People on the Train: Part II

The Union Station in Los Angeles opened in May of 1939. It combines Dutch Colonial Revival, Mission Revival and Streamline Moderne styles of architecture. Though it is smaller that other Union Stations around the country, it is considered the “Last of the Great Railway Stations.” Because of its proximity to Hollywood, it has been used as a backdrop for a number of films and television shows. It is on this canvas that we first  observe an extremely unique person.

Gerrie and I had been sitting in two old chairs in the larger terminal hall for the better part of an hour. As the time to board our train approached, we gathered our luggage and moved closer to the hallway leading to the platforms. A few chairs were available so we took a seat to wait. 

     “We saw a very colorful fellow yesterday while waiting at the Los Angeles Union Station. He was dressed in simple shoes and very colorful socks; brightly colored flowers against a black background. He wore a rust colored trouser with the legs neatly rolled up to mid-calf. His shirt was a tight fitting black and white stripe. Though he wore a belt, he had thin black suspenders attached to the belt.

     “On on belt loop he had attached a wooden slingshot and on another was a change purse. On his head he wore a gray fedora with a red carnation. And from his ears dangled long feathered earrings; a black feather on one ear and a while one on the other.

     “He was dark complected - Italian perhaps - with black hair and a well-kept black beard. His mustache curled up at the ends.

     “He used his hands, whether he was counting out a few dollar bills or arranging his luggage, like he was a magician performing a slight-of-hand trick.

     “We have seen him twice on the train now; once in the dining care last night and again this morning in the lounge car. He is very outgoing and quite the conversationalist; eager to strike up a discussion with someone, anyone.

     “His name is Mo.

     “Mo and I talked a little this morning about art. He sketches from time to time and went back to his coach seat to bring me some of his work. It is interesting.

     “Mo lives in Albuquerque and he is going to the zoo there this afternoon to draw animals.

     “Mo added a clip on bow tie to his shirt today; a bow tie, a few buttons, and a small safety pin.

     “Mo is a gypsy!

     “If he isn’t, he should be.”

This was from my journal; an entry dated 04.24.12 @ 10:10 a.m. (MT).

I wish I had asked Mo if I could take his photograph. It is isn’t often that I run across a person who obviously has such a carefree zest for life. I would like to have had more of a remembrance of him.

Mo set across from us during dinner that first night on the train. He loved his wine and he loved the conversation. Whichever direction the talk took, he was quick on the trail. He was always so courteous in manners and in how each addressed each person at his table or serving his table. This is true of all his conversations I would imagine.

We saw one last time later that day. It was on the platform in Albuquerque. We were visiting with Gerrie’s sister and brother-in-law who had come out of meet us. Coming across the tracks was Mo. He was dressed as had been since the day before; coach doesn’t allow many changes in clothing I suppose. He had a bag thrown across his shoulder. With one hand he was pulling a suitcase with a Navajo pattern blanket tied to the handle with a length in cord. In his other hand he carried a shopping bag that held two pictures he bought from a street vendor in Los Angeles and a bright blue ukulele adorned with flowers. 

While on the train Mo gave me a postcard of the Union Station. On the back it had his name and address. It is on my desk now, along with a few other postcards, bookmarks, brochures and pamphlets from the journey. I think I’ll write him someday.

Back on the platform, I said farewell to Mo. I returned to visiting with my family. He was heading to the zoo to draw animals.

People on the Train: Part I

Train travel is about people.

There is something “old world” about train travel. It may not be the world portrayed aboard The Orient Express; Hercule Poirot is not sipping his creme de menthe at the next table. Still, there is a certain romanticism about being on a train. 

Train travel takes time. It takes a willingness to have conversations with total strangers during the course of a meal. It is learning that one couple splits their year between the southwest and the midwest so they can spend time with their grandchildren, or that a businessman takes the train to escape the boredom of airplanes. It is sharing a lunch with lady and her husband who are traveling to Washington so that she can receive a literary award for her first classic mystery novel. It is spending time listening to your steward share his dreams of someday becoming a singer. It is civilized. It is choosing to invest your time in a people.

