Road Trip

For more than a decade, my husband and I have done almost all of our travels by flying. We fly to London and to San Diego to visit our children.  We fly to Europe for a vacation, usually once a year.  But we do few if any road trips.

When our children were younger, we did road trips for family vacations.  We drove north several times, doing a loop that included New England one time, up into Canada--Ontario and Quebec--another, south another trip to Disney World, stopping at some of the east coast islands along the way.  But it has been quite a while since we have done a road trip.

Recently our daughter asked if we wanted to join her, her husband and daughter for a mini-vacation on Hilton Head.  We took about two seconds (thinking about having that time with our granddaughter...of course, and with our daughter and son-in-law) and said SURE.

So, we are off on a road trip.

Driving south...

Long stretches of highway.  Lots of time for conversation, or listening to music, or looking around.  Big sky up ahead.

And then we arrive at our destination.

The piece de resistance!

Road trip?  Totally worth it.

To Sleep, Perchance...

...to dream.

Of course, "to dream" is the continuation of the line from Hamlet's famous "To be or not to be" soliloquy.  But, there are times when I think the "perchance" applies to the "to sleep" part.  At least, that is what it seems to be for me some nights.

And last night was such a night.

When my husband and I had both retired, and were free--like water--to seek our own level, we found we have different body clocks.  Work requirements, of course, impose a body clock on any of us.  I am perfectly capable of getting up early in the morning.  In fact, after our son, our first child, was born and I was still teaching college, I had a 7:30 a.m. class.  So I got up at 5:30 a.m. on those days, got myself ready, woke up our son and got him dressed.  Then we headed off to campus, where one of the faculty wives living on campus took care of him.  I nursed him, then headed off to class by 7:30 a.m.  

But, when given the opportunity to go to sleep when I was ready, and get up when I was done sleeping, I found my natural timing was late to bed, late to rise (sorry, Ben Franklin).  I rarely wind down before midnight, and usually prefer to sleep to around 8 a.m.

As I have gotten older, a new dynamic has crept in--occasional insomnia.  It takes me a long time to unwind--make that, a L-O-N-G time.  I read at least a half an hour, then turn out the light and even then stay awake maybe another half hour before I finally drop off the sleep cliff.  I am doomed if I fall asleep a bit, then awake immediately.  That dooms me to an even longer struggle to go to sleep.  As I said, last night was such a night.  I turned out the light at 12:05 a.m., then fell asleep somewhat quickly, but awoke within 5 minutes with a tickling cough.  And that was it--I could not get back to sleep.  All told, it took me an hour and a half to get back to sleep.

My mind jumped from project to project that I COULD do--say, clean out a closet, or tidy up the basement.  But I made myself stay in bed.  However, my body seemed to think adrenalin was called for, which woke me even more.  Eventually, I got out of bed, went to where one of the cats was curled up, and snuggled up to her for a while--that is very calming.

The one thing I didn't do is read--because, frankly, reading just wakes me up.  Finally, I did get to sleep.

I find it humorous that one of the proverbial ways to drift off to sleep is to "count sheep."  My luck--I would end up shearing them, carding the wool, weaving it into yarn and then knitting a sweater--all before I finally got back to sleep.

Hope your sleep is less disturbed than mine.  Sweet dreams.

A Sense of Place

I was an English major in college, and I soon learned that there is no way to be a literature major without being a student of history.  As it happens, I do greatly enjoy history.  While there are many ways to learn and experience history, for me, a sense of place adds a dimension that I cherish.

One of the benefits of traveling is that sometimes when we visit somewhere, I am able to get a sense of place that gives fresh insight.  After years of taking of family vacations mostly at the New Jersey shore, with an occasional trip to New England or parts of Canada, our daughter suggested, in 1996, that we should go somewhere abroad for our summer trip.  Thus it was that we headed off for our first "European" vacation--we did a somewhat grand tour of parts of England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales. 

And that's how I had my first experience abroad of "a sense of place."  We were visiting Holyrood Palace in Edinburgh.  Our guide took us into one room and announced "...and here is where David Rizzio was killed."  Well, believe me, I took notice.  I had read the seminal biography of Mary, Queen of Scots, by Antonia Fraser, and had absorbed many of the details, including the account of the horrific murder of Rizzio, the private secretary to Mary.  Mary's closeness to him had engendered palace jealousies as well as rumors that he was the father of her child.  So a group of nobles murdered him right in front of Mary, who was pregnant.  The sense of place--that here was where a specific event in history had occurred--made my understanding of that event take on new meaning.

There are, of course, many such places around the world.  While I don't make that the only reason to see some place in the world, it certainly adds to my enjoyment.  My master's thesis research focused on the historical Thomas Becket, and how he was portrayed in two dramatic works.  So, of course, one of the places I had long wanted to visit was Canterbury.  On one of our recent visits to England, our daughter helped arrange a day trip for us to visit Canterbury.  Not only was I a Canterbury pilgrim for a brief day but I also got to stand in the cathedral that marks the approximate spot where Becket was slain by four knights who thought they were doing the king's bidding.  That actual altar in front of which Becket was slain no longer stands, but there is a candle in the floor marking the spot.

Another place where there is a palpable sense of what had happened there was in the cathedral in Worms, Germany.  We were on a family history tour in the year 2000 when we visited this cathedral.  It was to this place that Martin Luther had been summoned for the famous Diet of Worms.  (What budding history student hasn't giggled at such a thought....a diet of worms.) Luther was challenged by the pope's representative to recant his developing Protestant views.  Of course, the historical representation is Luther's famous speech:  

"Unless I am convinced by proofs from Scriptures or by plain and clear reasons and arguments, I can and will not retract, for it is neither safe nor wise to do anything against conscience. Here I stand. I can do no other. God help me. Amen."

