You’re Golden, Baby

“Well, you’re golden with the Parking Division anyway!”

Until this conclusion of my transaction with the cheerful woman with blond bangs behind the glass window about a year ago, I had never had cause to think of “golden” and “parking” (more specifically “parking tickets”) as having anything whatsoever to do with one another.

She reminded me of it, though, when I had reason to return to that same window on a sweltering day, just after I’d turned down a job offer that was whatever the opposite of gold might be. “Aren’t you the pastor’s wife?” she said, giving me the once over. Then I remembered that the last time I’d been there to pay up, we’d had a little get-acquainted time. My kids and husband would confirm that I do this with strangers on a regular basis, for better or for worse. Sometimes, in their opinion, it’s the latter.

On that first occasion, I probably was yammering about some minor problem or other that I was facing — not related to being the pastor’s wife, mind you– and she wanted to convey some of her optimism, even cast a glow all over me with a kind of magic wand as I left.

Turned out, however, being golden with the Parking Division doesn’t necessarily translate into being golden everywhere else. Furthermore, as my second visit demonstrated, being golden once doesn’t insure staying golden.

However, I think it’s more likely that this is all just a state of mind. Some kinds of gold you can see, and they ‘re plenty valuable; other kinds, though, don’t glint in the sun and yet they have power to lift up the soul.

I needed only walk out of the vestibule where fines are paid to see a perfect example of visible gold: the capitol dome in Concord.

Actually I have no idea if this is made of real gold, but it sure looks it. Probably someone’s already written a whole article just about gleaming capitol domes around the nation. Having worn scaffolding for some winter and spring months, this one is all spruced up now.

Out in the western part of the U.S., gold and talk about gold are both definitely more common than here in New England. This has something to do with what happened in the 19^th century, of course, when people started dropping everything and heading out there to pound the earth to find those little nuggets and strike it rich. I don’t know a whole lot about the era, but I’m guessing the mad dash worked out very well for some people and not so well for a lot of others.

I was just out in Colorado and stayed with friends who live in a town named exactly like what the parking lady said I was.

It must be partly the radiant word itself along with the invoking of bygone days that allows them to make the added claim, “Where the West Lives.” Can you imagine a sign over any Main Street in New England, right near the green where a band sometimes plays, that says, “Where the East Lives”?

We have gotten so familiar with the ubiquitous “Golden Arches” that we barely notice how the rich meaning of “golden” has by now seeped out of them entirely. And isn’t that symbol really more plain yellow, anyway?

Robert Frost, who never motored to eat a McDonald’s burger but has nourished generations with his metaphors, definitely had a valid point when he wrote, “Nothing gold can stay.” But he might have re-considered the line had he gotten the same gift I did, just last week.

Yes, this is like one of those little snow globes, except with pieces of real gold floating around inside. My friends in Golden gave it to me, because one of them runs a business called “Salem Minerals” that distributes these bewitching items (only wholesale, mind you) to gift shops, like the Smithsonian for instance. Here’s the link so you can learn more.

Each time I pick up the darling thing, so comfortable to hold, and watch the beautifully colored flakes swim around, almost as if they were little creatures in an aquarium tank, I think about all the other kinds of gold in my life. How my aging dog wants to accompany me wherever I go, how the Oldies station plays old Beatles songs like “No Reply” that I immediately turn up loud on the radio, how getting together with old friends is like a tonic, how a dive in a pond feels on a hot summer evening, how my husband makes another ratatouille to serve us by candlelight.

More than seeking to maintain my Parking Division glow, I will try not to miss the glimmering going on every day, even or maybe especially when clouds gather.