brought her to that place. Because news coverage is so weak, it is impossible to know her circumstance before or after the accident; but no one finds themselves near train tracks on a well-known busy commuter corridor in a major metropolitan area without having lived through some trauma. And what of the train driver and other staff that saw the accident yet could not prevent it? What of the first responders — who must see accidents like this on a regular basis? Trauma is all around us, yet our American culture remains steadfast in its neglect of the fact that the eyes cannot un-see, the brain cannot un-learn and the flesh cannot un-feel.

We must do more.

#traintravel: the unexpected

IMG_20190311_083126 I often take photos as I ride the train — I firmly believe it is the only way to see America. Road travel, unless using secondary roads, does not provide a real glimpse into America’s cities and rural areas — but even that view is limited. To get into the real America, it is essential to get into alleyways; I use this same methodology when looking for a new place to live as well — you can tell a lot about a neighborhood or town by what you can find in any given alleyway, be it trash or gardens.

While heading north yesterday, I had just snapped this photo in West Baltimore as our train came to a stop — not a jarring stop, but an unexpected one as I gazed down from the overpass where my car #3 was perched. I felt victorious when I boarded the train yesterday — with the help of the wonderful Amtrak Red Cap, I was the first one to board the quiet car. Frequent Amtrak riders know that the quiet car is the best — no cell phone calls, usually more room and people are just busy working or reading. The quiet car also doesn’t carry the extra cost of business class; as a plus the WiFi is generally more stable in the quiet car for its proximity to the business car, unlike the complete unreliability of connectivity in the general cars.

As we came to our stop, I was just finishing the last of my weekly prep for classes when one of the conductors announced, “We have a train emergency. We need everyone to stay calm. We have a tresspasser on the tracks, and we’ve had an incident.” Now, because lots of my fellow passengers had headphones on, not many heard this announcement. It’s not unusual for a train to stop to let other, faster train traffic through at odd spots along our northward route so at this point, no one is even thinking it’s a disaster to be sitting on an overpass. By the second announcement, people are starting to peek up over chair backs to ask neighbors what is going on. By the conductor’s second announcement, we know the truth – our train has struck someone. By the third announcement, we know the victim is female. By the fourth announcement, we now know that EMS is on the way — and from my vantage point on the overpass, I can see the ambulance pass underneath our perch. I start sending notes to my family to let them know where I am; and a forward note to my meeting still several cities away that I may be late. Then I google the accident.

Train accidents are more common that we all may think. The big ones, cars or trucks stuck on the tracks or cars racing trains make the televised news. People on the tracks rarely make headlines, and in 2017 over 2,100 people were struck by moving trains. This is no small number, and in fact is a crisis. Train tracks are usually fenced off, hence the conductor’s announcement of a trespasser on the tracks; but this hardly means tracks are inaccessible to humans. The report of our accident described the female victim as, “attempting to cross the tracks” — yet, there is no reason to cross the tracks at this urban, overpass setting. No reason.

We were allowed to move slowly into Baltimore after EMS departed and an inspection of the tracks by law enforcement; and allowed to leave our train to quickly transfer to another headed north to reach our destinations as our train’s crew was pulled out of service and the train put to rest until a full investigation took place. I learned from a fellow passenger, who had been on another train that struck someone that we were lucky — based on the shortness of our delay, the victim was alive. Had the victim been a fatality, our delay suspended above West Baltimore, would’ve been several hours of shelter-in-place. Lucky is not a word I’d use; fortunate maybe, that we only lost an hour of our morning and that we have our health to race to another train, up a flight of stairs and down another. Fortunate that we ourselves did not attempt to cross the tracks in front of a train going upwards of 50 mph as it rounds a bend into downtown Baltimore. Fortunate that we did not suffer from whatever reason the victim chose to cross the tracks, and fortunate that we do not bear the injuries that must’ve resulted from such an impact. The victim was reported by local news to not only be alive, but alert. Alert most certainly is not fortunate.

Meetings aside, I spent most of the day searching for news…any update on the victim. Does she have a family? Does she have friends to rush to her side? Her life is most certainly going to be difficult going forward. And what of our train driver? Does Amtrak offer the needed support for what he and the rest of the staff may’ve observed? Too many questions that deserve answers — and further investigation. I still believe that train travel is the only way to really see into America’s collective soul — and today, with so many world events shaking, it is worth a few moments of respite and introspective concentration to really understand how one victim, on one rail line, is so representative of all that ails America.

Stopping by the woods…

The first snow of the year is most certainly the best — and it looks like this one may not melt before the next one arrives. We are lucky enough to live near a network of trails, that are often highly used for commuting as well as general meandering. Yesterday’s journal to the trail, brought Robert Frost’s poem to mind, “Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening” as I had just taught this last fall — and it would’ve been so wonderful to do a reading live in the snow.

