Here’s to a happy-in-her-new-job Sheila, an art-inspired Martha, a very busy Christina, and a pickled Jane! How very diverse my friends are, what a good mix of thoughts.

So what of substance can I add on this rainy June morning?

I wasn’t expecting this rain, and obviously neither were my husband and his brothers who just left for a day of golf. They are not the die-hard golfing types who would slosh after that little ball, umbrellas aloft, in a downpour, so I think they will find a 19th hole somewhere to talk a good game.

This is the kind of day when one wants to curl up with a good book, and I am into one right now–a novel called “Appassionata” by Eva Hoffman. It is about a concert pianist on tour in Europe and explores…maybe exposes is a better word…how the music she plays–its themes, its expressions, its demands, its passions–controls her life. Hoping there will be a harmonic resolution!

I just finished another that my son recommended I read, “May the Road Rise Up to Meet You” by Peter Troy, the story of life journeys of the Odyssean sort. Shortly into the book I knew why Drew had thought it was a book for me. A reader has to relate to a story, and this one seemed to have a personal pull; the author and I must have some mutual places that have special meaning to us. Among the settings important to his story were Chatham, the Civil War hospital in Fredericksburg, VA, the Susquehana River, and the town of Cooperstown, NY, and its Lake Otsego. It became my journey too.

I’m hoping that you might suggest some other good summer reads. Anyone?

Ellen

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.

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

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.