The historical record is not so clear that he actually spoke these words on that occasion, but standing in the Cathedral of Worms, the sense of place makes Luther's brave stand very real.

So it was that on our most recent trip, a cruise of the Baltic Sea with various stops along the way (see my prior post for the countries we visited), we stopped in St. Petersburg.  This is a city I have long wanted to see.  Many years ago, I read of biography of Peter the Great, who developed this marvelous city as Russia's outlet to the Baltic Sea and thereby eventually the Atlantic Ocean.  I had also read Harrison Salisbury's account The 900 Days: the Siege of Leningrad.  And, I have read many works about the last of the Romanovs--Nicholas II and his wife Alexandra.  

Prominent in their lives was their youngest child and only son--who would be heir to the throne, young Prince Alexis.  He was born after his parents had borne four daughters, and they were devastated when Alexis was found to be hemophiliac.  He was frequently gravely ill, suffering the bleeding episodes that threatened his life almost constantly.  Understandably, but not helpfully, his mother Alexandra was frantic.  So when an itinerant holy man--at least so styled--came into her life in the man of Rasputin and promised he could heal her son, she was primed.  Eventually, Rasputin insinuated himself into their lives and seemingly advised them on far more than Alexis' health.  The resulting jealousy and paranoia among Russian nobility led to a plot headed up by Prince Felix Yusupov, who along with his co-conspirators, decided to kill Rasputin.

So, another sense of place--on our visit to St. Petersburg, we visited the Yusupov Palace and saw the small basement dining room (complete with creepy wax figures recreating the scene) where Rasputin was lured to his eventual death.  He did not die quickly--he was first poisoned, then shot, then drowned--none of which caused his demise.  After being thrown into a canal to drown, Rasputin managed to crawl out, after his captors had left the scene and there he died of hypothermia, freezing to death in the cold Russian winter.

 A sense of place, indeed.

Where have you been where you had a sense of place for history?

Sailing, Sailing...

My husband and I recently took a cruise in the Baltic Sea.  We began in Amsterdam, visited--in this order--Warnemunde (Germany); Stockholm (Sweden); Tallinn (Estonia); St. Petersburg (Russia); Helsinki (Finland); and Copenhagen (Denmark).

To get to all these locations, we had three separate days where we were at sea--sailing, sailing.

When you are at seas—there’s not much to do.  However, one does get to thinking—how travel has changed over the centuries, sailing especially.  One or two centuries ago, the idea of luxury cruising would have been madness.  Ships were utilitarian and passengers had some place to go, not just cruise.

But these day, sailing on a passenger liner seems to be purely for leisure.  The 2,000+ passengers on this cruise are interested in…eating…drinking…partying…playing.

Not one of us has to work to make the ship go where it is going.

Here’s a reflection on the Curiosities of Cruising

• Quantity of food…it is obscene.  There are more meals prepared than there are people on board. 

There are 2,000 passengers, 900 crew members, and 3 meals a day.
Yet there are 9,000 meals a day prepared.

• Opportunities to pay

While the basics are well-provided for—food, juices, coffee & tea, there are many extras for which you pay extra.  Including--
Soft drinks
All alcohol
Internet
And all are very expensive…make that profit centers.         

• Art

Not really art—we went to a lecture one day which promised “30,000 years of art in 30 minutes”—it was appalling, riddled with misinformation, including misspelling artists’ names.  Really the only point was to get us to buy some painting.

We were all handed lottery tickets at the outset, then at the end of the lecture, a “winner” was chosen.  My husband believes whoever won was a plant.  When the lecture began, there were only about 5 or 6 of us; but by the end, the back had filled up, and all the “winners” were sitting in the back.

As someone who has made 3 ocean voyages (in my youth) for transportation reasons, I am bemused at the current concept of cruising.  I can see its benefits for people who have spent a long time away from home—missionaries, diplomats, military service people—who need to re-acclimate culturally after years abroad.  Today that need has vanished--and cruising now seems aimless.   Destination bound, but potentially aimless. 

Summer is for Reading...

...but then, so is the whole year around.

Now that I am retired, I have the luxury of reading whatever I want at any time.  The closest I come to "having" to read something is reading the selection for a book group I attend.  There was a time--when I was teaching literature--that I might be only one chapter ahead of the students.  And, then the pressure was to read what I "had" to read.

But, old habits die hard, and I still associate summer with a time to read.

So, herewith a couple of recommendations and one warning.

RECOMMENDATIONS
I have just finished reading the book The Cellist of Sarajevo by Steven Galloway.  This novel captures with stunning effect what it was like to live through the siege of Sarajevo, which began in April, 1992 and continued until February, 1996.  The novel revolves around a factual event--a cellist appears one day in a public place (keep in mind, the city is being bombarded with shells, and snipers in the hills that ring the city are shooting anyone), sets up a chair, takes out his cello and begins to play Albinoni's Adagio in G Minor. The achingly beautiful music speaks to the pain and suffering the residents of Sarajevo must endure.  The impetus for the cellist is his vow to play every day for 22 days as a way to honor 22 people who were killed while standing in a bread line.

