As a little girl my dad would take me to the beach not only in warm weather to enjoy the sand and water, but also in the spring and fall. There, we would spend hours and hours scouring the beach for fossils.
Every now and then as I walked up and down the shoreline, I would cast a longing eye at the water as it frothed back and forth over the sand. I tried very hard not to think on how much I wished that we could go swimming. With a deep resolve I decided to make the best of the situation. Besides, I thought to myself, I didn’t know anyone else whose dad ever took them fossil hunting. It was at least something different to do.
Of course, there was another source of inspiration. You see, my father had once found a perfectly fossilized trilobite in it's entirety. Whenever he let me hold it, I felt like I was holding a miracle of nature within my hands. This treasure impressed me so very much, and I thought my father was a true hero for having found it.
If he could do it, then so could I.
With my mind keenly intent of finding a genuine dinosaur fossil, I would walk gingerly among the rocks kicking them back and forth until I finally spotted a rock with some sort of anomaly. These anomalies could be anything from a strange squiggle to a vague formation. I would then rush it over to a part of the beach where I would find dad standing with his head bent over a very large rock, staring at it, fixated.
“Is this a fossil?” I asked, placing the rock in his hand.
The time that it took for him to make his assessment seemed to take forever.
He would look at one side, purse his lips, flip it over and then make a few vague and undefinable hums and haws.
When the answer was “Yes,” I was most pleasantly surprised.
When the answer was “No,” I wasn’t surprised at all.
By the end of the day, we would place all the fossils we had collected in a waiting cardboard box inside the car which usually laid on the floor behind the driver’s seat. I would have proudly collected maybe five or six fossils and dad usually had about the same amount. The only difference was that his fossils were far better than mine.
Once we reached home, our weighty loot would then be transferred into the house, much to my mothers chagrin. Thankfully, she would never disallow the fossils, but rather rolled her eyes heavenward as if to ask for strength. Then closing her eyes, she would nod and give a sad and heavy sigh of approval.
To this day, I store my treasured fossils in glass vases, which I am sure is the REAL reason that see through glass vases were invented. When my father passed away, the flowers I received were placed in mason jars. The glass vases filled with his fossils were left undisturbed.
As an adult, I have learned two lessons now that I have reflected back on this childhood memory.
The first lesson is that fossils are forever.
The second lesson is that fathers are not.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Monday, June 21, 2010
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Gettysburg ~ A Walk Among Heroes
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
June 7th, 2010
Gettysburg ~ Day Three, p.m.
Do you remember the analogy about floating icebergs. They say that on the average, only ten percent is visible above the water’s surface. We cannot see, or comprehend the vastness of the ninety percent that remains underwater.
The same can be said of Gettysburg National Park. Those who insist on seeing this beautiful American treasure from only inside of their car miss out on history, art, nature, beauty and serenity not to mention the small furry animals and odd ladybug.
To truly see Gettysburg, you have to take a walk. The vast majority of history featured here is not accessible by car. If one is going to take the time and money to come here, you have wasted both if you’re not willing to put your car in park and be willing to leave it behind as you venture out on foot.
And that is exactly what we will be doing this afternoon... going for a nice long walk.
I have made this walk many times before and in all types of weather too.
The most memorable are the walks in inclement weather. The shortest walks are those in high heat and humidity. As for today, I cannot remember ever having better weather. There is a redeeming wind. the likes I have never experienced here before.
Leaving the hotel, we cross Baltimore St. and turn left. Within two minutes we enter the gates to the Gettysburg National Cemetery. Staying to right of the park, I make a heading for “The Friend to Friend Monument.” This statue shows wounded Confederate General Armistead being aided by Union Captain Bingham directly after Pickett’s Charge.
After realizing that he had been seriously wounded, Armistead gave the Masonic sign of distress. This was immediately recognized by Bingham who came to his immediate aid.
This story proves to me that there are more important things in life than tolerating without question, the segregating lines that so often separate us.
As we continue along through the grounds we pass by fresh graves adorned with flowers, wreaths, banners, toys and no doubt, tears. These are from American soldiers who have recently fallen.
All these graves prove that history continues to be made as the epitaphs for these recently fallen proudly prove. Though the loss we feel is constant and unremitting, there is comfort to be found in the knowledge that these soldiers too, have fought for, and won the high ground.
We are silent as we walk among Heroes.
After a time, we have passed through the cemetery and then back again. Our adventure continues across Baltimore St. and up to Cemetery Hill.
Things are a little different on Cemetery Hill than I remember. New statues seem to have been dedicated and there are new markers along the street explaining the events of battle in chronological order.
The changes that strike me as most significant however is the obvious care that is being given to these grounds. The landscaping is exemplary and the cannons have been painted and polished to a high gloss. It pleases me that my favorite shade tree still stands to provide such stately beauty that only old and wizened trees can give.
Our walk ends with a sunset visit to O’Rorkes Pub. We sit outside on the patio with a couple of cold ones and revel in the moment.
Like I said before, those who insist on rushing through Gettysburg without getting out of their car don’t know what they’re missing.
Cheers!
June 7th, 2010
Gettysburg ~ Day Three, p.m.
Do you remember the analogy about floating icebergs. They say that on the average, only ten percent is visible above the water’s surface. We cannot see, or comprehend the vastness of the ninety percent that remains underwater.
The same can be said of Gettysburg National Park. Those who insist on seeing this beautiful American treasure from only inside of their car miss out on history, art, nature, beauty and serenity not to mention the small furry animals and odd ladybug.
To truly see Gettysburg, you have to take a walk. The vast majority of history featured here is not accessible by car. If one is going to take the time and money to come here, you have wasted both if you’re not willing to put your car in park and be willing to leave it behind as you venture out on foot.
And that is exactly what we will be doing this afternoon... going for a nice long walk.
I have made this walk many times before and in all types of weather too.
The most memorable are the walks in inclement weather. The shortest walks are those in high heat and humidity. As for today, I cannot remember ever having better weather. There is a redeeming wind. the likes I have never experienced here before.
Leaving the hotel, we cross Baltimore St. and turn left. Within two minutes we enter the gates to the Gettysburg National Cemetery. Staying to right of the park, I make a heading for “The Friend to Friend Monument.” This statue shows wounded Confederate General Armistead being aided by Union Captain Bingham directly after Pickett’s Charge.
After realizing that he had been seriously wounded, Armistead gave the Masonic sign of distress. This was immediately recognized by Bingham who came to his immediate aid.
This story proves to me that there are more important things in life than tolerating without question, the segregating lines that so often separate us.
As we continue along through the grounds we pass by fresh graves adorned with flowers, wreaths, banners, toys and no doubt, tears. These are from American soldiers who have recently fallen.
All these graves prove that history continues to be made as the epitaphs for these recently fallen proudly prove. Though the loss we feel is constant and unremitting, there is comfort to be found in the knowledge that these soldiers too, have fought for, and won the high ground.
We are silent as we walk among Heroes.
After a time, we have passed through the cemetery and then back again. Our adventure continues across Baltimore St. and up to Cemetery Hill.
Things are a little different on Cemetery Hill than I remember. New statues seem to have been dedicated and there are new markers along the street explaining the events of battle in chronological order.
The changes that strike me as most significant however is the obvious care that is being given to these grounds. The landscaping is exemplary and the cannons have been painted and polished to a high gloss. It pleases me that my favorite shade tree still stands to provide such stately beauty that only old and wizened trees can give.
Our walk ends with a sunset visit to O’Rorkes Pub. We sit outside on the patio with a couple of cold ones and revel in the moment.
Like I said before, those who insist on rushing through Gettysburg without getting out of their car don’t know what they’re missing.
Cheers!
Friday, June 11, 2010
Gettysburg ~ The Charge for Wool
Monday, June 7th, 2010
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As we head back from the morning’s adventures, we approach the core of downtown Gettysburg which is composed of a traffic circle which veers off into all four directions. To me this is proof positive that not only do all roads lead to Rome, but to Gettysburg as well.
As we are about to turn and drive down Baltimore Street, my husband surprises me by pulling into a vacant parking spot. This was not expected and can mean only one thing.
Wool store.
Noticing that the ancient parking meter is on empty, I begin to rummage through my purse for change. All I can find is a nickle and a dime.
Fifteen cents.
This meagre offering to those who wander the corridors of Gettysburg City Hall is quickly inserted into the meter. I hold my breath and wait for the metre to render it's verdict.
We are granted eight minutes.
Knowing that it is impossible for me to make a formidable wool purchase in a mere eight minutes, I instantly begin another assault on my poor purse in a search for more change... any change. All I can find is Canadian coinage. Let me tell you, there is a weeping and gnashing of teeth.
Seven minutes. Grrr.
At six minutes, I give up and make a run for the street corner. Now, in the past, crossing at these corners have always scared me, as there are no traffic lights. In the past, townspeople would take pity me as they see me waiting for the oncoming cars to pass. They would correctly tell me that there is no need to wait because the traffic must yield to me. Still, I waited.
This time, as I approach the corner, I don’t even look to check for oncoming traffic before as I step out onto the street. My actions take me completely by surprise. Something about me has changed, but what could it be? Why am I not afraid?
The answer comes to me in a heartbeat. Since I was last here, I have had the experience of trying to cross the streets of Rome. If I can cross a street of bumper to bumper traffic with overly aggressive Roman drivers who solemnly believe that traffic rules are inconsequential and my life a triviality, I can certainly cross a mere little street in downtown Gettysburg.
I am Spartacus.
Five minutes.
In less than a minute, I have quickly walked the entire block length, eyes keenly fastened to each shop window, for the familiar and decorative skeins of freshly spun yarn that are usually hanging there. As I reach the opposite street corner I am beginning to fear the worst. Turning around, I go back the length of the street, eyes straining, but to no avail.
The yarn store is no longer here.
Sadly, I begin to head back to the car.
In my mind, I can easily make sense of it. In a struggling economy, a business committed to wools, fibers, silks, knitting needles, weaving looms, and spinning wheels is of little use to those who are having a hard time paying rent and putting food on the table.
As I reach the car, I still have one minute on the meter. At least that crisis has now passed.
As we pull away, I am not the least bit bitter or upset. I am content in the knowledge that the sun will continue to rise and set whether or not I get my holiday yarn fix.
What I find confusing however, is that in the three blocks or so back to our hotel, I count four shops advertising psychic readings, fortune telling, dragon potions, charms & crystals, fairy dust, and tarot cards.
