~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
“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/
Monday, June 7, 2010
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.”
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
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