Last day of the year: I'm going to throw out all of the unread 2009 New Yorkers at midnight, so today I am reading like mad. For 2009 I had resolved to stay on top of "the New Yorker problem," and I did better than ever before, but. . . .
My 2010 New Yorker resolution: try harder.
The state capitol project: A few years ago I decided to collect state capitols. Actually, I'm taking pictures of the capitols, but the photo is just the token--the evidence--that I was there. When I mentioned to brother-in-law Jim that I was excited about driving through Frankfort, Kentucky, because I could take a picture for my collection is said "You can't just get them off the Internet?" What a joker.
As it turns out, this week I collected TWO capitols: Kentucky and West Virginia.
Left: Kentucky capitol in Frankfort.
Below: Interior of Kentucky capitol
As luck would have it, the rotunda of the Kentucky capitol was closed for renovation, so I missed seeing that. The other parts were grand, though. Kentucky was granted statehood in 1792. The capitol was built from 1904 to 1910.
Interestingly, in Kentucky we had to go through a metal detector, but in West Virginia I just walked right in. Just a note about the Capitol Project Rules: It's not necessary that I go inside. That's just a bonus, and sometimes I do, sometimes not. It counts just to get the picture.
The West Virginia capitol has an impressive and beautiful gold dome, but the interior staircases and rotunda are not as elaborate as those of Kentucky's. A statue of Lincoln outside the WV building noted that he signed the proclamation making it a state in 1863. The capitol building wasn't built until 1924-32.
Left: West Virginia state capitol in Charleston
Below: The West Virginia Senate chamber
I love my little capitol project. I think I have pictures of about six or eight. Before I had the photo project I saw a lot of capitols. Denver, Santa Fe, and Phoenix come to mind, but I'm sure there were more.
This summer I plan to go to Juneau. Snap!
On a totally unfair note, this summer I purposely made a side trip to Indianapolis and took pics of all 4 sides of the capitol. Inside, too. I was using my cell phone. I never downloaded those shots to my computer, and a couple months later I put the phone through a laundry cycle. It was not happy, and those photos are lost forever. So, back to Indianapolis.
Last night I proofread a dozen or so pages of Street Sense, DC's street newspaper that comes out every other Wednesday. Street newspapers cover poverty and homelessness issues, and homeless people can make money by selling them on the street. About 20 U.S. cities publish them--the North American Street Newspaper Association (yeah--who knew?) has more info about them and links to all of the papers.
I started volunteering with Street Sense four or five years ago. I now proofread half or more of each issue, but for a time I worked four hours in the office every week. That was a super experience because I got to meet all of the vendors who come there to pick up their papers.
I was inspired to post this blog because I just came across a piece I wrote before I worked for Street Sense or knew anyone who was homeless. Here's my 2005 perspective:
Alvin’s Poem
Yesterday I bought the latest issue of Street Sense, the newspaper about homeless people and related issues in the DC area. It features articles written by homeless people, and I think they do the production work, too. I know they do the selling on the street.
As I handed over my $1 (“suggested donation”) to the man hawking Street Sense on a corner near Eastern Market, he said “It’s got a poem I wrote.”
“It does?”
He opened the paper to page 11 and pointed to “Portable Home.” I wanted to let him know I was impressed. Noting that Alvin was the first name of the poem's author, I said, “You’re Al?” I also wanted to show how friendly I was by using his nickname.
“Alvin,” he corrected, pointing to the plastic badge that dangled on a cord around his neck.
“Alvin," I said. "Well, that’s great about the poem!” I didn't know what else to say, so I walked off with my paper. I read his poem as I walked the next block. It covers what I imagine are just some of the downers of being homeless—frostbite, staying in alleys, sleeping on the ground. “When we gaze in the sky, we ask ourselves why/When will this bad trip ever end.”
But following 21 lines of poetry describing the bleakness and loneliness of being homeless, the last line takes a wry twist: “And we never have to worry about the phone.”
Not for the first time, I began musing about who “the homeless” are. Here’s Alvin, who has written a poem, of all things, describing his reflections about the state of living in a “portable home,” where “we sit in the dark all alone.” I hated myself for being surprised that he is literate and thoughtful.
I wondered about how he came to write the poem. Did he use a tablet or just a scrap of paper? A ballpoint or a pencil? Was he alone on a park bench? Or maybe he was in a group at a shelter where they were all writing poems. What does Alvin know about poetry? Did he read poems as a kid, or in high school? Did he graduate from high school? I try to suppress these questions that reveal not only ignorance but arrogant stereotyping.
I am uneasy about street people, as I call them. Every day—when I walk to the Metro or go to 7-11, they accost me. “Got change for a cup of coffee?” “Any spare change?” Sometimes I give them the change in my pocket or a dollar. When I see one of them up ahead, I start thinking about what to do. Do I have any money readily available, or would I have to stop and get into my backpack? Do I have time for this? Sometimes I put some money in my pocket before I leave the house to make it easier. Sometimes I cross the street to avoid the whole situation.
Street people give me a lot of conflicting feelings. I feel guilty because I have money and a house. I feel resentful because they haven’t found more productive ways to make money. I feel suspicious, wondering if they talk about the best lines to use—“I’m hungry,” “I’m a veteran,” or “I need bus money to get to the clinic.” Then I think how absurd I’m becoming. I roll my eyes and ask myself, do you think there’s some kind of seminar? Maybe “Pointers for Effective Panhandling” or “Never-Fail Ways to Maximize Your Hourly Intake.”