Train travel is passing time. When you’re not sharing a meal having something to do is important. Having a book to read or write in, pens and a pad to draw in, or music to listen to will help to pass the time. Taking a nap or gazing out the window is a suitable pasttime. The world looks different at a few feet versus 30,000 feet.

Train travel requires courteousness. It means patiently waiting your turn to walk down a narrow corridor to the next car. It means watching the passing countryside as you walk slowly to dinner, behind a lady with a walker. It is standing aside while a man with oxygen makes a labored ascent up the stairs. It is returning the many smiles you receive as you make your back to your room. 

Train travel means having choices from a menu during breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Train travel means not being in a hurry. It is taking more than a few hours of your life to relish the scenes through the window. It is enjoying your own thoughts as you move across the country, all the while, looking forward to the next person you meet and the story they have to share. While most flights are to be endured, train travel is to be savored. It is like a fine dining experience. It takes time as you move through the courses; each one adding to the splendor of the meal. When it is finished, you reflect on the experience with great satisfaction.

I fear that long-distance train travel is becoming a thing of the past in our country. This saddens me. It is a simpler and more elegant way to move from place to place. It is slower and more thoughtful. While it still lasts we will travel by train when we can. From our room we’ll marvel at the beauty of the countryside and when it’s time, we’ll have great conversations over a reasonable meal.

Greg

Postscript:  Gerrie and I will be traveling to New York next weekend. We will visit with Peter and the Starcatcher on Broadway, look at a few of Monet’s Water Lilies and listen to the Nashville Symphony Orchestra perform Charles Ives The Universe Symphony at Carnegie Hall. However, please visit Sharing the Good Times next Sunday. I’ll continue People on the Train by introducing you to someone. 

On Seeing America

Gerrie and I have just returned from a ten day adventure! Our travels took us to Los Angeles, through the southwest on board the Amtrak Southwest Chief and ending with a few days in Chicago. It is the longest vacation I’ve had in many years. In the weeks and months to come I will share bits and pieces of the adventure. Here is a beginning. 

____________________

Among the back pages of my journal is a part of a paper napkin. It is the map that appears on the Southwest Airlines cocktail napkin. On it I marked the states that I have visited and made a list of the states I still needed to see. I kept the napkin and pasted it into the book. I discovered that there were still many places out there I wanted to see and determined that I would do what I could to visit these overlooked places. This past week I marked three of those states off of my list.

Though I was born in southeast Missouri, I have spent most of my life in Tennessee. I am used to the sights of farmland and rolling green hills. What I know of tall mountains comes from living a short while in Switzerland or from visiting Colorado a few years ago. I am familiar with oceans having lived near the Atlantic coast for a short while and with white sand beaches from years of family vacations to the Gulf Coast.

Waking up on Tuesday morning, I was greeted with a landscape that I have only known through photographs and films. A little past ten o’clock and we were in the lounge car looking north. We were somewhere between Gallup and Albuquerque. Flagstaff and Winslow were already behind us. This was my introduction to the Southwest!

The land there is barren. Stark. The soil has a red tint and is punctuated by gray-green shrub and sage brush. In the distance, say two to three miles away, stood hills. Perhaps these were mountains. They were a type of flat-top rock formation. Every so often there would be a small grouping of houses. These were trailers mostly and a stucco structure here and there. These were all on their own patch of ground with no grass and no trees for shade. Just the red dirt and the odd shrub. Some houses were abandoned and left to decay in the sun. I found myself looking for the bleached white skull of some long deceased animal. Like a Georgia O’Keeffe painting.

In time we’d begin to see rock formations more closely. These reminded me of the granite kopje formations we saw in Zimbabwe. Great piles of granite stacked atop each other or intricately pieced together like a giant stone puzzle.

As we continued east, the palette changes. The colors and texture of the land are different. The red soil gives way to the golden hue of the prairie. The landscape is dotted with scrub brush still, but more trees begin to appear. This scene stretches on for miles. Only an oasis of trees or a distant hill or mountain to keeps it from stretching  on forever.

This land fascinates me! It fascinates me the same way that the Bodmin Moor in Cornwall, or the Dartmoor National Park in Devon does. The land is stark and barren. It has the aura of still being untamed. I imagine these places can be brutal to humankind, just as I imagine the Southwest can be. Yet, it is beautiful and majestic in its own way! What may appear to be a land with so little can also appear to offer so much. One can imagine that there are endless possibilities in this land. 