In the novel, three other characters' lives are slowly revealed in pieces.  You do not learn everything you could about a character.  You really have little sense as to how they looked.  You only learn first names, and the cellist himself is unnamed.  And yet, each of the characters is affected by the cellist.
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A second novel I recommend is The Plague of Doves by Louise Erdrich.  I previously have recommended Erdrich as an author, having identified her novel The Master Butchers Singing Club.  And once again, she met my expectations.  The Plague of Doves draws on some of Erdrich's own background, as native American, and yet the work is far more complex than simply drawing on personal biography.  The book begins with a farm family being brutally killed, except one crying baby.  It is not until the end of the novel that you learn the identity of that baby.  Not surprisingly, the people who are seized and charged with the crime are several native American young men from a nearby reservation.

Erdrich moves across decades, intertwining generations and families, and only at the end does she gather up the many strands and reveal the final mystery of her tale.
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In a completely different vein is the delightful and informative non-fiction work A History of the World in 6 Glasses by Tom Standage.  Standage writes about beer, wine, spirits, coffee, tea, and Coca-Cola.  These six beverages, in chronological order, can be used as a means to view human development and history.  It is the sort of book you can pick up, put down, interrupt, resume--and not lose the train of thought of the author.  Along the way you learn many fascinating tidbits about each beverage.

Here's a quick example.  Did you know that beer was originally drunk from a communal bowl, with partakers drinking from the same vessel rather than individual glasses?  So, when you clink glasses with someone, and say CHEERS (or whatever), you are recreating the experience of the communal bowl.
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WARNING
This warning can be summed up in a quick sentence: don't trust the promotional blurb you get from Amazon.
Yes, dear reader, Amazon can phony up the description of a book, and can even have all manner of glowing reviews--and the book turns out to be crap.

So it is that I ordered No Regrets, Coyote by John Dufresne.  It was billed as a murder mystery (those can be fun summer reads, but you need a skilled author such as P.D. James or Tony Hillerman).  What it turned out to be was a foolish trifling melange of too many characters, ridiculous descriptions, totally confusing names, and an improbable plot that manipulates the characters rather than letting things develop out of the character's personality.  

Mind, if that's your kind of book--by all means, get it.  Otherwise, save your money...and your time.
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How about you?  Do you have any recommendations?

Weddings and Funerals

Remember some years back when a surprise hit movie came out?  Four Weddings and A Funeral.  Such a fun movie, even though it was yet another vehicle for Hugh Grant to do his amiable bumbling routine.  

Of course we do love weddings, and even funerals.  These celebrations--of love, of life--give us an excuse, a reason to gather as family and friends.

Sometimes we go through spates of nothing but funerals.  For a time, it seemed our families--the families into which my husband and I were born--had nothing but funerals.  Grandparents died, and then my father-in-law.  So in a very short time, we had three family funerals.  That's a lot of sadness and grieving.  BUT it was also a lot of family gathering and reminiscing.

This summer, we have had two family weddings in two weeks.  The first was a Mennonite wedding, the second a Roman Catholic wedding.  Quite a difference in setting--one outdoors, the other in a church; in mood--one filled with congregational singing, the other with no congregation singing at all; one simple, the other a bit more ornate.  But both were filled with joy.  Children reveling in the occasion, the permission to dance all around.  Young people laughing, dancing, full of the promise of a future unruffled by life's complications.  Middle-aged and senior folks sitting, talking, catching up, watching young people.  All filled with the joy of family and friends.

It is tempting to think that weddings are better than funerals, but I don't feel that way.  They both provide times for people to gather and celebrate.  

 CELEBRATE LIFE!

CELEBRATE LOVE!

Lazy hazy days of summer

As we in the northeast U.S. swelter under an oppressive heat wave--almost a week of over 90 degree F temperature--I am so grateful for central air-conditioning.  Our house has a heat pump, which heats in cold weather and cools in hot weather.  So, the sweltering heat is bearable, because we are cool inside.

But it wasn't always so--and in many parts of the world it is not so.  Our daughter living in London knows that central air-conditioning is a rarity in homes.  Most of the time, the weather cooperates, but when it does heat up--well, obviously things get hot.

The advent of air-conditioning in the modern era occurred at the outset of the 20th century when Willis Carrier (yes, that's why there is a brand of air-conditioners named Carrier), who had recently graduated from Cornell University, set about to solve the problem for a printing company in Brooklyn, New York.  For several decades, air-conditioning was used in commercial settings, but not private homes.

Not doubt, many of you readers can recall a time without air-conditioning in your homes.  So, what did we do to stay cool?

Swimming--I have previously written about my memories of swimming in an old swimming hole.  Just as with little access to home air-conditioning, most people did not have access to private swimming pools.  So, off we went to municipal pools, or to swimming holes, or to creeks.  Nothing better on a steamy hot summer day than a swim in a bone-chilling creek.

Drinking Coca-cola--I spent one summer with my mother's sister, my aunt, and her family.  My cousin and I would walk a half a mile from the house to the corner grocery store in the little village where we lived.  Once inside, we would immediately head for the cooler for a bottled soda...or, I should say, pop.  Reaching around in the cooler, hands in the watery ice mix, selecting our choice, pulling it out, removing the cap on the bottle opener attached to the side of the cooler, paying for our prize, and then walking back home--ahhh!  That's the way to beat the summer time heat.

Sitting on the porch swing--wonderful old houses always had wide porches with overhanging roofs, and a swing hanging from the rafters.  Even on a hot day, you could always sit on the swing, gently rocking back and forth, creating your own breeze if there were no other breeze around.  For a time, porches (or verandas) went out of favor, but--thank goodness--they are back.  That's one feature I could wish our home had--a lovely porch.  With a swing, of course.