Business is obviously steady, as I see customers going in and coming out.
Suddenly, I am confronted with an altogether new and unexpected lesson on human nature and life's priorities.
Okay...
Now I’m bitter.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As we head back from the morning’s adventures, we approach the core of downtown Gettysburg which is composed of a traffic circle which veers off into all four directions. To me this is proof positive that not only do all roads lead to Rome, but to Gettysburg as well.
As we are about to turn and drive down Baltimore Street, my husband surprises me by pulling into a vacant parking spot. This was not expected and can mean only one thing.
Wool store.
Noticing that the ancient parking meter is on empty, I begin to rummage through my purse for change. All I can find is a nickle and a dime.
Fifteen cents.
This meagre offering to those who wander the corridors of Gettysburg City Hall is quickly inserted into the meter. I hold my breath and wait for the metre to render it's verdict.
We are granted eight minutes.
Knowing that it is impossible for me to make a formidable wool purchase in a mere eight minutes, I instantly begin another assault on my poor purse in a search for more change... any change. All I can find is Canadian coinage. Let me tell you, there is a weeping and gnashing of teeth.
Seven minutes. Grrr.
At six minutes, I give up and make a run for the street corner. Now, in the past, crossing at these corners have always scared me, as there are no traffic lights. In the past, townspeople would take pity me as they see me waiting for the oncoming cars to pass. They would correctly tell me that there is no need to wait because the traffic must yield to me. Still, I waited.
This time, as I approach the corner, I don’t even look to check for oncoming traffic before as I step out onto the street. My actions take me completely by surprise. Something about me has changed, but what could it be? Why am I not afraid?
The answer comes to me in a heartbeat. Since I was last here, I have had the experience of trying to cross the streets of Rome. If I can cross a street of bumper to bumper traffic with overly aggressive Roman drivers who solemnly believe that traffic rules are inconsequential and my life a triviality, I can certainly cross a mere little street in downtown Gettysburg.
I am Spartacus.
Five minutes.
In less than a minute, I have quickly walked the entire block length, eyes keenly fastened to each shop window, for the familiar and decorative skeins of freshly spun yarn that are usually hanging there. As I reach the opposite street corner I am beginning to fear the worst. Turning around, I go back the length of the street, eyes straining, but to no avail.
The yarn store is no longer here.
Sadly, I begin to head back to the car.
In my mind, I can easily make sense of it. In a struggling economy, a business committed to wools, fibers, silks, knitting needles, weaving looms, and spinning wheels is of little use to those who are having a hard time paying rent and putting food on the table.
As I reach the car, I still have one minute on the meter. At least that crisis has now passed.
As we pull away, I am not the least bit bitter or upset. I am content in the knowledge that the sun will continue to rise and set whether or not I get my holiday yarn fix.
What I find confusing however, is that in the three blocks or so back to our hotel, I count four shops advertising psychic readings, fortune telling, dragon potions, charms & crystals, fairy dust, and tarot cards.
Business is obviously steady, as I see customers going in and coming out.
Suddenly, I am confronted with an altogether new and unexpected lesson on human nature and life's priorities.
Okay...
Now I’m bitter.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Monday, June 7, 2010
Gettysburg ~ Day Three a.m.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
“Forward men, forward for God’s sake
& drive those fellows out of those woods.”
Maj. Gen. John F. Reynolds U.S.A.
Commander, First Army Corps.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Those were very likely the final words of Union General Reynolds before he was killed by a Confederate sniper’s bullet. This morning I found myself placing a flag at the very spot where he fell.
The engagement occurred on July 1, 1863 at about 8:00 a.m. It involved 7000 confederate troops attacking 3,200 dismantled Union Cavalry.
We are on Reynolds Avenue. A wide expanse of gently rolling ground. No wonder Generals on both sides wanted control of this land so badly. It is easy to ascertain that it was the ever coveted “high ground.”
No more are there sounds of cannon and gunfire. Rather, they have given way to the sound of a cacophony of birds noisily resounding us with song from all sides as well as annoyed mothers chastising their children to be mindful of the narrow road and the cars driving by.
Several years ago as I toured through one of the museums here in Gettysburg, I came across two rather plain wooden chairs sitting on display, side by side.
Now, what could be so important about these chairs, I wondered as I leaned closer to the glass so that I could read the page of text which described their significance.
I read how General Reynolds used these two chairs as a bed the night shortly before the battle which ended his life.
The sky is again grey, telling me that the weatherman made the wrong call this morning when he announced that we were in for a sparkling day. The only sign of blue is a narrow strip along the horizon.
As we drive along Buford Avenue we find ourselves at The Peace Memorial, which was dedicated by President Franklin D. Roosevelt during the observance of the 75th anniversary of the battle of Gettysburg. If you have ever watched Ken and Rick Burns Civil War Series, there are actual clips of film showing President
Roosevelt speaking to a vast audience which includes a number of Civil War Veterans.
On this memorial is an inscription which is cut deep both in stone and meaning.
It reads:
“With firmness in the right
...as God gives us to see the right.”
Abraham Lincoln
In an effort to get a clear picture of this statement, I take it upon myself to try and climb two very steep stairs. My attempt at the first one succeeds quite well and with grace to boot, but stepping up to the second one brings me quickly to my knees. Once again, I am reminded that I’m not a kid anymore. Still, I made it up and got the shot. ...Yay!
After a little while, I take a seat at a very lovely stone bench alongside this monument. Taking a good look around me I notice something strange about the circle of trees running the perimeter of the park directly behind the monument.
All of their branches are leaning directly towards the monument. There are no branches, leaves, twigs or otherwise reaching in any other direction. I find this most intriguing.
It is then that I spot a dead bee lying on a stone block only inches from my feet. I gently kick it into the waiting clover of green and purple which is only a few more inches away. Certainly, this a more fitting burial for a bee that to be ultimately squished by an unobservant and uncaring foot.
It is about that time that a pathway catches my eye. The curved pathway gives no hint as to what lies beyond. I am immediately smitten and Robert Frost’s, “The Road Not Taken,” instantly comes to mind. I know that I must follow this path and let it lead me where it will.
Through profuse bushes of orange and white honeysuckle I am led to an opening which frames two very different and very large trees in all their glory. One is straight ahead and leans seductively into a big red barn. The other is off to my left and sits alone in the middle of a field of wildflowers. After a few moments, these images are captured in the digital memory of my camera, for all time. As I turn, I hear a rustle in the brush just in front of me. In silence, I wait for a few moments to catch a glimpse of some sort of small furry animal but to no avail.
It seems that not only do ghosts run and hide from me, but now animal wildlife does too.
As I turn and follow the path back to where my segway began, I pause for a moment to stop and smell the honeysuckle.
As we head out we stop in one last place.
I’m not sure why, but I am drawn to old cemeteries. Catching a glimpse of one out of the corner of my eye, we stop the car and with camera firmly in hand, I walk towards it in a reverential quickstep.
It is the Gettysburg Almshouse Cemetery. The graves that I encounter go back to the 1870’s. The picket fence surrounds what I guess to be about two acres of land. There are maybe fifty to sixty graves here. The headstones are simple but in good shape. Two have been vandalized.
Towards the back corner, the graves seem to haphazardly clumped together. There are no headstones here. Only small signs of green plastic no bigger than a postcard. The dates begin at 1997 and go up. The very name Almshouse Cemetery tells me that this is most likely a paupers cemetery.
After returning to my room, I immediately do a search on the computer and find out that this cemetery was prepared for the indigent and insane.
As I ponder this I am reminded of the small bee which now rests for all time in the clover.
I am very thankful for those who saw fit to provide a proper resting place for those buried in the Almshouse Cemetery. Otherwise, they too would have fallen underfoot and unobserved and in effect, be ultimately forgotten by history.
For more information on Gettysburg Almhouse Cemetery please visit:
http://agraveconcern.wordpress.com/2010/05/10/gettysburg-almshouse-cemetery/
“Forward men, forward for God’s sake
& drive those fellows out of those woods.”
Maj. Gen. John F. Reynolds U.S.A.
Commander, First Army Corps.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Those were very likely the final words of Union General Reynolds before he was killed by a Confederate sniper’s bullet. This morning I found myself placing a flag at the very spot where he fell.
The engagement occurred on July 1, 1863 at about 8:00 a.m. It involved 7000 confederate troops attacking 3,200 dismantled Union Cavalry.
We are on Reynolds Avenue. A wide expanse of gently rolling ground. No wonder Generals on both sides wanted control of this land so badly. It is easy to ascertain that it was the ever coveted “high ground.”
No more are there sounds of cannon and gunfire. Rather, they have given way to the sound of a cacophony of birds noisily resounding us with song from all sides as well as annoyed mothers chastising their children to be mindful of the narrow road and the cars driving by.
Several years ago as I toured through one of the museums here in Gettysburg, I came across two rather plain wooden chairs sitting on display, side by side.
Now, what could be so important about these chairs, I wondered as I leaned closer to the glass so that I could read the page of text which described their significance.
I read how General Reynolds used these two chairs as a bed the night shortly before the battle which ended his life.
The sky is again grey, telling me that the weatherman made the wrong call this morning when he announced that we were in for a sparkling day. The only sign of blue is a narrow strip along the horizon.
As we drive along Buford Avenue we find ourselves at The Peace Memorial, which was dedicated by President Franklin D. Roosevelt during the observance of the 75th anniversary of the battle of Gettysburg. If you have ever watched Ken and Rick Burns Civil War Series, there are actual clips of film showing President
Roosevelt speaking to a vast audience which includes a number of Civil War Veterans.
On this memorial is an inscription which is cut deep both in stone and meaning.
It reads:
“With firmness in the right
...as God gives us to see the right.”
Abraham Lincoln
In an effort to get a clear picture of this statement, I take it upon myself to try and climb two very steep stairs. My attempt at the first one succeeds quite well and with grace to boot, but stepping up to the second one brings me quickly to my knees. Once again, I am reminded that I’m not a kid anymore. Still, I made it up and got the shot. ...Yay!
After a little while, I take a seat at a very lovely stone bench alongside this monument. Taking a good look around me I notice something strange about the circle of trees running the perimeter of the park directly behind the monument.
All of their branches are leaning directly towards the monument. There are no branches, leaves, twigs or otherwise reaching in any other direction. I find this most intriguing.
