Day 31 - Discretion

A I Cuza University in Iasi, Romania, image by blankdots,
via Flickr

When I lived in Romania, I learned a lot about the need for discretion. The best example is the story I heard twice and what the second story teller didn't realize she was giving away that the first story teller had been so careful to hide.  I know it is unlikely that more than one reader of this piece knows any of the same people I do in Romania, but I will give my two story tellers fictitious names in order to illustrate discretion myself.  The need for discretion in this case is gone, but its value is eternal.

The English department of the University in Iasi consisted of a large room, with tables and chairs lining three sides, leaving an area open in the middle of the room. This room served as the communal office for all of the faculty of the English department, in contrast to the separate offices - or at most one shared with one other person - University instructors are accustomed to in the United States. A desk served as the communications center where a bound ledger for messages was kept.  The first thing any of the teachers did when they entered the English department was to look for the ledger to see if there were any messages for them.  A teacher was on duty throughout the day. That teacher's responsibility consisted of answering the telephone and taking messages in the ledger. It was that rotating responsibility of serving as the teacher on duty that gave me the opportunity to meet the other teachers.

Most of the time, there was at least one more person than the teacher on duty in the department. If students had a question for a teacher, they also would enter the department to meet the teacher or to leave a message.  It was therefore very difficult for any of the teachers to share information privately with me or one another. So it is remarkable that there were two occasions during my year there when I was in the department with two different teachers long enough for them to tell me their stories.

London, image by Anirudh Koul, via Flickr

I'll call the first story teller Marina. She was not much older than I. She hadn't had many opportunities to travel, so she was eager to tell me about her one trip to England for a month-long course in English. As was typical of the times, Romanians were seldom permitted to travel on their own outside of the country, so Marina's trip was as part of a group of Romanian teachers of English. But even being part of a group wasn't sufficient assurance to the Romanian government that she would return; the fact that Marina was married was essential to the arrangements. Marina was allowed to travel to London with a group of other Romanian English teachers because her husband, and I think there may be been a child, remained behind to "guarantee" her return. But Marina told me that as soon as she learned she would be allowed to travel to England, she made plans to extend her stay.

Romanian currency was not convertible, not a hard currency. That is in contrast to US dollars, which were and still are accepted in payment for goods and services around the world and can be converted into nearly any other currency imaginable. In Romania, therefore, I could take US dollars to the bank and exchange them for Romanian lei, but if I left the country with any lei - an illegal act - I wouldn't be able to take them to a bank in the US to get dollars in exchange.

So the first challenge for Marina was to figure out a way to accumulate enough hard currency to be able to live on during her extended stay.  Just as it was illegal to take lei out of the country, it was illegal for Romanians to possess hard currency. That meant Marina had to figure out how to make the British pound Sterling allowance she would receive during the month's training cover more than her expenses. To do that, Marina got up very early every morning so that she could walk from the hotel to the school, saving the cost of the train or bus. She also ate as much as she could at breakfast, included with the cost of the hotel, and she took packages of crackers with her to eat in place of lunch and dinner. She walked from the school back to the hotel as well.

At the end of the month, Marina deliberately missed the bus to the airport so that she missed the plane back to Romania. The tickets of all of the teachers were on the Romanian national airline, Tarom; there was no option for Marina to get back to Romania on another airline. And since the organizers of the group had all of the passports -- the government would never allow individuals to hold their own passports -- she would have to wait another week for someone to bring her passport back to London so she could catch the next Tarom flight back to Romania.

Marina may have told me how she spent her time in London, but if she did, those details were not as memorable as the story of how she arranged the week. I was still having difficulty understanding what life was like under such a system. My passport had so many entry and exit stamps in it that I had had to get extension pages added, and I had only had my passport for less than three years.

