Friday, December 30, 2016

My Y2K New Year's Eve

Although we laugh about it now, New Year's Eve 1999 found millions around the world anxious about what would happen to computer systems if their internal clocks failed to roll over to 2000. People withdrew cash from their banks in case ATM's wouldn't work. People were concerned about public utilities failing. People feared communications networks would break down. Most of us didn't really understand what the issues were, but everything sounded pretty serious if it actually happened. I imagine that the change from the year 999 to the year 1000 also brought its own apocalyptic fears.

At any rate, my husband and I were far away from home and family on that fateful New Year's Eve. Yes, if any catastrophes had occurred, our children were on their own! My husband and I were in Italy, as a matter of fact, doing some preliminary reconnaissance for the spring academic quarter when we would be leading a group of students for two months around Italy.

New Year's Eve found us in the compact and wonderful hill town of Todi.

As the evening rolled on, and the new year arrived in Japan and Australia and India, it became obvious that the world's infrastructure had made the leap into 2000. Everyone relaxed and began to enjoy the festivities.

My husband and I first dined in a subterranean restaurant near the town's main square. A memorable, set dinner, boasting several delicious courses and the type of Italian table wine that makes you want to have wine with every single meal.

After eating, we walked back up to the main piazza and mingled with the crowd. The weather was crisp but not Chicago-cold, so walking and mingling was popular. As we meandered around the piazza, city workers passed through the crowd and passed out plastic flutes of champagne! (Perhaps it was Prosecco, but equally lovely.) I personally considered this the nicest touch of the whole evening. Sipping and strolling, we absorbed the magical atmosphere in Todi as the clock approached midnight.

At one end of the piazza, a stage had been erected, and the tech crew were putting the finishing touches on the band's equipment. Soon the minutes had dwindled down to five. More champagne/Prosecco circulated through the crowd. More folks gathered in the piazza. Finally, the countdown! Midnight arrived, kisses were shared, greetings were spoken, and the fireworks began!

Todi is really a very small Italian hill town. It's quite vertical, so the main piazza truly is the focus of the public life of the town. That night, it seemed that the entire population had gathered in the piazza, yet the feeling was open and festive rather than jam-packed and claustrophobic. Once the fireworks finished, the band began to play, and everyone just danced around in their own free-spirited way whilst sipping on their drinks. Suddenly it struck me that this was a town party, in the very best way. No concerns about crowd violence or other threats. Just friends and neighbors and a scattering of tourists, laughing, dancing, drinking, and celebrating together.

New Year's Eve 1999 remains my ideal of a good public celebration. We could never have something like that here, but it cheers me every year to think that the budget for the town of Todi includes free Prosecco in the piazza at the New Year. Buon anno! Auguri!

Saturday, December 17, 2016

The Wrong Little Town of Bethlehem

I spent the Christmas season of 1973 in Great Britain, splitting my time between Scotland and London.The Scots didn't tend toward elaborate Christmas decorations and displays then, although things may have livened up in the intervening years. London displayed a more Dickensian spirit toward the holiday, but the combination of a coal strike and the first oil embargo meant that all the colorful Christmas lighting couldn't be turned on for lack of electricity. Christmas, therefore, seemed different to me in many ways.

Scotland did not, however, let me down completely. Our residence hall at the University of St. Andrews partook of a delightful and delicious Christmas feast before everyone went home for the break. We didn't have a boar's head brought in, but we had some tasty dishes that were new to me and I enjoyed everything.  The final dish to appear was the Christmas pudding. Each table had its own pudding, and these were delivered flaming!! That seemed rather spectacular to me. I was enjoying myself immensely. I dug into my serving of pudding with enthusiasm. Suddenly I bit down on something hard. Uh oh. That's not a surprise that I welcomed. I reached into my mouth and retrieved a silver coin. What on earth? I'm muttering to myself when the friend sitting next to me said "Oh, you've got the sixpence!" Apparently, whoever found the silver sixpence in her portion of pudding would have good luck in the coming year. I laughed and put the coin in my pocket. I still have that silver sixpence!

I spent another pleasant evening before Christmas attending the St. Mary's College Ball. St. Mary's was the divinity school portion of the University of St. Andrews and was where I was taking all my classes. An older student named Iain invited me to the Ball, so I rustled up a formal dress and off I went. We had a grand time, and I felt like I was celebrating Christmas quite well.

All of this is to say that when I read notices of the University's Christmas Carol Service, I made sure to be in attendance. I looked forward very much to singing the old familiar carols.

The service took place in St. Salvator's Chapel, a beautiful Gothic-style building in St. Salvator's College (the undergraduate liberal arts division). Many, many people packed the chapel and sat ready to sing. The program listed a satisfying number of familiar carols. Interestingly, only the words were provided in the program, accompanied by the name of the tune we were to sing for each carol. In Great Britain, folks don't always need the music because they know the tune of Duke Street, for example, or Kingsfold, or Diademata. I was a little at sea here, but enough of the hymn tunes were familiar that I managed. I continued to hope for a familiar match-up of words and music. Finally, the title "O Little Town of Bethlehem" appeared next on the list. I was so happy! I even knew harmony on this one. I could sing with 'full heart and voice'.