It is then that I spot a dead bee lying on a stone block only inches from my feet. I gently kick it into the waiting clover of green and purple which is only a few more inches away. Certainly, this a more fitting burial for a bee that to be ultimately squished by an unobservant and uncaring foot.
It is about that time that a pathway catches my eye. The curved pathway gives no hint as to what lies beyond. I am immediately smitten and Robert Frost’s, “The Road Not Taken,” instantly comes to mind. I know that I must follow this path and let it lead me where it will.
Through profuse bushes of orange and white honeysuckle I am led to an opening which frames two very different and very large trees in all their glory. One is straight ahead and leans seductively into a big red barn. The other is off to my left and sits alone in the middle of a field of wildflowers. After a few moments, these images are captured in the digital memory of my camera, for all time. As I turn, I hear a rustle in the brush just in front of me. In silence, I wait for a few moments to catch a glimpse of some sort of small furry animal but to no avail.
It seems that not only do ghosts run and hide from me, but now animal wildlife does too.
As I turn and follow the path back to where my segway began, I pause for a moment to stop and smell the honeysuckle.
As we head out we stop in one last place.
I’m not sure why, but I am drawn to old cemeteries. Catching a glimpse of one out of the corner of my eye, we stop the car and with camera firmly in hand, I walk towards it in a reverential quickstep.
It is the Gettysburg Almshouse Cemetery. The graves that I encounter go back to the 1870’s. The picket fence surrounds what I guess to be about two acres of land. There are maybe fifty to sixty graves here. The headstones are simple but in good shape. Two have been vandalized.
Towards the back corner, the graves seem to haphazardly clumped together. There are no headstones here. Only small signs of green plastic no bigger than a postcard. The dates begin at 1997 and go up. The very name Almshouse Cemetery tells me that this is most likely a paupers cemetery.
After returning to my room, I immediately do a search on the computer and find out that this cemetery was prepared for the indigent and insane.
As I ponder this I am reminded of the small bee which now rests for all time in the clover.
I am very thankful for those who saw fit to provide a proper resting place for those buried in the Almshouse Cemetery. Otherwise, they too would have fallen underfoot and unobserved and in effect, be ultimately forgotten by history.
For more information on Gettysburg Almhouse Cemetery please visit:
http://agraveconcern.wordpress.com/2010/05/10/gettysburg-almshouse-cemetery/
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Gettysburg~ Day Two
I awoke this morning to news reports of severe thunderstorm warnings in our area. This was not a good sign. Tornadoes seemed to be happening everywhere, including Pennsylvania where one person has already been reported killed.
By the time we were ready to make a “go” or “no go” decision as to whether or not to set out for our first drive through Gettysburg National Park, the weather seemed give us a bit of a reprieve. And so, the decision was for a “go.”
I do not quite understand what it is that makes me want to experience this journey through Gettysburg National Park over and over again. What I can tell you is that this desire is a powerful one.
As we enter the park grounds we are met with the lush greenery which for some reason, I always sense as remarkable. Also, there are hundreds and hundreds of monuments in all sorts of imaginable shapes, size and colors. None of them are small however, and rightly so. Each one is dedicated to those who served and fought here.
By the time we stopped the car to get out and breath in the land, there were the odd raindrops to welcome us and we did not mind them a bit. Among the stops we made on this particular journey were the Tennessee Memorial and the Lee Monument.
It is indeed a very big stretch to the imagination when you try to imagine the utter carnage that took place here 147 years ago. There’s a part of me that doesn’t even want to. However, we are here to acknowledge what happened here.
Abraham Lincoln said it all to well...
"The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract."
Nothing can change what happened here. It is what it is. What overcomes my senses here is an overwhelming sense of peace. May it always be so.
As far as I know, one of the latest monuments to be added was the Longstreet Memorial. I believe this stature was made possible partly because of the efforts of actor Tom Berenger who played General Longstreet in the epic movie “Gettysburg.”
What came as a pleasant and unexpected surprise however was to see an encampment a hundred or feet behind this monument. There were tents, campfires and men in period clothing. As much as I would have enjoyed taking a closer look at this backwards glance into history the better angels of my nature told me that while I am enjoying this particular moment, I must respect their privacy and allow them to enjoy theirs as well.
The next stop was at Little Round Top and as we stood atop and gazed upon the ground which had been a pivotal point for the Union Army. The crest of this hill is comprised almost entirely of out of boulders. Very big ones.
By this point the grey clouds have appropriately given way to blue skies. There is a refreshing and welcoming wind here which helps keep the heat and humidity at bay.
From here we can see the Devil’s Den, another place of fierce battle. We immediately notice a change. All the trees which once adorned it are now gone. This comes as sad news to us. From our vantage point we can also see hoards of people surrounding this sight. We quickly resolve to leave the Devil’s Den to another day.
There was one obligatory stop left to make, and this was at the High Water Mark which was in short the end of the line for the Confederate Army. Today, I will only take a few moments at the stone wall, to overlook the ground which comprised Pickett’s Charge, by far the most serious and final battle which gave the Union Army a decisive victory over the Confederates.
Before I take my leave from these grounds, I pause at the sight where General Armistead fell.
I always do.
My agenda for tomorrow is to take a walk downtown. This is always such a joy to me for several different reasons. First, the architecture of the colorful houses and shops that line the streets are such a pleasure to observe. Second, there is a yarn store downtown, and if I listen carefully, I can hear several skeins of exquisite wool clearly calling me by name.
And so ends day two.
Until tomorrow......
By the time we were ready to make a “go” or “no go” decision as to whether or not to set out for our first drive through Gettysburg National Park, the weather seemed give us a bit of a reprieve. And so, the decision was for a “go.”
I do not quite understand what it is that makes me want to experience this journey through Gettysburg National Park over and over again. What I can tell you is that this desire is a powerful one.
As we enter the park grounds we are met with the lush greenery which for some reason, I always sense as remarkable. Also, there are hundreds and hundreds of monuments in all sorts of imaginable shapes, size and colors. None of them are small however, and rightly so. Each one is dedicated to those who served and fought here.
By the time we stopped the car to get out and breath in the land, there were the odd raindrops to welcome us and we did not mind them a bit. Among the stops we made on this particular journey were the Tennessee Memorial and the Lee Monument.
It is indeed a very big stretch to the imagination when you try to imagine the utter carnage that took place here 147 years ago. There’s a part of me that doesn’t even want to. However, we are here to acknowledge what happened here.
Abraham Lincoln said it all to well...
"The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract."
Nothing can change what happened here. It is what it is. What overcomes my senses here is an overwhelming sense of peace. May it always be so.
As far as I know, one of the latest monuments to be added was the Longstreet Memorial. I believe this stature was made possible partly because of the efforts of actor Tom Berenger who played General Longstreet in the epic movie “Gettysburg.”
What came as a pleasant and unexpected surprise however was to see an encampment a hundred or feet behind this monument. There were tents, campfires and men in period clothing. As much as I would have enjoyed taking a closer look at this backwards glance into history the better angels of my nature told me that while I am enjoying this particular moment, I must respect their privacy and allow them to enjoy theirs as well.
The next stop was at Little Round Top and as we stood atop and gazed upon the ground which had been a pivotal point for the Union Army. The crest of this hill is comprised almost entirely of out of boulders. Very big ones.
By this point the grey clouds have appropriately given way to blue skies. There is a refreshing and welcoming wind here which helps keep the heat and humidity at bay.
From here we can see the Devil’s Den, another place of fierce battle. We immediately notice a change. All the trees which once adorned it are now gone. This comes as sad news to us. From our vantage point we can also see hoards of people surrounding this sight. We quickly resolve to leave the Devil’s Den to another day.
There was one obligatory stop left to make, and this was at the High Water Mark which was in short the end of the line for the Confederate Army. Today, I will only take a few moments at the stone wall, to overlook the ground which comprised Pickett’s Charge, by far the most serious and final battle which gave the Union Army a decisive victory over the Confederates.
Before I take my leave from these grounds, I pause at the sight where General Armistead fell.
I always do.
My agenda for tomorrow is to take a walk downtown. This is always such a joy to me for several different reasons. First, the architecture of the colorful houses and shops that line the streets are such a pleasure to observe. Second, there is a yarn store downtown, and if I listen carefully, I can hear several skeins of exquisite wool clearly calling me by name.
And so ends day two.
Until tomorrow......
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Gettysburg ~ Day One
At about 3:00 p.m., on June 5, 2010, I found Gettysburg Pennsylvania exactly where I had left it.
Now, I am here at the corner of Steinwehr & Baltimore, the same street that Abraham Lincoln took as he approached what is now the Gettysburg National Cemetery. The Irish Brigade shop stands in front of me as do all the other little touristy shops. Downtown Gettysburg lies straight ahead about half a mile. Behind me is Cemetery Hill and the two cemeteries, Evergreen, which is private and the National Cemetery.
It is almost impossible to ignore the sound of the continual traffic. Occasionally, the traffic lights bring the steady stream of cars to a stop. The cars comply, but for a few moments only. That is when, if you listen carefully, you can hear the intermittent sounds of birds chirping in the distance.
I listen, and they tell me that all is well.
As I look up and down the streets I see tourists, but certainly not as many as I usually do when I compare them with sunny Saturday afternoons in June from years gone by.
Yet another unfortunate sign of the hard times that we are living in.
After a few minutes walk, I find myself at my second favorite bench in Gettysburg.
It sits adjacent to the Jenny Wade House. The significance of this house is that during those awful days of battle during July 1863, only one single civilian was tragically killed and that was Jenny Wade.
The story goes that Jenny was baking bread in the kitchen when a sniper’s bullet pierced the side door hitting Jenny in the back and killing her instantly.
Sitting down on the bench, I survey the gardens which I have not seen for three years. The flowers are still as lovely as I remember them. The decorative trees have of course, grown larger and this is the only noticeable change that I can see here.
The Jenny Wade house itself looks well taken care of which pleases me. The white sheers still hang in all the windows.
I can easily discern that the ghosts behind those sheers are still intent on ignoring me just as they always do. This is in spite of all my brash attempts at daring them to show themselves. It’s just as well. They know where my room is, and will no doubt be paying me a visit sometime during my stay, but on their terms of course.
As alway, there are the tourists which amuse me as they walk by the Jenny Wade house. You know, the ones who try to see Gettysburg in two hours or less. I cannot help but sense that they see this house more as a tourist trap, an oddity, rather than for the treasure that it really is.
