Category Archives: Portraits of People and Places

Frogger of the North

Portraits of People and Places

Walking around campus this time of year requires significant concentration. First, there are all the other walkers. Bundled in layer upon layer with only slits left for eyes, heads lowered into the cutting wind, eyes squinting against the glare and the threat of flying ice particles, these are not people who are aware of each other or of me.

Then there are the sidewalk sweepers. These little trucks with their high-powered orange brushes run pretty much continuously in an attempt to keep the sidewalks clear. These, at least, you can hear coming. But they also move quickly and send snow (and anything else on the sidewalk, such as rocks and ice) flying around at a tremendous rate. They also have a habit of turning around suddenly, so just when you thought you were safe because a sweeper was going the other way, it’ll turn around and spit snow at you.

What with all of these moving obstacle, and the intense desire to get from point A to point B absolutely as quickly as possible (before body parts start giving up the will to live in the face of so much cold), navigating outdoors begins to feel like a giant game of Frogger.

Move forward to avoid crossing Walkers … take an alternate path because a Sweeper is ahead… Follow a Sweeper… BACKTRACK!!! The Sweeper turned … more Walkers … and finally, the destination. 1000 points.

The Professor

Portraits of People and Places

You see all types at a swing dance. There are the lithe girls who seem to be able to disconnect their hips from the rest of their bodies and to make even the most mundane combinations look flourishy and accomplished. There are the guys that every girl wishes would ask her to dance, and the guys that, where ever they walk, will find that all the girls in the area have suddenly vanished to go get yet another drink of water, or to fix her shoes, or to catch up with those other girls across the room for the 16th time that night.

Every once in a while, there’s a total odd-ball. Take The Professor, for example. Nobody knows who he is, but he comes to dances with regularity that would make a Swiss watchmaker squirm with envy. He rarely dances, though apparently he attends the lessons. In fact, I’ve never seen him dance. I’ve only seen him walk around and around the dance floor with a clipboard tucked under his arm.

I think it’s the clipboard (and the solemn, studying expression, and the white hair, and the
v-neck sweater over white button-down shirt, and the pleated trousers) which earned him his nickname. He scrutinizes the dancers from all angles and occasionally slips the clipboard out from under his arm and makes notes, sometimes pausing to adjust the earplugs that peek out from his ears.

I wish I knew what he was doing, and what notes he takes. Is he watching people or the moves they do? Is he counting the number of dancers active during each song? Is he mapping the dance hierarchy to see which dancers have cart blanche to dance with anyone and which are locked into their own skill level? Is he studying the clothes we wear?

And yet, part of the social etiquette of the dance floor is that dancers do not interrogate other dancers unless they’ve been somehow introduced or danced together frequently. So since The Professor almost never dances, and nobody knows who he is, he has effectively protected himself from any direct questioning. Of course, the wondering is probably more fun than knowing, anyway.

Cold

Me and My Life, Portraits of People and Places

I’ve lived a lot of places in my lifetime, all of which were blessed to have four seasons in every year. I love seasons. Each one has its own unique charm, and none last long enough to let you get really tired of it. Just as that rut starts to set in, the next season makes its appearance.

But I’ve begun to realize that I’m definitely a transplant this far north. I’m not used to “arctic” fronts. I’m not used to having highs in the negative numbers (Fahrenheit) for days on end. I’m not used to news anchors who make it part of their regular duty to tell me how many minutes I could be outside before frostbite sets in. I’m definitely not used to fingers becoming useless within the space of time it takes to fish keys out of my purse and unlock the office door. In fact, the only thing I like about this weather is the incredibly intricate and delicate ice crystals that form over all of my windows.

And then, today, I heard the final evidence that I’m not from around here. A co-worker said, “Oooh, I wonder if the river will be frozen solid by now. I think I’ll walk out and find out this afternoon.” First of all… this is important enough to warrant bundling up and trekking out into the arboretum in sub-zero weather? And second of all… Brrrrrrr!

It takes a local to think this way. And I am not a local.

A Little Privacy

Portraits of People and Places

Moving with traffic along a four-lane interstate, I glanced up to my right at a car that had pulled over to the edge of the county highway that ran parallel to the interstate for a mile or two. Out of that car popped a young boy who proceeded to turn himself carefully away from his car (where his family sat waiting) and proceed to begin relieving himself.

That’s right. He turned himself away from his family… toward a bustling 4-lane interstate.

Rain

Me and My Life, Portraits of People and Places

We’ve had three full days of rain in the last two weeks. Hour after hour of steady, cool rain. And this morning, driving through the cornfields, the corn looked drastically different than it did when I wrote last. Those sections of fields that had been twisted and brown are still twisted and brown. But those sections that had simply been pale green with streaks of yellow are now lush and green. The weather man calls this the million-dollar rain for all the money it’s saved farmers in my area.

Imagining what days of rain would feel like, I’d imagined green corn, green grass, new growth on trees, and an abundance of flowers all reaching upward to the newly non-hostile skies in a celebration of life. It was a nice dream. But the reality leaves a little bit to be desired in the Celebration of Life department…..

A mayfly is huddled on my porch screen in the strip of dryness where the overhang shelters it from the rain. Breezes ruffle it’s wings, and as they do, the mayfly shifts it’s position deeper into the sheltered area, entwines its legs more firmly in the screen, and settles it’s wings. You can almost feel it’s resignation as it puts up with discomforts it has probably never known in its short life.

Worms, floating out of their holes, make their way like lemmings into the road and wait there to spread their bloated bodies onto the passing tires of cars.

And the ground itself, unused to such bounty, refuses to absorb the moisture. Floods have killed people and destroyed houses, bridges, and roads only a few counties east of me.

My cat, unaccustomed to the sound of rain, paces and paces, waking me in the morning to complain of the rain, and gazing distrustfully at it through the day. Last night he refused to sleep on the bed, preferring to continue his vigil.

And me? Does the rain awaken in me a desire to go out and splash in puddles? No. It makes me want to curl up in the pool of light made by my little couch-side lamp and read, sip tea, and nap. (Especially and primarily nap, actually, with tea and a book simply there to set the mood.) But instead I force my brain to concentrate on the paper I’m writing, building it sentence by sentence and forcing my eyes back again from the mayfly, which has yet again settled itself and hunkered down, determined to outlast the rain.