I live in metro Detroit and I drive a Japanese car. This was not planned, but it is fact. Since moving to Michigan, I have experienced what it feels like to be in the motorists' minority. Often, in traffic or in parking lots, I have the only Japanese car in sight. It actually was manufactured in Japan.
Before I moved to Michigan, my 2007 auto got attention because it has manual door locks and crank windows, by my request. Now, however, I find just driving my car down the street can garner attention, and not all of it positive.
The thing is: I understand. In this economy, my Japanese car is a symbol of losses in Detroit: losses of jobs, market muscle, a way of life, pride.
In the Dearborn area, an SUV that shall remain nameless tailgated me for a curiously long time even though I kept pace with traffic. (The thought crossed my mind that, with the size disparity, I could drive my tiny car up a tailgate ramp and piggyback a lift inside the SUV.) When I get in line to merge from three to two lanes, I find I can expect a leisurely interval to pass before someone lets me in. My car gets stares when I'm simply pumping gas or hanging a Michigan left. These events might happen to anybody, true, but they happen to me so frequently that I accept the message is being sent.
So be it -- no hard feelings. If it makes anyone feel better, please know my husband drives a Mustang.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Monday, January 25, 2010
Mysteries Solved
New words intrigue me. New words spread around town on multiple signs on restaurants and stores give me pangs of curiosity.
After moving to Michigan, I saw "coneys" and "grave blankets" on signs for the first time, so I went on their trail.
One down:
You can't drive more than a few miles without seeing coney spots, and now I know why.
Coneys, which are worth a brake, are a standard-size hot dog on a steamed bun, topped most often with chili sauce, yellow mustard, and a sprinkling of chopped, raw onions. Hmmm, tasty.
Two down:
Grave blankets are a cold-climate variation of leaving bouquets and other tributes at a grave. They're evergreen rectangles that literally blanket a last resting place and tuck it in for the winter. These reverential tributes to the deceased are placed on graves from around Thanksgiving to almost St. Patrick's Day, when cemeteries remove the boughs and bows.
The local florist says her family makes a Christmastime trip to the cemetery with a grave blanket to honor her parents. They add a string of blinking Christmas lights to the evergreen blanket and sing carols graveside, for a family flourish.
At last, my curiosity can rest in peace.
After moving to Michigan, I saw "coneys" and "grave blankets" on signs for the first time, so I went on their trail.
One down:
You can't drive more than a few miles without seeing coney spots, and now I know why.
Coneys, which are worth a brake, are a standard-size hot dog on a steamed bun, topped most often with chili sauce, yellow mustard, and a sprinkling of chopped, raw onions. Hmmm, tasty.
Two down:
Grave blankets are a cold-climate variation of leaving bouquets and other tributes at a grave. They're evergreen rectangles that literally blanket a last resting place and tuck it in for the winter. These reverential tributes to the deceased are placed on graves from around Thanksgiving to almost St. Patrick's Day, when cemeteries remove the boughs and bows.
The local florist says her family makes a Christmastime trip to the cemetery with a grave blanket to honor her parents. They add a string of blinking Christmas lights to the evergreen blanket and sing carols graveside, for a family flourish.
At last, my curiosity can rest in peace.
Friday, January 22, 2010
A Show Not Seen on TV
I watched as a silent story of dignity revealed itself in -- of all places -- the modem return line at a cable TV /Internet/phone service's storefront.
The store in the Detroit metro area was way too popular on a recent day when I stopped in to straighten out a moving-related matter.
The customer service line stretched 50 feet from the counter. There was no doubt at first glance that entering this store would mean handing over a chunk of time.
Customers stood in two lines. Some had TV devices in their hands, with cords dangling. Some had children's hands in their hands, with mittens dangling on cords. Some had monthly statements in their hands, with questions dangling.
I've observed the same circumstance before. Usually, impatience grew as the time in line stretched. But here, the quiet stayed. Nobody drummed their fingertips, or tapped their feet restlessly. Even the children were quiet. Not miserable, just quiet.
It was as though a silent agreement had been reached, with a pact: "Let's handle this. This is not your fault or my fault. We can't make this experience be delightful for each other, but at least we won't make it any worse for each other."
I think the silent pact stemmed from a common awareness: When a state's economy is rocked by a financial earthquake and a recession stays in place like a financial drought, then the time has passed to sweat the small stuff.
Not making it any worse for each other? I'll get in line for that.
The cars in Michigan are not the only things here with a steel spine.
The store in the Detroit metro area was way too popular on a recent day when I stopped in to straighten out a moving-related matter.
The customer service line stretched 50 feet from the counter. There was no doubt at first glance that entering this store would mean handing over a chunk of time.
Customers stood in two lines. Some had TV devices in their hands, with cords dangling. Some had children's hands in their hands, with mittens dangling on cords. Some had monthly statements in their hands, with questions dangling.
I've observed the same circumstance before. Usually, impatience grew as the time in line stretched. But here, the quiet stayed. Nobody drummed their fingertips, or tapped their feet restlessly. Even the children were quiet. Not miserable, just quiet.
It was as though a silent agreement had been reached, with a pact: "Let's handle this. This is not your fault or my fault. We can't make this experience be delightful for each other, but at least we won't make it any worse for each other."
I think the silent pact stemmed from a common awareness: When a state's economy is rocked by a financial earthquake and a recession stays in place like a financial drought, then the time has passed to sweat the small stuff.
Not making it any worse for each other? I'll get in line for that.
The cars in Michigan are not the only things here with a steel spine.
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