All of a sudden, there is a very pleasant breeze, which invites me to stay in this place a little while longer. It breathes an invitation asking for me to stay just a little bit longer. It whispers “See, it isn’t so hot here after all now, is it.”
Within a few minutes comes the familiar roar of the Harley Bikes going by which was inevitable. Gettysburg is, after all a Harley town.
Dinner tonight takes place at O’Rorkes, named after an Irish commander who was killed during the assault on the Round Tops. It’s an Irish Pub well known in this area for good food and good times. The most memorable song of the night is “I Get Knocked Down” by Chumba Wumba.
And so ends day one, and pleasantly so.
The agenda for tomorrow is dependent on the weather gods and believe me it’s all good. Some of my best photos of Gettysburg were taken in both rain and snow. It’s really amazing how the atmosphere changes with the seasons.
However, the sun seems to set all to early around here. It’s almost as if someone or something is telling us that....
... tomorrow is another day.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Now, I am here at the corner of Steinwehr & Baltimore, the same street that Abraham Lincoln took as he approached what is now the Gettysburg National Cemetery. The Irish Brigade shop stands in front of me as do all the other little touristy shops. Downtown Gettysburg lies straight ahead about half a mile. Behind me is Cemetery Hill and the two cemeteries, Evergreen, which is private and the National Cemetery.
It is almost impossible to ignore the sound of the continual traffic. Occasionally, the traffic lights bring the steady stream of cars to a stop. The cars comply, but for a few moments only. That is when, if you listen carefully, you can hear the intermittent sounds of birds chirping in the distance.
I listen, and they tell me that all is well.
As I look up and down the streets I see tourists, but certainly not as many as I usually do when I compare them with sunny Saturday afternoons in June from years gone by.
Yet another unfortunate sign of the hard times that we are living in.
After a few minutes walk, I find myself at my second favorite bench in Gettysburg.
It sits adjacent to the Jenny Wade House. The significance of this house is that during those awful days of battle during July 1863, only one single civilian was tragically killed and that was Jenny Wade.
The story goes that Jenny was baking bread in the kitchen when a sniper’s bullet pierced the side door hitting Jenny in the back and killing her instantly.
Sitting down on the bench, I survey the gardens which I have not seen for three years. The flowers are still as lovely as I remember them. The decorative trees have of course, grown larger and this is the only noticeable change that I can see here.
The Jenny Wade house itself looks well taken care of which pleases me. The white sheers still hang in all the windows.
I can easily discern that the ghosts behind those sheers are still intent on ignoring me just as they always do. This is in spite of all my brash attempts at daring them to show themselves. It’s just as well. They know where my room is, and will no doubt be paying me a visit sometime during my stay, but on their terms of course.
As alway, there are the tourists which amuse me as they walk by the Jenny Wade house. You know, the ones who try to see Gettysburg in two hours or less. I cannot help but sense that they see this house more as a tourist trap, an oddity, rather than for the treasure that it really is.
All of a sudden, there is a very pleasant breeze, which invites me to stay in this place a little while longer. It breathes an invitation asking for me to stay just a little bit longer. It whispers “See, it isn’t so hot here after all now, is it.”
Within a few minutes comes the familiar roar of the Harley Bikes going by which was inevitable. Gettysburg is, after all a Harley town.
Dinner tonight takes place at O’Rorkes, named after an Irish commander who was killed during the assault on the Round Tops. It’s an Irish Pub well known in this area for good food and good times. The most memorable song of the night is “I Get Knocked Down” by Chumba Wumba.
And so ends day one, and pleasantly so.
The agenda for tomorrow is dependent on the weather gods and believe me it’s all good. Some of my best photos of Gettysburg were taken in both rain and snow. It’s really amazing how the atmosphere changes with the seasons.
However, the sun seems to set all to early around here. It’s almost as if someone or something is telling us that....
... tomorrow is another day.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Friday, June 4, 2010
Things My Dad Taught Me ~ Part 1
Upon losing my father, I wanted to commit myself to making sense of all the lessons that he had tried to teach me in life.
There has been an unfortunate problem however.
It’s taking me years to remember what some of these lessons were.
And that isn’t all. I also want to know how I can apply these lessons to my own life. Then hopefully, I will be reconcile the fact that dad had indeed been a pretty good father after all.
Now, five years later, slowly, very slowly these lessons are beginning to become clearer to me.
Take today for example. I’m far from home on holiday. And as I pack a newly purchased book into my bag, one of those lessons came crashing home.
The scene was the beginning of new year of school for me, primary to be exact. I had just been assigned several new school books which included an elementary reader, math, and geography book.
He led me to the kitchen table where my newly acquired text books were waiting. He had a pencil, scissors, and ruler in one hand and a large piece of heavy paper in the other. His preferred choice of paper media was usually a recycled piece of wrapping paper, an irrelevant street map, or an old poster. However, I do remember times when a newspaper, or the funny papers would do in a pinch.
With that, he would sit me down, and with pencil, ruler and patience he began to measure and mark. With several long straight lines here and a couple of notches there he would then take the scissors and carefully cut along the pencil drawn edges. He finished off with two neat folds here, another two folds there, and
...VOILA! We now had a bookcover.
My father would then take the front cover of the school book and slip it into into the neatly measured front flap. Then he would do the same with the back cover.
In teaching me the importance of these homemade book-covers, I learned several different things.
First, it taught me that books are to be handled with both care and respect. I still have books that dad gave me. The ones with these sorts of covers are still in their prime. The other books are not so lucky.
Secondly, it is indeed a noble thing to take care of something that does not belong to you. I was always proud to give all borrowed books back to the school at the end of the year, intact and with few blemishes.
Last, I learned that you can take something which is otherwise considered useless and unwanted and turn it into something with the potential to be both useful and meaningful.
And there you have it. It only took me years to figure this particular lesson out, but I finally got it.
Thanks dad!
There has been an unfortunate problem however.
It’s taking me years to remember what some of these lessons were.
And that isn’t all. I also want to know how I can apply these lessons to my own life. Then hopefully, I will be reconcile the fact that dad had indeed been a pretty good father after all.
Now, five years later, slowly, very slowly these lessons are beginning to become clearer to me.
Take today for example. I’m far from home on holiday. And as I pack a newly purchased book into my bag, one of those lessons came crashing home.
The scene was the beginning of new year of school for me, primary to be exact. I had just been assigned several new school books which included an elementary reader, math, and geography book.
He led me to the kitchen table where my newly acquired text books were waiting. He had a pencil, scissors, and ruler in one hand and a large piece of heavy paper in the other. His preferred choice of paper media was usually a recycled piece of wrapping paper, an irrelevant street map, or an old poster. However, I do remember times when a newspaper, or the funny papers would do in a pinch.
With that, he would sit me down, and with pencil, ruler and patience he began to measure and mark. With several long straight lines here and a couple of notches there he would then take the scissors and carefully cut along the pencil drawn edges. He finished off with two neat folds here, another two folds there, and
...VOILA! We now had a bookcover.
My father would then take the front cover of the school book and slip it into into the neatly measured front flap. Then he would do the same with the back cover.
In teaching me the importance of these homemade book-covers, I learned several different things.
First, it taught me that books are to be handled with both care and respect. I still have books that dad gave me. The ones with these sorts of covers are still in their prime. The other books are not so lucky.
Secondly, it is indeed a noble thing to take care of something that does not belong to you. I was always proud to give all borrowed books back to the school at the end of the year, intact and with few blemishes.
Last, I learned that you can take something which is otherwise considered useless and unwanted and turn it into something with the potential to be both useful and meaningful.
And there you have it. It only took me years to figure this particular lesson out, but I finally got it.
Thanks dad!
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Whose Boots Have Been Under Everest's Bed?
It was long ago that Mount Everest captured my imagination. After having watched all that I can watch, and reading all that I could read about the world’s highest summit, I became and remain completely enamored with her.
Reality long ago dictated to me that I would never climb her, but I wish that one day I will at least see Chomolangma for myself.
Imagine then, my surprise when I learned that my friend and coworker, Brian had just returned from a five week holiday to Nepal.
“Please tell me that you saw Everest.” I said to him after welcoming him back.
“Not only did I see Everest, I stayed at base camp.” he proudly told me.
Being instantly smitten with joy at his achievement I also turned a tad shade greener with envy. My next question was inevitable.
“What was it like?”
He then related the long trek that he and others of his team had made. Describing the beauty, the people, and the cold, he made it sound both fascinating and frightening.
Then, I moved on to my next question...
“Tell me.... what do they eat for breakfast on Mount Everest?”
“At about five in the morning,” he began, “the sherpas came to the tent and offered us a hot towel. That was our shower. Then they gave us a cup of tea. That was our breakfast.”
I could picture it all too easily. In a heartbeat I would pass up the most lavish breakfast imaginable in favor of what he had just described to me.
Then came my final inquiry...
“What music did you take to Everest with you?”
Upon hearing my question, he shot me a very pained and sheepish look. I instantly knew that I would not be impressed by his answer.
“Oh Doris,” he began, suddenly looking and sounding very sorry for himself...
“I really don’t want to tell you.”
“Yes, I want to know.... tell me...”
“Well,” he began, “I forgot all my CD’s at home, and the only one I had was the one that was left inside the player.”
“Brian,” I continued to prod, determined to find out what music he played at base camp. Fixing my eyes onto his, I asked once again...
“What music did you take?”
After a deep breath and a heavy sigh he blurted out his sad reply...
“It was Shania Twain.”
I let out a horrible gasp.
“Shania Twain, “HOW COULD YOU???” ......
Now, don’t get me wrong. I like Shania Twain. In fact, I can sing along to just about all of her songs. It’s just that when I think about what music I would choose to take up to the roof top of the world, I think majesty and grandeur. Take Beethoven’s 9th, or Cosi Fan Tutte by Mozart, Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, Wonderful World by Louis Armstrong. However, listening to Shania’s “That Don’t Impress Me Much” on Everest seems so wrong on so many different levels.
Upon hearing Brian’s sad confession, I could hear myself go off on a rant which I no longer remember. However, within a few moments Brian was able to talk me down.
“I know, I know” he repeated in low, soothing tones.
Then, he went on to say...
“Everyone that I was traveling with really hated it.”
Duh! ...I thought to myself. Hearing that, I must admit though, made me feel a little bit better.
