Wednesday, October 29, 2008

Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

There is a distinctive odor when people burn coal to warm their homes. That very specific odor came back into my mind this morning as I made the chilly trek to catch the subway. Intellectually, I know that this sweet yet pungent scent is the release of sulphur fumes as the coal burns. But when I reflected on it this morning, my only considerations were of the emotional sort.

While growing up, I couldn’t see my nearest neighbor—we were separated by distance and hillsides and trees and pastures. Yet none of these obstacles was a match for the smoke that wafted from Old Lady Conner’s house over to where I lived. To me, winter officially arrived when Old Lady Conner first fired up her coal stove in the back parlor of her modest yet intriguing house. That arrival nearly always coincided with the “fall back” change of the clocks in October (although it happens in November this year).

Her house was built before indoor plumbing. Originally, there were four, square rooms that made up the house. There was an attic, but it was just for storage. Before I was born, a kitchen was added to the back of the house, running the full width. It had a sink that pulled water from a well that never ran dry. Her water tasted of sulphur, too, and I wonder now if that was caused by some sort of seepage from her stock of coal that was poured on the ground by a dump truck. That pile of coal was just outside her back door. That made it easier to fetch a bucket when it was time to stoke the fire.

In later years, Old Lady Conner added a bathroom in the house. I seem to remember that her family encouraged her to do this as they didn’t want her to try to navigate her way to the outhouse when the weather was bad. Or when snow and ice covered the ground.

Even though church was only a short walk from home, we always drove because we went to pick up Old Lady Conner. And always, she would invite us to join her for Sunday dinner after church let out. In my earliest memories, we would sometimes accept. But then once, my mother saw bugs in Old Lady Conner’s flour and that ended our meals with her. That didn’t stop her from cooking a Sunday dinner every week though, “just in case” somebody came to visit. A fine, old Southern Tradition.

The last person I ever knew to be “laid out” at home after dying was Old Lady Conner’s mother. She must have been well over 100 years old when she died, because Old Lady Conner herself was in her 80s. Ms. Ora’s casket was placed in the front parlor and people came to call and pay respects just as if it were a funeral home. Naturally, no one came empty handed. There were casseroles and hams and green beans and cornbread. All of it brought by others. My mother had a plate that day, I remember.

***
They say that our olfactory sense is the one that is best able to conjure up memories. I don’t have any reason to believe otherwise. I’m just thankful there is some trigger that can take us back to another place and another time.

Monday, October 27, 2008

Yes, It's All About Kentucky

I am Kentucky born and bred, and so are the ancestors of these guys.

You just can't escape us! And come January, 2009, a Kentucky descendant will be living on Pennsylvania Avenue. The one in Washington, DC, not the one in Indianapolis, IN.

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

...both members of the FFA...

The title of this post is part of a line from a song by the Dixie Chicks called "Goodbye Earl." The FFA (Future Farmers of America) is front and center here in Indianapolis this week, where I am working. And if the newscasters are correct, these young agricultural aficionados are going to be in town for the next several days. Some 50,000+ of them. They are here for the largest convention that happens in the entire state of Indiana. Only the Indianapolis 500 draws a bigger turnout. (By the way, Obama will be here tomorrow as well.)


I thought it a bit odd when a group of high-school-age-looking people boarded my flight from La Guardia yesterday morning. One of them was wearing an FFA jacket. The rest looked like regular, metropolitan students. Could they, possibly, be "Future Farmers" if they live in Manhattan? Why not?


The other side of the coin, as it were, is there are no hotel rooms to be had tonight in Indianapolis. I found one last night--a Clarion Inn and Suites--that was tolerable but not up to my low standards. The first time I ever heard of a Clarion, I stayed in one. I don't know where I will be bunking tonight, so today I have the chore of finding a place to hang my hat. I recall many years ago a trip to West Lafayette, IN, where I stayed in a Family Inns of America. It was even farther down the ladder of standards than Clarion. At Family Inns, they gave you the remote control when you checked in. Clarion is more trusting than that.