Snow is meant to give pause and as Frost notes, “He will not see me stopping here/ To watch his woods fill up with snow.” Those moments when no one is watching us take a breath – how delicious it truly can be, palatable, just a small break to savor beauty or silence or even chaos unfolding. Most often we believe the “snowy evening” to be ethereal when in fact it is really precisely, figure skater-like, chaos — from the careful landing of each flake to the swirling of miniature ground-touching wind, snow — while generally silent, makes its presence known in crevices we did not know existed just moments before. The jaggedy, often long cracks in the rock face often mirror that of the soul — where oh where, will the soft flakes land, and will we have eyes to see them?

Frost carefully notes, and repeats that his journey must continue — as every journey must. His horse has naturally, as a staid and true worker, questioned Frost’s pause to ponder and wonder — with the not so subtle reminder of his harness bells — harkening Frost back to the path ahead. “And miles to go before I sleep / And miles to go before I sleep.” The path, the promises — it’s all the same, and often feels never-ending. But the snow, glorious snow, offers those moments of reprise — the opportunity to observe peace and chaos existing side-by-side in simultaneous fashion and that loveliness exists within that chaos. Top the journey off with a short pour of Bailey’s after, and the day is near perfection.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

BY ROBERT FROST

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound’s the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

Snow Scones

For the last several Januaries, my daughter and I have made a list of items to conquer in the kitchen over the next year — our list is not long, and it often includes basic items that had elluded us in the past (okay, mostly me, she’s too young to have a long list of kitchen failures). This year scones and flaky (not hockey puck) biscuits are tops on the list. With our weekend snow storm, and a new pastry blender, time was on our side to dive into blueberry scones.

As an English teacher, part of what I help students to understand, I hope, is that writing is 50% process and 50% action and that actual writing takes up only 20-30% of that action time. So, this is my new approach to cooking — goal, objective, method. The idea of making a homemade scone, with the merging of the butter to flour for the perfect crumble was a real stumbling block because the “idea” of it was daunting. I’ve made scone for years from using Fisher Scone Mix, that of my childhood and the Puyallup Fair — this mix only requires water. So the resolution? Spend the most time finding a recipe that is not overwhelming, easy to follow steps that actually make sense, and no rushing. Using my 50% process, 50% action scenario I assumed the most time would be spent on finding the recipe and securing a non-wimpy pastry blender, and ingredient gathering is easy (we take an elevator downstairs to the grocery, which helps with the amount of time spent on action items). The real boon of this project — a snowstorm — and I’d already gathered the critical items of blender and recipe.

After scouring around the internet, I went to my go-to baking site King Arthur and located a blueberry scone recipe. Now if you follow this link, be sure to compare their photo and my non-stylized photo — I think we ended up with a pretty good match and really, I was convinced this was the right recipe based on one line of the instructions, “Use a muffin scoop, jumbo cookie scoop, or 1/4-cup measure to scoop the dough onto the prepared sheet in scant 1/4-cupfuls, leaving about 2″ between each.” Muffin scoop! No needing on a floured surface, folding or cutting in perfect angles. And if no muffin scoop is available, two other regular cooking utensil items are offered as alternatives. Looping back to my goal/objective/method process — here we have a method for scone prep that is accessible and understandable that accommodates just about any home baker. Breaking down any project into digestible and accomplishable bits rests solely on methods that make sense and lead to results that the writer/baker/plumber/painter can parlay into results that lead a reader/eater/viewer/person with clogged pipes to understanding.

For this scone experiment — the results are gone. Our little family devoured nine scones (that may sound like excess, but reminder: snow day) by mid-morning. Taste — just like the photo in the recipe — a slight crunch on the outside, soft inside, blueberries in-tact, just enough butter for a smooth crumb, the salt rises to meet the outside crunch. There is still snow, loads of it, so today may lead to a blackberry or raspberry version. Thank you King Arthur Flour!

These boots, downtown?

These boots are size 10 Keens — purchased at REI several years ago when we still lived in the often damp Pacific Northwest. At the time I was trying to replace nearly 20 year old hiking boots that I’d purchased in the Northwest, hiked parts of the Pacific Crest Trail in, taken these same boots east and hiked parts of the Appalachian Trail in. But those old boots, just could never be replaced and when the sales staff that day in REI told me these new Keens were so stylish I could wear them downtown, all I could wonder is, where on earth are these boots downtown appropriate? While these Keens fit well and seemed to fill a rain/snow need (at the same time making my feet look monstrously huge), in no way were these “downtown” much the same as my aged hikers were not “downtown” — I’m no slave to fashion, but I do have my boundaries.

