Paul just chilling out in the Sky100 observation deck in Hong Kong.
Still recovering from the humidity the day before, Paul and I decided to start the day off with a trip to Sky100 at the International Commerce Centre.
In about 60 seconds, the elevator took us up 100 floors, 393 meters above sea level, to the 360-degree indoor observation deck. The building stands 1,588 feet, or 484 meters, tall. From here, you can see the famous skyline of Victoria Harbour.
A foggy, overcast day in Hong Kong.
I hate the projects. They are where we place the poor so we don’t have to look at them. They are a symbol of how easy it is for us to ignore some of the most vulnerable in our society.
On December 16, 2017, Sarah sat and posed for me. This was the result.
I walked into the zoo well before it was open to cover a story for the Star-Herald. When I was done, I decided to walk around and take some pictures before the zoo opened for the day. I strolled past Cyrano, a Lynx rufus at the zoo, and hung out there for a while. I always enjoy paying him a visit even if he sleeps the entire time I’m there. That’s what cats do.
Eventually, I made my way past the bison, zebras, Eurasian Lynx and tigers and walked into the indoor enclosure for the chimpanzees. It was a cool morning and I wasn’t sure if Scooter and Sarah would be outside that day. Sarah was in the right indoor enclosure. She was sitting down and as soon as she saw me, she got up and started to walk toward me.
I was sitting in the staff break room at the Star-Herald trying to keep it together. I had just sat down to eat my lunch, but wasn’t being successful. I was shaking. My heart was racing.
Up until that point, my day was the kind where thoughts are fleeting, including ones that make you wonder what it would really be like to drive your car off the Scotts Bluff National Monument. When that thought came to the front of my brain, I picked up my phone and texted my friend, Amber.
“I can’t do this anymore,” I typed. Before she could reply, I sent a series of rapid fire messages to her. When she responded her texts were ones of concern, reassurance, and messages that she was there for me. We texted for several minutes before I told her I needed to go sit in my car. I was about to break down completely and didn’t want to do so at work.
I am working on a piece for the Star-Herald about why I am a journalist. Honestly, I didn’t pay close enough attention, but I think it’s going to be used in ads or internally. I just listened to the topic, said I’d do it and stopped listening. Not a good trait for a journalist.
However, it got me to thinking about something I wrote when I was nine years old.
It was 4:47 a.m. A Thursday. After a restful night, I awakened to begin my usual morning routine before heading to work. There was the obligatory trip to the bathroom, then I was off to the kitchen to gather kitty treats so my cats do not kill me before 5 a.m., each day. One the cats were happy and disappeared to wherever they go after I give them food, I headed into the basement to ride my bicycle to nowhere. I ride anywhere from eight to ten miles each morning as I practice my French via Duolingo on my cell phone.
On this still dark Thursday morning, I opened up the program and began cycling as I waiting for it to load. My brain usually isn’t fully functioning yet, and it’s probably stupid to make it practice French at such an ungodly hour, but it’s when I have the time.
Then, my phone rang.
Special Projects Editor Steve Frederick hard at work.
At the end of September 2013, I had been sitting on unemployment for a month. As October began, I continued to search for work in the Panhandle.
Nebraska requires those who receive unemployment benefits to apply for a certain number of jobs each week. It was Sunday evening and I was still short one application. The weekly deadline was looming and I didn’t know what to do. I scoured every job posting and want ad I could find. Then, I saw something that piqued my interest.
The Star-Herald was looking for a reporter and photographer. While I enjoy writing and taking photographs, I did not think I was qualified. I also had a degree in Anthropology with a double minor in Black Studies and African Studies. I filled out the application and resigned myself to the fact that I would not be finding a job for another week.
Cinders rests in her respective spot watching over me while I sleep in comfort in my special snowflake blanket, courtesy of George Soros. /s
I am not doing well.
I wrote in a previous post detailing some things that were causing stress in my life. It was not an exhaustive list. My Friend Sandra knew I was having a bad time recently and, under the guise of coming to play with my cats, brought me a red velvet cake to cheer me up. And it worked for a while.
Einstein sleeps on the train.
The LED board at the train station said our train was leaving from platform 3, but when we arrived, everything was broken. Signs confirming which platform you were on were non-existent. Platforms 2 and 3 were at the top of the stairs. Platform 3 could have been on the left or right. We didn’t know. The mechanical board on the platform was broken. So we asked. And asked. And asked.
No one seemed to know. The man sweeping the platform told us we were in the right place. Everyone who spoke English gravitated toward one another, asking the same question. We all had tickets on the fast train to Athens. We hoped we were in the right place.
The train eventually arrived. It was dirty and covered in graffiti. We found our seats in first class. Einstein was sitting in Paul’s seat. Eventually, we convinced him he had to move.
The first class seats weren’t fancy. They’re not quiet. They’re not much nicer than cattle class. You share a compartment with six people. Einstein wore dark blue jeans and an orangish-yellow polo shirt. He took a nap as soon as the train left the station. Einstein snores.
Tabitha insisted she knew the best spot in all of New York to pick blueberries. It was a beautiful summer day. The sun was shining just enough to warm your face, but not enough to sweat while basking in its glow, so we thought, let’s go and see this magical blueberry land. While my family picked other fruits on farms in the Hudson Valley, we never picked blueberries. We always got them from the stores or farms in plastic or moulded pulp punnets.
Blueberries in a moulded pulp punnet.
My husband, Paul, and I joined Tabitha in her car as she drove away from her home in Rock Hill and deep into the back country of upstate New York. Twenty minutes later, we turned onto a dirt road lined with overarching oak trees, their leaves swaying with a gentle breeze. Tabitha parked in between two young ash trees at the edge of the woods.
We walked about fifty yards into the woods on a one person wide, grass-trodden trail to an open area with few trees. Tabitha wasn’t the only one who knew about this place. Wild blueberry bushes were everywhere. As we each staked out a spot to pick berries, we discussed the best way to make jams and jellies and grabbing handfuls to eat just as they were. But I wanted my grandma to make blueberry pancakes.
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