Fran's Cup of CoffeeWho's Fran? Cook, mother confessor, boon companion, lover of the way books feel, friend, seeker of the present in the present. Fran's Cuppa Coffee is the diner of your dreams -- fern and wood, or chrome and Formica, or maybe driftwood and rope, since Fran often sets up shop on the Oregon coast. Come on in and let her lay a slice of pie on you. Thursday, December 05, 2002I write a lot about the bus line I live on and the people who ride the bus and the people I see on the street, like this lady:Across the street from the bus stop, some local color: A woman in a parka of many colors pushing an orange plastic grocery cart piled with belongings -- a green sleeping bag on the bottom, a purple coat and a pillow on top. Faster walkers pass her, bundled up against the cold. She stops often to readjust the load or dig in her pockets for who knows what. Pulls the knit hat over her ears and begins to push again. Perhaps she does have a destination, after all. She disappears beyond the parked cars and picket fences of Belmont Street. More people, everyone in warm hats, pass. It's the time of year when birds' nests appear, captured in the skeletons of trees, embarrassed that the sheltering leaves have been torn away. Overwintering birds in the better nests, hidden forever in the eaves of houses, are inclined to be smug about it. It's Sunday, and many people are out walking despite the cold. A skateboarder sails past, erect and lordly on his streamlined passage, all in black except for the red backpack that matches the board. More folks walk by, in dark mufti, all with hats. Not a colorful day; everything seems to be browns and blacks and blue jeans. From the bus, a few minutes later, I look for the orange cart and the woman pushing it. But I don't see her. Lovers meet on the street and kiss. A couple stroll hand in hand. A woman walks a dog on a leash. But the woman with the cart is gone, run home to her bolt-hole, disappeared with the fairy folk. .: posted by Fran 3:04 PM |
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