I've Rolled Up My Sleeves, I'm Plotting A Course Through Deep Green Sea, The Waves Crash And I Shake My Knees, They Won't Hold Me Back
--"Ivy On Stone", Pinewood Derby
Back at St. Rita's it was a rite of passage to visit the Queen Mary once you entered the Sixth Grade. It wasn't anything special, but in those days and field trip was a good field trip if it placed you miles away from class and yet another boring lecture, so I looked forward to it with all the usual expectations and excitement. I remember telling my friends how cool it was going to be because, being a fan of the ghost stories even then and hearing all the stories about how the Queen Mary was haunted, I was expecting to do a little bit of ghost-hunting while we were touring the ship. Of course, inside, I was scared stiff of actually bumping into one, but I wasn't about to let on to that tidbit. Outside, I was all gung ho to shake hands with an unholy specter.
The time on the ship, unfortunately (or fortunately) passed without incident. I am relieved to say that I never did see a ghost in our two hours on the ship. The closest I came to seeing a scary figure was spying on the ungodly sight of a forty-year-old woman trying to squeeze into the jean skirt and halter top of a twenty-year-old. I didn't care about the history of the floating memorial. I didn't care about the nostalgia that it invoked in everyone over a certain age. I didn't even care that it held a rather tasty cafe on one of its floors. All through lunch I kept telling my friends how disappointed I was. To be fair, they'd wanted to see something, anything, as much as I did, but the whole ghosthunting notion was my baby. And, at that point, it seemed like my baby had just perished. Even during the walk off the ship and back to the bus, I kept hoping that I'd see something I could report back to my brother. I wanted to tell him that I'd actually succeeded in viewing the paranormal because I'd scared him as much as myself with all the collections of ghost stories I'd gathered.
Years later, when I wanted something to get a reaction out of Sniffler when I saw her at church, I actually relayed that on that particular ship I'd honestly bumped into a spook. I'd been dying to say something, anything to her and telling her that I engaged in chatting up some specter--I don't know--seemed to be a rather impressive anecdote to relay to her. Now I see that it was yet another symptom of my disease of spinning yarns to get a reaction out of people.
However, the day was salvaged when it turned out that our trip had actually been ahead of schedule and we weren't due back to school for another two hours. That's when the teachers decided that a small train trip from Long Beach Harbor to Terminal Island wouldn't be too time-consuming. Besides, they told us, for some of us it would be our first train trip anywhere, which was enough to pique my interest.
We piled onto the train. I, of course, was unable to sit near any of the girls I liked. Even back then, I always thought of trains as being the most romantic means of transportation. I always envisioned having these meaningful conversations that would totally impress the girl of my dreams. I suppose you could say a great deal of my formative years were geared towards the notion of impressing my ideal of the girl next door and, ultimately, failing miserably. That idea, piled upon my earlier disappointment with not finding the ghost on the ship, seemed to invoke a melancholia that was plainly seen by everyone on the train with me. It's not that I didn't enjoy the scenery of the couple of miles we rode the local amtrak. It's just that the funk the idea of facing a future where all I faced was disappointment seemed very bleak to me.
I know it's not par for the course for a sixth grader to be dwelling on such thoughts. I blame it on my parents. They instilled a sense of dread about my future that I've never quite been able to shake. They always reminded me that the present wasn't so much about living for today as planning for the future. It's because of that idea that I don't think I really started living my life correctly until I was out on my own.
It wasn't until the train stopped and we disembarked on a desolate stretch of dirt next to a small train stop that I saw something which snapped me out of my gloom. There, beneath the foggy sky and overshadowing our whole group, I saw the bridge that would inspire many short stories to come. It was a bridge that arched seemingly into oblivion. Covered in mist and standing higher than I'd seen any roadway stand before, I honestly thought it was a bridge which led a ridiculous distance away.
"Does that bridge go all the way to Hawaii?" I asked my friends and eventually my teacher. I know she was merely fooling me, but when my teacher said that the bridge, indeed, spanned the thousands of miles to our fiftieth state I just about fainted in awe. To think that a bridge could go so far made my imagination immediately start racing.
I became determined right then and there, that wherever that bridge led, I would have to cross it sometime in my life. Part of me knew that it wouldn't go all the way to Hawaii, but another part of me kept reminding me how righteous it would be if did, in fact, go all the way there. At that point, standing there with all my elementary school friends, I didn't care. I knew that bridge led somewhere awesome. I just knew it. And wherever that place was was somewhere I wanted to eventually end up at. For me, that bridge became sort of a symbol for the future. The fact I couldn't see where the road would end only served to make it all the more enticing.
The whole bus ride home I began concocting scenarios on how I'd eventually make it across that bridge. I never stopped concocting until I'd finally crossed it. Even then I knew my future, with all its prospects and opportunities, lay on the other side.
----
Yesterday, in truth, was the first time I'd actually driven myself all the way across the bridge. I was right, my future was entwined in my completion of that journey across the bridge. You see, that bridge, the Thomas Vincent Bridge, leads directly from Long Beach where the Queen Mary is docked to San Pedro, and eventually to Harbor City, where I now currently reside.
it's like you're 12 years old, and what if I am?
