Riding Metro-North. With Pink Galoshes.

Posted on by Live & Learn

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Monday, November 17, 2014: Rain. 35° F.

The Work Day Monday starts on Sunday. The peaceful easy feeling of Saturday drifts into the grace of Sunday morning, and comes off the mountain in slow motion, the avalanche building momentum until it covers the village at the base of the mountain. It’s 3 pm on Sunday afternoon and my attention shifts to the work that I planned, but failed to get done on Saturday.  There’s my briefcase, bulging with those good intentions from Friday afternoon. (A white-collar Suit but a dues paying member of the proletariat. A plebe, never freeing his rough, calloused hands from the shovel. Need to dig. Never finished. Never complete. Never good enough. And the bell tolls. And the bell tolls.)

I’m reviewing Monday’s calendar. A 7:30 am Breakfast with a colleague. A commitment that was made a month ago. Let’s have breakfast! This will require a 5 a.m. wake up call, a 6 am train, a 7 am arrival at Grand Central and a brisk 15-20 min walk to breakfast. (Why are you pushing the clock? Last time you checked, you were the Boss. Who’s running who? Just cancel and reschedule to a later date. You had a conflict that came up. Who would know?)

I ask Rachel what train she is catching. 7:34 a.m. Father-daughter will ride in together. (I cancel my breakfast meeting. A last minute conflict came up. Unavoidable. My apology covered in a mist of guilt.)

We’re standing on the platform. She has her spot. She knows where the train stops, where the doors open, where she can position herself to get a seat.  She’s in front, and holding her ground.  Other crafty commuters, a herd, all huddle around her. The rain is rapping on the tin roof, and spills over onto the tracks.

She looks back, and waves me up. I shake my head, and wave her off. I’m standing way back of the pack against the rails, alone, and watching. (Crowds. Claustrophobia. Humans, stay back. Man needs space. Needs his own Air.)

22 years old. Standing tall, back straight. Her hair is brushed and is hanging long and straight over a heavy, winter coat. And at the base, dark blue, rubber knee-high boots. (We lived in Chicago. She couldn’t have been more than four years old. I was looking out of the Metra train window. There she was, waiting with her Mother at the station for her Dad to arrive. Tall, florescent pink galoshes lighting up the dreary landscape. Cheeks red from the blustery wind blowing over Lake Michigan. Her eyes light up, her arms reaching, stretching: Daddy!)

We walk together through Grand Central and exit onto Madison Avenue.

Have a Good Day Dad! 

I pause to watch her walk away.  My right hand, a fist, is squeezing the hour glass. The sand races downward. There’s no stopping it.

100,000 course corrections, and here I am.

Standing alone. Empty. With Nothing left to say.

Notes:

 

 

34 thoughts on “Riding Metro-North. With Pink Galoshes.”

  2. I still remember the “Course Corrections” post from when it first appeared. I think it might have been one of my first encounters with your blog. It was when I said to myself, “Subscribe to this guy”. With all the things we write about, it is interesting that much of our “best stuff” is about our children.

  4. I can feel the heart-felt sentiment in your words, David. The pink galoshes against an otherwise dismal background; like a beacon, I’m sure. Thank you, David! What a wonderful way to start the weekend! Cher xo

  5. “I pause to watch her walk away. My right hand, a fist, is squeezing the hour glass. The sand races downward. There’s no stopping it.” – Such brilliant writing, David. You are so incredibly fortunate that you feel all that you do, that your heart overflows with love for your children, and that you are able to write about it in such a beautiful manner.

  6. I love the image of her having her spot, knowing where the train will stop and the doors will open. Its a powerful position to be in. So many other wonderful images too, your words flow like the wind.

  12. Love is a wonderful thing. It can outrun the long legs of time with pink galoshes. And it doesn’t need any more words. It’s all right there. Beautiful writing, David.

  14. I agree with the other comments: I enjoy your blog very much but these are the posts that I wait for. You are a skilled writer. Thank you for sharing yourself with us.

    1. Thank you for the kind words Bill. Yes, time disappears and memories remain. Your thoughts remind me of:

      Some memories I would give anything to forget.
      Others I would not give up upon the point of death,
      they are the bright hawks of my life.

      —Mary Oliver, from section 2 of “Evidence” in Evidence (Beacon Press, 2009)

      The words that you share emit light, grace and gratitude. I look forward to your thoughts.

      Thank you Bill.

      1. David – thanks for the kind words. Memories are what makes us and sadly it take both good and bad. With out some bad we might miss the good.

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