However, having said that, my friend Brian’s face then lit up with such a mischievous gleam, the likes of which I had never seen on him before.
Leaning in just inches away from my face he proudly and triumphantly said ...
“But you know,
.... the sherpas REALLY loved her!”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Reality long ago dictated to me that I would never climb her, but I wish that one day I will at least see Chomolangma for myself.
Imagine then, my surprise when I learned that my friend and coworker, Brian had just returned from a five week holiday to Nepal.
“Please tell me that you saw Everest.” I said to him after welcoming him back.
“Not only did I see Everest, I stayed at base camp.” he proudly told me.
Being instantly smitten with joy at his achievement I also turned a tad shade greener with envy. My next question was inevitable.
“What was it like?”
He then related the long trek that he and others of his team had made. Describing the beauty, the people, and the cold, he made it sound both fascinating and frightening.
Then, I moved on to my next question...
“Tell me.... what do they eat for breakfast on Mount Everest?”
“At about five in the morning,” he began, “the sherpas came to the tent and offered us a hot towel. That was our shower. Then they gave us a cup of tea. That was our breakfast.”
I could picture it all too easily. In a heartbeat I would pass up the most lavish breakfast imaginable in favor of what he had just described to me.
Then came my final inquiry...
“What music did you take to Everest with you?”
Upon hearing my question, he shot me a very pained and sheepish look. I instantly knew that I would not be impressed by his answer.
“Oh Doris,” he began, suddenly looking and sounding very sorry for himself...
“I really don’t want to tell you.”
“Yes, I want to know.... tell me...”
“Well,” he began, “I forgot all my CD’s at home, and the only one I had was the one that was left inside the player.”
“Brian,” I continued to prod, determined to find out what music he played at base camp. Fixing my eyes onto his, I asked once again...
“What music did you take?”
After a deep breath and a heavy sigh he blurted out his sad reply...
“It was Shania Twain.”
I let out a horrible gasp.
“Shania Twain, “HOW COULD YOU???” ......
Now, don’t get me wrong. I like Shania Twain. In fact, I can sing along to just about all of her songs. It’s just that when I think about what music I would choose to take up to the roof top of the world, I think majesty and grandeur. Take Beethoven’s 9th, or Cosi Fan Tutte by Mozart, Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, Wonderful World by Louis Armstrong. However, listening to Shania’s “That Don’t Impress Me Much” on Everest seems so wrong on so many different levels.
Upon hearing Brian’s sad confession, I could hear myself go off on a rant which I no longer remember. However, within a few moments Brian was able to talk me down.
“I know, I know” he repeated in low, soothing tones.
Then, he went on to say...
“Everyone that I was traveling with really hated it.”
Duh! ...I thought to myself. Hearing that, I must admit though, made me feel a little bit better.
However, having said that, my friend Brian’s face then lit up with such a mischievous gleam, the likes of which I had never seen on him before.
Leaning in just inches away from my face he proudly and triumphantly said ...
“But you know,
.... the sherpas REALLY loved her!”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
The Barbie Days of Summer
For the last little while I have been thinking about how much I loved playing with Barbies all those many years ago.
How wonderful was that?
It was a very good feeling when you popped open your Barbie Suitcase or emptied your bag on an outstretched blanket in the middle of the park. Remember the instant effusion of fashion, color and fun?
Do you recall the little mini Barbie fashion magazines that came with an official clothing purchase? That was my very first introduction to haute couture. I was only four years old.
There were a few lucky girls who had acquired all things Barbie thanks to their affluent family ties. However, the vast majority of us had a tolerable amount of Barbie clothes. There was one credo though, that was shared by us all, whether you came from an affluent family or not. And that was.....
...no Barbie should ever,
EVER, have to go naked!
Naked Barbies were a very sad and sorry sight, (unless they were in the process of being changed or getting bathed of course.)
It was surprising at how far girls could stretch and manipulate a very limited amount of Barbie clothes. When times were desperate we would take to needle & thread, crochet hook, even fabric remnants and craft Barbie fashions of our own.
Indeed, I remember times when a new Barbie initiate had only a swimsuit or single dress in her possession, then we would rummage through our bags for bits and pieces of garb that we were willing to part with. Mind you, these would tend to be well worn, and most likely in need of several stitches, but nevertheless, these small tokens were welcomed by the needy recipients.
I’ve lost track of what Barbie is up to these days, but I have no doubt that her figure is still perfect and that she has not developed the obligatory grey hair and other challenges that come with age.
I am happy to report that I still have my original Barbie doll given to me way back in the early sixties. She’s a bit scarred here and there mind you. Her red bouffant hair has regrettably, had a bit of a trim, and her left hand has lost a finger thanks to one of our former dogs, Mr. Itchy. Otherwise, she is good.... better than me in fact.
And do you know what?
I think that it may be time for another Barbie summer.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
P.S. My Barbie is currently as naked as the proverbial jay bird.
Any and all donations are welcome!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
How wonderful was that?
It was a very good feeling when you popped open your Barbie Suitcase or emptied your bag on an outstretched blanket in the middle of the park. Remember the instant effusion of fashion, color and fun?
Do you recall the little mini Barbie fashion magazines that came with an official clothing purchase? That was my very first introduction to haute couture. I was only four years old.
There were a few lucky girls who had acquired all things Barbie thanks to their affluent family ties. However, the vast majority of us had a tolerable amount of Barbie clothes. There was one credo though, that was shared by us all, whether you came from an affluent family or not. And that was.....
...no Barbie should ever,
EVER, have to go naked!
Naked Barbies were a very sad and sorry sight, (unless they were in the process of being changed or getting bathed of course.)
It was surprising at how far girls could stretch and manipulate a very limited amount of Barbie clothes. When times were desperate we would take to needle & thread, crochet hook, even fabric remnants and craft Barbie fashions of our own.
Indeed, I remember times when a new Barbie initiate had only a swimsuit or single dress in her possession, then we would rummage through our bags for bits and pieces of garb that we were willing to part with. Mind you, these would tend to be well worn, and most likely in need of several stitches, but nevertheless, these small tokens were welcomed by the needy recipients.
I’ve lost track of what Barbie is up to these days, but I have no doubt that her figure is still perfect and that she has not developed the obligatory grey hair and other challenges that come with age.
I am happy to report that I still have my original Barbie doll given to me way back in the early sixties. She’s a bit scarred here and there mind you. Her red bouffant hair has regrettably, had a bit of a trim, and her left hand has lost a finger thanks to one of our former dogs, Mr. Itchy. Otherwise, she is good.... better than me in fact.
And do you know what?
I think that it may be time for another Barbie summer.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
P.S. My Barbie is currently as naked as the proverbial jay bird.
Any and all donations are welcome!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
With Rings On Her Fingers...
I’ve never really been one for jewelry.
Whenever my eyes catch a shiny and expensive ring or necklace which costs over a thousand dollars, I find myself thinking...
“Gee..., with that, we could go and visit mother, spend a week in Gettysburg or Nashville, or maybe even see Rome again.”
To me, that’s the stuff which life is made up of ... good memories! Bonus points for each family member that you can include in your travels.
So, for those reasons, I doubt that I will ever own a big diamond ring.
Why?
Because, it has become clear to me that I cannot have my carat & travel too!
Anyway, I do wear two rings which are of personal significance to me.
One is a blue sapphire ring given to me by my mother on my seventeenth birthday. She had purchased it for herself when I was a little girl, and I always loved the way it sparkled whenever she wore it. Now it is mine, and a continual reminder to me of how very much my mother and I love each other.
The second ring as a Star Sapphire which I sought out and purchased for myself. I was determined to have a ring just like the one my father wore as an enduring keepsake to his memory. The star which becomes visible in the light reminds me of how he taught me to appreciate and share his love of the starry cosmos. He bought me my first set of binoculars when I was six. Together, we mapped out neighboring suns and galaxies. He showed me how to find the north star. Further, the blue stone is also reminiscent of his steely blue eyes which I got to know very well. They never ceased to glitter in both good and bad times.
Both of these rings are worn together upon my ring finger of my right hand.
Although divorced separated my parents, the rings reside there together as one.
I like to keep mother’s sapphire topside, so that it continues to dazzle me whenever my eyes fall upon it, just like it did when I was a little girl.
The star sapphire is turned inward, palm side. I keep it there so that each time I open my right hand, I will find my own personal and very beautiful star waiting within.
And so....
“With rings on her fingers
and bells on her prose,
she shall have starlight
wherever she goes.”
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Whenever my eyes catch a shiny and expensive ring or necklace which costs over a thousand dollars, I find myself thinking...
“Gee..., with that, we could go and visit mother, spend a week in Gettysburg or Nashville, or maybe even see Rome again.”
To me, that’s the stuff which life is made up of ... good memories! Bonus points for each family member that you can include in your travels.
So, for those reasons, I doubt that I will ever own a big diamond ring.
Why?
Because, it has become clear to me that I cannot have my carat & travel too!
Anyway, I do wear two rings which are of personal significance to me.
One is a blue sapphire ring given to me by my mother on my seventeenth birthday. She had purchased it for herself when I was a little girl, and I always loved the way it sparkled whenever she wore it. Now it is mine, and a continual reminder to me of how very much my mother and I love each other.
The second ring as a Star Sapphire which I sought out and purchased for myself. I was determined to have a ring just like the one my father wore as an enduring keepsake to his memory. The star which becomes visible in the light reminds me of how he taught me to appreciate and share his love of the starry cosmos. He bought me my first set of binoculars when I was six. Together, we mapped out neighboring suns and galaxies. He showed me how to find the north star. Further, the blue stone is also reminiscent of his steely blue eyes which I got to know very well. They never ceased to glitter in both good and bad times.
Both of these rings are worn together upon my ring finger of my right hand.
Although divorced separated my parents, the rings reside there together as one.
I like to keep mother’s sapphire topside, so that it continues to dazzle me whenever my eyes fall upon it, just like it did when I was a little girl.
The star sapphire is turned inward, palm side. I keep it there so that each time I open my right hand, I will find my own personal and very beautiful star waiting within.
And so....
“With rings on her fingers
and bells on her prose,
she shall have starlight
wherever she goes.”
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Monday, May 31, 2010
The Joy of Ice Cream
I loved my grandmother very much. She knew instinctively what it took to make and keep my happy. Ice cream was one of those ways.
