Tag Archives: community

A memorial for Memorial Day

On a recent Wednesday, I got to talking with the man in line in front of me at the grocery store. He was an older man, probably a good decade older than my father, and he showed a lot of interest in Busling. His eyes lingered long after the initial “Look at the baby!”, and he asked lots of questions–the kind asked by people who are missing the days when their own were still tiny. So, to keep the conversation from being completely one-sided, I asked the man if he had children.

“Yes, two grandchildren,” he said, “a boy and a girl.” He paused a moment, then added, “My son was murdered on a Metro bus in 1987.”

He told me a few of the details–that it was a robbery, that his son had been counting his recently cashed paycheck in the back and then had refused to surrender the money to the gunman who demanded it. That it was the first ever murder on a Metro bus.

We talked a bit longer–about his grandchildren (who live in Portland but visit him often), and about how he wished his son had used better judgment on that April afternoon 23 years ago–and then went our separate ways.

Our encounter didn’t last longer than five minutes, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. About all the hours and days and years that kind man had spent loving his child, watching him learn to smile and laugh and roll over and crawl; discovering his preferences, his quirks, his weaknesses, his gifts; attending games and graduations; giving advice about important tests and first dates.

I felt compelled to honor his loss by learning all I could about his son–not about the way he was killed, but about who he was, what he cared about, and who would miss him. Here’s what I know:

His name was Larry Curtis Walker. He was 30 when he was killed, an employee at The Plush Pippin at Southcenter. According to his boss, David Jensen, he was wonderful to work with.

“Larry sparkled with integrity and loyalty,” he said in a PI interview a couple of weeks after the murder. “[He was] the best employee I’ve ever had.”

Larry left behind two children, a son and a daughter. His son was six when he died. His daughter, from what I could gather, was younger. Many people knew and cared about Larry, including parents, students, and staff at his son’s school. They started a memorial fund (administered by David Jensen) for his children.

And he had a father who loved him dearly.

My new favorite bus rider

Last night, on a late-evening 71, I sat next to a man who was really into cigars. He was carrying a handful, which he had apparently just purchased at a nearby smoke shop.

“They’re rejects,” he told me. “Maybe they’re rolled too tight or something. They normally sell for 15 bucks* a piece.”

Of course, that prompted me to ask about the qualities of a cigar that costs the equivalent of eight peak-hour bus rides (not including transfers) which prompted him to explain about fine tobacco, and timing, and hand-rolling. It was quite an education.

Somewhere in the course of the conversation (as I am wont to do), I mentioned Bus Nerd. The cigar aficionado, who was definitely my elder, but not by more than a decade (decade and a half, tops), raised his eyebrows.

“You’re old enough to have a husband?” he asked.**

Were it not for said husband and my own unwillingness to commit a bus foul (oh yeah, and those cigars), I would have kissed the man.

* Apparently, $15 is nothing. They can (and do!) go much higher, and (as with everything else expensive) there are people who actually buy them.
** And how! Perhaps it was my neon-green 12th Man gloves (thanks, Luke!) that cast a youthful pall–er, I mean glow.

Carfree Sundays, part II (or, Now this is more like it)

The sun did, indeed, shine on Columbia City today.

No cars allowed (except police cars, that is)

For a few minutes after I passed the barricade, I stayed on the sidewalk (30+ years of conditioning are hard to overcome)–until I realized I didn’t have to. What an exhilarating feeling to step off the curb and stroll down the middle of the street!

Columbia City Bakery's sign
Carfree Columbia City

Hoops, hopscotch, and hula hoopin’:

Street b-ball
Street hopscotch
Hula hoopin' en masse

Dancin’ in the street:

Dancin' in the street

Props to the excellent DJs, who quadrupled (at least) my enjoyment.

A bicycle-powered blender:

A carbon-free smoothie

A streetwalk cafe:

Nerd and Chicklet eat in the street

Folks clamoring (as usual) for undriver licenses:

Undriver licensing

Except these two, that is:

Driving on carfree Sunday

Street art:

Street art in Columbia City
Street art in Columbia City
Street art in Columbia City
Streets are for people
Seattle!

Indeed.

Chicklet and the 27, part II

On Wednesday, as Chicklet and I settled into a seat on our favorite route, an elderly woman I had never seen before sat down next to us, looked at Chicklet like she knew her, and said, “I just saw your uncle over at the University of Washington.”

I was about to tell her that she had us confused with another bus riding mother-daughter team when she said, “I had to get a few x-rays and some work on my crown.”

Aha! She had indeed seen Chicklet’s uncle, my brother Joel, an almost-dentist who sees patients at the UW’s dental clinic. But how did she know that? Good question.

Around this time last year, Joel told me he had a patient who knew me. “I see her on the bus sometimes,” she had told him. “Isn’t she expecting?”

