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.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Saturday, June 5, 2010
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.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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