I am sure there were other ways we beat the heat.  Or, if we didn't, we just put up with it.  We sweated, we fanned, we rolled the windows down on our cars and let the hot wind evaporate our sweat.  We slept without any covers.  We managed.

Enough of this stroll down memory lane.  Frankly, as fond as these memories are, I think I'll stay inside on these lazy hazy days of summer....and enjoy our central air-conditioning.

So, What's Different

Along with many other folks this morning, I am pondering the significance of the "not guilty" verdict in the George Zimmerman trial.

First, I must say that I wholeheartedly wish the news' fascination with this story would be focused elsewhere.  There are so many topics around the world far more worthy of laser focus than the story of one misguided "citizen" who patrolled his neighborhood on the lookout for "punks." 

But, we all know that the 24/7 news cycle simply needs, make that creates, these stories--or else the perpetual breathless approach to news might shrivel up and go away.  Oh, there's a thought.

Back to this trial and its perhaps all-too-predictable verdict.

I have been puzzling over the details of this story ever since it first emerged.  I have tried to understand what kind of neighborhood George Zimmerman lived in that he saw himself as the last bastion of civilization.  There he was, patrolling the streets of his neighborhood trying to keep the barbarians at bay.  And when he failed--after all, a young man still walked through that gated community for all Zimmerman's watchfulness--he decided he had to take "the law" into his own hands.  And since he was armed, he felt invincible.  

So, what's different about our neighborhood--the place where we live?

Perhaps we have not had break-ins.  That was part of the dynamic that George Zimmerman perceived that gave rise to his determination to patrol the neighborhood.  But, no, we too have had break-ins in our neighborhood.

We have had several break-ins.  At least one included a young man knocking on the door of one house in our neighborhood and, flashing a gun, demanding money.  Another break-in occurred while neighbors were at a family funeral (which alerted us to the fact that some people are so coldly opportunistic that they read obituary notices to see who won't be home). 

Perhaps we don't have young men walking through our neighborhood.  That too was part of the dynamic for George Zimmerman.  But we have young people, mostly young men, some of whom are white and some of whom are black.  So, in George Zimmerman's parlance, we too have "punks."

So what is different?

Well, for one thing we do not have a gated community.  We are bounded on two sides by apartment complexes, which makes our neighborhood seem like a convenient short-cut path.  Not being a gated community is just a small difference.

What really sets us apart, I believe, is the fact that we FEEL like a neighborhood.  I don't know everyone by name, but I know many people.  So, when I see someone walking through the neighborhood, I say "hi."  I realize I don't know everyone I talk to, but I want to be friendly in a non-threatening way, which carries its own message.  The message is "I am paying attention to you, and to who is here in my neighborhood."

When someone is away from his or her home in our neighborhood, we watch each other's houses.  In fact, for immediate neighbors, we frequently make a lap around the outside of the house, just checking to make sure all is in order. 

I am not naive.  Being neighborly doesn't shield our neighborhood from petty crime.  But not assuming that anyone who walks through our neighborhood is intent of committing a crime--well, that helps to keep things from escalating out of control, until someone arms himself, decides he can determine a passer-by's motivation, and with a side-arm to trail that person, and eventually "defend" himself.  That's what is different.

Might it just be that a mind-set of violence leads to a culture of violence which results in a commission of violence?

We, the People

Watching the news from Egypt, where a duly elected government has been deposed, we should be thankful—on this eve of the Fourth of July—that our founding leaders took care to enshrine some bedrock rights.

Herewith, the ten Amendments to the Constitution of the United States--these ten form our Bill of Rights.  Taken all together they have helped provide us with stable governments over our more than 200 years of history. 

These amendments are all important—there is not one that should overpower the others.  I could wish for greater clarity of construction—just look at the Second Amendment—so that subsequent interpretation would not be so difficult.  But, in the main, these ten statements capture the essence our the genius of our democracy. 

Would you vote for these today?  When the “man on the street” is asked about these rights, there are times when those who are ignorant that these rights are already secured sometimes answer in the negative to some of them.

Shame on us if we forget what these statements mean.  So on this Fourth of July, contemplate their meaning—all of them.  And be grateful.

First Amendment

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

Second Amendment

A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.^[54]

Third Amendment

No Soldier shall, in time of peace be quartered in any house, without the consent of the Owner, nor in time of war, but in a manner to be prescribed by law.

Fourth Amendment

The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no Warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by Oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.

Fifth Amendment

No person shall be held to answer for a capital, or otherwise infamous crime, unless on a presentment or indictment of a Grand Jury, except in cases arising in the land or naval forces, or in the Militia, when in actual service in time of War or public danger; nor shall any person be subject for the same offence to be twice put in jeopardy of life or limb; nor shall be compelled in any criminal case to be a witness against himself, nor be deprived of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor shall private property be taken for public use, without just compensation.

Sixth Amendment

In all criminal prosecutions, the accused shall enjoy the right to a speedy and public trial, by an impartial jury of the State and district wherein the crime shall have been committed, which district shall have been previously ascertained by law, and to be informed of the nature and cause of the accusation; to be confronted with the witnesses against him; to have compulsory process for obtaining witnesses in his favor, and to have the Assistance of Counsel for his defence.

Seventh Amendment

In suits at common law, where the value in controversy shall exceed twenty dollars, the right of trial by jury shall be preserved, and no fact tried by a jury, shall be otherwise re-examined in any court of the United States, than according to the rules of the common law.

