I began writing these notes perched beside Bill in our bedroom on Amtrak’s Empire Builder--San Francisco to Chicago–just having rolled out of Havre, Montana.
To explain: granddaughter (son David’s) Kate was graduating from Columbia University’s School of Social Work with her master’s degree…in the top one percent of the class, Katie was Summa cum laude! We wanted to be there to celebrate.
Fly? Our last trip east we’d come home with COVID and I was sure it was the airports/plane. I’d taken trains forth and back across the country after Gene died—by myself—loved it. Bill was game for the adventure. I booked bedrooms—space for two with meals included—crossing the country along two paths—San Francisco to Chicago (2,438 miles) to New York (959 miles)…New York to Chicago to Portland (to visit family)…Portland home to San Jose. Could not wait.
The country we’d seen riding from San Francisco was beyond beautiful. The California Zephyr flew through the Sierra Nevadas and the Rockies. I continually gasped at the glistening thick white cakes of snow-laden trees—pure white covering every imaginable shape of evergreen. And come and go were noble rivers—the Green River, Colorado, Missouri, Mississippi Rivers, all broad and peaceable, afloat sometimes with people bobbing on rafts, sometimes scows going about their marine business, sometimes large ships.
And the clouds! I’d never seen such colors and shapes…some ferocious, other feminine, other-worldly…
But perhaps the element that fascinated me most was the lines in the landscape, in the terrain, in boulders that delineated layers… Sometimes the thin black lines were curved mountainously up and down, sometimes layered evenly horizontally… incalculable layers went straight across then suddenly the lines took off at steep angles, some sharp, some rounded. I wished I’d studied geology so I could decipher them… …how many years, centuries, between each layer?
Then in Chicago after meeting granddaughter Maggie and her friend Aaron for drinks at a café along the river and a superb Mexican dinner (friend Rick Bayless’ iconic Frontera Grill), Bill and I boarded The Lakeshore Limited for the overnight trip along the shores of Lake Erie and down the Hudson River to New York City.
In New York we were fortunate to spend ten enriching days with family and old friends.
On Kate’s graduation night in a vegan restaurant (Kate and dad Geoff are vegans), at supper I looked up and realized I was at table with three young enchanting talented beautiful granddaughters—Kate and her Chicago-based sister Maggie and just in from her new home in London, cousin James aka Frannie (daughter Amanda’s child). Bliss bliss bliss. What a fortunate grandmother.
The next afternoon we had the luxury of taking an Uber down to Princeton, New Jersey, to attend my amazing Bill’s Seventy-fifth class reunion at Princeton: Class of 1951…
Twenty-two classmates survive, five came to the reunion. At The Reunion Dinner, Bill was delighted to befriend a classmate he hadn’t known in school. (His daughter, also a graduate of the university, sat next to me and I was fascinated when she told me about her garden—that she got rid of marauding voles by bringing in a nest of screech owls. “Are there screech owls in western gardens?” I wondered. Found out there are, and when I bring in a nest box, our Norwegian rats will discover our garden is not as friendly as once it was. You learn a lot in a gathering of Princetonians…)
The reception was festive and welcoming… Everyone turns out to welcome classes from former years in the traditional “P-Rade.” I can’t tell you how moving it was, students and friends even townspeople of all ages/sizes/conditions lined the parade route through the incredibly beautiful elms, sycamores, magnolias, tulip trees, cedars, spruces, centuries-old tree-filled campus, and as our portion approached, they cheered vigorously, “Class of ’51! Rah! Rah! Rah!” Added to the interest it was drizzling…we were in a golf cart and Bill sat in front beside the student driver, remained dry… I rode in the back of the cart, no lid overhead, it was chilly, wet, but ever joyous.
Our last day in New York, Kate and I had a memorable day together at the Metropolitan Museum. So special…we saw the great new Raphael show–“Sublime Poetry”– but decided we were more moved by the arts of Oceania. At the close of the day, I had to get to Grand Central Station to catch the train for the forty-minute ride back to Bronxville where Bill waited with his daughter and grandson. It was a six-tenths mile trot, and Katie was a dear encourager as we jogged from the museum at 83rd and Fifth Avenue to the subway station at 77th and Lexington Avenue—finished with a daring plunge of stairs to below ground to the crammed subway (now it was Rush Hour). I was proud of myself (particularly not just because of digging down to reach a supply of energy at five in the afternoon after walking around since nine in the morning) because on the trot I tried desperately hard not to be bent over… presently a bugaboo of mine.