Not so, not so. The carol began and the rest of the congregation burst forth into song. I had no clue what this tune was. None. I had never heard it. I couldn't sing a note. Whose idea was it to substitute the 'wrong' tune for such a beloved carol?

It's difficult enough to be thousands of miles away from one's family at Christmas, but to have even the most cherished and familiar carols sung to different tunes shook me up a little. I rallied, however, and vowed to learn the new music I'd just heard. I still can't automatically sing a hymn tune simply from its name, although I do know a few. But over the years, the "new" tune used for "O Little Town of Bethlehem" has become my favorite. Yet another souvenir of that unusual Christmas.

Thursday, December 15, 2016

An Unforgettable Coca-Cola

I was watching Coke's Christmas commercial earlier today and smiling at how well it conveyed the absolutely spot-on refreshment an ice cold Coca-Cola can provide. If I still drank sodas, I would have jumped in my car and gone to the market to pick up some bottles of Coke immediately. An ice cold Coke satisfies in so many wonderful ways.

Let me tell you about the best, most refreshing, most satisfying Coca-Cola I ever drank. I will never forget how good it was.

In the spring of 1974, my friends Jane and Kris and I were backpacking round Western Europe during our spring break from the University of St. Andrews in Scotland. We took trains and stayed in youth hostels and carried our possessions on our backs. Very typical of 20-year-olds in Europe in those days. Our trip began in Paris, after an overnight ferry crossing of the English Channel. From Paris we rode the train to Geneva and a few days later to Zurich. A few days after that we hopped on an overnight train to Rome.

Rome boasted plenty of lovely sunshine and balmy temperatures. We felt like flowers opening up to the springtime after several months of rather gloomy weather in Scotland. We found the youth hostel without too much trouble, venturing forth on Rome's public bus system. Unburdening ourselves of our backpacks (which we could leave safely with the hostel staff), we set out to go to Piazza San Pietro (St. Peter's).

We thought we had figured out which bus stop would take us back the way we had come and would deliver us to St. Peter's. A bus came along and we hopped on. Wrong choice. The bus went two stops in the opposite direction and everyone got off. It was the end of the route! Oh good grief. There we stood: tired from our relatively sleepless train journey, hungry, a bit rumpled, very hot from the lovely sunshine, and, suddenly, dreadfully thirsty.

Being intrepid travellers by that time, we looked around to see what opportunities awaited us before the bus started its route toward St. Peter's again. Close by was some sort of bar, as I recall. The three of us went in.

Ahhh. First of all, the bar was air conditioned! Not really usual in those days. We had chosen well. We sat down and the bar tender came over to us. We ordered three Coca-Colas. We didn't expect them to be cold, really. (In Europe, drinks were generally tepid.) At this point we simply needed something familiar to drink. The bar tender quickly brought us three bottles of Coke with straws sticking out.

As soon as we picked up our bottles, we knew these were ice cold Coca-Colas. That first long sip from the straw nearly brought tears to my eyes. Sooo cold, sooo delicious, sooo Coke. Oh my goodness. No one said a word. We inhaled those Cokes. Suddenly, we knew our time in Rome was going to be wonderful. (And so it proved, but that's another story...)

We may have ordered another 'round' of Cokes. I can't remember. It seems likely. Fortified and refreshed, we left the bar, caught the bus to St. Peter's, and began our explorations.

Nowadays, I can't imagine drinking a Coca-Cola. The sugar would overwhelm me. I haven't had any soft drinks in many years. As I think about it, I probably will never taste a Coke again. Isn't that funny? But once upon a time, in a far country, an unexpected ice-cold Coca-Cola brightened my day unforgettably.

Tuesday, December 13, 2016

I Know What the Shepherds Felt Like

As I set up our Nativity scene each year, I stop and think about each figure as I place it. I usually smile when I think about the shepherds who were watching their flocks by night when the heavenly host appeared in the brightly illuminated sky. I know exactly how that stunned them. How could that be? It's what my earliest memories of Christmas are like.

The bright lights part.

My father could do so many things and had taught himself a great deal about photography. He was an especially talented videographer, to use today's term. Our family movies stand the test of time in both quality and subjects. Daddy was good at taking movies.

What family doesn't take photos at Christmas, and nowadays, videos? We have a treasure trove of Christmas movies. These were not, however, completely spontaneous.

After I was in bed (I'm the oldest child, so I have a few solo Christmases to recall), my father set up his big flood lights in the living room, carefully positioning them so as to catch my face when I toddled down the hallway and saw what Santa had brought. He also set up his Bolex movie camera on its tripod, loaded with new film, ready to roll. All that was necessary was that he should get in position before I slipped out of my bed and ran into the living room un-photographed.

He and my mother must have slept very lightly on Christmas Eves!

Usually my mother intercepted me, and held me up long enough for my father to get in place and fire up the lights and the camera. (I can remember later Christmases when she had to physically restrain all three of us children, blocking the doorway to the living room!) My Christmases truly began with "Lights! Camera! Action". As I approached the living room, I remember the absolutely blinding light from those floods. When I watch those movies, I can only laugh at that dazed, squinting, confused little girl who had to hold her hands up to block out the brightness so she could see her presents.

