Thursday, October 7, 2004, 8:20am
Thursday, October 7, 2004, 8:20am
Last evening after my first truly dark commute of the autumn months, this morning I am appreciating a brightly-lit world even though at this very moment I see nothing more than well-lit freight cars moored and rusting at the Framingham yards. Soon glassy water instills an up-side-down reflection from parental swans preening atop Farm Pond, and through the woods beyond their watery cove I notice several small mountains of cordwood piled 15 feet deep, most likely for resale since I doubt they’re heating the nearby concrete warehouse with fireplaces.
Norm is in the role of head conductor this morning and a trainee I’ve seen once before is running the cars back here. Perhaps Frank has the day off.
The two Framingham commuting conductors board and get to work helping a little more than usual, perhaps to shore up the kid. As I consider the notion of commuting conductor, it’s probably unfair since they help out far more than they commute and it’s also nice to know that we have so many fully-qualified professionals aboard this humble train should the need arise.
Lake Cochituate is equally glassy this morning – still reflecting mostly green leaves now mixed with flashes of orange growing in force with some leaves already falling. The signs of autumn are no longer strange to me – no more at least than the thinning and graying of hair in my bathroom mirror going on for longer than I can remember – which isn’t saying much for my memory.
I really could use that nap now – last night the Red Sox won 8-3, but the game didn’t end until 2:00am and I managed only five hours in bed after that. Apparently two young women chatting continuously three rows back had plenty of sleep – or else they are well practiced at producing an endless stream of words fully awake or asleep. At first I sat even closer, but before my seat was tagged I moved up here when seeing them together. Two people rarely sit together in a half empty train unless they plan to talk.
At Wellesley Hills Station I see how some of the smoke encrusted outcroppings of bedrock are returning to somewhat native-looking rust stained granite. Some of this cleaning may be from acid rain or the work of sunlight, but most seems to be the rock face itself crumbling. It’s not entirely clean, though. A spider’s web of black rivulets persists in cracks and fractures – almost as though the blackness is stored deep underground reaching into the old bedrock ready to re-invade any irregularities with fresh ooze. The ooze is a hard crust by now, but that is how it looks.
We are riding alongside an east/west leg of the Charles River seen in snatches down a steep embankment. Above the river I notice a huge sign for the Watertown Arsenal Mall skimming distant treetops. I’ve seen that sign perhaps a hundred times, but rarely does it rise from the depths to stir my consciousness vision. The Arsenal was, or maybe still is, a giant Army depot stemming from the world wars of the 20th century and perhaps even earlier with most military installations in Massachusetts having their earliest roots in the American Civil War. Nowadays I’m unsure if the mall was rebuilt from the old arsenal building or just derives its name from proximity. Once again without more information I’ll never know any of this beyond guesswork.
A woman in the crowd disembarking at Back Bay reminds me of Martin on the old Ray Walston and Bill Bixby TV show – My Favorite Martian. I can’t see her cell phone, but I can see a single chrome-plated antenna poking up through her thick reddish hair.
People are wearing light coats now – although light coats are often worn in July on the hottest days by the ever-ready Bostonians. Almost no one ever wears shorts in the city except delivery guys, tourists, Red Sox fans, and suburban commuters working on engineering projects vexed with survival in outer space.
With a sunny day today and no wind, it looks like I’ll cross the Fort Point Channel on foot without freezing – coat or no coat. But first I have a darkroom easel to mail as part of yet more stuff leaving by way of my slow-motion photo equipment fire sale.
