On the pavement leading to the tracks at North Station, someone had dropped a bright yellow daffodil. She mrched forward, then stopped to pick it up. Construction to enlarge the tracks was in progress. She hoped they would not change North Station too much. She liked it just the way it was, an "old time" station, reminscent of the fifties with its high-backed long wooden benches, red and white signs posted overhead and TV screen announcing the train schedule to Lowell and North Billerica.
Now she would go through Downtown Crossing. Maybe those flower jeans would be on sale at Jordan Marsh. She spied a cart smelling of hot dogs and mustard.
"Orange soda?" she said. And then, "Nice day, isn't it? Especially for this job."
The young man smiled and agreed. He was probably just her age. She sipped the sweet refreshing stuff.
Other carts were selling the American flag and flags of other countries on the brick and cobblestoned walkways of Downtown Crossing. She sat among some old men on the benches by the Fountain and finished her soda.
She liked the reggae music they were playing today as she fingered the boldly imprinted jeans in Jordan Marsh. Green, orange, lavendar, daisies and poppies and tulips adonred them at eight dollars less than the week before! What did she have that would match them? She could not think. But they were her! Dare to be different, she thought. Someone with guts would have to wear these. And, of course, the guys at work would love them,as they caught a glimpse below her red apron smock that she hated to wear while cashiering at the grocery store.
Now, she walked back through Boston Common, over the bridge of the Boston Public Garden. The Green Line E emerged above ground at Northeastern University. At the museum stop, she stepped off the trolley. She found herself among a throng of students waiting for the free admission at four o'clock. They were handed little yellow badges, just like at the Met in New York. The indoor "sidewalk cafe" just outside the glass walls of the museum gift shop was reminscent of New York, its glass tables bedecked with fresh tulips. Even though the Museum was free until six o'clock, she browsed through the gift store for a while.
Past the eighteenth century, she wandered, the bucolic scenes of Winslow Homer evocative of a more peaceful era. Farms and hills and boys playing or fishing. She experienced eighteenth century America through his paintings.
Suddenly, a throng of women and men carrying folding chairs scrambled through the once quiet wing.
Oh, yakkety yak, she thought. Pretending they appreciate art. Maybe some of them really did. She enjoyed her private appreciation of these pastoral scenes which transported her to another place in time; the silent statues frozen in motion; the forgotten gods and goddesses who roamed the pages of Greek and Roman mythology as she now wandered through the ruins of ancient Egypt.
(handwritten note) The young Dionysius, my Greek namesake, lifted grapes to his mouth, as he sat astride a stone panther.
(My note: "Dionysius," the Greek god of wine. See French, "Denise." Look it up in the dictionary!!!...* * * :)
UP NEXT: SICK LEAVE...until next time,
Denise
P.S. We are expecting SNOW on Tuesday and on Wednesday, possibly changing to freezing rain. Be careful, everyone! Stay safe! Don't go out if you don't have to. Beware of black ice on Thursday morning.)