Statue of Alexandru Ioan Cuza in Iasi,
Romania, image by Waqas Ahmed, via
Flickr

It was my passport, with its extension pages, that led to the second story. I'll call the second story teller Ana. I had had to leave my passport at the University to get a residence permit. When my residence permit was ready, it along with my passport was turned over to the teacher on duty in the English department for me to pick up. Ana was on duty when I arrived. When she pulled my passport out of the drawer, she held onto it a little longer so she could open it up and pull out all those extension pages to examine the stamps indicating the number of countries I had visited since it was issued. As she was looking at my passport, Ana said she had only traveled outside of Romania once, a few summers ago, when she went with a group of other English teachers to England for a month's training course. Ana's story was the same as Marina's except in one detail: Ana told me that she and a friend had decided ahead of time that they would stay in England for an additional week. Ana never named the friend. She understood the need for discretion to that degree. But in telling the story in second person plural, Ana unwittingly gave away Marina's role in the story at the same time as illustrating to me just how important discretion is.

Before hearing the two versions of the story of Marina's and Ana's adventure in London, I was annoyed when someone told a story as though they were alone when I had a good idea that there was another person involved. But after hearing Marina's and Ana's stories, I realized that my annoyance was misplaced. Those story tellers weren't trying to hide something. They were just being discrete.

Day 30 - Orphans

This could never happen today. But life in small town Minnesota was simpler and safer back "then."

While I was in college, my boyfriend was away in the Navy. I still went out with my girlfriends to movies and even to dances, but I didn't go out on dates, because that would have been wrong, right? But I did want to go to events that my friends went to, even though they were on dates, so I came up with a scheme that I thought would work. It would be a way for me to go out, especially to sporting events, without really being on a date. But I am an introvert, so it took me a long time to think about my scheme before I did anything about it.

And all that time was probably the reason that the idea kept sounding better and better each time I considered it. I didn't share the idea with anyone else, so I didn't have a devil's advocate, or even a reasonable person, to poke holes in it. But in the meantime I kept thinking about the idea, working out the details - or at least the appealing ones - in my head.

Image by Bazule, via Flickr

I can still conjure up the image that was central to my scheme. He was about 8 years old, had blue eyes and curly blond hair. He lived in an orphanage. I imagined meeting him and taking him to basketball games and other events that I thought 8-year-olds would be interested in.

He didn't exist, of course. He was just in my imagination. And I imagined that if I met him and if I took him with me to ball games, he would sit next to me and we would share popcorn and soft drinks, and somehow spending time with him would turn into some type of "credit" for my future. I think I even let my imagination get so out of control as to think that once my boyfriend returned from the Navy, he and I would continue to take the blue-eyed, blond boy to ball games and maybe even end up adopting him.

I was so naive.

I didn't realize not every child living in an orphanage is actually an orphan. And I certainly had no idea that children living in orphanages came from families where children might be damaged, either physically or emotionally or both. My image of an orphanage came from children's books, or maybe even from fairy tales, where good little boys and girls were harassed by witches, trolls, or evil step-mothers, but the boys and girls always triumphed, still good.

Eventually, I did get up the courage to call the local orphanage.  I think the only reason the administrator there, or the social worker he put me into contact with, even listened to me was that the orphanage was sponsored by Lutheran Social Services and I attended the local Lutheran college. There may even have been a phone call or two that I wasn't aware of between the social services organization and the pastor of my church, to verify that I wasn't damaged. At least, I hope there was. But no one told me so.

I explained to the social worker that I was offering to take a boy from to a basketball game. I'm sure the social worker asked me more about my motivation, but I don't recall the questions or my answers.

The social worker suggested that the evening would be more successful if I brought two boys with me, so that the boys would have someone they each knew with them for the evening. I wonder now why she never suggested that I take a girl or two instead of boys, but I don't recall that option ever coming up. Because I would be picking up two boys, I asked one of my girlfriends, Lynne, if she would come with me.

The basketball game was between two local college teams. I attended one; my girlfriend attended the other. We picked up the two boys at the orphanage and went to the game.