I spent hours watching the countryside pass by. Looking out my window I thanked God! His creation is marvelous wherever you go and wherever you look. Whether it's a familiar scene in my neighborhood, a rolling hill in Tennessee or a stretch of white sand, He is present. Even in the harshest of places, He still causes life to happen and beauty to abound. For that, I am thankful! 

A few weeks ago I quoted Rich Mullins, “And there’s so much beauty around, for just two eyes to see. But everywhere I go, I’m looking.” As I watched the landscapes going by, I was reminded of another line from Rich, “Everywhere I go I see You.” God painted the marvelous pictures just outside my window in Arizona and New Mexico. His brush was still at work Colorado and even through Kansas as I slept. He is in and through it all. 

At the conclusion of this incredible ten day journey, I am left with this thought. If I live the remainder of my life without returning to the southwest, it will be a tragedy. 

A tragedy to me at least. 


Greg

On A Dream

"I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read in the train."

                                                                                          ~ Oscar Wilde

Gerrie and I are away, living a dream. This weekend we are experiencing the west coast before boarding the Amtrak Southwest Chief to travel cross-country to Chicago. Forty-six hours on a train with nothing but gorgeous scenery, my camera and some art supplies, my journal and an Agatha Christie murder mystery. I imagine I'll sleep some along the way.

I wish I could promise that there will be something here next Sunday the 29th, but since we'll be arriving home late on the 28th, it may not happen. But, I'll try to write something along the way that might appear here then.

Until then, go do something exciting! We are!

Fresh Eyes

The other day I heard someone say, “look with fresh eyes.” I must admit that I can’t recall ever hearing that expression and it intrigued me. Fresh eyes. I thought about that. For me it seems to hold two meanings. One is that I can look at the old familiar things that surrounds my life with “fresh eyes” and by doing so, the old and familiar can become new and exciting again. Another way means to a little deeper. It involves a bit more effort and may requires changes along the way.  

Later this week I will celebrate my 55th birthday. I am living what I consider to be a blessed life! I am married to the most incredible lady who redefines grace and love for me every day. I have two wonderful children who are making their ways successfully through life and who I am very proud of. I have grandchildren who seem to “get it” and celebrate the fact that Papa never really wanted to grow up. Other family and great friendships simply add to the blessing.

I have had the opportunity to live aboard and travel and I have experienced the world in ways that most people will not. I have stood on mountain tops and walked through valleys. Gerrie and I live in a modest house. It is filled with love and hope and dreams and the many things that make it a home for us. 

But through the years I have become “a creature of habit.” I tend to go to the same places. When I go to a restaurant, I’ll order the same things. I tend to plan things; over plan in some cases. I try not to leave many things to chance. I have become comfortable with the familiar. And while this is not a bad thing, it does stymie adventure. After all, it is hard to “look with fresh eyes” when the current eyes are doing just fine.

Trouble is, they’re not. 

I am still the child who never really wanted to grow up. I still want adventure. I want to go to new places and see new things. I want to have new experiences and create new memories. To do this, I must leave home and temporarily abandon the familiar so that I can strike out in a different direction. There are still dreams in my soul and for the chance to achieve these dreams I must “look with fresh eyes” and look at fresh things. My dream is to explore new things that I might write about. I wish to discover new images to photograph and new things to draw. I want to take the time to think new thoughts. I want to make life fresh again.

“Life is either a great adventure or nothing.”  

                                        ~ Helen Keller

Later this week, Gerrie and I will strike out in a different direction. We go west. This different direction will hold many firsts for us. We’ll visit cities I’ve never visited. We’ll travel cross-country by train from Los Angeles to Chicago and see a parts of the country that we’ve known only through books, photographs and film. We have a general idea of what we’ll do, but absent are the minuet details of the trip. Our choice to do something or to do nothing at all will be left to what we choose in that moment. And for me, that is an adventure!

