Sunday Morning Blogging

Is meant for reminiscence. The morning is chilly and reminds me of early fall and New England, the tentative days of being some place new and alone.

When I was a freshman in college I took public transportation to and from school, with the occassional exception of being picked up by Rich when he got off of work and my schedule was just right.

The mornings were brisk and I'd trek down our street to meet up with the 7:50 bus. I'd busy myself watching the lines of traffic form and people sitting alone in their cars sipping on coffee they picked up or else talking to their carpool. In the bus it would be slightly warmer, with the smell of coffee, smoke, diesel, aftershave and morning breath lingering in the close air. What usually takes 15 minutes by car becomes a half hour of stopping and waiting and going some more.

The driver would deposit us at the T and I'd take the red line over to my college, only three stops away, but in actuality a very long train ride. Of course the train was busy but I never minded hanging on with one hand to the cool thin poll and watching the view through the doors: the different ragged homes with crumbling porches, the empty back streets, an elevated view of marshes that ran into the harbor and far to the right, in the distance, my school. It was an urban brown brick set against the cool blue of Dorchester bay. From there I'd take one of the free shuttles to the school and if I had time I'd wander through the cold, darkened avenues that made up our own private little citadel. Sometimes I'd stand at the back watching cars pile into the north lot behind Wheatley and beyond them the city of Boston lay to the left. My eyes would water from the cold wind that would beat against my face and I'd grudgingly walk back to class and sit there waiting.

Yes, I loved it.

The bus trips consisted of me studying my fellow passengers, though if there were a need I'd be busy reading some book that needed discussion. Some days it was psychology other days the Greek myths. There would be days, uncomfortable as it was, that required that I drag along my black art portfolio bag that was big enough to hold my masterpieces in. These were my hours of solitude, the times when I'd really get to know this new city, this new route, this new life. College was one of the best experiences I had ever had.

My college was not a typical, just got of high school, living in a dorm, partying and getting drunk with my roommates type of college. I was 18 and would be in a class with a 24 year old, a 44 year old and a 75 year old. All of them bringing in whatever experience they've had into the conversations. It was never dull and it was never uninteresting.

Time to call my mom.

Me.

P.S. Julie are you okay? Did you ever receive the letter I sent you, like a month ago? I hope it didn't get lost in the mail, or if you wrote to me I hope that didn't get lost in the mail! Hope you're okee.