Transit Update

I was riding on the "F" train yesterday morning somewhere between Roosevelt Island and Lexington Avenue when I noticed that something wasn't quite right.  While I was leaning on one of those silver sliding subway car doors, ya know the ones that bear the warning "Please do not lean on door", I sensed something was off.

Further down in the middle of this crowded car of early morning commuters I saw a commotion starting to brew. No, it wasn't a fight, thank goodness, it was a stirring of the crowd caused by a passenger passing out. I stretched my neck and stood on my toes to see more but I was interrupted by the voices of a passenger shouting, "Press the emergency button for help! Press it now!"

Another voice asked the carload of visibly concerned riders,
"Does anybody have any chocolate?"
Immediately people were passing Hershey bars and Andes mints to the area where the voice came from. I gathered from the bits and pieces I did hear that the young woman in her early forties had fainted momentarily from lack of diabetic medicine.

The train stopped at the closest station and I saw the good samaritans who rushed to the woman's aid. Usually when an incident like this occurs one person helps.  Not yesterday. I was proud to see a majority of riders dispelled the label that New Yorkers are cold. It's so good to know that New Yorkers have learned to watch their neighbors back.

Last I saw of that young woman was when she sat recovering on the platform bench. She appeared much better and several riders shouted through the trains closing doors a heartfelt, "Good luck and be well."

And may I say to those people who extended themselves in her aid, "Bless you all.  You are my heros now."

I'm Still Writing

I haven't written here as much as I had in the past and I want to tell everyone the reason.

For the past several weeks I was writing what I hope may become "The Great American Novel." And it's a lot harder than I thought it was going to be. Sure I have lengthy spurts of time pounding out crap for it on the keyboard. All the while, dirty dishes are amassing in the sink and dust continues to settle on furniture and wherever else dust is suppose to settle. Not to mention I haven't cleaned the kitty litter box in over a month nor refilled my cats water and food dishes. (Those furry felines do look a tad thin).

But what about me, you ask? Don't worry I have developed this almost superhuman skill of retaining body fluid--even when my kidneys are screaming "get this stuff out of me!!"

Billie?? Haven't bumped into her recently. I know we live in the same place and are madly in love with one another but what can I say, you gotta do what ya gotta do. And I keep sitting in front of her computer on her chair in her office writting and writting and misspelling what I'm writing.

So love to all of you and take care of yourselves.  I heard that there was a storm recently. Was New York effected?

Jimmy

Tracing Isaiah's Roots

Isaiah smiled when he heard the familiar bong of his desktop computer start up.  The retired black history professor stroked his silver beard and waited. He hoped the sudden power outage brought on by Hurricane Sandy had not wiped out all the research he had compiled on his Mac.

While biting his lower lip he signed into “Ancestry.com”; tapped the “Enter” key, then released a hearty sigh of relief.

“Whew! That was a close one, Isaiah.” 

He said to himself smiling at all his unharmed charts and graphs. 

He knew he would have been devastated had he lost the three years of data that resulted from mining through stacks of brittle county documents and parched newspapers.  Ever since Isaiah had stopped teaching he used all his free time searching for his family ancestry.  He knew his quest was going to be challenging, no, it was going to be formidable.  After all “Washington” was most assuredly a common name—probably as common as common can be.

One night, at his rickety roll top desk, Isaiah discovered in an old dusty ledger book of 1789 landowners a name that he always saw on every one dollar bill.  He peered through his pocket magnifying glass to examine the signature more closely.

“Well, well, well . . .Isaiah,” he said to himself with surprise. “Our county ledger has George Washington listed here as the owner of the very same farm your great, great, great grandfather Jeremiah lived.  Hmmm.”

The very next morning, Isaiah headed to the New Haven Historical Society with a spiral notebook in one hand and a thermos of hot coffee in the other. He needed an answer to a burning question that plagued him.  Why was his ancestor listed in the 1789 ledger but not in the 1780 ledger?  He was still a young man.

Isaiah stopped advancing the microfilm when he came across a full column article that deeply disturbed him yet answered his questions as well.  He sat back, cleared the tear from his eye and read aloud almost reverently,

“Last night the body of local negro farmer was found burned and hanging in Town Square.  When questioned, authorities would not say if they are holding any suspects.  They admit, however, the investigation would continue normally.
As of this writing no one has come forth to claim the deceased farmer, known to the town as simply Jeremiah. "

Isaiah advanced the microfilm and read a related article that put a smile on his already sickened face.  He read the headline,

“Legal steps taken to right wrong’George Washington, landowner of several neighboring farmlands has asked for the remains of a murdered farmer so he could give him a proper burial.  The New Haven Gazette has learned that Mr. Washington plans to transfer the remains to rest below the tree in which the deceased was hanged.  When asked his reason, Mr. Washington said vehemently, “Because I want everyone to know that Jeremiah was my son.”

Isaiah felt his sorrows evaporate and he began to chuckle and then he laughed-- louder and louder still.

He returned to his room and sat at his rickety roll top desk and turned on his computer to read the news on Yahoo.  The very first article caused him to bolt upright and re-read. “Blah, blah, blah, skeleton uprooted . . . bleh, bleh . . .New Haven . . .COLONIAL . . .

The excited history professor picked up a phone and dialed.  When he heard a friendly voice answer, “Hello, New Haven Landmark Society” he began, “Have I got a story for you.”