When I was a little girl, she would quietly take me to one side, look around to see if anyone was watching, then slip some money into my hands. Then she would whisper so to ensure that no one would hear...
“This is for ice cream,” she said with an urgent whisper,
“don’t tell your grandfather.”
With an obeying nod, I solemnly gave her my promise that no one would ever know.
Yes, I loved ice cream, but grandmother loved ice cream even more. My aunt always giggled at how after she came to visit with the family for several weeks, grandmother always left a little rounder than when she first arrived. I have no doubt that this stemmed from sharing her love of ice cream with all her grandchildren.
So, now that she is no longer with us, and has been taken up to heaven, I cannot help but wonder if she is in any way able to get hold of a double dip.
As Christians, we were always taught that “God will provide.” Some would say that God will provide us with our needs, but I tell you, that for my grandmother, ice cream remains a necessity.
So, when I get to heaven, I fully expect her to eventually take me quietly aside. Then, like before, she will slip some money into my hands and with that familiar urgent whisper say to me ...
“This is for ice cream... don’t tell God!”
When I was a little girl, she would quietly take me to one side, look around to see if anyone was watching, then slip some money into my hands. Then she would whisper so to ensure that no one would hear...
“This is for ice cream,” she said with an urgent whisper,
“don’t tell your grandfather.”
With an obeying nod, I solemnly gave her my promise that no one would ever know.
Yes, I loved ice cream, but grandmother loved ice cream even more. My aunt always giggled at how after she came to visit with the family for several weeks, grandmother always left a little rounder than when she first arrived. I have no doubt that this stemmed from sharing her love of ice cream with all her grandchildren.
So, now that she is no longer with us, and has been taken up to heaven, I cannot help but wonder if she is in any way able to get hold of a double dip.
As Christians, we were always taught that “God will provide.” Some would say that God will provide us with our needs, but I tell you, that for my grandmother, ice cream remains a necessity.
So, when I get to heaven, I fully expect her to eventually take me quietly aside. Then, like before, she will slip some money into my hands and with that familiar urgent whisper say to me ...
“This is for ice cream... don’t tell God!”
Monday, May 10, 2010
A Thing About Vampires
Everyone has a fear of one type of unnatural creature or another.
It could be mummies, a disembodied hand, zombies, werewolves, on and on.
For me, ... it’s vampires.
It all began in the early 1970’s when I went to a vampire double feature at the movies. The first movie was THE FEARLESS VAMPIRE KILLERS or “Pardon me, but your teeth are in my neck” and the second feature was DARK SHADOWS, the movie based on the popular 1960’s television show.
There was a scene when Barnabas Collins suddenly appeared behind a sheer curtain at a moonlight filled window. Only a few seconds later, he was feasting on some poor girl’s neck. For quite a while after that, I wore a scarf to bed and tried my best to sleep with one eye open, because I had those same sheers for curtains.
Okay, now fast forward to 1977. It is June and I m on my honeymoon in Toronto at the Eaton Shopping Center. We enter a bookstore and begin looking around for nothing in particular.
While in the paperback section, my husband reaches for a paperback, skims the back cover, and then holds it out to me.
“Here,” he says to me, “I want you to read this.”
I take it into my hands and begin to read what it’s about. I quickly learn that it’s about... guess what? Of course, it’s about vampires. Even the title SALEM’S LOT (by Stephen King) is ominous.
I remember shaking my head NO and muttering something to Frank that I didn’t like vampires. But unfortunately, he was most insistent.
“Read it,” he repeated as he held it out to me.
It had been a while since I read a book, and I had heard alot about this new author.
Besides, within a few days we I would find myself on a long voyage out east to Nova Scotia where Frank had been newly stationed. I thought the book might help break the monotony.
We bought it.
Sure enough, before I knew it, Frank and I were on our way to start a new life in a new province. The car was filled with all that we owned, clothes, music, and each other.
I think we were in the middle of Quebec when I first opened the book and began to read it.
Oddly enough, when I think back, I remember reading it while listening to Art Garfunkel’s new album ANGEL CLAIRE.
As days went by, I delved further and further into the book. It became more and more bloody and increasingly difficult to bear. Every now and again, Frank would ask me how I was enjoying the book.
“It’s bloody scary.” I’d answer. He’d give me an odd look of puzzlement, which I could never really figure out.
At long last came the day when I finally, ... finally finished SALEM’S LOT.
With a deep and heavy sigh, I closed the book for the last time. No doubt the visions of glowing eyes, and bloody necks would stay with me for a very long time.
I wondered to myself how long it would be before I ever read another vampire novel again.
(About 20 years – INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE by Anne Rice)
To this day, whenever I hear Art Garfunkel, scenes from SALEMS’S LOT floods my senses.
And of course, came the moment when Frank ultimately asked me the question that I knew he had been dying to ask...
“How did you like the book?”
“Well,” I began, “the first few chapters weren’t that gory, but boy, by the middle of the book I was completely immersed in all the gory ritualistic details that make vampires the blood soaked individuals that they are.
Again, he gave me one of those quizzical looks.
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
With that, I recounted several high points of the plot... the ones ever etched in my mind and never to forget.
“Hmmm,” he said. “Are you sure?”
I nodded yes.
He thought for a moment then said to me...
( and I will NEVER FORGET THIS)
“Sorry, I must have read another book.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It could be mummies, a disembodied hand, zombies, werewolves, on and on.
For me, ... it’s vampires.
It all began in the early 1970’s when I went to a vampire double feature at the movies. The first movie was THE FEARLESS VAMPIRE KILLERS or “Pardon me, but your teeth are in my neck” and the second feature was DARK SHADOWS, the movie based on the popular 1960’s television show.
There was a scene when Barnabas Collins suddenly appeared behind a sheer curtain at a moonlight filled window. Only a few seconds later, he was feasting on some poor girl’s neck. For quite a while after that, I wore a scarf to bed and tried my best to sleep with one eye open, because I had those same sheers for curtains.
Okay, now fast forward to 1977. It is June and I m on my honeymoon in Toronto at the Eaton Shopping Center. We enter a bookstore and begin looking around for nothing in particular.
While in the paperback section, my husband reaches for a paperback, skims the back cover, and then holds it out to me.
“Here,” he says to me, “I want you to read this.”
I take it into my hands and begin to read what it’s about. I quickly learn that it’s about... guess what? Of course, it’s about vampires. Even the title SALEM’S LOT (by Stephen King) is ominous.
I remember shaking my head NO and muttering something to Frank that I didn’t like vampires. But unfortunately, he was most insistent.
“Read it,” he repeated as he held it out to me.
It had been a while since I read a book, and I had heard alot about this new author.
Besides, within a few days we I would find myself on a long voyage out east to Nova Scotia where Frank had been newly stationed. I thought the book might help break the monotony.
We bought it.
Sure enough, before I knew it, Frank and I were on our way to start a new life in a new province. The car was filled with all that we owned, clothes, music, and each other.
I think we were in the middle of Quebec when I first opened the book and began to read it.
Oddly enough, when I think back, I remember reading it while listening to Art Garfunkel’s new album ANGEL CLAIRE.
As days went by, I delved further and further into the book. It became more and more bloody and increasingly difficult to bear. Every now and again, Frank would ask me how I was enjoying the book.
“It’s bloody scary.” I’d answer. He’d give me an odd look of puzzlement, which I could never really figure out.
At long last came the day when I finally, ... finally finished SALEM’S LOT.
With a deep and heavy sigh, I closed the book for the last time. No doubt the visions of glowing eyes, and bloody necks would stay with me for a very long time.
I wondered to myself how long it would be before I ever read another vampire novel again.
(About 20 years – INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE by Anne Rice)
To this day, whenever I hear Art Garfunkel, scenes from SALEMS’S LOT floods my senses.
And of course, came the moment when Frank ultimately asked me the question that I knew he had been dying to ask...
“How did you like the book?”
“Well,” I began, “the first few chapters weren’t that gory, but boy, by the middle of the book I was completely immersed in all the gory ritualistic details that make vampires the blood soaked individuals that they are.
Again, he gave me one of those quizzical looks.
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
With that, I recounted several high points of the plot... the ones ever etched in my mind and never to forget.
“Hmmm,” he said. “Are you sure?”
I nodded yes.
He thought for a moment then said to me...
( and I will NEVER FORGET THIS)
“Sorry, I must have read another book.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
EVIL MOTHER versus EVIL DAUGHTER
Several years ago, my sister gave me a t-shirt that read...
“Be kind to your children. They will choose your nursing home.”
It was cute, it was sarcastic, and I liked it.
Little did I know the lively discussions it would spark between
me and my youngest daughter.
She has lived with me for a long time. She knows me well.
My daughter also excels in pushing my buttons and with great glee I should add.
She will never let me forget that she knows where to find them as easily
as if they were tattooed across my forehead.
My story is a sad one....
You see... I bear the scars of a child who grew up in a house
where all genre of police shows were highly favoured by my own mother.
I have never forgiven her for this.
Yes, never did a day go by without having to endure shows such as
F.B.I., Dragnet, Mod Squad, Hawaii 5-0, Perry Mason, Rockford Files,
Mannix, Kojack, Cannon, Police Woman, Adam 12,
Streets of San Fransisco and on and on....
I hated them all.
Any given night during the sixties and early seventies
would be a plethora of “Book’em Danno’s” and “Just the facts ma’am”.
Don’t get me wrong, they were well written, had great actors.
I'll admit they were... well, ..... okay.
However, it grew to be a bit much as the years fell away.
On the other hand, I’ve always loved Star Trek and science fiction
became a favourite genre of mine when deciding what shows to watch as an adult.
Then one day, my daughter gave me horrible news...
“Mom,” she said to me, “I am going to pick you out a nursing home
that plays nothing but Matlock reruns.”
I was shocked.
What kind of loving child would subject their mother to such torture?
“You don’t really mean that.” I replied, trying to keep my worry in check.
“Yes... I do. And no Star Trek will be allowed either, just Matlock,”
she replied with her beautiful smile.
Well, it didn’t take long before I countered her threat with one of my own.
For many years, I have actively pressed her to take up knitting with me,
but my petitions in this regard have always been denied.
“Knitting is evil,” was always her only response whenever I asked
if I could teach her how to knit.
And so, to get her back for putting me a home showing only Matlock reruns,
I informed her that I would be leaving my
entire knitting needle collection
solely to her, all three boxes of them.
