The Things We Carried

A lifetime ago my mother visited me in Chicago. As we walked the five blocks from my apartment to the garage that housed the car I used so infrequently it never occurred to me that five blocks was a long way to walk to park your car, she asked "how do you walk so far with your groceries?".  She said this at the exact moment we crossed the street, only one block from my apartment, passing my neighborhood grocer. My mother, a woman who once drove home from her suburban grocery store without the groceries she had just purchased, was just shocked by this idea, "you walk to the grocery store!" and was quite worried about me carrying home, for one block, Tab and Triscuits.

Oh Mom, we carry everything home: groceries, children, curtain rods, tables, dinner.

Years ago I carried a wreath home from work that was only marginally smaller in circumference than I was tall.  I have carried a full set of china, an antique baby rocker and, on more than one occasion, a full complement of weekend cocktails. Every December we carry home a Christmas tree which used to be a joint effort, one of us at each end, until two years ago when I finally convinced Jack that we needed two trees. Successful lobbying means that now I carry my own tree but he's kind enough to give me the dining room yule, much smaller than the living room tree which seems to grow in height each year.

Last week the girls got new mattresses, so grateful they are still in twin beds.

How Much Did You Pay For Your Seat on the CTA?

Several weeks ago I read the following letter in the Social Q's section of the Times:

Children 44 inches tall or shorter ride the subway free. But I don’t believe in giving an entire seat to someone who hasn’t paid a fare. Recently, I refused to let a small child take my seat when she asked for it herself. I would have been fine giving it up if the mother had asked and put the child in her lap. Was my subway etiquette incorrect?

Julie, Brooklyn 

Well Julie, you present an interesting point of view, one that I had not before considered. For eight years my children have struggled to keep their balance, holding desperately to posts, each other, assorted body parts and weary travelers, when standing on the bus and train while able bodied adults, many of them young, sat firmly rooted in their seats.  Not always, occasionally people get up, which I appreciate, because trying to keep them both upright is a daunting task, especially when I am also responsible for groceries or beach bags or backpacks. However I am a bit confused because for the first 6 years of their life they paid nothing to ride on public transportation, the criteria in Chicago being children age 7 or above pay, albeit a reduced fare. So in those glorious younger years, when they rode only as an expense to tax payers, people seemed more likely to stand and offer them a seat, whereas now, at age 8, and paying a full $.85, they are often left to stand. By your logic, they should be offered a portion of a seat, or perhaps, because they are twins, they could share, but still, their two selves together do not equal one full fare paying adult ticket. An interesting quandary to be certain.

Adding to my confusion then is the reduced fare program for seniors. Qualifying senior citizens pay the same as my children, $.85, to ride the CTA, however signs on both trains and buses implore me to stand and offer my seat should someone much older board. Perhaps what I should do, in this instance, is offer the senior my seat and then pile my two children on their lap, that's $.85 times three, which would put them just over the regular fare price of $2.25 for an adult. Of course if the adult barometer was using a transit card, as I do, they would only be paying $2.00 per ride, and then my pile of humanity would be well in excess of the standard fare. What to do with the millions of people who ride the CTA each year from out of town, or out of the country? After spending a good deal of vacation time navigating the system maps, and then waiting in line to only be befuddled by the automated ticket machine, you now suggest that they should be well versed in the system of fare scheduling, so as to know when they should offer their seat to someone, based not on age and kindness but on the value of their seat? I see some real problems arising on the blue and orange lines, those that come from the airports.

Of course Julie, your logic is transferable to so many different things. There are a good percentage of students in my daughters' school who qualify for the free and reduced lunch program. Maybe we should shift things around a bit and only allow those children a seat in the cafeteria when all the full paying children have found theirs.And of course we must assume that you, Julie, always pay full fare when flying. I know I search for those super saver fares when we fly, but not anymore, not if that means we won't all get a seat. Certainly in this instance we must insist on safety before savings.