Regardless, only two more nights of Indianapolis and then I can return to the calm of East Harlem. Ahhhhh...

Saturday, October 18, 2008

JFK-YYZ-JFK-East Harlem

Work took me to Toronto this week. While there, the meetings went wonderfully. Everything before and after was quite a challenge.

First, on Thursday morning, as I was preparing to head to JFK to catch the flight, I realized my passport was at the office. So with no time to spare, I made a quick trip to the office, grabbed my passport and then flagged a taxi. No cash in my pocket--and a cab with a broken credit card machine, as well as a driver who asked if I, "knew how to get to JFK." I hadn't really thought about how to get to JFK from Hell's Kitchen, so I was at a loss. I suggested the Midtown Tunnel and then the Van Wyck. It worked. Small blessing. On the subsequent flight, I was seated between rows of screaming babies.

During immigration/customs clearance in Toronto, I was taken aside for some rather personal questions, including whether I had ever had any problems with immigration and whether I had a criminal record. I confessed honestly that my criminal past consisted of nothing more than a few moving violations. By the way, what difference does it make to immigration if I am coming to visit for business or pleasure? And what difference does it make what my job is? I really don't think that's any of their business. But, hey, it's their country. If I go there, I must follow their rules. Coming back, though, is a different story. I expect US Border agents to be a little less inquisitive.

I didn't take an overcoat. It was plenty warm in NYC when I left home. I checked the temperature. Toronto isn't that far so I figured I would be fine. But, as evening temperatures approached the freezing point (0 degrees by their figures), I realized that any sightseeing or socializing must occur within the confines of Sheraton Centre. After exhausting all that the hotel had to offer, I escaped back to the confines of room 275 and sated my sweet tooth with overpriced dessert options from the room service menu.

Finally, this morning, I decided to get to the airport early enough to catch the 6:10am flight back to JFK (which meant waking up at 3am). Aside from the requisite screaming babies, it was a peaceful enough flight. Annoying at both Toronto's airport and JFK is the necessity to ride shuttle buses to the regional aircraft that Delta uses at both locations.

In an effort to save time, I decided I would take the AirTrain from JFK, connect with the E train, and take that to Manhattan, transfer to the 6 train and make my way home to East Harlem. Alas, the E train was not working at Jamaica Station. So the kind folks of MTA shuttled all the people to Kew Gardens on busses to catch the E train. The net result is that accounting for time in Toronto to clear border control, clear security and actually fly to NYC (about an hour of flight time), it took longer to get from JFK to East Harlem. Isn't it ironic?

By the time I got to Lexington Avenue, the frustration had passed and I had begun to chuckle about the misadventures.

Perhaps on a flight in the near future I will be recompensed by sitting next to some nice eye candy. That can really improve the worst of flying experiences. And God in Heaven above knows that it hasn't happened to me in AGES!

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

Meanwhile, in the State of Tennessee

McCain and Palin will be there every. Single. Day. After this...

Makes me proud to be a Kentuckian by birth!

Friday, October 10, 2008

An Example of "It Was Bound to Happen"

Just a matter of who would be first...

Thursday, October 09, 2008

Laugh While You Can

I'm a hillbilly. I am a member of the last group of people you can make fun of. Yes, I grew up in Kentucky as as part of a dirt-poor family that worked the fields. And you can make fun of me. Odds are, however, that I can't say anything "stereotypical" about you. Let me explain...

We can't make fun of these people:

-Blacks
-Asians
-Jews
-Yankees
-Hispanics/Latinos

I have loved ones--loved ones--in each group. They can tell redneck jokes until they are blue in the face. But I can't poke fun at them. (Actually, my loved ones would laugh with me--but I'm talking about the greater world.)

This is only an observation after a business trip to Atlanta. I heard many hurtful things about me and my heritage coming from people who live "up here" and should know better. It truly hit home when I was asked to "translate" what a waiter said at a restaurant. Why do I feel guilty for others, when I was the denigrated party?