No, I don’t have an accurate count of them
as there are so many more important things to do in life
rather than counting your knitting needles, wouldn’t you agree?
Anyway, she has informed me this past weekend
that should I carry out my threat and indeed leave
her my vast knitting needle collection,
she will only bury them all in her back yard.
I thought for a moment.
“Yes,” I answered her back, ...
“but an evil knitting needle tree would instantly grow
out of the ground and eat you alive.”
Now, my daughter is a horror movie aficionado,
and I have never seen her shrink away from a
hypothetically gruesome scene.
That is, until that very moment.
Now, you may ask...
“What kind of mother would wish an evil knitting needle tree
to grow out of the ground devour her child alive?”
This mother would, but only if her daughter forced her to watch
nothing but Matlock during her declining years.
Sadly, I can only imagine what kind of stories
she will be telling her children about me, their grandmother.
Like, for example...
- No sooner had she moved out of the house when her mother filled her old bedroom with an enormous yarn stash.
- How for Christmas and birthdays, all I ever wanted was more yarn.
- Or most sadly, when on a family holiday, I dragged everyone to the local area yarn store.
Yes...
I am an evil mother.
And I hope she never forgets it.
Monday, March 15, 2010
ANGELIC LESSON 101
Before my grandfather received the call to enter the ministry,
he was apprenticed to be a tailor.
Whenever he would come for an extended visit,
he would look for something to sew.
That would be how he kept busy.
He was always asking us
if there was anything that needed his attention.
And thus I would always find him sewing this and mending that.
Whenever I found him alone and sewing, I’d place myself at his knee,
and ask him to tell me a story.
His rule of thumb was always one story a day.
However, sometimes I managed to get as much as three stories out of him.
Good times.
This is one story that I never forgot.
After agreeing to tell me a story,
he always thought for a moment to decide which one he should tell.
“Do you remember the Easter story,” he asked,
as he returned his attention back to stitching a pant seam.
“Of course I do,” I answered back quickly.
“But Opa, (which is the name I called him,) …it’s not Easter.”
“That doesn’t matter now,” he said.
“Would you like me to tell you a story or not?”
“Yes Opa.”
“Okay, now, tell me what happened on Easter Morning?”
The answer was almost too easily for me.
He knew full well that I was well versed in the Easter story.
This was obviously leading somewhere. I decided to play along.
“The three women went to the tomb.” I answered.
“What did they see?”
“They saw that the stone had been rolled away
and that Jesus’s tomb was open.”
“What happened then?”
“There were angels sitting on the stone
and they told the women that Jesus was not there.”
I was beginning to get bored, but I tried not to let it show.
That would put any further stories in jeopardy.
He continued his story with, “What happened then?”
“The women went into the cave.”
“And what did they find?”
“Opa, can I have another story?”
“No, answer the question. Did they find Jesus in the cave?”
“No, he was not there, just like the angels told them.
They only found his burial cloth.”
Then at last came what would be Opa’s final question…
“And did they find Jesus’s burial cloth on the ground?”
“No,” I replied, “the women found it neatly folded lying on stone.”
All at once he dropped his sewing, raised his hand and playfully
pointed an accusing finger at me.
“And let that be a lesson to you,” he said gently chastising me.
"Angels are extremely neat and never leave anything lying on the floor."
"They always neatly fold and put everything back in their proper place.”
Lesson well learned.
he was apprenticed to be a tailor.
Whenever he would come for an extended visit,
he would look for something to sew.
That would be how he kept busy.
He was always asking us
if there was anything that needed his attention.
And thus I would always find him sewing this and mending that.
Whenever I found him alone and sewing, I’d place myself at his knee,
and ask him to tell me a story.
His rule of thumb was always one story a day.
However, sometimes I managed to get as much as three stories out of him.
Good times.
This is one story that I never forgot.
After agreeing to tell me a story,
he always thought for a moment to decide which one he should tell.
“Do you remember the Easter story,” he asked,
as he returned his attention back to stitching a pant seam.
“Of course I do,” I answered back quickly.
“But Opa, (which is the name I called him,) …it’s not Easter.”
“That doesn’t matter now,” he said.
“Would you like me to tell you a story or not?”
“Yes Opa.”
“Okay, now, tell me what happened on Easter Morning?”
The answer was almost too easily for me.
He knew full well that I was well versed in the Easter story.
This was obviously leading somewhere. I decided to play along.
“The three women went to the tomb.” I answered.
“What did they see?”
“They saw that the stone had been rolled away
and that Jesus’s tomb was open.”
“What happened then?”
“There were angels sitting on the stone
and they told the women that Jesus was not there.”
I was beginning to get bored, but I tried not to let it show.
That would put any further stories in jeopardy.
He continued his story with, “What happened then?”
“The women went into the cave.”
“And what did they find?”
“Opa, can I have another story?”
“No, answer the question. Did they find Jesus in the cave?”
“No, he was not there, just like the angels told them.
They only found his burial cloth.”
Then at last came what would be Opa’s final question…
“And did they find Jesus’s burial cloth on the ground?”
“No,” I replied, “the women found it neatly folded lying on stone.”
All at once he dropped his sewing, raised his hand and playfully
pointed an accusing finger at me.
“And let that be a lesson to you,” he said gently chastising me.
"Angels are extremely neat and never leave anything lying on the floor."
"They always neatly fold and put everything back in their proper place.”
Lesson well learned.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Love letters
My grandmother was always a very busy and loving woman.
I didn't get to see her often, as she and my Grandfather lived in Germany where he served as a Baptist Minister.
During her extended stays while visiting our house, she was helpful with the cooking and ironing. She was also very good at sniffing out cluttered drawers or closets.
It was also a common scene to see her sitting at the kitchen table, writing amongst stacks of stationary and rolls of stamps.
"What are you doing?" I'd ask coming over to take a look.
"Writing a letter," she'd reply.
Indeed she was. Looking to the top of the letter in her hand, I read the word "Greetings..." which was how she began each of her letters. Next to this word she would place lots of stickers showing floral bouquets. In those days they were not the self-stick kind of stickers. You had to lick the back first. I can still remember their gluey tang. She had tons of them.
"To who are you writing a letter?"
"Someone who's in the hospital."
Content with her reply, I'd leave her to her writing.
A half hour later, I'd see her still writing.
"Is that the same letter?" I inquired.
"No, this is another one."
"To who?" I'd ask. I was a very nosey child.
"My friend."
"Is this friend in the hospital too?"
Without looking up and without breaking stride with her pen she replied...
"No, but this friend lives alone."
An so, this would go on all afternoon. By the time she was done, there were many sealed envelopes addressed to various countries overseas plus some going to the States. These envelopes too, were abundantly well stickered.
It was an enigma of sorts to me, a little girl, as to why she spent hours each day, writing all those letters when there were other fun things to do, like watch T.V., or play outside. And of course, there was the expense, as she was forever purchasing more stationary, more stamps, and more booklets of those beautiful little stickers.
Then at last, I remember the day I finally asked her...
"Do you write letters to EVERYBODY?"
"No," she answered.
"Then who do you write all these letters to?"
"I have alot of friends who either live alone at home, or are in a rest home. And then there are those who have to stay in the hospital for a very long time."
Still not satisfied, I decided to press her further.
"But why do you have to write them all letters?"
My Grandmother finally looked up from her writing and said to me...
"These are very loney people and everyone deserves to get a letter from time to time. Letters bring memories of happiness and friendship."
Then she said something to me that I will never forget, ... ever.
She said...
"I write them a letter... so that they at least get one."
~*~*~*
I didn't get to see her often, as she and my Grandfather lived in Germany where he served as a Baptist Minister.
During her extended stays while visiting our house, she was helpful with the cooking and ironing. She was also very good at sniffing out cluttered drawers or closets.
It was also a common scene to see her sitting at the kitchen table, writing amongst stacks of stationary and rolls of stamps.
"What are you doing?" I'd ask coming over to take a look.
"Writing a letter," she'd reply.
Indeed she was. Looking to the top of the letter in her hand, I read the word "Greetings..." which was how she began each of her letters. Next to this word she would place lots of stickers showing floral bouquets. In those days they were not the self-stick kind of stickers. You had to lick the back first. I can still remember their gluey tang. She had tons of them.
"To who are you writing a letter?"
"Someone who's in the hospital."
Content with her reply, I'd leave her to her writing.
A half hour later, I'd see her still writing.
"Is that the same letter?" I inquired.
"No, this is another one."
"To who?" I'd ask. I was a very nosey child.
"My friend."
"Is this friend in the hospital too?"
Without looking up and without breaking stride with her pen she replied...
"No, but this friend lives alone."
An so, this would go on all afternoon. By the time she was done, there were many sealed envelopes addressed to various countries overseas plus some going to the States. These envelopes too, were abundantly well stickered.
It was an enigma of sorts to me, a little girl, as to why she spent hours each day, writing all those letters when there were other fun things to do, like watch T.V., or play outside. And of course, there was the expense, as she was forever purchasing more stationary, more stamps, and more booklets of those beautiful little stickers.
Then at last, I remember the day I finally asked her...
"Do you write letters to EVERYBODY?"
"No," she answered.
"Then who do you write all these letters to?"
"I have alot of friends who either live alone at home, or are in a rest home. And then there are those who have to stay in the hospital for a very long time."
Still not satisfied, I decided to press her further.
"But why do you have to write them all letters?"
My Grandmother finally looked up from her writing and said to me...
"These are very loney people and everyone deserves to get a letter from time to time. Letters bring memories of happiness and friendship."
Then she said something to me that I will never forget, ... ever.
She said...
"I write them a letter... so that they at least get one."
~*~*~*
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Postcard
"Tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it." ~ Anne of Green Gables
My daughter likes to quote that saying alot. Probably because she knows that it annoys me so much.
Mistakes are inevitable with me because I am truly flawed. My goal is to keep them to a minimum and learn from them when I can.
For my friends who get stressed over their mistakes, I relate the following true story.
Oppenheimer & Einstein developed the first nuclear bomb together without ever having met.
It was at last decided that a historical meeting would finally be arranged and only one photographer would be allowed to document the event. This photographer was best known from his work at Life magazine and was considered at the top of his field.
This meeting did not last long and was quickly over. Oppenheimer and Einstein would never meet again.
The photographer went back to his lab to develop the pictures for the blockbuster story.