Eighth Amendment

Excessive bail shall not be required, nor excessive fines imposed, nor cruel and unusual punishments inflicted.

Ninth Amendment

The enumeration in the Constitution, of certain rights, shall not be construed to deny or disparage others retained by the people.

Tenth Amendment

The powers not delegated to the United States by the Constitution, nor prohibited by it to the States, are reserved to the States respectively, or to the people.

Arm chair witness to history Part II

Continuing the musings on being an arm chair witness to history.

The Democratic Convention (1968)

By 1968, my political affiliation was beginning to turn toward the Democratic Party (and it fully turned to my registering as a Democrat when Richard Nixon revealed his true nature).  So, once again, I was glued to the television watching the raucous, highly entertaining and downright scary Democratic Convention in Chicago.  All but lost in this chaotic convention was the actual nominee—Hubert Humphrey (who was defeated by Richard Nixon in the general election).  

What riveted me and the country was the rioting in the streets.  The country was gripped with full blown dissension over the war in Vietnam.  Richard Daley, Mayor of Chicago, had ordered the police as well the National Guard to suppress any kind of demonstration.  Daley had bragged that no demonstrators would take over Chicago’s streets.   Predictably, the demonstrators rose to the challenge and streamed into Chicago.  The result was full scale rioting in the streets of Chicago with the demonstrators chanting “the whole world watching.”

I was watching the scenes unfold late at night, waiting for the important speeches, which by now were far past prime time coverage.  Senator Abe Ribicoff was actually nominating George McGovern—when Ribicoff deviated from prepared remarks and looked straight at Mayor Daley and blasted his handling of the demonstrators.  Daley rose to his feet, shouted back, and could clearly be seen mouthing obscenities.  The Democrats went on to lose the election.  While being a witness to the unfolding of this history was exciting, there was also something very sad about watching the unraveling of hopes of people to bring the ill-advised destructive war to a close—and to know that the demonstrations likely doomed any chance Humphrey had to win the general election.

The “Explosion” of the Challenger (1986)

Sometimes the location where we watch the video of an event unfolding is sufficiently unusual as to magnify our sense of the event.  I was attending a meeting of a governmental board, and during lunch break went to a department store to pass the time.  As I walked past the television section, I saw people standing watching some evident catastrophe. The look of their faces conveyed the gravity of what they were seeing—the space shuttle Challenger had blasted off on its mission—and had “exploded.” 

People may now recall that they watched the Challenger blow up, but in fact what we all saw was a video replay of the event.  The networks had begun live coverage of the launch, but by 1986 space shuttle launchings had become. . . routine.  Just a few short minutes into its flight, it quickly became apparent that something disastrous was unfolding, and the networks switched back to cover the disaster.  The shuttle had begun its ascent with the usual thunderous roar of engines, but less than two minutes into the launch, it began to break up resulting in two white plumes.  What had actually happened was that the “external fuel tank had collapsed, releasing all its liquid hydrogen and liquid oxygen propellants. As the chemicals mixed, they ignited to create a giant fireball thousands of feet in the air.”  (Source: National Geographic).

Of course, in addition to being horrified and riveted with the endless replay of the disaster was the fact that seven people died, including the first teacher in space, Christa McAuliffe.

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I had planned to add a final disaster most recent in our memories—that of the attacks on the U.S. on September 11, 2001, but I suspect you have your own recollection of watching those events unfold.  The September 11 attacks were to the 21st century what the attack on Pearl Harbor was to the 20th century.  Many people of my father's generation can recall exactly where they were when they heard of the attack on Pearl Harbor--of course what they experienced was hearing the news, not actually watching the event unfold.  With September 11, 2001, we heard the news and watched the news unfold, complete with each of the World Trade Center towers collapse.  What a horrific seemingly slow-motion disaster that was--as the towers began to implode, floor collapsing on floor, then watching the rolling cloud of debris engulf parts of lower Manhattan.

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Television has made us arm chair witnesses to so many events.  Some events are simply not important—e.g. watching the slow police chase of O.J. Simpson—and are obviously fueled by the 24 hour 7 day television marathon that runs on a constant loop.  Other events have been defining ones—ones that we can truly say we will never forget where we were when we first watched the event of _____ unfold.  We are arm chair witnesses to history, true enough, but making sense of it all—now that’s another story all together. 

Arm chair witness to history (Part I)

For all the excesses and waste of television (a subject on which I sometimes muse), there is an undeniable benefit: television gives us the opportunity to be arm chair witnesses to history.

One  of the almost trite statements is “Do you remember where you were when you heard the news that …” (you can fill in the blank).  The most recent that struck me as almost irrelevant was Brian Williams, anchor of NBC Nightly News, intoning “We will remember where we were when we learned that James Gandolfini died.”  Now, I grant you Gandolfini may have been a fine actor—I was not one of the legion of viewers of “The Sopranos” so I can’t say.  And by all accounts, he was a genuinely fine man.  But, really, was his death earth-shaking? I think not.

In the course of my lifetime, thus far, there have been earth-shaking events.  And many of them were televised as they happened, so that I was an arm chair witness to history.

Here’s a sampling.

The Assassination of JFK’s killer (1963)

One of the ironies of events being televised is that even if they are not televised “live” people who see a video believe they saw the actual event.  Such is the case with the assassination of JFK.  When Zapruder came forward with his famous 8-mm film, and when that film was shown, there were thousands of people who swore they saw JFK’s assassination live.  Of course, Zapruder—who was a witness in Dallas, who happened to have his camera handy—filmed the assassination and that film was then shown after the fact.  Its constant replaying and its verisimilitude is what gave people the sense that they saw JFK’s assassination live.

