Last week we visited with relatives in Akron, Ohio. Always nice to get caught up with family…who’s doing what in retirement, whose professional life has taken a new twist, who’s graduating, who’s getting married, and who’s having babies. One night there were 28 of us squooshed into the space on Aunt Rosalie’s screened-in porch, ranging in age from 2 months to 91 years. There was ample room in the rest of the house, but this family likes being close. A lovely time.
As we had driven to Ohio we noticed signs along the PA turnpike for the Flight 93 Memorial near the Somerset exit. My mother-in-law (the 91 year-old family member, who was traveling with us) is always game for a new experience, so on our return we made the turnoff heading north toward Johnstown.
Generally I am one who lives in the present and looks forward rather than past, that is until it is past enough to be deemed history. What happened on September 11, 11 years ago, was a tragedy that should present lessons about the pathway we are traveling now. I don’t identify with the national victimization that some seem to wallow in and sensationalize.
This trek was more of a journey for personal awareness than a personal pilgrimage.
Driving north from the turnpike through 20 miles of Pennsylvania hillside that have been denuded by mining companies and used as graveyards for unwanted vehicles, one begins to feel that if this tragedy had to happen anywhere, it was good that it happened there.
There is a long driveway to the memorial itself..time for thought. Reforestation is being done on the site, to add to the feeling of solemnity.
At the entrance plaza the pictures and identity of the 40 passengers and crew are displayed. The day’s story is retold from late departure of Flight 93 from Newark Airport bound for San Francisco; hijacking near Lake Erie; change of destination to impact with the US Capitol where Congress was in session; the courageous decision of these American passengers that their government would not be the victim of the four terrorists.
One can write messages of tribute on boards in the plaza. Then one walks along a low black wall while gazing out upon a distant boulder at the edge of a woods; it marks the site of the impact crater from the crashing plane. There are niches in the wall where people have left tokens of memorial: stones, plastic flowers, key chains, caps.
At the end of the walkway, there are simply 40 marble slabs bearing the victims’ names and 40 American flags. Nothing more needs to be said, and no one does. It is a silent place.
But I left feeling that there is much to remember.
Author: Ellen
I Love a Parade
And who doesn’t?
Sorry I missed the Armed Forces Parade on Saturday. But it was such a gorgeous weekend for all those garden projects. Saturday was one of those days when you feel good about what you are doing and feel good to be out there doing it.
But I still found parades to enjoy!
On Sunday, as we were leaving RACC Berks Hall, after having seen Kirk Lawrence doing an on-spot portrayal of Picasso as part of the Berks Senior Festival of the Arts, we heard the sound of a marching band. And there was a parade, make-shift as far as I know, with a band in full regalia and many, many people, marching across the Penn Street bridge in the honor of their cause. It stirred the soul.
And then on Monday, we were driving down Main St. in Oley, and met a parade of another sort. There were dozens of beautifully preserved antique cars driving in the opposite direction in that quaint borough. Most drivers and their passengers were dressed in early 20th centure touring garb. We had a short moment to talk to a participant while he was gassing up at Weis in Oley (can they use the same petrol as modern cars do?–didn’t ask that). We learned that they were in Reading for a Hub and Spoke gathering, and on each of several days they drive off in a different direction from the hub hotel of the host city. Each car must be in “like new” condition. And they were–the brass was polished, the paint shown (even on a cloudy day), and the engines purred. It was a spectacle to behold.
So now it is Tuesday, and as I venture out today I will keep my eyes and ears peeled, hoping for another procession. You can never get too much of a good thing.
Ellen
a gardener’s lot
Baseball games may be rained out, but I, as a gardener, am rained in. It wasn’t so long ago that I was lamenting the lack of rain, and since the pump for our outside watering system was burned out, my garden was very thirsty. I was schlepping water by the dozens of sprinkling cans-ful to the neediest of veggies and new plantings. Now all of these botanical beings must feel that they are on a binge.
I think my theme here is that we gardeners are never happy with what we’ve got…always yearning for the Camelot weather–when “rain will never fall ’til after sundown”, and then in just the required amounts. Our daily sunshine should be sparkling bright but not hot enough to burnish.
And yet in spite of it all, looking out at any garden, yard, woodland, meadow, landscape this week–isn’t this one of the most beautiful times of the year? I’m sure we could rival Ireland and have 49+ shades of green. And among the verdancy (I didn’t make that word up–I looked it up)there are brush strokes of purple of the iris and wild phlox, globes of reds and pinks of peonies, and the brilliance of orange from the poppies about to pop. Quite a scene–even if you are looking between the raindrops or through sheets of them.