Imagine his utter disappointment when he realized that he had neglected to remove the lens cap cover.
So, with that in mind, I refuse to be daunted by my future mistakes...
Bring it on....
My daughter likes to quote that saying alot. Probably because she knows that it annoys me so much.
Mistakes are inevitable with me because I am truly flawed. My goal is to keep them to a minimum and learn from them when I can.
For my friends who get stressed over their mistakes, I relate the following true story.
Oppenheimer & Einstein developed the first nuclear bomb together without ever having met.
It was at last decided that a historical meeting would finally be arranged and only one photographer would be allowed to document the event. This photographer was best known from his work at Life magazine and was considered at the top of his field.
This meeting did not last long and was quickly over. Oppenheimer and Einstein would never meet again.
The photographer went back to his lab to develop the pictures for the blockbuster story.
Imagine his utter disappointment when he realized that he had neglected to remove the lens cap cover.
So, with that in mind, I refuse to be daunted by my future mistakes...
Bring it on....
Sunday, January 3, 2010
The Pidgeon of Trevi
What comes to mind when you think of the Trevi Fountain of Rome?
Do you envision romance, ....beauty, ....art?
Well, imagine this if you can...
It is a hot September day in Rome. The sun beats down on the throngs of noisy people as they jostle for positon along a glistening pool that holds the world's most famous fountain.
And there I am, at the destination of my dreams.
And yet, it is not the woundrous fountain that has captured my imagination.
Rather, I stand as still as a statue swept up in the vision of a singular pidgeon who has settled atop a small island of stone just above the cool waters edge.
With head tucked under wing, it dozes blissfully unaware of the noisy chattering crowds, the gushing fountain, the smells, warm breezes, and hot sun.
Refusing to succomb to the Trevi madness, this winged creature has decided to follow it's own bliss.
After some time, I walked away from the fountain, content in the knowledge that this bird will never know of my presence.
And so, what crosses my mind when I think of the Trevi Fountain?
Two lessons well learned.
Do you envision romance, ....beauty, ....art?
Well, imagine this if you can...
It is a hot September day in Rome. The sun beats down on the throngs of noisy people as they jostle for positon along a glistening pool that holds the world's most famous fountain.
And there I am, at the destination of my dreams.
And yet, it is not the woundrous fountain that has captured my imagination.
Rather, I stand as still as a statue swept up in the vision of a singular pidgeon who has settled atop a small island of stone just above the cool waters edge.
With head tucked under wing, it dozes blissfully unaware of the noisy chattering crowds, the gushing fountain, the smells, warm breezes, and hot sun.
Refusing to succomb to the Trevi madness, this winged creature has decided to follow it's own bliss.
After some time, I walked away from the fountain, content in the knowledge that this bird will never know of my presence.
And so, what crosses my mind when I think of the Trevi Fountain?
Two lessons well learned.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Postcard
Say the word postcard to me, and my heart immediately experiences a joyous spark.
That is because I consider postcards as a wonderful means of conveying greetings, experiences, thoughts, and ideas.
Is it any wonder that I continue to collect them.
Today is January 1, 2010, and this is my first postcard to the web.
I do not blog because I feel whatever I write as worthy reading. Rather, I blog thinking that perhaps there might eventually be someone, who wants to know a little bit more about me, and how I got to be where I am.
First, and most importantly, I must tell you that I am not what you assume.
Are any of us?
Would it surprise you to know that at this very minute I am sitting in semi-pajamas at 3:00 pm, watching Apollo 13, while my daughter frets beside me fretting over her knitting. In a few minutes I will join her and we will both knit/fret together. Oldies music is blasting from the basement where my husband relaxes in his lair reminiscent of The Lone Gunmen from the X-files series.
Other things that might surprise you about me is that I am not one for small talk, I love to quote old movies and all things Star Trek. Quiet, contemplative solitude is precious to me.
One of my resolutions is to write more this year.
Stephen King wrote that all writers should strive to write one thousand words a day. For years, I've been trying to do that, but unsuccessfuly. I truly hope that keeping a blog will be instrumental in helping me keep this resolution.
That's enough about me for now.
I have other things that need doing, as I'm sure you do too.
Happy 2010!
Yours truly,
Doris
That is because I consider postcards as a wonderful means of conveying greetings, experiences, thoughts, and ideas.
Is it any wonder that I continue to collect them.
Today is January 1, 2010, and this is my first postcard to the web.
I do not blog because I feel whatever I write as worthy reading. Rather, I blog thinking that perhaps there might eventually be someone, who wants to know a little bit more about me, and how I got to be where I am.
First, and most importantly, I must tell you that I am not what you assume.
Are any of us?
Would it surprise you to know that at this very minute I am sitting in semi-pajamas at 3:00 pm, watching Apollo 13, while my daughter frets beside me fretting over her knitting. In a few minutes I will join her and we will both knit/fret together. Oldies music is blasting from the basement where my husband relaxes in his lair reminiscent of The Lone Gunmen from the X-files series.
Other things that might surprise you about me is that I am not one for small talk, I love to quote old movies and all things Star Trek. Quiet, contemplative solitude is precious to me.
One of my resolutions is to write more this year.
Stephen King wrote that all writers should strive to write one thousand words a day. For years, I've been trying to do that, but unsuccessfuly. I truly hope that keeping a blog will be instrumental in helping me keep this resolution.
That's enough about me for now.
I have other things that need doing, as I'm sure you do too.
Happy 2010!
Yours truly,
Doris
Old Candles
I love candles.
Throughout my house, there are candles large and small that I have collected over the decades. My Christmas candles are particularly prized because all have come as gifts from departed loved ones.
What saddens me is that over the years, the older candles have lost a portion of their colourful charm. Their smooth texture has taken on a dusty grain.
Each year, as I place them about the house I question myself as to why they remain unused. Perhaps it would have been better if they had been put to use while they were still vibrant and new.
Maybe so.
However, what sets my heart aglow is the fact, that the moment I decide to take a match to it's waiting wick it will burn brightly, no matter how old, faded or dusty it may be.
Like these candles, I too grow older. And as oncoming years fade and dust my exterior, I have one resolute hope. May my family and loved ones always know without a doubt, that like these old candles, when lit, I will always have the potential to burn brightly into the night.
Throughout my house, there are candles large and small that I have collected over the decades. My Christmas candles are particularly prized because all have come as gifts from departed loved ones.
What saddens me is that over the years, the older candles have lost a portion of their colourful charm. Their smooth texture has taken on a dusty grain.
Each year, as I place them about the house I question myself as to why they remain unused. Perhaps it would have been better if they had been put to use while they were still vibrant and new.
Maybe so.
However, what sets my heart aglow is the fact, that the moment I decide to take a match to it's waiting wick it will burn brightly, no matter how old, faded or dusty it may be.
Like these candles, I too grow older. And as oncoming years fade and dust my exterior, I have one resolute hope. May my family and loved ones always know without a doubt, that like these old candles, when lit, I will always have the potential to burn brightly into the night.
What the Blog?
I don't know whether to be embarrassed or relieved.
Until now, I have been able to veer away unimpeded from having my own blog.
Not that I have anything against them, but it was an ongoing enigma to me as to why bother investing any precious time on a questionable venture.
"I'll never have a blog," I kept telling myself. But that mantra didn't work any more.
Why?
Because I once said the same thing about joining Twitter.
So, six months after being an avid and happy twitterer, I decided to break another personal barrier, and have my own blog.
This blog would not exist if not for @Jennyablue and @JeffMeyerson .
I watched in amazement, as @Jennyablue jumped head first into the icy cold blog waters. I held my breath as she was submurged into it's undertow.
She did not sputter, cough, or even turn blue.
Instead, she emerged smiling, and her blue eyes were shinier than ever.
Wow.
For years, I held this guilty obsession with words. Into my ever present journal, I captured words and phrases which to me were precious pearls. And if not quickly written down, they would be forever lost to me. Indeed, far too many have fallen through the wooden, creaky, floorboard in my mind.
Oh, and how I dread being caught out of syntax.
Yes, my name is Doris Koren, and I am a suffering syntaxaholic. I can fuss over the arrangement of words until their true meaning has been fretted and boiled clean out of existance.
The more I read and learned about @JeffMeyerson , the more at ease I felt with the handling of my own words. Words are free for all and not meant to be encased in everlasting crystal or fearfully hoarded away.
Also, you'll notice that the furniture around here is standard and quite ordinary. Not wanting to waste any more time, I decided to pick a basic blog program instead of holding out for the deluxe version at the end of the proverbial blogging rainbow.
I don't have time for that right now. I have better things to be doing.
After all... my Twitter friends are waiting for me to come out and play.
Thank you Jeff.
Thank you Jen.
I am greatful.
Until now, I have been able to veer away unimpeded from having my own blog.
Not that I have anything against them, but it was an ongoing enigma to me as to why bother investing any precious time on a questionable venture.
"I'll never have a blog," I kept telling myself. But that mantra didn't work any more.
Why?
Because I once said the same thing about joining Twitter.
So, six months after being an avid and happy twitterer, I decided to break another personal barrier, and have my own blog.
This blog would not exist if not for @Jennyablue and @JeffMeyerson .
I watched in amazement, as @Jennyablue jumped head first into the icy cold blog waters. I held my breath as she was submurged into it's undertow.
She did not sputter, cough, or even turn blue.
Instead, she emerged smiling, and her blue eyes were shinier than ever.
Wow.
For years, I held this guilty obsession with words. Into my ever present journal, I captured words and phrases which to me were precious pearls. And if not quickly written down, they would be forever lost to me. Indeed, far too many have fallen through the wooden, creaky, floorboard in my mind.
Oh, and how I dread being caught out of syntax.
Yes, my name is Doris Koren, and I am a suffering syntaxaholic. I can fuss over the arrangement of words until their true meaning has been fretted and boiled clean out of existance.
The more I read and learned about @JeffMeyerson , the more at ease I felt with the handling of my own words. Words are free for all and not meant to be encased in everlasting crystal or fearfully hoarded away.
Also, you'll notice that the furniture around here is standard and quite ordinary. Not wanting to waste any more time, I decided to pick a basic blog program instead of holding out for the deluxe version at the end of the proverbial blogging rainbow.
I don't have time for that right now. I have better things to be doing.
After all... my Twitter friends are waiting for me to come out and play.
Thank you Jeff.
Thank you Jen.
I am greatful.
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