Wednesday, March 02, 2005

31 Flavors If We Win?

I know, it's been awhile.

I've been practicing a little tough love with a couple of you.

I sent a few emails out. And a few of you seem to think that as long as you can check my blog to see what I'm up to, you don't need to respond. Shame on you! I hope this time away got you motivated to respond to my emails.

Onwards and upwards.

It struck me today that I haven't really gone into enough detail about Sydney. I've mentioned things that we've done, seen, and eaten, but have I really given you my basic impressions of the imprint this city leaves on the soul?

Let me explain.

One of the favorite parts of my day.

I work in North Sydney and in the morning I walk to Town Square and take the train.

After work though, I close out my work station, quickly change, pop my nose piercing back in, bid my gentlemen co-workers adieu, strap on my ipod and hit the road. I drop all the outgoing mail in the charming red mailbox outside our building and I start walking.

The walk home from North Sydney takes about an hour. About 15 minutes of the trip is spent walking across the Harbour Bridge. This, is one of the favorite parts of my day.

I walk along, keeping a good pace, saying hello to the security guards, admiring the view, and mouthing along to the words of whatever song I'm listening to. Yeah, that's right, I'm the weird girl on the bridge that sings to herself.

That's just it though. I've been walking the bridge now for about a week and I know the regulars. We give each other a smile as if to say, how's it going? Lovely day, see you here tomorrow. Same time as always, weird guy with the extra long mustache? Same time as always, weird girl that sings to herself and occasionally does a little dance move mid bridge walk.

I am now one of the regulars.

I belong here, in this city, walking this bridge.

This city reminds you of everything that you forgot you ever loved.

Today, on my walk through a park, I took a deep breath. It was the smell. Mid summer, early evening, right after the sun had set. Walking from the car toward the softball field, watching how my gym shoes parted the long grass, only occasionally looking up to see my Dad walking ahead and whistling, holding his clipboard, turning around to tell me that Grandma and Grandpa would be coming to the game tonight, so look for them in far right field.

Speaking of my Grandpa Boyd, he was in my dream last night. Nothing too specific. It was a big family dinner. I was standing in the kitchen next to him as he made the salad we all loved. He was calling to my Grandma to come and sit down. Then we all sat down together and I sat beside him.

One of my favorite memories I have of my Grandpa was how I felt when I sat beside him. He would kiss me softly on the head, pat my leg, and say softly, "That's my girl." And I knew that was all I ever needed to be.

Every once in awhile my Grandpa makes an appearance in my dreams. It's usually when I'm feeling uneasy about big changes in my life. I welcolmed the time I got to sit beside him again, if only for a few moments.



At 6:03 AM, Blogger Amy Boyd said...

Mary's Back!! I was so happy to see a new blog from you. It's my morning routine, and it sucked to keep seeing the title "Alex P. Keaton" I mean I loved that entry, but you are my excitement for the day. So as I waited I just imagined you running into kangaroos while drinking Fosters. Knowing that it is 85 degrees as you were describing the walk to work... hurts! It is so cold here. Lucky girl!

At 7:18 AM, Blogger KrissySullivan said...

Chick~ It's always the reliable ones that get punished! I call,I write and still I am sitting each day awaiting a new blog. And just like Amy,I began to dispise seeing "Alex P. Keaton". I'm glad you're back. Grandpa Boyd has been in my thoughts a lot lately, too. I only wish Pat could have met him. I love you.

At 1:11 PM, Blogger David said...

Alright alright, enough about this Australia plizace. Enough about you being spiritually enlightened with experiences equal in power to the wattage of Uncle Fester's mouth.
It's time to discuss something of REAL importance. Apartheid, you say? Nay, I reply. My relevant relevance is much more simple, much more harrowing: honey dew.

Containing neither honey nor dew, this is the least respected of the melons. And Honey Dew is its nice name; it was originally called Musk Melon (have a seat on the Davenport and ask your Grandma). Who would want to eat a melon affiliated with "A greasy secretion with a powerful odor" (musk)...? Although when I try to pass my greasy secretions off as colorful breakfast fruit, guests tend to go for other items in the fruit salad, working around my secretion treats in traditional honey dew fashion. The pineapple and cantaloupe all disappear, even those tricky, fork-eluding grapes get stabbed first.
The one who I really feel sorry for is that poor Muppet doctor.

JQ. A man was tasered this week for stealing salad from Chuck E. Cheese.


At 12:49 PM, Blogger KickinKangaroo said...

Weird girl that sings to herself and occasionaly dances a little, your new digs sound so safe and warm. I love when I am reminded of something I love. Like today at work I was reminded of the movie Girls Just Wanna Have Fun with Sarah Jessica, Hellen Hunt and pre-puberty Shannon D. I couldn't help but think of you. You are linked to most of my really good memories. It's as if my brain is programed to play
The Seven Degrees to Mary Boyd. Or maybe it just seems like that because you are so far away and it seems like every thought can make it's little way back to you. I am happy you are living up to your Alez P. Keaton abilities. Come September you will own the Chicago Stock Exchange.


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