Image by theirhistory, via Flickr

One of the boys may have been a little older than the other. Neither of them were blue-eyed blonds. And they were both very clever, a more than even match for my naive self, in spite of my 10-year advantage in age. On the ride over to the field house, I learned that neither of them were orphans. Each was living at the orphanage because his parents were unable to care for him. No details about the reasons for parental unavailability were shared.

When we entered the field house, the older boy suggested I get them something to eat and drink. Since that was part of my imaginary scheme, I bought them something. I don't think more than five minutes passed after we sat down before the older boy suggested that he and his friend might want to sit on the other side of the court. Well, now this wasn't part of my imaginary scheme, but I didn't know how to insist they stay with us, so I told them they had to come back to where we were sitting at half time. At least I hope I was smart enough to insist on that.

Image by TheImageGroup, via Flickr

After the game ended, the older boy suggested that we get something to eat before going back to the orphanage. He was big on suggesting. We went to a drive-through fast food place, probably King Leo's, for hamburgers and soft drinks. And then we drove back to the orphanage and dropped off the boys. They both said thanks and that was the end of the evening. And of my scheme.

As I said, those were simpler days, days before there were stories in the news about children being abducted or assaulted by adults who should have been their protectors - teachers, scout leaders, even religious figures. I am so glad I grew up in that simpler, safer time in that simpler, safer place. Sometimes I wonder now why I ever wanted to leave it behind.

Day 29 - American Language Institute (ALI)

Greece image by archer10 (Dennis), via Flickr

A Greek, a Libyan and a Tahitian walked into a bar in San Francisco. That might sound like the opening of a joke, but it is a description of the activities of a trio of students at the American Language Institute where I taught English while in graduate school. I don't remember their names, so I'll call them Alex, Mohammed, and Oscar.

The three of them were in the same class at ALI, so they has no choice about spending at least six hours a day together. But they liked one another and chose to spend much of the rest of their time together, too.

ALI is an English language prepartory program for university-bound international students. Students were put into classes based on their scores on the Test of English as a Foreign Language (TOEFL). The classes stayed together for just one term of about 12 weeks. At the end of the term, they retook TOEFL to determine whether their progress was sufficient to enter their chosen university or more preparation was needed. The pressure to get through in one term was tremendous, ALI's standards were high, and discipline was strict. Many of the students had never been without an externally imposed structure such as from family or government. The contrast offered by the freedom and lack of social constraints in San Francisco in the early 1970's was extreme. And since all of our students were expected to go on to universities all across the country where foreign student advisors may or may not be available to help with their transition, our director, affectionately known as Mrs. B, set up rules to help with the transition. For example, she insisted that students attend every class; no more than two absences were permitted in a term. Students were assigned advisors from among the four permanent staff members. They were required to write at least a page in English every day in a diary which they turned in every Friday and received back, with comments and corrections, on Mondays. Students were not allowed to leave town without permission. Students who ignored these rules were removed from the school and encouraged to find other English programs. And we all knew ALI was the best.

Libya image by sludgegulper, via Flickr

One of the reasons ALI students were successful was that no class had more than three students in it who spoke the same language. That meant English was the only common language. Other programs put all the Spanish speakers together or all the Japanese students together, robbing the students of a powerful incentive to use English - necessity. So it wasn't unusual at ALI to find three such different young men in one another's company.

Another of Mrs. B's rules was that the students were not allowed to socialize with the teachers. In addition to the four permanent staff members, there were about two dozen graduate students like me who taught at ALI.  Many of us were about the same age as the students, so without the prohibition on socializing, it is likely that we would have mixed outside of class. But ALI rules applied to teachers, too.