I fantasize that they have feelings about me. After I give them money and they say “God bless,” I wonder if they are resentful that I didn’t give more. Some of them even say “God bless” when I shake my head and say “Sorry.” Then I really feel guilty.
I want to talk to them, to find out what is really going on with them and show I care, but I am afraid. I’m even afraid of “our” street person—the tall, elderly man I think of as Mr. Ballcap. I see him nearly every day. A few times he has called me “doll face”—when I give him money or paused to exchange some comments about the weather. Our interchanges make me think maybe I could ask him about his life, but then I decide it would be imprudent to try to talk with him more.
Street Sense is supposed to be a good alternative to panhandling. I understand homeless people earn money for selling the newspapers. So after I came home with Alvin’s poem, I looked through the paper to find out more about the Street Sense staff. Do they invite homeless people into the newspaper office to write? Do they post flyers at shelters? Is the paper actually run by street people? I’m a writer, after all. Maybe I can get involved and find out more about these people who seem so unapproachable. Maybe it would be a way to stop being afraid.
“Volunteers needed,” it says. “Come to the next Street Sense meeting.” I’m going. Maybe Alvin will be there.
============================================
I did go, and I'm so glad. Alvin wasn't at the meeting, but I met him later when he came to buy his papers. I've learned a lot about the homeless and a lot about Street Sense. I still often feel uneasy when I approach panhandlers, but now I know to look them in the eye and not try to pretend they're not there. That's still hard for me, especially if I do not give them any money.
But I'm not uneasy about Street Sense vendors, and if I see one I go out of my way to buy a paper.
I just came back from the mailbox across the street. Dropped in 35 Xmas cards. Wore my Santa hat (natch).
Many hours of the last week have been devoted to get to this point, and a few more are to come, as we have about 100 more cards to send. But they are all ready to be inserted and addressed. It's an annual labor of love.
Usually I wear my antlers, but I had to send them to antler heaven last year, and I haven't been able to find more (even Target!).
Of course, Xmas music plays in the background as we work on the cards. I recently downloaded my 25 kick-ass Xmas CDs, from the Vienna Boys Choir and Gregorian Chants to Ray Charles and Willie Nelson. I love having the music in iTune so that I can SKIP Greensleeves. I hate that song. My favorite has to be the Temptations' version of Silent Night. I found a link so you can listen to it: The temps sing Silent Night. After you click on the link, the song will start automatically--be patient--it takes 12 seconds on my computer.
I'm under pressure to blog this week, because I outed my blog in the card. "Announced" might be the word others would use, but I feel like I've now exposed my little secret: I blog.
Rachel is going to be in Austin celebrating (or not) Xmas by herself this year. So among the packages I mailed to her today is the ceramic Xmas tree that Grandma Wendland made for me because I would be spending Xmas alone back in my 20s. I feel great about sending it to Rach, and not just because it eliminates a box of Xmas storage in the basement. She will have the wonderful glow in her house that I have had for close to 40 Christmases.
As I am realizing, a lot of my Xmas decorations are actually Rachel's: little items given to her in her growing-up years. The nutcrackers on my mantle (not yet sent to her). The little ceramic figurines of Santa and various carolers that grace my buffet. But today I mailed her the nativity figures made of cornstarch that my sister gave her when she was a little girl.
Rachel's Xmas village that accumulated over many years is gone. In truth, it was always my toy. Like the proverbial dad who gets the elaborate toy train for the son, I was the one who played with it. I picked out the houses and stores; I set it up each year; I loved it. But the village no longer had a place in either of our lives. For me, the houses and churches and little ice skaters and carolers required two boxes of storage in the basement, and I no longer had the energy or motivation (or room!) to set them up for a few weeks each year. For her, she recognized that her lifestyle would never accommodate village set-up. So we agreed the village had to go, and I carted the whole thing to the Salvation Army last summer. Except for two houses. Rachel and I each chose one house to keep as a village memento.
The week after Ken Burns and PBS aired his special on the national parks, featuring Yosemite in the opening episode, Tom and I were there for three days. And, yes, in case you are wondering, Ken Burns and PBS did consult with us regarding when they should launch the series.
We hiked, we saw a helicopter rescue operation, we hiked, we saw rocks and Giant Sequoias and waterfalls, we hiked, we had wonderful meals, and we hiked.
This is my first post since creating my blog in 2006, and I'm learning what I can do with it. Let's see how the link feature works. If you click on this link you will be able to play Set. It allows one free game a day, and I do that every morning. My goal every day is to complete the 6 sets in less than a minute. I think my best-ever time was 37 seconds, and I have a fair share under 60 seconds, but usually I come in at 1 min. and 4 sec. or something similar. So did the link work? Go ahead and play. You will get better, I promise. In my first year of playing, I often had times of 3 minutes, 5 minutes, and a truly horrible 7 minutes one time. I sometimes thought there were not actually 6 sets among the shapes, but I consulted with Set maven Rachel and she encouraged me to keep playing, and indeed, it did become easier.
I want to try adding more photos on this post to my blog. I think I'll dig into my subdirectory of flower pics. Hey! . That worked! I should probably add a caption so you will know they are bleeding hearts. Hmmm. Don't seem to know how to do that. I will consult with my blog expert, Reya. Her blog is called the gold puppy. That's all for now. I'm going to post this to see what happens then! Very exciting.
Left: West Virginia state capitol in Charleston