What we did see live was Lee Harvey Oswald being led from jail; we watched Jack Ruby step up close, then suddenly produce a small gun and shoot Oswald in the stomach.  We saw Oswald grimace, and grab his front, and then collapse.

As it happened, that event occurred on a Sunday.  I was a college sophomore, and was touring with our choral group. We had just sung in a church service, and then went to various homes of members of that congregation for a Sunday dinner.  It was in such a home, where the television was turned on, that I saw this snip of history unfold.

The Republican Convention (1964)

…or the short-lived effort to have someone other than Barry Goldwater become the party standard bearer.

During the summers, while I attended college, I was employed as a maid and/or cook in the homes of wealthy U.S. citizens who had summer homes along Lake Erie, on the Canadian side.   So, that meant I was live-in at these homes, with specific work tasks but a fair amount of free time.  

During the summer of 1964, the Republican Party held its convention to nominate its candidate to run against President Lyndon Johnson.  That was in the days when party conventions really meant something, and actual ballots were taken that would result in a candidate that was not a foregone conclusion.  While I was too young to vote, I was intensely interested in politics. Plus I hailed from Pennsylvania, whose then Governor William Scranton was an honorable and decent man.  

Since the groundswell clearly favored Senator Barry Goldwater, who I thought had disastrous policies on Vietnam, I was thrilled to watch as a sudden flurry of activity on the convention floor made it appear as though Scranton actually had a chance.  And all of this activity was occurring right before my eyes as I sat glued to the television.  As it turned out, he didn't—he wasn't nominated, Goldwater was, and in the fall election, Goldwater was soundly defeated.   

The Assassination of Bobby Kennedy (1968)

It was the first day of summer vacation for me, in my first year of teaching college English.  So, I slept in.  When I awakened, I turned on the television, expecting to watch a few minutes at the end of the Today Show.  Instead, I turned in to the late-breaking news that, immediately following his victory in winning the California primary, Senator Robert Kennedy had been shot and had died.  

Of course, like so many people during the turbulent 1960s, I had mourned the untimely deaths of political leaders—of course, JFK was the “first” followed by Malcolm X, Martin Luther King, Jr., and now Robert Kennedy.  The song, recorded by Dion, “Abraham, Martin and John” captured the deep sadness these assassinations evoked in many people.  And, of course, the final stanza captured the horror of one more assassination including Bobby.

I don’t recall what I did the rest of that day—all I can recall is sitting for a long long time trying to absorb and make sense of yet another senseless death.

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To be continued

The Bookends of Life

Between the bookends of life--birth and death--life gets lived.

Now, this assertion is hardly startling, but since my blog is entitled KGMom's MUSINGS--I am given to musing. And recent events have set my mind spinning on this somewhat trivial musing...that life gets lived between the time of our birth and the time of our death.

The recent birth of our granddaughter has been such a joyous occasion. Just days after she was born, my husband and I traversed the ocean between our home and our daughter and son-in-law's home to meet our granddaughter. Within days after our leaving them, more anxious-to-meet-the-granddaughter parents arrived. Then within days of their departure, an uncle and aunt arrived. And then there were friends who visited. In short, this sweet little girl was welcomed into the world with great fanfare of family and friends cheering her on.

In the in-between times of getting to see our granddaughter, we make do with Skype calls or Google Chat. Of course, it's not the same as an in the flesh visit, but it helps. We can see her smiling, and watch as she tries to master crawling. We can watch her parents interacting with her and doing a SPLENDID job of giving her the best possible start in this world.

As any parent knows, the life course of a child is not written in advance. But a good beginning certainly helps.

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At the other end of the spectrum of life--the other bookend--is death.

We recently saw, with shock, the obituary announcement of a former neighbor. When an obituary notice begins with these word: "W.G., 46, of Middletown, entered into rest suddenly on June 12, 2013 at his home"-- you just know that all was not well. A sudden death at 46.

This neighbor was indeed strange. In fact, since his first name began with W, I confess that I took to calling him "weird W." He lived in the house on the corner for 20 years. During that time, he had two live-in girlfriends, each of whom left under less than happy circumstances. He did minimal--and I mean minimal--work around the yard. He reluctantly mowed, but only when the "grass" had reached a foot in height. He had wood delivered for his wood stove, with which the house was heated, but the load of wood was simply dumped in the back yard, never stacked. The end cap on his roof broke, and he never had it repaired. External paint began to peel, and stayed that way.

All the while, W. would sit in his back yard, under the shade of a large pin oak tree, smoking a cigar and sipping on bottles of beer. He never put forth an effort to do... anything.

So it came as no surprise when about two months ago, I noticed he was moving things out of the house. I stopped to ask, out of plain nosiness, where he was going, and he indicated he was leaving the house. His most recent former live-in girlfriend was helping him, and she told me that he had been foreclosed on, and was losing the house. Apparently he moved in with his mother.

And then, two days ago, I saw his death notice. 46 years old. Dying suddenly at home. Not sick--just died suddenly. And no memorial service was to be held--as per his instructions. He seems to have failed at everything--at relationships, at holding a steady job, at keeping a house he had bought, and--presumably--at life itself. He seems to have succeeded at only one thing--he had a good dog named DJ.

How sad--a life lived between the bookends. I can't help but wonder--did W. have a good beginning? Was he loved? Was he happy? Did W. get to live the entirety of his life?

Musings--that's all I have here. Just musings.

