How to use this Page

I knew I wasn't in New York anymore
Southbound, I-89, Vermont to Long Island
Somewhere near Randolph,
one of those towns you only see
on picture postcards,
in art house movies,
and pinpoint black dots on a road atlas

These are the towns we pass straight through
these are the places we forget
These are the people we ignore

And I would never have known Randolph
And I never would have stopped
I would have kept my foot on the pedal
and soared by,
sixty-five miles per hour

But I know this name
I know this place
because my car's oil pressure gauge
went flatline at exit 4,
You don't fool around
with "STOP SAFELY!" messages
blinking on the dashboard
Something tells you
you're in trouble

Like a mirage,
a Mobil gas station appeared,
just off the exit ramp,
tucked into a white carpet,
sheaths of jagged, shaggy layers of snow
surprisingly busy with snowmobiles
truckers in workboots and parkas and knit caps,
and locals, fair-skinned and sturdy,
buying the Sunday paper and a pack of cigarettes

I pulled in, parking my unruly Volvo SUV in a corner,
ashamed and awkward and intimidated
by people who knew where they were going
and what they were doing

I prayed someone inside
the tiny store at the edge of the crossroad
would save me

"We're too small," the manager said,
never looking at me, ringing the cashier,
wiping the counter,
answering the phone
"We don't service cars.
You're gonna' need a tow.
25 miles to the nearest town
Don't worry.
25 miles is nothing around here."

AAA had to come to
rescue me
I learned a lot about Randolph, Vermont
in the two hours of my unintended visit to this
town, buffered by crossroads in the middle of nowhere

I asked Brenda,
the Mobil gas station attendant,
what people did in Randolph
and she told me:
"You're doing it."

Brenda bought me coffee
and lent me her cell phone
to call AAA
("Only Verizon works out here,"
she said)
We were the same age
Fortysomething
She'd rather be
a stained-glass artist
than a Mobil gas station attendant
but she already has grandchildren
she was abused for nine years
she knows how to open car hoods
she knows how to find dipsticks
she wants her children to join
The National Guard
I told her:
"I write poetry"

Driving home in a thick, white breeze of snow Sunday afternoon
Clutching the wheel for dear (not deer, ahem) life,
afraid my car would roll over
as two cars did just before me
on an icy bend on I-89 South

I saw a sign just like this



I thought I had stepped onto the set of Northern Exposure, a show I remember more for the cute Jewish doctor in Alaska
(okay, it could happen, but his mother wouldn't be happy about it)
and the nomadic moose in the opening credits

You see a lot of strange things on Long Island:
fake body parts pumped plump with Botox and gel,
Ugg boots and cuffed denim shorts,
Wrinkled in Time Grandpas in red Corvettes

We've got lots of doctors my mother wished I married
but we don't have moose



We do have the occasional MEESE-kite,
now that I think about it.
I wonder if MEESE is the plural of MOOSE

FYI: In Yiddish, meesekite ("mieskeit") are unattractive human faces.

Not that a moose isn't pretty in its own way.
It's an acquired taste, I suppose
Like squid
Like liver
Like gefilte fish

Scene: Tuesday, December 11th, 2007: right orchestra seat, middle school winter concert, husband and daughter to my right, and a spanking brand-new best friend to my left.

Did I mention my new friend is 7 years old? (I felt guilty talking to a little kid but her family ignored her throughout the entire concert; small wonder she turned to me for companionship.)

On our laps were the playbills from the show. We discovered we were both waiting for the 7th grade concert choir to sing. Her eyes sparkled and she took my hand, sharing a moment of instant sisterhood bonding. (If only it was always this easy.) I told her my daughter's name; she told me her big sister's name. She asked me to check off my daughter's name in her playbill. We went through the list of 7th graders, talking about the kids we knew and checking their names off with a giddy glee, proud of all the singers we knew in the show.

My Little New Best Friend knew the ropes, whispering her questions rather than talk over the 6th grade orchestra performance pieces. Quieted temporarily, the little girl studied my nails, admiring my nail polish. She leaned on my shoulder and we gently sang the words as the band played the Disney blockbuster medley. Someone this little hadn't thought I was this interesting since my own daughters were that little. (Makes you miss the days when your children thought you were the end-all and be-all of people on the planet. I used to be a Something Beyond Beloved to Them.)

I put my finger to my lips when I thought she was talking a little too much for the people around us to tolerate. (How old did I feel just then? 5000?)This did not stop her from needing to talk to someone. Without a moment's hesitation, My New Little 2nd Grade Friend took my pen and began to write notes (up and down and across the sheet, g-d I miss those note-passing days!) to me on the back of the playbill. She wanted to know how and what I knew about my daughter's friends.

Girl: How do you know L?

Me: L and S are best friends.

Girl: How were they...from first grade! (I think she meant a question mark here.)

Me: Since 5th or 6th grade.

Girl: Okay. I have a friend but she has another friend.

Me (with my heart breaking into tiny pieces): That is good to have more than one friend.



I hope I said the right thing.

I know she did.

She hugged me.

Now she has a friend-- and another friend too.