But then, maybe that should be the logic on public transportation also. Because the reality is that children, and older adults, are more unsteady, and more likely to fall, and certainly more likely to get injured if they do. Which is why I wanted to snap off the earplugs of the two twenty something men on the bus yesterday, who sat firmly in their seats while my children played musical chairs with the rotating cast of seniors getting on and off the Addison bus. Should an 8 year old really have to stand and offer their seat to an 80 year old while a 20 year old man sits by watching? Apparently yes, because my daughter has no idea how much someone paid to ride the bus, nor will that ever be a consideration in deciding who should sit and who should stand.

Stand up Julie, and offer that child a seat.

How Far For Pho?

It's an ongoing battle. My want of life in a charming small town versus my husband's insistence that there is no such place. My visions involve summer dirty children, running wildly in great expanses of grassy fields, riding bikes on sidewalks to the main street ice cream store (Eleanor Roosevelt panting in chase behind them), long lazy days on blankets eating sandwiches and analyzing clouds, and Independence Day parades full of local high school marching bands, Miss Blue Hydrangea 2012, and dogs in Uncle Sam hats.

Jack's vision involves Wal-Mart.

"Would you give up Vietnamese food for life in a small town? Because there are no Vietnamese restaurants in small towns", he says with the authority of one who has visited every small town in each state I find acceptable to call home.

"I would not. I love pho. Maybe I could learn to cook it myself".

This portion of the conversation is now over, Jack is laughing too hard to return fire.

The girls and I return home from picking up the dry cleaning and a stop at the tea cafe nearby. I'm aglow, basking in the kindness of those who always remember my children, and almost always have a small something for them to stuff into their pockets. This week it is a hair bow, from the dry cleaner, a trinket her daughter picked up in Korea. "Imagine the familiarity in a small town Jack, imagine how friendly it would be and the sense of community...", my voice trailing off, wandering miles from our apartment.

"There are no dry cleaners in small towns. There are no people with daughters who randomly stop by Korea to pick up some hair bows", he counters.

But there are cafes, and women working there who smile often and pinch cheeks and ask if I'd like my English muffin toasted or on the griddle. There are farm fresh eggs and local honey, hotcakes and corn cakes and pure maple syrup. There's a guy named Sam who sits outside the cafe in the morning, reading his paper and waiting for Wilma, his wife of 58 years, to finish having her hair done next door at the Curl N' Cut beauty shop.

Jack's small town breakfast is a ham, egg and cheese biscuit from the Burger King drive-through, tossed to him by a pimple faced teenager, working on Saturday morning to pay off the final installment on his girlfriend Jessie's tattoo. Just a few more Whoppers to go before her backside reads, in full, Jessie n' Josh 4Ever, with entwined hearts and roses. The biscuit smells of cigarette smoke; Josh has been sneaking a few in the break room, the stress of tattoos and parenthood at 17 are really getting to him.

Jack grew up in a small town, I did not. He is deeply familiar with crossing highways on foot to get to the school, Dominoes pizza as the sole option (in both delivery and ethnicity) and the eternal ache of wanting to find something bigger. I am familiar with strip malls, dual turn lanes, subdivisions and the easily replicated vibe of modern suburbia. My ache was in wanting to walk to town to visit my dad at work, waving to Floyd and Goober as I ambled along the dusty roads. Impossible, my dad worked in an office building in the middle of a huge parking lot, surrounded by overpasses and faux woodsy bike paths. Not once did I walk to his office, or anywhere; there is no walking to actually get anywhere in the suburbs, all walking is reserved for laps in enormous indoor malls and designated walking trails (frequented by the suburban villain, the flasher).

The battle continues. I search the internet for Vietnamese pho recipes and online sites that deliver nuac mam, sawgrass and sriracha sauce. Jack savors the shrill of sirens on our street at four in the morning. The girls wear hair bows from Korea, Sam and Wilma celebrate another anniversary and Josh and Jessie make wedding plans.

We will never move.