One of the advisors, Al, had great hopes for Mohammed, the Libyan, precisely because he wasn't spending his time with the other Libyan students. Al had watched group after group of Libyan students arrive without the proper motivation or discipline. Most recently, three Libyan students had decided to spend the Thanksgiving break in St. Louis. One of them had a friend at school there, so they told Al they planned to drive to St. Louis, leaving Wednesday before Thankgiving and returning the Sunday after. Al pointed out that they would not have any time to spend in St. Louis as it would take all their time to drive there and back. He strongly recommended they not make the trip. They didn't listen. They drove to St. Louis and were late getting back. And they were then dropped from the student roster. So Mohammed's friendship with Alex and Oscar was a good sign.

That summer was tough on Alex, the Greek. It was the year of the end of the Greek military junta that had been in power since 1967. While most of us assumed that the military rule coming to an end in July was a good thing, it is difficult for anyone with ties to a land on the other side of the earth to know that all is well with family and friends when the news deals with such changes. In addition, many of the students at ALI were on scholarships from their governments which meant that changes to the government were not always welcome.

Oscar brought with him a number of items that tourists were likely to pick up when traveling to Tahiti. Among them were a number of necklaces made from shells. Joseph from Nigeria, another student that summer, also brought beaded necklaces which he showed both students and teachers. But when the teachers asked him whether he would sell them, Joseph wouldn't - or couldn't - answer. Joseph's English was excellent, so long as he was reading something written on the board or in a book or he was writing, but his listening comprehension was very weak and his speech was so heavily accented that none of us, neither students nor teachers, understood much of what he said.

Tahiti image by Mitch Allen, via Flickr

Each term ended with a party at which time the students received the results of their most recent TOEFL. Those who scored above 500 were on their way to the university. Those who scored below that level would have to complete another term, if finances and other resources permitted, or make alternative educational arrangements.

At the party that summer, all three members of the trio scored high enough to go on. Because they had all succeeded, they knew they would no longer be our students. The prohibition on socializing was over.

At the end of that party, Oscar gave me one of the shell necklaces from Tahiti. And Mohammed had managed to strike a bargain with Joseph for one of the beaded necklaces which he gave me. I was flattered, and just a tiny bit worried what my colleagues would think, so I wore the necklaces in the weeks to come, to be sure they knew I didn't have anything to hide. The three of them, Alex, Mohammed, and Oscar, went separate ways. A few months later, I also left San Francisco, never to return.

Day 27 - My Guardian Angel

Mom

When Mom died, I knew I had lost more than my mother. I had lost the one person I knew prayed for me every day, whether I needed it or not. I had spent a lot of time poo pooing Mom's advice that the solution to any problem was prayer. I remembered, because she reminded me of it often, that I had stopped biting my nails when I was about six after I prayed to God for his help. I don't think I would have remembered those prayers if Mom hadn't reminded me. But she was right. With her encouragement, I had prayed that God would help me stop biting my nails, and I stopped.

But I also thought that with Mom's death, my guardian angel may also be gone. I was more comfortable thinking that I had a guardian angel than thinking Mom's prayers were what kept me safe. And I had a very large number of experiences that I attributed to my guardian angel.

One of the most dramatic set of examples all came from the same summer, a summer when I am certain Mom spent a lot of her praying on me. It was the summer of 1973, a year after I had made several significant decisions. First, it was the year after I decided to get divorced. Or at least I thought that was my decision. Second, I decided to go to graduate school. I didn't know how I was going to pay for it, but I made the decision, and I was accepted.  I think I left it up to my guardian angel to figure out the details.

Image by tyfn, via Flickr

The summer of 1972, I had travelled by bus from Berkeley, California, to Moorhead, Minnesota, in order to attend my sister's graduation from high school. My husband at the time, Don, couldn't leave as early as I needed to. I wasn't confident enough to consider driving by myself, and the cost of flying was entirely out of the question. A train ticket was twice the cost of a bus ticket, and I wouldn't have arrived any sooner. So I traveled that time by bus.