Previously I’ve mentioned William Least Heat-Moon. I have such admiration for the what he made out of life. Having experienced a life-changing event, he set out to re-define his life. He made his life into a new adventure, and while to me it is a romanticized idea, it is something I wish I had the courage to undertake. He wrote, “Be careful going in search of adventure - it’s ridiculously easy to find.” Gerrie and I are not able to leave it all, jump in a van and set off through America. Flying to new places or taking long train trips may be all that we can manage. But, that is something. It is a beginning.

Seeing new things and seeing them through fresh eyes; it excites me! It also encourages me to wake up each morning and know that God has given me the gift of life for a while longer. That new day deserves to be greeted with fresh eyes, fresh dreams and fresh hopes. It is a new day to love, to create and to inspire. Inside that new day is an adventure just waiting to be discovered. That day is a work of art!

“Every production of an artist should be the expression of an adventure of his soul.”  

                                                                                   ~ W. Somerset Maugham.

See the world with fresh eyes.

Greg

An Easter Long Ago

Gerrie and I helped with our church’s community egg hunt yesterday. It is no small affair. The church reserves a nice large area of a nearby park and at around 7:30 in the morning three large trucks arrive carrying food and beverage, staging and sound equipment, decorations and 55,000 eggs. In terms of egg count, it is the largest community egg hunt in the city.

During the break between egg gatherings (you can’t call it a hunt as the eggs are spread very visibly in a large valley), we were setting on a picnic bench and the thought of an earlier Easter came to mind. An Easter with a special basket and a prize.

I spent some of my early years in Paducah, Kentucky. Our family lived in a modest house at the corner of North 31st Street and Madison Street. Just across the street was a railroad berm where freight trains would pass. A block to the east was Carson Park where the McCracken County Fair is held. I remember seeing the glow of the ride lights from my backyard. I also remember a harness racing course in the park. I remember the smell of hickory smoke coming from an old bar-b-q joint down on Park Avenue. There was an amusement park in Noble Park back then. It was an amusement park complete with a haunted house, tike sized cars and boats, bumper cars, a Tilt-o-Whirl and, a train.

I learned a lot of things living there. I learned how to ride a bike and that turtles die. I learned you can dig some really neat tunnels in mounds of dirt piled up from new construction. I learned what Lego was. I learned that I didn’t like to fight. I learned that some people who didn’t like us, were trying to point rockets at us from an island called Cuba; rockets that could kill me and a lot of my friends. I learned that if a President goes to Dallas they get killed. I learned that the bump in my momma’s belly was my baby sister.

What I had trouble figuring out was how my dad could beat me in a foot race around the house, when I never saw him run pass me.

While we lived in Paducah I went to two elementary schools. I attended first grade at Clark Elementary.  I went to second grade at Concord Heights Elementary when our family moved a little further west. I can’t recall which school it was, the latter I think, that I was attending one Easter when the teacher decided to have an Easter Egg Basket Decorating Contest. The class Easter outing would be at Noble Park and the winner of the competition would get a prize.

I always felt myself pretty handy with a crayon back then. Still do for that matter. But my mom was an artist. Supply her with a shoebox and crape paper, and with enough tape and paste she’d create a masterpiece. And she did! 

The day of the hunt and basket competition arrived. The class was in a picnic pavilion for lunch while the eggs were being hidden; not too hidden though. Before the hunt could begin the baskets had to be displayed and judged. The tension was thick. Other mother’s could be just as creative as my mom. But, not this day! No, this day belonged to me and my beautiful green and yellow crape paper covered shoebox. The prize was mine and I proudly accepted, on behalf of my mom and myself, a very generous chocolate Easter bunny! This was going to be a joy to devour. With the judging complete, it was time for the kids to get their baskets and move to the serious business of egg gathering. I stored my prize in the trunk of the car.

Did I forget to mention that it was hot that day?

As I said earlier, I learned a lot living there. It must not have been too long after the hunt that I learned what effects the sun and warm temperatures can have on a chocolate Easter bunny. It changes into a big blob of brown goo. It melts. It dies! 

Most likely I was a little unhappy. I talked to my mom about it last night. She remembered the Easter basket but not the melted bunny. She was an adult, she forgot about it and moved on. I think that if the bunny had survived I would have forgotten about it too in time. But traumatic events tend to linger in our memories.