It may have taken awhile, but I've finally arrived at my future.
Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers
Back at St. Rita's it was a rite of passage to visit the Queen Mary once you entered the Sixth Grade. It wasn't anything special, but in those days and field trip was a good field trip if it placed you miles away from class and yet another boring lecture, so I looked forward to it with all the usual expectations and excitement. I remember telling my friends how cool it was going to be because, being a fan of the ghost stories even then and hearing all the stories about how the Queen Mary was haunted, I was expecting to do a little bit of ghost-hunting while we were touring the ship. Of course, inside, I was scared stiff of actually bumping into one, but I wasn't about to let on to that tidbit. Outside, I was all gung ho to shake hands with an unholy specter.The time on the ship, unfortunately (or fortunately) passed without incident. I am relieved to say that I never did see a ghost in our two hours on the ship. The closest I came to seeing a scary figure was spying on the ungodly sight of a forty-year-old woman trying to squeeze into the jean skirt and halter top of a twenty-year-old. I didn't care about the history of the floating memorial. I didn't care about the nostalgia that it invoked in everyone over a certain age. I didn't even care that it held a rather tasty cafe on one of its floors. All through lunch I kept telling my friends how disappointed I was. To be fair, they'd wanted to see something, anything, as much as I did, but the whole ghosthunting notion was my baby. And, at that point, it seemed like my baby had just perished. Even during the walk off the ship and back to the bus, I kept hoping that I'd see something I could report back to my brother. I wanted to tell him that I'd actually succeeded in viewing the paranormal because I'd scared him as much as myself with all the collections of ghost stories I'd gathered.
Years later, when I wanted something to get a reaction out of Sniffler when I saw her at church, I actually relayed that on that particular ship I'd honestly bumped into a spook. I'd been dying to say something, anything to her and telling her that I engaged in chatting up some specter--I don't know--seemed to be a rather impressive anecdote to relay to her. Now I see that it was yet another symptom of my disease of spinning yarns to get a reaction out of people.
However, the day was salvaged when it turned out that our trip had actually been ahead of schedule and we weren't due back to school for another two hours. That's when the teachers decided that a small train trip from Long Beach Harbor to Terminal Island wouldn't be too time-consuming. Besides, they told us, for some of us it would be our first train trip anywhere, which was enough to pique my interest.
We piled onto the train. I, of course, was unable to sit near any of the girls I liked. Even back then, I always thought of trains as being the most romantic means of transportation. I always envisioned having these meaningful conversations that would totally impress the girl of my dreams. I suppose you could say a great deal of my formative years were geared towards the notion of impressing my ideal of the girl next door and, ultimately, failing miserably. That idea, piled upon my earlier disappointment with not finding the ghost on the ship, seemed to invoke a melancholia that was plainly seen by everyone on the train with me. It's not that I didn't enjoy the scenery of the couple of miles we rode the local amtrak. It's just that the funk the idea of facing a future where all I faced was disappointment seemed very bleak to me.
I know it's not par for the course for a sixth grader to be dwelling on such thoughts. I blame it on my parents. They instilled a sense of dread about my future that I've never quite been able to shake. They always reminded me that the present wasn't so much about living for today as planning for the future. It's because of that idea that I don't think I really started living my life correctly until I was out on my own.
It wasn't until the train stopped and we disembarked on a desolate stretch of dirt next to a small train stop that I saw something which snapped me out of my gloom. There, beneath the foggy sky and overshadowing our whole group, I saw the bridge that would inspire many short stories to come. It was a bridge that arched seemingly into oblivion. Covered in mist and standing higher than I'd seen any roadway stand before, I honestly thought it was a bridge which led a ridiculous distance away.
"Does that bridge go all the way to Hawaii?" I asked my friends and eventually my teacher. I know she was merely fooling me, but when my teacher said that the bridge, indeed, spanned the thousands of miles to our fiftieth state I just about fainted in awe. To think that a bridge could go so far made my imagination immediately start racing.
I became determined right then and there, that wherever that bridge led, I would have to cross it sometime in my life. Part of me knew that it wouldn't go all the way to Hawaii, but another part of me kept reminding me how righteous it would be if did, in fact, go all the way there. At that point, standing there with all my elementary school friends, I didn't care. I knew that bridge led somewhere awesome. I just knew it. And wherever that place was was somewhere I wanted to eventually end up at. For me, that bridge became sort of a symbol for the future. The fact I couldn't see where the road would end only served to make it all the more enticing.
The whole bus ride home I began concocting scenarios on how I'd eventually make it across that bridge. I never stopped concocting until I'd finally crossed it. Even then I knew my future, with all its prospects and opportunities, lay on the other side.
----
Yesterday, in truth, was the first time I'd actually driven myself all the way across the bridge. I was right, my future was entwined in my completion of that journey across the bridge. You see, that bridge, the Thomas Vincent Bridge, leads directly from Long Beach where the Queen Mary is docked to San Pedro, and eventually to Harbor City, where I now currently reside.
it's like you're 12 years old, and what if I am?
It may have taken awhile, but I've finally arrived at my future.
Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers
posted by mojo shivers @ 12:26 AM
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