Back then, I wondered briefly how the woman had known Joel and I were related (we don’t look that much alike–do we?) and then forgot about it. Until Wednesday, that is, when I came face to face with this same patient, a bus chick whose powers of observation put my own to shame. (She’s got a few years on me, but still.)

Her name is Ida (I should say Miss Ida, as she is my elder, and I don’t know her last), and she recently returned from a trip to Arkansas to visit family. She rides the 27 and the 48 (among many others) and sees Nerd, Chicklet, and me out and about around the neighborhood. She even knows which church we attend. Miss Ida is enjoying the summer and doesn’t mind the heat at all, especially compared to what she dealt with in Arkansas. Her July Sears bill apparently got lost in the vacation-mail shuffle, so she was headed to the store (off at 3rd and Yesler, transfer to the 21) to pay it in person. She never, ever pays bills late.

Chicklet pulled out all her best tricks to impress our new friend (some of her favorites: clapping like crazy and hitting herself on the head) and was rewarded with an appreciative cheek-pinch as Miss Ida stood to go.

“It was good to finally meet you,” she said to both of us.

Oh, yes. Yes it was.

Not even candy paint and big wheels can compare.

And I thought a ride on the 358 was an adventure…

On our first 358 ride to visit Jeremy, Chicklet and I sat next to a woman who, despite getting off on the wrong foot by asking one of those questions, turned out to be alright. She was on a bus excursion–which had started in Ocean Shores at 10 AM and was going to end in Everett late in the evening (!)– to pick up her two-year old granddaughter. (I think she mentioned why she decided not to opt for Greyhound, but I can’t remember the reason.) By the time our paths crossed on the 358, she was on her fifth bus (1. Ocean Shores to Aberdeen 2. Aberdeen to Olympia 3. Olympia to Tacoma 4. Tacoma to downtown Seattle 5. downtown to Aurora Village), and seven hours in.

In case you’re interested in making the trip (or, like me, awestruck and curious), you can find the itinerary details at Evan Siroky’s regional transit site. (Yes, he’s the same Evan who won the January, 2007 Golden Transfer.) Evan knows a lot about how to get around the northwest using transit, and, like a good transit geek, he’s sharing his knowledge with the rest of us. From Evan:

The web page has the complete schedules for all transit connections possible throughout the region. These range from Seattle-Portland, Seattle-Vancouver, BC, Aberdeen to Tillamook, and Yakima to Walla Walla, to name just a few.

And, as I mentioned, he’s covered Ocean Shores to Seattle. I wonder what would happen if I introduced him to “public transportation adventure” Jim

My kind of transit etiquette

This man, spotted on a Sunday afternoon 26, was folding origami swans from old newspapers and handing them out to his fellow passengers.

Summer swans

I wish I had a better picture; the swans were really cool. And no, I cannot explain why he was wearing a wool hat and flannel shirt on a crowded bus (with no AC!) in the middle of 90+ degree day. Perhaps I should ask Bus Nerd, a man who insists on wearing a jacket and bringing an umbrella everywhere, no matter the season, forecast, or current temperature. Little old ladies at bus stops won’t have to worry about him being cold.

For better or worse, part III

For better: The 48, where everybody knows your name

On Friday, Chicklet and I traveled to the Eastside (48 + 545) to meet Bus Nerd for lunch. My parental leave is quickly dwindling, and we’re trying to get in all the family bonding time we can. I digress.

The 48 ride was one of those cool trips where it feels like you know everyone on the bus. We ran into my friend Paulette, whom I met several years ago (through Bus Nerd) on the 3. Actually, I originally met Paulette many years earlier, when I was still a child, because, as we discovered upon our second meeting on the 3, she knew my dad. Again, I digress.

Paulette is a teacher and a student, and she was on her way to the UW to make copies of some old bound issues of Labor’s Heritage, to do research for a class about education for revolution, or the revolution of education, or some equally cool subject.

I didn’t catch all of the details about her class because in the middle of our conversation, Sarah B, a woman I went to high school with, sat down next to us. Sarah was also on her way to the U, no doubt to work on her dissertation, so she can go ahead and knock out that PhD in environmental anthropology.

We all got to talking–about the sunny weather, the origins of Chicklet’s name, and Paulette’s blog (about local eating) for the Splendid Table.

I got so caught up in conversation that Chicklet and I missed our stop and had to backtrack a couple of blocks (in the sunshine!) to Montlake Freeway Station to catch our transfer.

For worse: Freeway station interrogation

Just as Chicklet and I had settled in on the bench to await the trusty 545, a rather odd man (there were no obvious outward signs of his oddness, but I have very sensitive insanedar, honed from a lifetime of bus riding) sat down next to us.