It’s odd what can be wrapped up in footwear, aside from feet and socks. For me, shoes are m go-to purchase for a seratonin rush that covers all sorts of ailments — from the need for beauty in my life, to the times when current clothing styles and my body don’t match — I can always find shoes. While my style has changed over the years (walking in heels on escalators isn’t happening in 2018 or beyond), my shoes are where my memories rest. So the thought of wearing rugged, somewhat nondescript Keen black boots downtown — unless there is a major snowstorm — was unfathomable. Downtown is lights, work, ready, look great — not slothic, cumbersome (albeit lightweight) and clunky. Even in bad weather, it took awhile for me to transition to these Keens from my sportier (and prettier) hikers of yore. I went so far as to purchase high quality insoles for those oldsters, and hot glue them into the shoe bed (not recommended) to somehow extend their life. Hot glue and socks don’t mix, just an FYI.

But now during Bombogenesis, cyclonic snowstorm of the decade, I have a new appreciation for my Keens — hours in low digit temps combined with bamboo socks and I’m nothing but toasty. Keens are the workhorse of boots — these boots will not let you down, will not leak, will not allow you to suffer when you are the sole shoveler of snow in your household because your working-at-home husband is on a day-long conference call. You can sweep off those cars, sprinkle that snow-melt and tromp to the open coffee shop for hot chocolates with your kiddo, no problem. Downtown these boots will never be, and these shall never replace my old hikers, but they are the future…the workboots for work I didn’t anticipate.

Those old hikers? Yes, I’ve moved them again. And I want to build a shadowbox for them — my love for these laces, swoops and divits will never die. Five cross country moves, and counting…

Bombogenesis! The first snow of 2018

I called my dad yesterday to let him know the Governor had declared a state of emergency in advance of the pending Bombogenesis — to which he naturally asked, “What on earth is that? Is it similar to snowmageddon? Snowpocalypse? Why is there a bomb in it?” All good questions, for which I had no answers — but the real thrill of it is…my dad and I both love to completely succumb to the Weather Channel, when the big ones are coming. He neglected to mention that in our home state, multiple earthquakes around Mt. St Helens and a rapidly shifting ridge to the east of the mountain should be equal cause for concern.

Defined: a bongenesis = a cyclonic snowstorm, where Arctic air (that generally builds the more famous Nor’Easter) meets topicla air like a brick wall, the air swirls in a centrifugal manner (severe) and creates the “bomb” effect of blasting everything in its path..leaving strong, possibly hurricane force winds and plunging temperatures in its wake. The upside: schools are delayed or cancelled well ahead of mother nature’s fury leaving folks some time to plan ahead — since I work from home, this also allows time to do some early morning meal pondering (pondering is better than planning) and a little daydreaming — what about baked potatoes — for lunch! Fresh banana bread with chocolate (thank you Molly from Orangette, I’ve never been able to make regular banana bread since your first book) for breakfast! Almond butter cookies (trying this one today, three ingredients – sounds simply perfect) by mid-afternoon! And dinner — no one will need dinner, though there is a bag-o-salad from last week’s Trader Joe’s pilgrimmage in the fridge. But, who eats salad in a snowstorm?

Snow’s meditative and silencing qualities are my buoys of comfort — many adults hate the white stuff, and I’ll admit I am no fan of the ice storm so should our “bomb” friend turn that direction, our loving relationship is officially cancelled. Snow is candles, wool socks and a chance to stay inside — willingly (I am not usually a fan of the indoors or staying at home and all its laundry implications). While snow allows the mind to rest and the gaze to settle evenly — is also energizing in all its light reflective gloriousness. The peace that snow provides as it coats the landscape, allows new ideas to sprout — snow is the incubation that is needed by the soul and the heart. My yoga instructor says each time our class teeters in tree-pose that there is always movement in balance. So it goes with the snowfall — in peace, there is always endeavor.

Pennies from Heaven

From late summer and as this autumn progresses — it seems like the constant theme is loss. While the wild colors of fall leaves in the mid-Atlantic are glorious as always, this year each falling leaf is accompanied by a sadness that a once beautiful, green, living life has passed onto the other side — the whithering side where memories grow dust in the farthest reaches of the mind. Grief and mourning are constants in life of course — there can be no birth without its opposite of death; it is also at this time of year when temperatures turn colder and cozy scarves abound that songs on the radio proclaim as ‘the most wonderful time of the year’ are endless. Autumn serves as a not subtle reminder, that to move towards rebirth we must plunge into darkess — and thanks for daylight savings time, darkness comes ever so early during this season.

