There are times when I am traveling that a scene or an image appears that is so compelling or extraordinary, that I think I will remember it forever. I can see, in my mind, as clearly now as I did then that first image of the Rockies; of the woman who, along with her daughter, picked me up in their little Chevette loaded with groceries somewhere outside of Yale; of the fireworks that exploded into the sky from small Prairie towns as we travelled across that wide expanse sometime after dark on a July 1st or the Northern Lights that danced above my head as I tried to sleep near an underpass just outside of Regina. These images sneak up on me at the strangest times, unbidden, unexpected and usually without any obvious connection to what I am currently musing about. These images, these vibrant flashbacks are always a joy. They catch my breath just as they did the first time I saw them. I hope they never leave me or become so buried in the cluttered filing cabinet of my mind that I can’t find them. This year I have a new image to file away, hopefully to be retrieved whenever I need to be reminded of the joy that is my life.
I had gotten up reasonably early after a satisfactory sleep. I was somewhat proud of myself that I didn’t need directions to find the bus stop a few blocks over from the motel or in fact need any help navigating Calgary’s transit system. A kind young man saw me looking at the map at the C train station and confirmed what I thought I already knew. It was nice to be offered help without asking for it. It was of course a workday and virtually everyone getting on or off the bus looked as if they were off to work. People were quiet, most of them moving as if they were barely awake. During these kinds of public transit rides I sometimes feel like an alien from another planet, as if I don’t belong not only on the bus, but anywhere. The lives of the other riders seem so foreign to me. I catch them staring at me, our eyes never really making contact and I wonder what they think of me with my long braid, my nearly all grey beard, my large pack, and my travel worn clothes. I wonder if they are envious of me or if they feel sorry for me?
The bus driver was a friendly sort of guy. I have noticed in the past few years that the drivers in Calgary generally seem to be nicer. At some point along the road, much to my surprise, the bus stopped at one of the bus shelters. The driver turned off the bus off and got out. I initially assumed that either he was running early and had to kill a few minutes, that he was off duty and waiting for his replacement to take over or that he had to wait for a connector bus to arrive. But no – he had stopped to talk to an older black woman who was sitting in the shelter. She had a pen knife and was whittling on a long stick. The shelter floor was littered with shavings. I don’t think the woman was what some would call a “bag lady” but she certainly appeared as if she was living rather rough. She stood up; they talked for a few minutes in what appeared to be friendly and charming tones. He clearly was not lecturing her or complaining about anything, he touched her on the shoulder in an affectionate way, said good bye and got back on the bus. He gave a wave, she waved back and off we went. Why this less than middle aged white bus driver would stop and talk to this older black women is beyond me. I would have loved to have been closer so that I could hear what they talked about. But the image of these two people who on the surface appeared to come from such disparate lives holds me. They were friends. At least in my mind she and he were part of each other’s daily routine. When he saw her, he stopped what he was doing and took a few minutes to say hello. She was delighted to see him.
It is a small image amongst the thousands and thousands pictures my mind collected this trip, And yet somehow it is the defining one. I don’t know why. I only know that whenever it pops unbidden to the surface, I smile. That is a good enough reason for me.
No comments:
Post a Comment