for free. I write.
Category: Uncategorized
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to watch a specific sport. It’s always been more about passing through the room noticing that, say, figure skating or Olga Korbut was on, and stopping to watch that for a bit before moving on to something else.
The longest I remember watching an Olympic event was over twenty-five years ago, during the winter Olympics, involving incredibly high ski-jumping — more like ski flying. There was one long shot after another of nothing but an airborne person on skis in mid-air, tiny and black with distance, framed by nothing but blue sky, first tilting forward gracefully, then upended, tumbling, and crashing into a snowy gulch in a cringe-inducing tangle of limbs and skis.There would be a long pause to wait for the emergency helicopter to arrive while the announcer said something about bad headwinds, the shot of a tiny stretcher being borne aloft, and then another skier would appear, fly, and tumble. Imagining the thoughts of those skiers lining up so they could, one after another, soar and crash, was almost hypnotic. I believe I watched it until they ran out of skiers and went on to another, less harrowing event.
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rather than a luxury would be a big step in the right direction.
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Daily writing promptHow have you adapted to the changes brought on by the Covid-19 pandemic?
on public transit.
Here in San Francisco the residents of Chinatown have worn masks during flu season, even before COVID. I took a walk there in the summer of 2020. Fewer people were on the street than at other times, but every single person I saw was masked.During the height of the pandemic, even though Chinatown is one of the poorest, most densely populated sections of the city, its incidence of COVID was lower than that of other wealthier, less crowded neighborhoods.
So I still try to remember to wear a mask when I take the bus. To my knowledge, I’ve never had COVID. I hope I never do.
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Daily writing promptWhat are your morning rituals? What does the first hour of your day look like?
Brush hair.
Make coffee.
Pet cat for no less than five minutes.
Five minutes over. Keyboard now cat-free.
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The same “aspects” that make all living things unqiue. Appearance, health, memories, personality, history, likes, dislikes, loves, hates, etc.
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Daily writing promptIf you could have something named after you, what would it be?
I even have a bust they could put in the lobby.
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It happened on my first airplane flight when I was two. Obviously, I had laughed before then, when I was delighted, or tickled, or even just because everyone around me was laughing and I knew that was a good thing.
My mother, who sat next to the window, held my baby sister and my father, who had the aisle seat, held me on his lap. This was the early sixties, when people still dressed up for airplane flights, and Dad was in a business suit with a dark jacket, a crisp white shirt and tie. Once we were airborne the stewardess came by, and my father asked if she’d bring me a cup of orange juice.
My sippy-cup, which I had mastered, was left behind. I did not know the word “trepidation” at that age, but that’s what I remember feeling as the stewardess returned holding out a small, white paper cup brimming with cold, sticky orange liquid. At my father’s urging — I think he said something like “show everyone what a big girl you are.” — I very cautiously took it, tilted it, and missed my mouth, emptying the entire contents onto him — tie, shirt, jacket — all of it.
I don’t remember what was said afterward, probably just the usual kerfuffle of the stewardess saying, “oh dear,” and Dad being mildly dismayed. The stewardess said she’d go get some napkins, and Dad added, “bring another cup of orange juice.”
And that’s when I lost it, not to a tantum, but to a rising boil of helpless giggles. “Deadpan” was another term I didn’t know, but that’s what he’d been. It was obvious to me I would just spill it all over him again, but there was my father, blandly, even cheerfully asking for yet another cup of orange juice to get poured onto his silk tie.
I could not stop, and the sight of the stewardess walking towards us, with her polite smile, holding out another brimming orange juice just made it worse. At last, she stood before us, offering me the cup, and that completely undid me to where I wriggled and screamed in Dad’s arms, helpless with laughter, and at the same time, aware that this had never happened before, that now, at last I got it. I understood why grown-ups laughed, and that laughter could seize someone as uncontrollably as crying did, except it felt good.
Honestly, I did my best. Once I’d regained control, I tried again and spilled it, and no, I was not trying to be funny. I was just as badly coordinated as most toddlers and trying to drink something from a non-sippy cup on a moving plane. I’m pretty sure we all gave up after that, and I was left in peace to giggle myself into exhaustion against Dad’s damp shirtfront. It was possibly the only time in history passengers on a plane were disturbed, not by a wailing baby, but one who was shrieking with laughter.
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Daily writing promptWhen you were five, what did you want to be when you grew up?
What I remember about that age is the extent to which everything and everyone around me loomed. This did not frighten me, but it did make me impatient to catch up with the rest of the world, which did not seem to be made with me in mind. Counters were unreachable, for one thing. So was the door handle at the kindgarten I attended. After my mother dropped me off and drove away, I would walk to the large door that was the entrance and stand, waiting patiently for someone to come along and open it. It took my mother and the teachers about a week to figure out why I was so frequently late.
Pam Troy 