I didn't consider that trip to be the beginning of the end of my marriage, but that is what it turned out to be. As I entered the bus in Oakland, I tried to convey as sophisticated an image as possible. I thought I was so worldly. But as I walked toward the back of the bus, the strap of my purse caught on the armrest of one of the seats, pulling me backwards as I made my way. I caught myself before falling down, and dusted off my slightly bruised ego, untangled my purse strap, and continued toward the back where I had spotted an empty row. I managed to get my bag stowed above the seat and then I stepped up to sit down. I hadn't noticed that the elevation of the step where the seats were woudn't permit me to stand up. So I bumped my head pretty hard on the overhead ledge which made my landing on the seat quick, and without grace. So much for my sophisticated start on this, my first solo traveling experience.

A gentleman dressed in western clothes, complete with a cowboy hat, asked if he could have the seat next to me. We talked most of the way from Oakland to Reno, our dinner stop. He was a rodeo competitor, on his way to Montana. He invited me to join him for dinner in Reno, a pleasant option to what otherwise would have been a solitary event. After dinner, he excused himself because he wanted to try his luck with the slot machines. I made my way to a bookstore where I bought the book The Female Eunuch by Germaine Greer.

Image by Globalism Pictures, via Flickr

The bus traveled though Nevada overnight with Salt Lake City as our breakfast stop. I don't recall if the cowboy was on the same bus, but I know he wasn't next to me on the next leg, from Salt Lake City to Missoula. Instead, my seat mate was a high school boy who was on his way to a dude ranch in Montana where his dad worked. He spent every summer with his dad, but he spent the school years with his mom. He said his mom had been married five times, so he was used to being around lots of step fathers. I suppose it wasn't all that surprising that he asked me if I liked being married. No one had ever asked me that before. And I'm not sure I had even asked it of myself. I am sure the pause between his asking the question and my answering it was longer than he expected. I think my answer was an equivocal sometimes I liked it and sometimes I didn't. I had already read some of my book before he and I started talking, so I guess I had begun to wonder whether I was happy with all my choices.

By the time I reached Moorhead, I knew the answer to that young boy's question was that I wasn't happy. But that didn't mean I was ready to give up. I called Don and tried to tell him that I wasn't happy, but since I was in my parents' house, I couldn't get the words out. I went upstairs and sat at the desk that had been mine while I was in high school and college, and I decided to write him a letter. When I opened the first desk drawer, I found a paper with my sister's handwriting. It was a copy of Ralph Waldo Emerson's essay, Self Reliance, one of my favorites. And that cinched it. I wrote Don a letter telling him that I was not happy and that when I got back to Berkeley, we had to make some changes. A few days later, after he had received the letter, Don called me at my parents' house and reassured me that we would do something when I got back.

I returned to Berkeley by bus with no memorable traveling companions. When Don picked me up at the bus station, he announced that he had already moved out of our apartment. He proposed that I keep the car and he would take the bicycle. Since I would have the apartment, he would take our tent. And that was the extent of our discussion. He had bought a do-it-yourself divorce book and said he thought that since he had no job, he should file for a no-contest divorce. It was final in February of 1973, the year I am convinced Mom spent a lot of her prayer time on me.

Image by Will Carter Photography, via Flickr

I entered San Francisco State University's masters program in January of 1973. At the end of that semester, I packed up everything I owned into my VW bug and drove from San Francisco to Moorhead, to spend the summer with my family. I had already made one round-trip between California and Minnesota since that bus trip. This time, I drove 2,198 miles across country without a problem. But when I was two miles from home, at the off ramp of I-94 and 8th Street South in Moorhead, my car blew a piston and stopped dead at the stop sign. It was bad news, but delivered with the softest possible blow. How else could I explain my car not breaking down earlier but to attribute it to a guardian angel?

I took my bike off the rack at the back of my car, reinflated the tires, rode down 8th street to the first gas station I could find and arranged to have the car towed to my parents. Eventually, I got my VW to a shop that specialized in repairs to foreign cars. The estimate for the repair: $120. I knew I needed $60 to get back to San Francisco at the end of the summer. I had $180 in my pocket when I arrived in Moorhead. It seemed like another act on the part of my guardian angel.