Life Lessons on a CPM* Machine

Time to pick up the proverbial pen and resume blogging.  Well, you and I know that it's not really a pen I'm picking up, but I am setting fingers to the keyboard.

When last I blogged, I announced this anticipated break necessitated by upcoming surgery.  Surgery has "come and gone" and I now have a new knee.  Tomorrow, I return to the orthopedic surgeon to have my staples removed.  Then the day after, I begin out-patient physical therapy.

But, I have NOT been idle.  Oh, no--I am spending a good part of my waking day doing the requisite exercises to get the new knee to flex and bend, and also being strapped into a CPM machine (*Continuous Passive Motion) which, slowly over time, increases the angle of the bend of my knee, all the while flexing my leg up and down, back and forth.

So, I have time to .... read (but I get bored); watch TV (oh, previous reaction ten times over); play some games on my Kindle Fire (only lasts so long); nap (yes, I have succumbed); and think--ah, think.

What I have been thinking is the life lessons learned on the CPM machine.

Lesson 1--It's you or no one.
You are the one who has to commit to doing whatever work there is to keep yourself healthy.  There's no one else who can be put on the machine, and have the results work out for you.  

Lesson 2--Give in to the pressure as it increases.
The first several times I notched up the machine a degree or so, I felt myself inadvertently resisting the machine.  I quickly learned that as the machine moved, and the pressure bending my knee increased, it worked better if I gave in to the pressure.  Instead of pushing back, I went with the bend.  Thus, the machine could work its magic and I didn't experience pain by pushing back.

Lesson 3--You have to commit to the time that is needed.
Since I use the machine three times a day, each time preceded by about a half an hour of assigned muscle strengthening exercises, it is OH SO TEMPTING to cut corners.  But, the whole point of the exercise regimen is to help me regain full control and use of my leg with its new knee.  So, cutting corners only spites myself.

Lesson 4--Stay the course.
Since the exercises start out slowly, the improvement is incremental, even seemingly non-existent...at first.  But then after two days, four days, seven days--with each passing day change occurs.  And "suddenly" I realize, hey, I can bend my knee much further than when I first came home. 

Lesson 5--Chill.
Sometimes, when my knee is feeling pressure, the best way to handle it is to use a little ice.  So, chill.

Lesson 6--Up with Good, Down with Bad.
My surgeon gave me this little mnemonic device as a way to remember which leg to use when going up or down stairs--"up with the good, down with the bad."  In general, not bad advice! 

Lesson 7--Accept the Love.
My recovery has been quick and steady.  And in great part I owe that to the wonderful help from my loving husband who is doing double duty--his usual work and mine as well.  In addition to his love, the dog has been very sweet in checking on me periodically.  And the three cats have taken turns snuggling up next to me as I spend hours on the CPM machine.  Top off this love with phone calls and emails from family, and cards from friends--well, all I can do is just accept the love.

No doubt, I will learn a few more lessons.  Maybe that's why you only have the machine on loan for 3 weeks--if you had it longer, you'd figure out how the universe works, or maybe come up with a unified theory of everything.

Gotta go....time to get back on the machine.

The Last Word...

...for a time, dear reader, just for a time.

When I first became aware of blogging, I began writing and reading.  My first blog entry was about a trip to Spain we had recently completed.  Once I wrote up the entire vacation experiences, I moved on to other topics--plumbing childhood memory depths, then observations about teaching, life, movies, along with the occasional rant.

I also began reading other writers' blogs.  Blogging is so much more satisfying for me than tweeting, or than reading Facebook entries.  First, almost every subject I can think of as a potential writing topic requires more than the truncated entry requirement of Twitter, and more than the clever or titillating bon mot that catches my eye on Facebook.  Second, I tend to limit whose blogs I read, which I also do with Twitter (for me, the least used of these self-expression media), but which I am less inclined to do with Facebook.  While I don't accept every request to "be friends" on Facebook, I have a wider circle there than I do in the blogging world.  

But what I observe is that blogging is slowly falling out of favor.  Some of the early blogs I read no longer exist--in a few instances, the writers have died: they wrote bravely about their struggles with diseases that eventually silenced them.  Some of the blogs I read have fallen by the wayside as the writers move on to other ventures.  Some bloggers are still perking along, bubbling with a fountain of creativity as prolific as Ponce de Leon's mythical fountain of youth.  Sometimes I find a new blog to read and enjoy (see Pieces of Peace). 

I know, in the core of my writing being, that Facebook will also fade.  And as I peruse the entries each day, I see it fading.  No need to catalog the Facebook complaints and woes here.

So, why my dire "The Last Word..." title?  Because I am about to take a mini-blogging break.

While you know we have traveled--both to the west (California, here we come!) and east (maybe something to do with this sweetie),  ----------->
I will soon be venturing down a path that age has set me upon.

SIGH.  The knee that has plagued me since college basketball is about to be replaced.  And I will provide humor fodder for my husband as I try to make my way around with a walker. 

When I muster enough energy to come back to writing, I will.  Maybe I will have some new hospital stories.  Maybe I will have a rant or two.  But, whatever I do, I will pick up the proverbial pen and resume writing.

Constitutional Mayhem

So, I am reading an article from the New York Times of April 17, 2013 entitled "Physical Legacy of Blasts Could be Cruel for Boston Marathon Victims"--and I read this closing sentence "It's almost a paradox to see these patients without an extremity to wake up and feel lucky."  The quote is from Dr. George Velmahos, chief of Trauma Services at Massachusetts General Hospital.  He is talking about victims of the Boston Marathon bombing who lost limbs, but because they had been bleeding so profusely, they assumed they were dying.  When they awakened following surgery--even with a missing limb--they feel lucky.

