The BIG puddle

develops when it rains hard.  It fills up the dip in the path from the verge almost to the road on occasions.

BIG puddle

That is awkward enough to navigate, offering the choice of wet feet (through the middle) muddy feet to the grass or stepping onto the road and getting knocked down on the other side.

But it has its' real fun in the winter, first the puddle forms, then it turns to a sheet of ice then it hides under a covering of snow and waits.

It waits for the unwary, unknowing pedestrian to step confidently onto its surface, slip and fall.

This dip with its puddle has been there for several years now.  The one attempt to alleviate the problem was to cut a little channel from the edge of the path into the grass.  As the dip is deeper in the middle than it is at either edge this was not successful.

Locals know it is there but still occasionally get forgetful and take a slide.  I fear that a proper fix will not occur given current economics, until someone breaks something falling at this spot, other than their shopping. 

Personally I choose when it is just water to wait for a gap in the traffic (kindly supplied by traffic lights a bit further on) and step into the road.  However when it is snow on ice, the threat of mud is diminished and I use the grass side.

Big Puddle in winter

An uncomfortable conversation

getting on the second bus for the journey home the other night I was the fifth passenger.  The other four on before me and each sitting in a window seat but facing into each other as a group.

They were already talking as I got on, it very quickly became obvious they were all from the same firm, a firm that just the night before had announced major job losses nation wide, many of which in this area.

They had had the official disheartening news at work that day but as yet did not know what it meant for them as individuals.

It was both sad and uncomfortable hearing them mull over the possibilities and try and comfort each other with positive potential outcomes.  Yet under it all was an air of distress and a wave of betrayal.

I felt in turns relieved not to be in a similar position and a tad sheepish about how often I grumble about my job.  Still this was a time I wished the privacy bubble did exist there was something so personal and raw about this conversation and the emotions on the bus I felt my presence was intrusive.    

A very blustery day

and regrettably the bus station was less of a refuge than it was a funnel.

The poor automatic doors have given up.  Some of them in mid movement some at close.  So they are no longer doors but poor imitations of walls or open gaps.

In today's gale force wind the gaps managed to catch every gust no matter its direction and guide it into the bus station.  Rather than a protection the bus station became a wind tunnel.

Still no re-appearance of the seats, wind proofing lost, I worry about the roof!

Greetings

I recall a news item that said bus drivers received no acknowledgement from their passengers.  

Can't have been in this area, I expect that there are days the drivers here might like a bit of ignoring. Just about ever passenger getting on or alighting gives a greeting, morning, afternoon, how you doing...thank, ta, all right mate, cheers and many another variation.

I wonder if they get tired of responding or if it is a good part of an often difficult job.

Almost home

why is it that I don't feel the slight downhill nature of my journey to the bus stop but I do feel the steep incline on the way home.

Yes, logically I know it is the same gradient both ways however, my legs do not believe in logic.  Rather they are quite convinced that there is a hydraulic system under the path which makes it steeper on the way home.  That my legs have their own little paranoia should perhaps worry me more than it does.

It is however true that I do the reverse journey slower, which is odd as I am much more interested in getting to my destination in this direction.

Back up the steps, through the gate and ahh HOME ! 

Stops, starts and Psalms

The way to the bus stop goes over four roads, there and back again.  Two have traffic lights which while indicating when it should be safe for those of us on foot are primarily for the flow of the motorised wheeled vehicle.  However one road has my favourite set of lights ever!  Does that sound like an odd thing to have a favourite of? These light are on a main thoroughfare in the place I live.  I have been crossing it for more years than I might like to own to.  For the greater portion of that time no permanent crossing aid existed.  Indeed, there were lollipop people (did that date me? aren't they crossing patrols or something equally politically correct but much less delightful termed  now?) a few of which were painfully unsuccessful at stopping cars and I do mean that literally.  However, outside school hours, nothing.  On evenings the road can be particularly busy and in the dark hard to judge when it is safe. Leaving me standing for what seemed like extended periods of time waiting to cross.  Of course the pervading memory is that those times were always in the rain and cold.

Traffic lights I love you.

Then wonders of wonders they put in the pedestrian traffic lights. What a delight, it reduced the time there and back. Not long after that I was asked in a Sunday school class to write a psalm of thanksgiving and praise for something everyday to help us understand the gratitude we should have for all things and the symbolism that can be found in the seemingly ordinary.  So what else could I write my psalm about, so here it is..

 Weather morn, day or night

  especially rain or snowing

 I give thanks for the light

that offers me safety

 and speeds me on.

Jewel colours, bright green

amber and red,

Halting the traffic

letting me move instead.

Years in the darkness

I've been alone

Making my choices

to go or to stay.

Praise for the light that

now guides my way.

               

I wanted to share my joy with the planners and builders but I never did  get round to it.  So at this time to any who might chance across this blog who give us two footed travellers devices to helps make our way in this motorised world...Thank you.

Sweet and sour

Sometimes passing what remains of my infant and junior schools, the playgrounds sans buildings makes me melancholy.  That is a good word it tastes the way it means.  Mostly I just remind myself in a paranoid fashion that someone is demolishing my history.

School yard but no school.

They knocked down the maternity hospital where I was born, the a-fore mentioned infants and juniors. Both the buildings of my senior school and sixth form are gone, parts of my college, with the rest waiting to be destroyed and turned into a super market. Admittedly the latter establishments have shiny modern replacements but still it is a relief the house is still there when I get back.

But sometimes what I recall is playing in the school yard as a child and my grandparents, my mothers parents, coming for a visit unannounced, walking from the bus stop past my school to my home.  Pausing at the playground, calling my name until someone told me they were there, I was fiercely single minded as a child an often did not hear them myself.  Then would come the boiled sweets, (hard candy for Americans) from my grandfathers pocket, sailing over the fence to my eager hands.

The memory is bitter sweet, my grandmother died when I was eleven, my grandfather a few years later. Our time here on earth overlapped for such a sort span.  I think of the Littmus Lozenge from Kate DiCamillo's Because of Winn-Dixie, the sweet with the sour, joy with sadness.

This is a memory which contains both, and on those occasions my minds journey back influences my movement in the now and my pace slows almost without me realising it.