I could tick off a long list of chores still to be done…starting with the removal of those crafty weeds that are especially adapted to take advantage of the rain…going on to what still needs to be planted, transplanted, and pruned.
But for today, it’s not so bad to be inside…admiring, assessing, and anticipating.
Back to normal–sort of
Having just returned from 10 wonderful days in norhtern Italy, there is much to share. I would hope that there will be some opportunity to do that on our next That’s What She Said show on May 16. Food is an important ingredient in any Italian holiday, and we just might talk a bit about that. And then there was the art, architecture, wines, and welcoming people, adding much richness to our travels.
Not having taken an extended trip in two years, I was surprised by the absence of Internet cafes. There used to be computers avialable to travelers in hotels and cafes all around European cities. Being a little resistant to technology (heck, I’d still use a dial phone if there were any available), I hadn’t realized that since most of you are texting and twittering on your phones, there’s little need for away-from-home computers. Furthermore there were no English TV channels or newspapers. So for 10 days I was really out of touch with my world. But that is not all bad–it heightened the best part of traveling, leaving one’s own viewpoints behind and experiencing the world from a different perspective.
We’ll be off to California next week for a wedding, and so more hectic schedules and airport hassles but something we greatly anticipate.
Meanwhile may I timidly add that I am really savoring the start of this baseball season!
Ellen
Taking flight
By the end of this day I will be somewhere over the Atlantic, landing tomorrow morning in Bologna, Italy..where we expect to wine and dine, enjoy art, architecture, and a Bolognese festival. We will be training it to Milan (hoping to see an opera at La Scala and a soccer game), Lake Como (hoping to see George Clooney, or is he still in jail in Africa?), Cremona (the town famous for its luthiers such as Stradivari), Verona (thought to be the setting for “Romeo and Juliette, and there is a balcony), and Padua. We have an early train to the latter next Tuesday AM, so I don’t expect to be posting that day. We’re looking forward to seeing Giotto frescos in a chapel there, and just like the Last Supper, we had to have reservations made weeks ago. At the appointed time of your reservation you spend a half hour dehumidifying so that you don’t facilitate the further deterioration of these artistic masterpieces–which you then have 15 minutes to view.
At least that’s the plan. Other than abiding by these reservations, we may have other inspriations and take off in totatlly different directions…following our noses and palates, eyes and ears.
And now to clean out the fridge before going out the door.
Chiao.
An Impressive To-Do List
I applaud Sheila’s thoughts about all that was going on theatrically last weekend–and incidentally continues through this weekend.
Have to comment on that there was also much to do musically last weekend…a Reading Symphony concert where David Kim of the Philadelphia Orchestra was the soloist, playing a Saint Saens’ violin concerto with beauty and sensitivity, and a Reading Philharmonic Orchestra free concert on Sunday that introduced a teen-age conductor to the community.
Can only stress that we are quite fortunate in the Reading area to have a wonderful tradition of good theatre and music performances.
Who wants to listen to another sick person?
There seem to be a myriad of illnesses making the rounds these days. I joined the crowd. And so at 4 AM…when I was still awake…and having nothing better to do, I began to listen to some rather strange noises coming from somewhere deep inside. The first I noticed reminded me of old tree limbs sighing in a breeze. Then there were some little growls–no, more like mews, but no ordinary cats make these–had to be at least lion cubs, but very young ones. Next, furniture moving, metal against wooden floors. Then finally some little puffs. Now that’s a lot less disquieting. Guess the antibiotic has a lot of work to do. I applaud its efforts and am hoping for some peace and quiet soon.
Sobering Thoughts For Would-be Authors
Many of us have thought we have a book in us somewhere, with a little extra time and some luck. In my case it is a children’s book about the invention of the light bulb, complete with hands-on activities so can kids invent along with Edison and the men at Menlo Park. I got bogged down upon learning of all of the stumbling blocks to being published, including the self-promoting and personal financial investment.
Laurie Lynch, a wonderfully talented writer with many tales to tell, whom I met when she rented out chicks at Easter time, has just returned from a writers’ conference in San Francisco.
What she learned is that 80% of American families did not buy a book in 2011, and 57% of new books are not read to completion. These are very sobering thoughts for any of us who dreamed that someday….
