Diary of a Gold Liner: December
Erin Douglass
December 1, morning — Swirls of pink and blue fill the sky as I crest the hill in GEM this early morning. It's 48 degrees and even my pregnancy-padded self is feeling chilly.
Last night my husband set up the crib. It's bigger than I thought it would be — perhaps because the baby's room is on the small side or perhaps because, unlike baby clothes, baby towels and baby blankets, the crib is not the size of a hand puppet.
Up to this point, we've been able to stash the baby stuff in drawers and cupboards. "Aw, that's really cute," we'll say, admiring the soft toy/onesie/book/spoon before punting it into deep storage. The crib, on the other hand, has the impossible-to-ignore presence of real furniture. It's an announcement to the world — or at least the world that peeks into the first room off the hall — that someone will be moving in.
December 2, westbound — It's been almost a month since the Day of the Dead Harvest Festival and the cornfield still stands. As my train swooshes by, the bony, yellowed stalks rattle in the wind.
A co-worker told me yesterday that the field is moving into its "blue phase."
"Like Picasso?" I asked.
Yes, like Picasso only less cubist, he said. He explained that the plan is to remove all the irrigation and then light the field. In blue.
I'm skeptical. This seems like the artistic equivalent of overstaying your welcome. Couldn't the artist let the field slip gracefully into winter?
December 2, eastbound — This evening, after our train pulls from the Chinatown stop, I notice a Christmas tree lot — that's what the hand-painted sign says, at least — in the fading light outside the window.
Nestled against an expanse of parked school buses, the lot is strung with lights. Several red and white-striped tents hunker over the asphalt. At one end, a low wooden stage stands next to two open truck containers. Are there trees in there?
The entire space looks festive and inviting — completely incongruous among the warehouses of northeastern downtown.
Later I read about the lot in the paper. It's the site of an annual Christmas tree auction. Several folks interviewed said they've been coming for years and can't imagine a cheaper way to get a great tree.
Feeling tired and enormous, I promise myself that next year, our new family of three — wrapped in sweaters and socks — will drive down to the lot. As my husband holds our child and I clutch a hot bev, shaggy conifers will parade by. We'll huddle close, watching and waiting, breathing sharp, deep-green smells. And when the perfect tree tips into view, we'll know without speaking that it's to be ours and shout an offer into the damp downtown dark.
December 6, westbound — We have entered the Blue Phase of the cornfield.
I got my first eyeful on Sunday night after the opera. Approaching the field by car from the Music Center, I spotted a purple-blue glow overhead. Reflecting off the nearby warehouses, the watery light was eerie and thick. It reminded me of the cigarette-smoke fug that filled the concerts and clubs of my youth.
The source of the blue glow turned out to be dozens of light poles, spaced every 10 to 20 feet throughout the field. As I slowly drove along the property's eastern edge, I couldn't help feeling like I was part of a science fiction story. Where was the spacecraft hovering overhead?
Swooshing by the cornfield this foggy morning, there is no blue glow, but I spot the light poles poking from the stalks. Ramrod-straight with squared-off clear tips, the lights look like antennae. Or giant swabs.
Once I'm settled at my desk, I check out the Not a Cornfield website. This Blue Phase is, apparently, filled with great meaning. The light poles have been arranged to resemble the winter constellations over the field during the upcoming solstice. The color blue, further, represents a "dream-like state of thoughtfulness."
A dream-like state of thoughtfulness. I like that.
December 8, eastbound — I started swimming this week at the Y.
It feels heavenly.
Too cheap to purchase a maternity-appropriate bathing suit, I pad from the women's locker room in my black and white checked bikini. The elderly Chinese splashing in the shallows seem alarmed by my half-naked girth. The competitive swimmers, sleek as eels in their lycra suits, glance my way from the fast lanes and shudder. "Imagine her time," they're probably thinking.
Walking towards GEM this evening, ever aware of gravity's pull, I watched an SUV lurch to a stop beside me. A white-haired man said, "Need a lift?"
I stared briefly, before replying, "Oh no, my ride is right here. But thanks."
He drove off as I unlocked GEM's chain. Why did he stop? I wondered. Did I look pathetic and slow? Forlorn in my stretchy pants and stretchy shirt, belly out to here?
"Imagine her time," he was probably thinking.
December 19, eastbound — Walking to the Red Line tonight, I heard a female voice chime, "Excuse me!" as I passed the still-busy California Plaza Starbucks.
I slowed and looked around. A woman in her late 40s wearing a tired navy-blue suit was staring at me from a table outside the plate-glass windows.
"I've seen so many pregnant women lately," she said with a grin.
I smiled, not sure what to say.
"You see, I don't have kids." She turned to a woman next to her and stage-whispered, "But my stomach looks like I did!" Then, back to me, "You look so cute."
"Thank you. I haven't felt cute in quite a while."
"When are you due?"
"Late January."
"Well, you look great!"
This part of pregnancy I'll miss.
December 27, eastbound — On the ride home in GEM, I pass a young man walking up the first steep hill. It's dark and I give him a wide berth, just so he knows that I see him.
Not that the GEM would do him much damage, but still.
As I bounce toward home, I sing "Sleigh Bells." The only problem is that I don't know the words, so I sing the version my mom used to sing with us girls growing up. For every word, she'd use "Ching," mimicking the sound of the cheesy keyboard or strings that often play the tune at this time of year.
When I reach the Santa Sophia church intersection, I let a van go ahead of me before turning left for the final climb home.
Suddenly, a pickup truck barrels up to within a foot of GEM's bumper. I continue to putt along at 25. Can't go any faster and, frankly, wouldn't if I could.
These speeders who use our street to get from one side of the mountain to the other make me mad. Fine, use the street to get where you need to go. But this is a neighborhood! With a park! You should slow down, I practically mouth into my rearview mirror.
I crest the hill and click the garage door opener.
As I make a large loopy turn through the intersection toward the front of the garage, I expect the truck to gun by like all the others who are fed up with GEM and her slowness.
But instead, the driver honks.
"Excuse me, miss. Where can I get me one of those little carts?" Sporting a dark buzz cut, he couldn't be more than 25.
"Costco!" I say.
"Really? How much?"
"Five or six thousand," I say.
"Are there dealers?"
"Yeah, but I'm not sure where."
He nods his small head inside that big truck.
"It's really great," I say. "Just plug it in."
"Cool. Thanks a lot! See ya." And off he zooms as I flick GEM into reverse and squeal into the garage.
December 28, westbound — One of my commute's highlights each day: rounding the corner from my house, coming to the top of the hill and seeing the San Gabriel Mountains rise in the distance.
This chilly morning, the mountains are dark mounds against a fuzzy gray sky. Overhead I spot a thumbnail of a moon.
The world is grays and blues, with not a hint of pink.
It looks like the doorstep to heaven.