My weekly trip to watercolor class is a long trip. The class is held in my teacher's studio near Symphony Hall in an old Victorian house. The entry has a buzzer and it notifies him of the arrival of each student who he quickly guides into what was the front parlor of a nineteenth century home. My teacher offers tea and refreshments to each of us who have not had time for lunch - and arrive on time for class.
To get to his studio I leave an hour before the noon class, taking the Number One bus from Harvard Square to the other end of Massachusetts Avenue in Boston. The ride is only five miles, but takes almost an hour passing through many neighborhoods such as Central Square, MIT, Charles River, Back Bay, Commonwealth Avenue, Berkley School of Music and finally Symphony Hall. At each destination along the route it seems the bus fills - only to empty and refill at the next neighborhood. There are a few of us long trippers who get aboard at Harvard Square and do not get off until well into Boston. Those of us who do make the long trip offer occasional comments about the more transient passengers.
"I hope that woman takes that child home and feeds her."
"Did you see that sweet little girl look after her baby brother?"
One day I climbed aboard the bus and took a seat. An aged black lady took the seat next to me and settled in with her many packages. Inhaling deeply and lifting her eyes upward, she exhaled -- "Amen"
I turned and smiled at her. "We don't have to move for half an hour, if you are going to Boston"
"No matter. I'm not going to hurry", she responded.
The bus filled quickly and we began our journey. Cambridge's Central Square shares a African American neighborhood, and I somewhat expected her to get off. I turned to her and asked if I could help her with some of her packages.
"I'm going to Boston" she said. Aren't you?"
I smiled, and nodded...."Yes, I do this every week."
The lady looked at me and noticed my art materials.
"You an artist?"
"When I am not trying to be a grandfather, or not just too tired."
I smiled at her again. She smiled at me.
We chatted for most of the ride, commenting on the MIT student engineers and the Berkley musicians as they filled and emptied the bus. We smiled and laughed at their pursuits of their young lives.
As we approached Symphony Hall I explained this was my stop and I would get off. I wanted her to know how much I had enjoyed her company on this long ride.
"Thanks for the conversation, and good luck", I ventured.
She turned to face me squarely. She looked directly into my eyes.
"You know "she said, "your smile is your gift to the world."
To get to his studio I leave an hour before the noon class, taking the Number One bus from Harvard Square to the other end of Massachusetts Avenue in Boston. The ride is only five miles, but takes almost an hour passing through many neighborhoods such as Central Square, MIT, Charles River, Back Bay, Commonwealth Avenue, Berkley School of Music and finally Symphony Hall. At each destination along the route it seems the bus fills - only to empty and refill at the next neighborhood. There are a few of us long trippers who get aboard at Harvard Square and do not get off until well into Boston. Those of us who do make the long trip offer occasional comments about the more transient passengers.
"I hope that woman takes that child home and feeds her."
"Did you see that sweet little girl look after her baby brother?"
One day I climbed aboard the bus and took a seat. An aged black lady took the seat next to me and settled in with her many packages. Inhaling deeply and lifting her eyes upward, she exhaled -- "Amen"
I turned and smiled at her. "We don't have to move for half an hour, if you are going to Boston"
"No matter. I'm not going to hurry", she responded.
The bus filled quickly and we began our journey. Cambridge's Central Square shares a African American neighborhood, and I somewhat expected her to get off. I turned to her and asked if I could help her with some of her packages.
"I'm going to Boston" she said. Aren't you?"
I smiled, and nodded...."Yes, I do this every week."
The lady looked at me and noticed my art materials.
"You an artist?"
"When I am not trying to be a grandfather, or not just too tired."
I smiled at her again. She smiled at me.
We chatted for most of the ride, commenting on the MIT student engineers and the Berkley musicians as they filled and emptied the bus. We smiled and laughed at their pursuits of their young lives.
As we approached Symphony Hall I explained this was my stop and I would get off. I wanted her to know how much I had enjoyed her company on this long ride.
"Thanks for the conversation, and good luck", I ventured.
She turned to face me squarely. She looked directly into my eyes.
"You know "she said, "your smile is your gift to the world."
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