I've met many interesting people on trains. A long time ago, en route from Edinburgh (Scotland) to London, I may have even met someone who captured my heart for a few brief and shining hours. Straight out of a movie. He was a law student from California. I was an English major from NYU. We spoke all night long. He helped carry my luggage to Gatwick, the London airport. I flew home, full of poetry and romance and love and a new appreciation for what a little train music can do.

Trains are something a city kid takes for granted. It's how we lived, hopping on the F to go to school or the D to head into Manhattan. I travelled by train to go to my NYU classes in my pre-dormitory days. I was 16 and what care if I was on the train at any or all hours of the day? It wasn't something I thought about. Trains were the bridge to everywhere for me.

(Now my own child is a teen and I am starting to think about a day when I will let her head into New York on her own. It's only fair. We have to let them go. I could overprotect her until I'm 109 and I will never stop worrying about my girls but there comes a day when these little children of ours need to see the world through their own eyes. Not mine.)

Returning home from the 92nd St Y Jewish Children's Writers Conference Sunday evening, I found a Penn Station mobbed with people, hundreds of people, criss-crossing lives and going somewhere. It shocked my conscience to see so much life at 7 PM on a grey November Sunday evening. It struck me how sheltered I have become now that I hang my hat in the relative sticks of Long Island. It is easy to forget how many people there are in the world you will never meet, how many lives you will never touch, or how many stories you will never know. I imagined I would be the only person heading towards home on that 7 PM train, having a choice of seats to spread my legs and conference papers on, reflecting on the long day I had spent Talking Books and Talking Writing. (I love my family but it's not as if we can talk about editors over breakfast.) I presumed I would spend a quiet hour, staring at my sleepy-eyed reflection in the window of the train, thinking about books to read and manuscripts to send. I wondered if I would stop yawning and fall into a deep sleep, and who would wake me if I did.

But there I was in Penn Station for the slow train ride home, wondering if all the people standing in small, nervous circles around me were waiting for that same train announcement. And when it was, there I was, pushed by a robotic, human force and an ocean of energy across the waiting room and down the stairs and onto track 16, surrounded by what felt like thousands of other weary feet and arms and suitcases and winter coats and shopping bags. All of these people my travelling companions and yet all forever to be a mystery to me.

Except one.

A man sat down moments after I had found a seat against the window. I folded my black leather jacket on my lap, pulled out a book review magazine given to us at the conference, and waited for the train doors to snap tight, hurling the passengers down the dark tunnel and out of the station and into the air that tasted less and less of New York with each roll of the wheels down the tracks.

The man told me he couldn't help but notice the magazine I was reading. That his girlfriend was a teacher in religious school and public school back in Oregon. That she loved children's books. There. The fastest way to my heart, my dear. Tell me you get it, that children's books mean something. Slap me five, friends for life. There's an aura that fellow writers and book lovers carry with them. We sniff one another out and light up when we meet in random moments, a small elation and realization to be face-to-face with a kindred spirit. You're members of that same secret society. You don't have to ask too many questions to know what makes them tick.

When he told me he was a blog writer in New York on business, I knew I had stuck gold. All I needed to hear were the words The Huffington Post and I immediately recognized this gentleman as a fellow politically-oriented human being. We talked about the debates, the candidates, our beloved liberal radio station Air America, and writing. He pulled out his Blackberry and went online. He showed me his featured blog on Arianna's HUFFINGTON POST. He marked and saved this very Live Journal page. He linked onto other pages, sharing his personal blog site with me. Knowing I was in the business of writing for children, he showed me the work of a children's book artist he knows; of course I immediately recognized the art of his friend, Laura Seeley (see http://www.lauraseeley.com/ ), and the book, THE BOY OF STEEL, by Ray Negron and Laura Seeley in particular. (Yegads. It's all been about baseball and picture books for me this week!) I told you: put two kindred spirits on a train, open a vein, and soon everyone you know comes spilling out into the aisle.

I was sorry to see the ride come to an end. I was met at the station by my adoring number one fan, Mr. WriterRoss. My new writer friend was going to the end of the line, returning to his hotel for a few more days before he returned back to the west coast and his life. For 65 minutes, it was a privilege and a treat to be able to get to know the story behind one person out of a million faceless, nameless travelling nomads. You don't get that by sitting in a room, staring at a computer on Long Island, fending off words within competing for my attention and demanding to be used in the words we write in our own stories.

I told you Bruce Springsteen's NEW YORK CITY SERENADE is one of my favorite songs. Ever. It's a movie, it's a song, it's a lifetime. It's about the metaphors of people boarding trains to follow their dreams. It's about the tracks we've made and the journeys we're on, grabbing a seat on life and standing tall, walking on, singing out loud, finding our way. Watch the video. It's not just Bruce. It actually stars New York. A city I call my own, even though the zip code of my home reeks of car pools and Dairy Barns and backyard barbeques. Watch the video. You will be happy you did. Do it for me. Small warning: this video has been known to involuntarily compel people to sell their life's belongings, wave good bye, and move to the city. Who needs super malls, parking spots, and drive-through McDonalds? We'll give you the east side, the west side, Central Park, Broadway (the strike will end, eventually), and the Strand bookstore. I think that's a fair trade.

And so, Mr. Russell Shaw-- see http://www.russellshaw.net/ -- this one's for you. And for all of you out there who travel these tracks with me, searching for stories, following your dreams home: get on board and take a seat. Where do you want to go today?