quesadingers?
Apr. 17th, 2007 12:20 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kjpepperI think I've posted this before, or something like it... but it's something that continually catches my attention... which are reminders to savor the little things.
This morning a dad and his two kids got on the bus at Sheldon field to go to breakfast at Jakes, or so I gleaned from their conversation. The kids, maybe about eight and six, goggled around them in wide eyed little kid wonder at taking the bus. Clearly this was not an everyday occurance, but it had happened enough that the little girl turned her eyes to her dad and said in a very serious voice "You'll remember to tell us when we can pull the dinger, right?"
Instantly I could remember being that size and being on the bus with my mother, either going to school, or across the city for some other reason. I remember the anticipation and excitement of getting ready to ding for a stop, remember the days when I was still sounding out word and would just say "stop - ree - ques - ted" over and over to myself simply because I liked how it sounded. Not that I knew what "requested" meant at the time. It was the best thing ever when your stop was coming up, you pulled the cord (or in my case after they replaced the NYC bus fleet in the 80s, you pressed the tape), the sign would light up and it was all your doing. I also remember the end of the world level disappointment at having someone beat you to it. It's very akin to being small and the ultimate thrill was getting to press your floor in an elevator.
I dunno, there was a long thinky ramble as I walked to the office from the bus this morning with my face buffeted by warm wet wind about how once upon a time we were happy to even gain even the smallest bit of power to change our environment somehow... and it's something that's lost fairly quickly as we grow up. But as my stop was after these kids' I was actually thankful for the little thrill of getting to "pull the dinger" myself.
In other, more sheepish news, note to self. Self, quesadillas count as Mexican food. You like quesadillas. You can no longer stomp around professing to hate Mexican food while fraternizing with the quesadillas.
Or something. I'm sleepy.
This morning a dad and his two kids got on the bus at Sheldon field to go to breakfast at Jakes, or so I gleaned from their conversation. The kids, maybe about eight and six, goggled around them in wide eyed little kid wonder at taking the bus. Clearly this was not an everyday occurance, but it had happened enough that the little girl turned her eyes to her dad and said in a very serious voice "You'll remember to tell us when we can pull the dinger, right?"
Instantly I could remember being that size and being on the bus with my mother, either going to school, or across the city for some other reason. I remember the anticipation and excitement of getting ready to ding for a stop, remember the days when I was still sounding out word and would just say "stop - ree - ques - ted" over and over to myself simply because I liked how it sounded. Not that I knew what "requested" meant at the time. It was the best thing ever when your stop was coming up, you pulled the cord (or in my case after they replaced the NYC bus fleet in the 80s, you pressed the tape), the sign would light up and it was all your doing. I also remember the end of the world level disappointment at having someone beat you to it. It's very akin to being small and the ultimate thrill was getting to press your floor in an elevator.
I dunno, there was a long thinky ramble as I walked to the office from the bus this morning with my face buffeted by warm wet wind about how once upon a time we were happy to even gain even the smallest bit of power to change our environment somehow... and it's something that's lost fairly quickly as we grow up. But as my stop was after these kids' I was actually thankful for the little thrill of getting to "pull the dinger" myself.
In other, more sheepish news, note to self. Self, quesadillas count as Mexican food. You like quesadillas. You can no longer stomp around professing to hate Mexican food while fraternizing with the quesadillas.
Or something. I'm sleepy.