Sitting there with my wife yesterday afternoon, taking a break from the sunburn I was trying to achieve on my forehead, I thought about that Spring of 1964. Looking out at the valley, we watched as hundreds of kids found their place along the line of pennant flags, just waiting for the 12:30 hunt to begin. Seeing their excitement, I remembered when I would sprint for eggs. Then, we didn’t use plastic candy-filled eggs. Ours would have been hard-boiled eggs dipped in Paas Egg Coloring. 

Before the hunt started, I went to coach my nephew on egg gathering. Walking down the hill, I thought about the prize winning Easter basket my mom had made for me. I also took a quick look around to make sure that no little 2nd grader left a chocolate Easter bunny setting in then sun.

Happy Easter. 

Christ the Lord has Risen today!

Greg

P.s. I finally figured out the foot race thing.

Pen and Ink

I started this week thinking I would write something about writing. More specifically, write about the difficulty I sometimes have writing. I have sat here for a while looking at a few start and stops. A few lines of text. And it has occurred to me that I am having difficulty writing about the difficulties I have writing.

So maybe a change in direction would be nice. Let’s look at some art shall we?

In September of 1998, Gerrie and I had just returned from Uganda. After spending a few weeks in the Midlands we went down to London to spend a few more days with friends before flying home to Tennessee. We had been gone for over two years and felt it was time for a visit. One evening we were setting in a friends flat in Westminster and Gerrie said, “I wish you’d draw me something. You could make it a belated birthday present.” I thought this was a great idea.

Over the next day or so, between naps and walks in the parks, I came up with this.

This is the bell tower of St. Martin’s Parish Church in Liskeard.  The market town of Liskeard is located in Cornwall, about 20 miles west of Plymouth. I was there for a few days with a creative arts evangelism team. While it wasn’t my first visit to Cornwall, it was the first that gave me the opportunity to really appreciate the area, and, to discover that the Steak and Stilton is my favorite variety of Cornish pasty. 

On the flight to America I made myself as comfortable as anyone can on a trans-Atlantic flight and worked on a rendering of Warwick Castle. 

Following the Norman conquest of England, William the Conqueror constructed a motte and bailey style castle at Warwick. The year was 1068. The purpose of the castle was to secure and maintain his control of the Midlands and to support his northern advance. Through the years Warwick Castle has grown quite large. For this drawing I attempted to focus on that portion established by the Conqueror. 

Once we were back in Tennessee I came upon the idea of completing two additional drawings. Since I work from photographs and not life, finding the subject matter was fairly easy. I looked for two other architectural pieces that made an impression on me. The first was the gothic Westminster Abbey.

Whenever we’d visit London, more often than not, we’d stay with friends at their council flat in Westminster. It wasn’t far off the Victoria Road. When we were out for walks we could cross the road and be nearly to St. James’ Park. But if we turned to the right, a five-minute walk found us at Westminster Abbey. There were times when we’d visit inside, but usually we’d simply walk around the grounds. 

Tradition holds that the Abbey was founded during the time of Mellitus, Bishop of London, sometime prior to 624 A.D. The Abbey has gone through it’s own programs of construction and expansion with the two western towers being completed in 1745 giving Westminster the appearance that most of us are familiar with today. Since 1066, the coronations of the English and British monarchs have taken place in the Abbey.

The last piece in the set that was an easy choice. All I had to do was look towards the Church of the Holy Trinity at Stratford-upon-Avon. Started in 1210, Holy Trinity was Shakespeare’s church. This is the place of his baptism and burial. It is the oldest building in Stratford. On occasion we would come down to Stratford for a weekend and during our walks around the town we would usually end up at Holy Trinity. Just like at Westminster, we wouldn’t always go inside, but simply enjoy the serenity of the church grounds.

Gerrie asked for a simple belated birthday present. She got that. But we both got so much more. She had four pieces of art that she could be proud of. I was able to reinforce the thought that I do have an artistic side and can draw a bit if I set my mind to it. I started this year hoping I’d find time to jump back into that artistic side. Unfortunately, I haven’t got to that place yet. While thinking about drawing doesn’t put actual marks on the paper, it is something. It means I haven’t forgotten about it.

I suppose that can be considered a good thing.