And yet, she says, a writer cannot NOT write.
And so we have faith in that 20%.
Opera in Siberia
I admit that I know little about Siberia. Once a long time ago I shivered through reading “One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich”; I remember dismal references in “Doctor Zhivago”, and recall the scene in “Fiddler on the Roof” when the second daughter tearfully said good-bye to her father and followed her revolutionary fiance into the Siberian wasteland. In my mind it has always been the ultimate frozen exile. What do people do there? Slave in salt mines, I’ve supposed.
Last Saturday I went to see the opera “Ernani”, performed at the Metropolitan Opera in NYC, but transmitted live in HD to the Reading IMAX theatre. Certainly this is a testament to the times we live in, when something so magical can happen. It is always a thrilling experience.
At the first intermission (yes, opera-goers get their money’s worth–four acts and two intermissions, and this one is no record setter) the baritone was interviewed. He is a handsome hunk of a man named Dmitri Hvorostovsky (I can type that but am still having trouble pronouncing it) with a gorgeous, rich voice and much charm. He commands the stage and the hearts of the audience, even if he is the bad guy. With him during the interview were two of his own little children who happily commandeered the mic and jabbered away in a language I couldn’t understand. Dmitri explained they were talking to their far-away grandparents who were watching his performance for the first time, via the live in HD transmissions.
So I went home and googled Dmitri. He grew up in Siberia. I am making some assumptions here, but knowing that mobility is still limited in the former Soviet Union, it would seem that his parents are probably still there and were watching this opera from New York in a Siberian theatre with capabilities similar to our IMAX. It didn’t jive with my concept of Siberia. They have come a long way since the rattling train chugging across the continent was the only connection to the outside world.
For me it was a lesson in the wonders of technology and how it has made us a global community.
Can you imagine the delight Dmitri’s parents must have felt in seeing their son perform so magnificently before thousands in New York and millions all across the globe? And then hearing their little grandchildren sending a message half way around the world…just for them.
remembering the Kid
The weather has been spring-like and pitchers and catchers have reported for spring training, so maybe it isn’t such a bad idea share some baseball-related thoughts in mid February. Among the obituaries of last week was one for baseball catcher and Hall of Famer, Cary Gary. It may have been overwhelmed by the glitter of celebrities celebrating the life of Whitney Houston, but it merited much sadness and sympathy on the part of his teammates, sports writers, and baseball fans…particularly Mets fans such as I who remember 1986.
It is certainly not appropriate to whittle the substance of Gary Carter down to one at bat. His whole life was a spiritual journey, one that had to bring him peace when he passed as a result of brain tumors at the age of 57. He approached every day thinking that he was blessed to be living this life. Even though he already had bad knees when he was in high school and was overlooked for that reason by most scouts, he was a catcher for 19 years with professional teams. He played with enthusiasm and intensity–and thus his nickname of Kid–always running on and off the field, welcoming every at-bat as though it was his opportunity to make a difference in a game. And in that, he truly did.
It was that one at-bat in the tenth inning of game 6 in the World Series of 1986 that made the last World Championship of the New York Mets possible. This is not only a baseball moment, but in that sports can be a metaphor for life, it can be an inspiration and a lesson for us all.
Boston was leading the Mets in the best of seven series by three games to two. So if the Red Sox won this one, they were World Champs. The score was tied in the ninth, and in the top of the tenth the Red Sox had scored two. There were two out in the bottom of the tenth and no one on base when Carter came to the plate. To paraphrase “Casey at the Bat”: the outlook wasn’t brilliant for the New York Mets that night. We have all witnessed games where that situation was a death knell. But Carter laced a single. A ray of light shone through, and it was enough to turn the tide. In a climatic ending (more singles, a balk, and then Bill Buckner booting Mookie Wilson’s grounder) the Mets won that game…and the next. Championship! Jubilation! Ticker-tape parad! Heroes to millions!
This may seem ho-hum if you are not a baseball fan, but let me share something that I gleaned from children’s author Betty Bao Lord: baseball is the truly American sport because at any moment an individual can make a difference. With no clock, there is always time and a glimmer of hope.
I’ve told this to many classes of fifth graders, and I hope that some have taken it along with them. Gary Carter believed it, and it should be a touchstone for each of us as we face the odds in our lives.
Ron Darling, one of his pitchers, called him “one of the great gladiators of the game”. May we each have the spirit that it is possible.