Odd Man: “Have you seen the 265?”
Bus Chick: “I’ve only been here a few minutes, but I haven’t seen it.”
OM: “But what time is it supposed to get here?”
BC, gesturing toward the enormous sign to our left: “Schedule’s right there.”
OM: “Yeah, but it doesn’t have the 265 on it.”

Having no more help to offer the man, I turned back to Chicklet.

OM: “Is that your only child?”
BC: “Yep.”

And then, with absolutely no transition, he followed with one of my favorite questions:

“Are you half black?”

Of course I could have (possibly should have) shut him down at that point, but I’m a curious person (though apparently not as curious as some), and I wanted to see where his questions were leading.

BC: “Yes, I am.”

He continued to ask (How many siblings do you have? Are your parents still married?) and I continued to answer, until he started asking too many questions about my mother’s death, and I decided I’d had enough.

BC: “These questions are a bit personal, wouldn’t you say?”
OM: “Oh yeah. I bet I’m the only one who’s asked you this stuff, huh?”

Not by a long shot, buddy. Not by a long shot.

Finally, the 255, arrived, (not the bus he’d asked about but apparently the one he decided to take) and he got up. As he waited in line to board, he turned to me one last time.

“Say, is your husband black or white?”

Bus to caucus

On Saturday, like many of our fellow Washingtonians, Bus Nerd and I attended our first caucus. It was Chicklet’s first caucus, too, but of course, pretty much everything she does is a first for her. I digress.

The caucus was held at T.T. Minor elementary, so we took the 48 (also known as my ride to everywhere) down to Union and walked the rest of the way there. (Note that we could have taken the 2 up the hill, had we been inclined to wait–or disinclined to walk.) The place was packed–with 100 people showing up just for our precinct, which is only one out of many in the district. I’m guessing there were a thousand people there.

I’ll spare you the details of the complete and utter chaos that ensued (we did manage to tally votes and elect delegates)–and my thoughts about how silly our electoral process is–and skip to the part about the bus: At least 10 people we had ridden the 48 with that afternoon participated in our precinct caucus, as well as many more people we had seen on buses around the neighborhood. We’d suspected our nearest neighbor of being a bus chick (more on the telltale signs in a future post), and it turns out we were right; she took the 48 to the caucus, too. One strikingly attractive middle-aged woman I’ve been seeing on the 27 for years (and sometimes on the 48, riding with a little boy I assume is her grandson), and on whom I have a little bus crush, was chosen to be one of our delegates. Now, I finally know her name, and I have an excuse to say hey (He-ey Georgiana!) if (when) I see her on a bus in the future.

Score one for the political process.

Still wondering

Tonight, on my 48 home from Montlake, there was a middle-aged man in the seat slightly behind me and to my right. He was on the phone with a loved one, telling the person in a strained voice not to worry, that he would make it home.

After he hung up, he began moaning softly, then loudly, and when I turned back to look at him, there were tears streaming down his face. He opened a can of something to drink (from my angle, I couldn’t see what it was) and continued to moan and cry.

The bus was rather empty, it being after 8:00 PM on a Friday, and I was one of only a few passengers near enough to this man to know anything was wrong. I turned again, trying to catch his eye, wondering if I should ask if he needed help.

But then, the bus arrived at my stop.

I got off.

On twentysomething men: volcanoes, hurricanes, and the breaking of things

I’m already home from the party, and the last bus hasn’t even left my brother’s street yet. Shoot, the second-to-last bus hasn’t even left. The party was fun, even though I was the only woman there for the first two hours. One of Jeremy’s friends (who also happens to be a bartender at Flying Fish) made a big tub of hurricane punch. I only had one cup, but that was enough to make me grateful for the designated driver (one of the may perks of the bus-chick lifestyle).

The guys
From left: Robbie (aka Caligula), Birfday boy (aka Saulty), Billy (aka Biker Boy), Dale (aka Hurricane Maker), and Marty (aka Pyromaniak)

At my transfer point on the way home, I met a guy named Archie. He was waiting for the 128 and wanted to know if I had seen it pass. I hadn’t. Archie took the opportunity to strike up a conversation, and, as is the custom of many people I meet at bus stops, he started with one of those questions. Despite this, and despite fact that he had a hard time keeping his eyes on mine, Archie’s cool people. He’s 25. He lives in White Center. He works construction. He likes music and really liked the Goapele song I downloaded yesterday and have been listening to on my Schmipod (aka affordable MP3 player that actually has a radio tuner) nonstop since.

When his bus finally came, Archie gave me a hug goodbye and suggested I write something about him. “Write about how I break it down,” he said.

And so, I am honoring that request, even though, to be quite honest, I am not sure exactly how Archie breaks it down. I do know this: He certainly knows how to make the time pass at a bus stop.