Image by Eva Luedin, via Flickr

That summer, I spent most of my time driving a man from Bolivia, Ruben, from farm to farm in the Red River Valley. He had been brought to the area by his brother to serve as a Lutheran missionary to the migrant workers. But he spoke no English and he couldn't drive. I was his driver and translator for the summer. I had received no salary, but the organization sponsoring Ruben agreed to pay for my gas. That meant I would still have the $60 I needed to get back to California.

At one point that summer, as I was driving along a gravel country road, Ruben saw some workers in the field and he asked me to pull over so he could talk with them. It looked like there a shoulder, so I pulled over -- onto tall grass. I felt my car beginning to roll, but instead of continuing down the ditch, it came to a gentle rest against a sign that warned of an upcoming curve in the road. Once I realized what had happened, I looked up and down that country road and could not see another sign. How else could I explain that I chose that spot to pull over but to consider it the work of my guardian angel?

Image by jimforest, via Flickr

There are many more examples of bad things happening in my life, but in the least possible harmful way. I have continued to give my guardian angel credit for these events, though I have also always thought Mom and her prayers were that guardian angel. I still think she is.

Day 25 - The Duke's Diary

Dear Diary,

What a day! What a night! And again, what a day! He did it again. The king never seems to realize the time it takes to accomplish his commands. As usual, he got a bee in his crown and decided something needed to be done about it right now. It's the prince again. His nibs is never satisfied with what the poor boy does. And yesterday morning he decided the prince must marry and must marry right away.

Image by Jane's Jubilee, via Flickr

I shall never understand why he is so hard on the prince. First he gives the boy anything he asks for, and even some things he hadn't asked for.  Then he tells the boy he must not settle for less than the best, and since the king's past actions have brought the boy fine tastes indeed, that set him off on a search for the best in everything: the best clothes, the best music, the best food, the best education, and he set out to become the best musician, the best sportsman, the best cook. No wonder he hasn't had time to look for a suitable companion.

Then his nibs gets it into his head the the prince is spending too much time on all these "hobbies" as he calls them. He says the boy is frittering away his time, wasting his energy when what he should be doing is settling down and starting a family.

So yesterday morning, the king tells me he will wait no longer. The prince must marry and if that means he, the king, must bring every eligible girl in the kingdom for the prince to choose from, well, then, that is what he - and by this, of couse he means me - will do.

"Arrange a ball for tonight, and invite every eligible girl from the kingdom to meet the prince," he says to me, with a flourish of his arm as if there were a wand attached that would make it so.

Does he think I'm clairvoyant and have the invitations sitting in a closet? Oh nooooo, I have to get them printed, the envelopes addressed, and then dragoon all the courtiers into getting them delivered to every home in the land. What a lot of favors I am going to have to pay back for getting that lot to help! Still, the really clever ones realized that a handful of invitations itself was an opportunity to hand out some favors of their own. Not every eligible young lady has a ball gown in the closet for such an event, so a more timely delivered invitation could give one young thing an advantage over a rival as the number of seamstresses in the land is limited.

Getting the ballroom ready was the least of my troubles, of course, as we have had plenty of practice keeping it spotless for just such last minute events. The kitchen staff also always come through to produce just enough nibbles to give the impression of sumptuousness, especially since it was clear that none of the ladies were likely to indulge as it might risk spoiling their make up or whatever finery they could put together at such short notice.

Image by disneyandy, via Flickr

The ballroom was quite a sight last evening. Every eligible girl in the kingdom must have been there, although some who were eligible no longer were young. Yet each one was presented to both the king and the prince. The prince truly was a prince, greeting each hopeful girl graciously, keeping each one's hopes high. But then, with about a quarter of the eligibles still in line, the prince bolted across the room and took the arm of a young lady who hadn't yet been presented, and he kept her away from the king for the rest of the evening.