On the jam-packed subway, I was able to remain upright (I gratefully declined a woman’s offered seat) because I could lean against the back tire of a bicycle parked in front of me. Loved that. Later I texted Hollis our CrossFit coach that I couldn’t have dashed the dash or managed the subway without him.
At the end of that day, it began ebbing into my consciousness that I’d very much like to be in New York again. Not live there full time—just spend some time there now and again. In 1956, Gene and I lived in a third-floor railroad flat on East 88th Street (between York and First) —there I was a happy copywriter at Lord & Taylor and our son David made his first appearance in our lives. For his part, Bill lived in New York for decades (teaching at Columbia then Sarah Lawrence colleges), loved it. But now, except for visiting daughter Catharine, I knew he would want to travel to New York only rarely. So toning down my feelings—did not want to make it seem that it was eminently possible–as we parted I said to Kate—who plans to remain in the city at least three more years– “I hope you and I have more Met Days…”
Hey, old girl, you have a superb life in Santa Cruz…enough nonsense.
Hey, back at you. While I have lived most of the happiest days of my life in the country, I’ve always loved the panache of a major metropolitan city…loved walking up to Ninth Avenue to get coffee with Katie…was so happy being submerged in the vasty vastness –the warmth of old and new cultures–of the great museum. Love an evening sitting listening to an orchestra or a play or watching dancers dance…nothing so unusual about that…
I think I’ll wait until the turn of The New Year before I mention such a thought to Himself. Heaven forbid I should appear greedy…
Oh, I haven’t mentioned one thing. Part of our hopes for a New York visit was that we would meet with a literary agent about our novel. Never happened. We did have a memorable evening with an old friend who is in publishing, who loves our book, but it’s not… And so forth. Stay tuned.
Now it was time to board The Empire Builder aiming for home…the train across the country that takes a more northern route. We would debark in Portland, Oregon to visit Bill’s son Geoff and his family—two wee golden great-granddaughters!
The following morning, I’d packed up our five compact pieces and while Bill listened to his book (Ron Chernow’s Mark Twain), I looked out the window at the Columbia River and the mountains… islets…cabins…little boats.. industrial processing plants—it could not have been a more fecund part of the world—with the massive snowy white peak of Mt. Hood suddenly rising in the background. “This certainly is a beautiful part of the trip,” murmured Himself. I have urged him to Never say the obvious—a dictum from my former life—but Bill enjoys stating the obvious, then curling up around and through it…
Glimpsing rustic cabins tucked in woods, I murmured, “We could be happy here.” Bill responded, “You always want to live someplace else.” That hurt. No I don’t. It’s just that at moments such as these—immersed in pristine bits of our country—I have a hankering to live in the country again.
What has struck me forcibly these cross-country days is that America is rhapsodically gorgeous.
But the word that keeps popping into my mind when I talk about it is, majestic.
Yes, this country is over the top majestic…the mountains, the woodlands, the waterways—rivers, creeks, ponds, oceans …the trees–there are uncountable multitudes of trees standing solemnly, pristinely, atop hillocks, hills, and noble mountains across the land…pines and every form of green I’ve ever seen stand silently, their branches heavy laden with pristine white snow and ice.
Majesty. Majesty. Majesty. Beyond beautiful.
I looked up the word in my online New Oxford American Dictionary. Guess what it said:
“1 impressive stateliness, dignity, or beauty: experience the majesty of the Rockies.”
An hour before we went to the dining car, we awaited the rise of The Rocky Mountains…. To my left out our window were flat green fields bordered by low-rise hills topped with greenery—scrub, mostly. Ach, then came a farm with round aluminum silos with peaky caps (such as worn by The Tinman). Ach, then an expanse of chocolate-brown earth between vast pale-green fields…
Hate to admit it, but night came before the Rockies. Oh well. Next time…
The trip was great.
There will be a next time…
God willing, eh?