On the day of the most recent human passing, pennies appeared at nearly every turn on my daily walk — my cousin has reminded me regularly since the death of her brother in August how pennies rain down on us from heaven. Bing Crosby sang ‘Pennies from Heaven’ in a 1936 film of the same title; other famous artists of the time recorded the song as well including Billie Holiday and Tommie Dorsey — a decade later Frank Sinatra, then Tony Bennet, Rosemarie Clooney — the list is long, and a list I never would’ve thought to look for, had I not been nearly tripping over pennies. The Sinatra version can be heard here: http://www.metrolyrics.com/pennies-from-heaven-lyrics-frank-sinatra.html — the most poignat lyric, “If you want the things you love, you must have showers.” And so must we have autumn — with all its sadness. While working towards the light and all its meanings from religious to earth-bound and metaphorical — the real movement is finding the beauty in those dusty memories that contradicts the raw placidness of falling leaves. Autumn is death in living reality. It is often said that memory fades with time, or that memories are enhanced to inaccruate levels of enlightened delusion — but perhaps not so, perhaps memories are the lights that carry and sustain us (however contrary to historic record). What is light if not manifest joy? What is a scuffed, or shimmering penny in the wane light of a fall afternoon, if not a tiny speck of light tossed into our path for remembrance?

Biscuits

Last night, with my hands mushing through cheese-grated butter and fresh-from-the-fridge buttermilk, it struck me that this simple food — the biscuit — represents so much more than its basic ingredients. For at least a year, I’ve pondered what it means to gather at the table — a pastor I follow through his blogs, John Pavlovitz, recently published a book on the ideas around how we can grow our tables; while I’ve yet to read it, I have a pretty good idea of what the “table” of contents will reveal. I myself, think the table starts somewhere between flour and butter (constants of many cultures).

There are just about as many ways to make a biscuit as there are biscuit bakers. I favor self-rising flour because then I have no need to add a leavening agent — the rise is built into this favorite flour and it saves me about five seconds on the clock. Purists would most certainly scoff at my short-circuiting of more tried and true methods. Then there are the biscuit makers that rely on the “eye-ball” or “pinch” methods; others yet vary the type of butter (salted or not, sweet creme or not) — while others yet differ on their view of the buttermilk requirement. Complete die-hard kitchen gurus will favor a certain flour over another; I veer to King Arthur mostly due to the fact that it is readily available and harder to get organic flours in bulk in my current location. I rely on the closest clean drinking glass to shape my biscuits, but someone out there must be buying their biscuit cutters at Williams Sonoma (a set runs $16.95), otherwise WS wouldn’t be selling these. I cover my aged cookie sheet with parchment, followed by a quick bake on a high-temp; others speak with reverence of their 50 year-old cast iron skillet.

All of these factors aside, after about 10 or 15 minutes — you will be able to pull hot biscuits from the oven. Many routes, many flavor subtleties, one general result — simple, baked goodness. Adorn it with a crown of fresh jam or drizzled honey, maybe an egg and cheese and what do you have? Still a biscuit.

When we as neighbors stop making biscuits and seeing each ingredient for its beauty and value to the biscuit, it is not so different than when we stop joining together at the table. When we forget the flour, butter, leavening agents — these are common ingredients used around the globe. What happens to our communities and our hearts? Fracture. We are no longer building together, we are isolated; isolation, that particularly heinous form of torture. Why would we inflict this upon ourselves and others?

Several weeks ago, on a cloudless yet temperate day, my family waited patiently in line at the St. James Armenian Food Festival — waiting for the delights that send wafting scents over a several block radius. Folding chairs, long tables and plenty of hosts covered the church lawn — and of course the lines that snakes into the neighborhood. Aromatics combined with char summoned guests like ourselves from the crowded sidewalks, encouraging everyone to pick-up the pace — no one wants to be last in line and miss out on the homemade kataif created with loving exactness by parishioners.

When you take a seat at one of these utilitarian tables, a sea of colorful and exuberant faces greets your gaze — all gathered together to savor the richness of flavors that is at once exotic, but after a moment on the pallet familiar and comforting — almost as if the message in the kataif seems into your pores through your taste buds. My own daughter’s first solid food was hummus – so her young receptors knows well botht the adventure and calm that spun chickpeas and warm pita can elicit.

Here, there is peace — many routes, many faces, many ingredients. The table here is the result of the quest, the respite our hearts seek in a disparate world that each day feels more rife with contempt. maye we all back a biscuit with a friend — learn their ways, their use of butter and flour and maybe even chickpeas — then sit together, at the table to savor.