Journey to another Home

There is something about the ritual of arriving back in familiar surroundings after a day at work. When I lived in Adams Morgan, a bowl of chili at Franklyn's Coffeeshop & Cafe told my body that I could switch back into non-work mode. Here, in Takoma Park, a pickled hard-boiled egg from the corner sundries-store serves a similar purpose, but also connects me with favorite memories of time spent on leave in Idaho.

Comfort is needed more some days than others. While work goes well, I find myself less and less comfortable with the larger wourld. Have the consciences of so many really gone to sleep? Can we really allow ourselves the luxury of not believing what others think of us is important? I miss the days when Americans had the moral high-ground, but then perhaps those days have always been fewer than one might think.

But the day began well. Riding the Metro Rail to work has its pelasant moments. Sometimes someone will return a smile, a greeting or even make small talk. While waiting for the Metro to arrive, a locomotive pulling a real train labored past the waiting platform, on tracks running parallel to those of the Metro. Freight cars behind lumbered past. Their wake drew a thin veil of snow. For a moment I thought of distant places -- long stretches of high Wyoming plains that are only visited by trains, this time of year; forbidden places fatal to unsheltered life. Occasionally, a blizzard will close the track. Trains do come to a halt before the drifts. Amid the silent, deep cold, crew and passengers alike begin to give a few thoughts to issues of survival.

If you grow up in desolate places, such transistions in thinking are not noteworthy. The ways of city dwellers -- business people whose limo's let them escapt threats & dramas enherent in Cabs and subways when times and weather change -- seem foreign and perplexing. How can a city be a place to support the lives of so many; a place so far from the land?

I had those thoughs on my way into work, and found a moment to jot them down. At lunch folks were passing the word that it was snowing outside. The next time I went to the bathroom, I took a few more steps to look out the window.

"It's just a dusting."

"Yes, pretty though," my coworker agreed.

On the ride to and from work, I am reading Paul William Robert's A War Against Truth. Writing for Harpers, he covers the most recent invasion of Iraq. Perhaps because he is Canadian he tells the stories that all our journalists seem to miss. He doesn't miss the tanks, the bombings, the troops, or the firepower of our weapons, but he notices how so many of the victims are non-combatants. It is a story that is going to haunt us for a long time and I'm troubled thinking the world won't forget what we've done while at the same time troubled that it will.

Coming home from the Metro station, a store has pleasant home furnishings. I think of the homes of middle-class Iraq workers that are rubble. I look at the streets and remember the author's account of the damage done to freeways and bridges, remembering also the amount of construction going on when I visited Texas citis, last year. The music store with its guitars seem discourdant. Snow is still falling and though the scenery is not gray, merely subdued in its colors by the snow and the time of day, I find myself thinking of the German holocast. People are dieing at our hands and our president conducts a State of the Union as if it is some kind of Superbowl performance. Entertainment, perhaps as Ceasar knew, might be his highest priority.

I buy my pickled hard-boiled egg, wait to cross the street, then turn up the hill to where I'm living. Six men are kicking a round ball between them. They stop to let me by. Only one of them is white, he has long hair and a beard, and smiles to me like a cousin might. I envy them, the joy they find in few moments together. At the top of the short hill, I see a small dog with his leash tied to a small tree that is empty of leaves. It reminds me there are humans who, for centuries, have survived hard times. The dog's owner is shooting hoops by himself, around the corner.

It has been a while since Americans have had the kind of hard times that test character. Life seems to bring them to all of us, in time. I've learned that having friends, and maybe some with deep pockets, can be a big help. Hopefully our country will always be able to find a few friends, somewhere.