I convinced those still in line to gather in an adjoining room where I promised them the prince would return to meet them shortly for a more private introduction. I could see their eyes light up as they considered the advantage of such an introduction, and all at once the race was on. While they pushed and shoved one another to get through the door, I rounded up one of the palace footman who is about the same height, build, and coloring as the prince, and I got him into one of the prince's uniforms to be his stand-in.

Tho eligibles still in the main ballroom were content, if that word could ever be appropriate, to eye one another jealously, speculating on who were their most serious rivals. As the last of the ladies in the adjoining room rejoined the others in the main ballroom, just after midnight, the prince reappeared, alone, thus unwittingly ensuring my charade with the footman succeeded. As the crowd thinned and the eligibles left, the prince told his father that he had found the woman he wished to marry, sending the old man to blissful dreams. But to me, the prince announced that he didn't know who she was or where she lived, turning my dreams into nightmares. All he had was one of her shoes which had fallen off as she ran away to her carriage.

Image by Loren Javier, via Flickr

This morning, when the king asked the prince about the girl, he was furious, of course, and demanded that I find the girl - or any girl - whose foot fit into the shoe. The first girl whose foot fit into the shoe would marry the prince.

This time there was nothing I could task the courtiers with doing. There weren't hundred of invitations to be delivered, but rather a single shoe to be tried on by hundreds of eligibles. How I wished the shoe were of a less unique design! There was no way for me to avoid handling this task myself. I kept going with the hope that the shoe was a common size. The king didn't demand that I find the girl. He only demanded that I find a girl.

And I did find her. The girl. If only I had the courage to tell her, to warn her, of what a life she is getting herself into. Oh, the prince - he's fine. But she won't be marrying just the prince; she'll be joined to the whole family - the prince, the king, the courtiers, all of us. She doesn't know the half of that old saying, if the shoe fits, wear it.

Day 13 - The Pedestrian

Image by teddy-rised via Flickr

She was standing at the corner, looking like she wasn't sure which direction to go. Not much of her face was visible. She seemed to be deliberately hiding behind her long hair. From the color, it appeared she hadn't been to a stylist recently. There was too much gray among the dark strands. And the length also suggested that she didn't spend much time or money in a hair salon. With some coloring and care, her hair could be stunning. It was thick, long, and straight. The gray made her appear to be at least 40.

An average height, she wasn’t overweight. Given her attire, she might even have been underweight. It was cold outside, and she was dressed for it: blue jeans that appeared worn from wearing, not as a fashion statement; a denim jacket with sheepskin lining, probably a synthetic, worn over a too large plaid shirt, its shirt tail hanging well below the jacket instead of being tucked in for greater warmth. The jacket also seemed too large. Perhaps she had recently lost weight, or perhaps the jacket was not hers.

Her shoes were clean, white athletic shoes, likely evidence that she wasn't living on the street, although many of her mannerisms may have drawn observers to that conclusion, especially the way she lowered her head to keep her hair in front of her eyes as she glanced in all directions while she stood, waiting, hoping not to draw attention. She wasn't carrying a purse or bag. Perhaps she kept her cash in her pockets. That's where her hands were, either defending her fortune or for warmth.

Image by Paul Krueger via Flickr

The light turned green for pedestrians to cross, and she stepped into the street in front of my car. She glanced quickly in my direction, just long enough for me to see evidence that she probably had lost many of her teeth. The set of her mouth had the distinctive sunken appearance I recalled from Grandma after she had removed her dentures. As she turned away from me, I saw a long thread dripping from her nose, not out of place in the cold weather, although she made no effort to hide it or wipe it away.

She made her way across the street without hesitation, walking, not rushing, her body leaning forward as though the air was so thick she had to push her way through it. Then she was gone, the traffic light turned green for my direction, and I drove on.