At the same time, the news on NPR is reporting that the hoped for compromise bill calling for background checks on gun sales sponsored by Senators Toomey and Machin appears doomed to fail.

And then it hits me--I mean REALLY hits me.  I begin to cry.

But at the same time I think--what has happened to us as a country?  How have we come to a point where a zealous interpretation of Article II of the Bill of Rights, appended to the Constitution, has become more important to citizens in the United States than the foundational words of the Declaration of Independence?  Those words are:

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness...

So, here's my dilemma--how did so bedrock a principle of "unalienable Rights...Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness" get trumped by "A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed."

Among some proponents of the right to keep and bear arms there is a presumption that keeping and bearing arms is more important than life itself.   How else does one explain the impending defeat of a background check provision.  And, anyway--BACKGROUND CHECKS?  Really?  So if some piece of information is discovered that says because you are a convicted felon, you shouldn't be able to purchase a firearm, how is THAT an infringement on your RIGHT to bear arms?  Didn't you forfeit that right by being convicted of a felony?

One of the arguments that ardent proponents of the absolute right for gun ownership uses is that the recent spate of mass shooting tragedies points to the need for more mental health care.  Well, no doubt that is needed.  But wouldn't a background check help turn up some information on a person's mental well-being?  And would that not be a good thing?

It is hard not to conclude that we have gone crazy.  The NRA is terrorizing members of Congress, Congressional leaders are incapacitated in the face of the NRA's terror.  Meanwhile parents grieve for the children killed in Newtown, or Columbine, or Virginia Tech.  On and on the list of unspeakable tragedies continues,

I cannot imagine how heart sickening a parent of one of the children killed in Newtown will feel, should the background checks amendment go down to defeat.  I know I am heart sick at the state to which our country has come.  We have people who seem to believe that a background check somehow infringes on their Constitutional right to bear arms, but doesn't think that preventing a needless death is a fair trade.
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ADDENDUM
Now I am depressed as well as sad.  Today, the Senate turned down the Toomey-Machin proposal. 

And, to add to the absurdity of not calling for background checks, the growth of gun sales on the Internet makes the already too easy access to guns even more frightening--the same New York Times edition that has the article I cited above has a story on the Internet facilitating the illegal sale of guns.

On The Rocks

I am inspired--or at the very least nudged--by the resolve of a childhood friend of mine who has vowed to resuscitate her blog by writing a blog a day for a month.  Now, it must be noted that she posted this intent on April 1--but I do think she is serious.  You can read her entries here.

At any rate, she has posted two blogs about her experiences growing up as a missionary child in southern Africa.  As I indicated, she is a childhood friend, so we share some common memories.  Reading her posts got me to thinking--it's been a long time since I posted anything about childhood.  As any long time reader of this blog knows, I have explored that topic.  All you need to do is conduct a search on my blog using CHILDHOOD and you will get quite a few entries.

But one topic I have not explored:  climbing rocks.  Now almost every child has had the opportunity to climb.  It is one of the true joys of childhood.  It can also be one of the precipitants of a serious childhood injury due to falls.  Most of us climb trees.  Some of us with access to farms climb in haylofts.  But, I would venture that not that many of us have climbed rocks. 

I most certainly did.  The mission station where my parents were when I was last living in southern Africa was situated among the Matopo Hills (the current spelling is now MatoBo, and you can Google it to learn a bit more about this fascinating geologic place).

The Matopo Hills featured large boulders that rose like hills.  These are not small rocks--these are truly magnificent and somewhat mysterious looking rocks.  Many of them have caves, and in these caves where early humans lived they painted.  The uniqueness of the paintings and their importance in the development of art earned them a designation as a World Heritage site.

 

Painting of some Matopo Rocks by South African artist Olive Hind

Now, I didn't go climbing into caves.  What I did was climb the rocks around the mission station.  The Matopo Mission was situated among some of these rocks--it made for a fascinating playground.

One time, I was playing tag with a missionary friend, a boy named Eugene.  He was a bit older than me, and far more daring.  As we chased over these rocks, with him in the lead, we came to a place where one rock was over-hanging another.  Eugene jumped, landing safely below.  I came up to the precipice and looked over.  A moment of terror seized me, but--ever competitive and spurred on by "anything he can do, I can do better" I jumped.  Miracle of miracles, I too landed safely below.

Hiking out away from the mission station a bit, Eugene and I found places where the rocks had been cleft by eons of rain water, wearing away and finally splitting a rock.  If you stood at the bottom, you could look up and see that the cleft went all the way to the top of the rock.  So, how to get up there?  Well, you chimney-stacked.  And Eugene taught me to chimney stack.

Since I have returned to the United States, I have not seen the Matopo Hills again.  But, years ago, when I first visited the Gettysburg Battlefield with my husband, I was thrilled to see Devil's Den there.  This place also had large rocks--a very small outcropping compared to the Matopo Hills, but nevertheless rocks worthy of climbing.

I do think my climbing days are long over--there's my age, there's my bad knee, and there's my slowly developing fear of heights.  Now, when I am some place aloft (such as a Ferris wheel), my toes curl under and my feet sweat!

Whatever happened to that daring girl who jumped off one rock onto another, or chimney stacked?  Ah, well, no matter.  I will let others be "on the rocks"--I will keep my feet firmly planted on the ground.