By Susan Middaugh
I believe in taking public transportation to work instead of driving.
As a card-carrying member of the Sierra Club and the Mountain Club of Maryland, I’d like to say my primary motive is energy conservation. It’s not. I want to save money on gas and parking and to extend the life of Takeshi, my Japanese car, whose odometer has passed the 180,000-mile mark.
There are other advantages I hadn’t anticipated. I love walking down the hill in the morning from my house to the bus stop. Being outside in the fresh air fills my spirit in a way that driving with the windows rolled up or down fails to do. The exercise is healthy and the world seems bigger, with a greater sense of possibility.
The 45-minute bus ride is found time, great for reading the newspaper, daydreaming, or unwinding after a day’s work. Traveling in a 30 mile an hour zone through city streets instead of bebopping down the highway at 65 mph helps me slow down my life, a good thing.
I’ve also made new acquaintances at the bus stop that I never would have met behind the wheel of my car. One of them, a middle-aged man in a baseball cap and a camouflage jacket, asked the driver to wait one day when I was late. My new young friend, Eric, who is in high school, is looking for a part-time job. Forrest, a former nurse, tells me about his interest in archeology. An African-American woman in her 40s describes her life after a stroke. Such conversations help me feel connected to other people in my community.
There have also been some surprises. On a crowded city bus, I’ve seen men of different ages offer their seats to women of other races, women who are old, pregnant, or juggling strollers and young children. These moments of civility have restored my faith in human nature.
Drawbacks to riding instead of driving? Sure. On a good day, riding the bus takes three times longer than it does for me to drive the eight miles to my office. Walking to and from my stop can add up to 40 minutes to my daily commute. If the driver is late, a one-way trip can become a journey. If the bus is early, as sometimes happens, this grandmother runs for it or waits for the next one. If I were punching a clock or had to be at a daycare center by a set time, the unpredictability could be a problem.
Walking up the hill to my house each evening can also be a chore, especially if it’s hot or raining or I’m tired. As a distraction, I listen for the tinkle of wind chimes on my neighbors’ porches, breathe in the cooking smells that float into the street, and wonder what the people in my town are having for dinner.
Overall, I feel fortunate to have a choice of transportation. On days when I want to bag the bus, I drive a few miles to light rail….for the same price. Either way, I feel like I’m turning green, staying fit and saving money.
Copyright © 2009 Susan Middaugh.
If you’re an artist, or have ever tried to become one, you know that the part of the human body hardest to draw is the hand. You can always spot an artist-wannabe when they present “finished art” wherein the hands of the people are hidden in some way—either in pockets, behind backs, under the table, etc., etc. A confident artist, on the other hand (sorry, couldn’t resist it), doesn’t hide hands because he or she has, to at least some degree, mastered their depiction. Actually, the skillful artist loves to draw hands because they know that after the human face, hands are the most expressive parts of the body, especially when it comes to gestures. On the other other hand, some newbie artists give up the game in frustration once they discover the difficulty of drawing hands. Many of those creative folks become photographers instead—as did Yours Truly, at least for a time. Or they try their own hands at cartooning (ditto), where the graphic standards are much lower, especially these days. (See my own limited efforts on this blog, and the many crudely drawn “Post Modern” gag examples in the New Yorker. BTW, the term “Post Modern,” as I understand how it applies to cartooning, means crudely drawn on purpose. The idea is to make an up to date graphic statement “against” professional slickness. Meanwhile, I’ve spent many years trying to become professionally slick. It’s all very confusing.)
Copyright © 2009 Jim Sizemore.
Recently, on a local radio talk show, a very high city official complained about slow growth in the municipal tax base. He said that if Baltimore is to prosper, we need a massive influx of dynamic, tax paying professionals. I know the kind of “Young Master of the Universe” types he has in mind. In fact, he was talking about some of my best friends. These are special people with special needs, and if that city big shot is serious about attracting them, he must make an effort to understand and meet those needs. I can be of service in that regard.
My friends cannot survive without fancy hair salons and boutiques that sell designer jeans and t-shirts. They absolutely must have neon-lighted dance clubs and restaurants with cute items on the menu like Choo-Choo Burgers, Caboose Omelets, and Latté Grandés—whatever they are. My friends are unable to resist the attraction of little shops that sell expensive gifts that have no practical of aesthetic value, which they buy with “disposable income” and give to friends and relatives who all ready have everything. And, most importantly, my friends require new housing that appears to be old. This usually involves renovating vintage buildings by replacing everything in them, right down to the mortar between the exposed bricks in the walls.
A perfect example of what it takes to attract these folks can be found in South Baltimore around Cross Street Market, now called the fancier-sounding “Federal Hill.” In that area whole blocks of old homes were bought cheaply years ago and, in the process of renovation, prices were raised to levels the former tenants—working-class people, many of whom had lived there for generations—could not afford. So the renovated homes were sold to newcomers with unlimited resources. The rich class tends to swarm, like ants, and once a few were introduced into the area the picnic was over for everyone else. In South Baltimore the “renewal” continues to this day. Young Masters of the Universe clones are everywhere, and the neighborhood has become a sort of Georgetown-by-the-Harborplace. Where once was heard the sounds of the working-class struggling to survive, one now hears the rustle of Wall Street Journal pages being flipped, laptop keyboards being tapped, and café au lait being slurped.
The thing is, creating a trendy urban oasis such as the one I’ve just described is relatively easy. As long as working-class people cannot afford to wear designer clothes, drink expensive coffee, and rebuild their modest row homes from the ground up, the Cross Street Market model will work just about anywhere in town—it’s simply a matter of applying economic pressure to drive out the poorer population. And once every working-class neighborhood in Baltimore has been converted to an urban utopia for people like my friends, that high city official will have his wider tax base. And we’ll have a very different city. Wonderful.
This anger-tinged essay was originally published on the op-ed page of the Baltimore Evening Sun on July 5, 1979, under the editor’s title “Drink to me only with thine Perrier,” and with a different illustration (a really bad cartoon by someone on the Sun staff). Aside from the illustration, the only changes I’ve made are a few words here and there to update the text somewhat. This bit of satire was written at a time when I was pretty unhappy with the changes I saw happening in a part of town in which I had spent the formative years of my youth. As you may be able to tell by the tone of the piece, at the time I wrote it I was a sad, angry, even depressed young man. These days, thank goodness, not so much.
Copyright © 2009 Jim Sizemore.