Once I was in the room, the lights didn't bother me and I could focus on my stocking and my toys. My father continued to film me for awhile, and then shut off the camera AND the lights. The world returned to normal.

This approach to filming Christmas continued for ten years, so that we also have movies showing my sister and I being dazzled by the lights, followed later by my sister and brother and I staggering into the living room, overcome by light. Definitely a theme running through our Christmas movies.

The advent (pardon the pun) of new video technology eliminated the need for those bright floodlights. Super 8 movie cameras, followed by huge video cameras, and then more video cameras opened up vast new possibilities for my father's film making talents. Christmas now had gentler video coverage but I had left the shepherds behind.

Nevertheless, I can still understand how bright lights can overwhelm an unsuspecting person, rendering her confused, unsteady on her feet, and in need of some guidance. Sounds a bit like what struck the shepherds 'in fields as they lay' on Christmas, doesn't it?

Saturday, December 10, 2016

The Third Rail and the Pilot

All parents try to be diligent about teaching their children how to be safe in the outside world. We hold their hands while crossing the street, we teach them to look both ways when crossing, we teach them how to ride the bus and the train, and we especially teach them about railroad tracks. Or at least I did! Once I seem to have been much too successful about that one.

In Chicago, my children and I rode the "L" all up and down the Ravenswood Line (now simply called the Brown Line, how dull). We used it to get to and from the wonders of the Loop and to and from Wrigley Field. A simple ride on the Ravenswood Line filled many an afternoon, when we "looped the Loop" practically for free. Naturally, I had repeatedly talked to them about not ever touching the third rail of the tracks, because that one was "live", full of electricity to power the train. Going to and from the Loop we never needed to worry about walking across the tracks because everything was elevated above the roadway. Easy as pie.

One day, however, when my son Peter was about 3-ish, I left him with a close friend while I had a job interview or something. An unremarkable day. When I arrived to pick him up, I found my friend laughing ruefully in consternation about Peter. She lived very close to the Rockwell stop on the Ravenswood Line, and she and Peter and her own two children had set out to walk down the street, across the tracks, and then to the bakery, where she wanted to buy some bread. All went well until she tried to get Peter to cross the tracks and proceed down the other side of the street.

No, ma'am. I won't cross those tracks. If we step on the third rail, we'll die. He wouldn't budge. No matter how my friend tried to show him that the third rail didn't extend into the pedestrian crossing, Peter could not be moved. His mother had told him about that third rail. He wouldn't even let my friend carry him across, because he knew she would be killed! So the discombobulated little group had to turn around and return to her house.

My friend and I did laugh about it, but I know she was flabbergasted. Peter and I drove back to our apartment. I praised him very much about remembering what I had told him about the third rail. Then I explained how it was possible to cross those tracks at street level because the third rail stopped well before people would cross and didn't resume until after the train had completely passed the street. I explained how the power fed into the rear cars while the front car disconnected to the third rail and then when the rear cars lost the third rail the front car had already picked it up again. Smooth as smooth. Peter absorbed everything I said (Mr. Sponge), and the next time we drove past the Rockwell stop, we parked our car and walked over to examine the rails very closely. That sealed the deal. He saw exactly how things worked at a level crossing.

Fast forward several decades. Peter now flies 767s for United Airlines. He defines what a careful pilot should be. No pilot in a cockpit is more aware than Peter of everything going on in that airplane. I have never met a more careful pilot or driver of an automobile. Peter pays attention constantly. (He left his first professional job as a flight instructor for a flight school in California because he witnessed the shoddy maintenance of the planes and experienced the refusal of the management to correct the problems.)

He's super careful with his little twins, and we practice train safety with them all the time. Their experiences are on the Metra so far, but pretty soon they'll graduate to the L.  Then it will be his turn to expound on the dangers of the third rail. He will be sure to explain about level crossings, though, unlike his mother!

Thursday, December 8, 2016

Goodbye John Glenn

We had seven true heroes in the US when I started school. The last one died today.

I can't really convey how much we kids idolized the first astronauts, the Mercury 7. Those of us who lived in Tidewater Virginia boasted of Alan Shepherd's living in Virginia Beach and of the astronauts' training in Hampton at Langley Field. We followed every news story diligently. (I'm confident the space program helped develop improved reading skills all over the area!) In that era before "smart classrooms", our teachers brought in televisions so that we could watch the launching of Shepherd's and Grissom's capsules. Breathlessly exciting they were.

It seems so naive now to be excited about a spacecraft orbiting the earth. How many things orbit routinely, 24 hours a day? But in 1962, we didn't know if that would work for the US. The Soviet Union had already placed two different astronauts into earth orbit, so we understood it could be done. But could we do it?

The day John Glenn climbed inside his capsule and prepared for launch remains quite vivid to me. I can still hear Walter Cronkite's voice narrating the step by step process as Glenn approached the launch pad. I can still see that joyful smile on Glenn's face as he climbed inside the capsule. (Have you ever SEEN a Mercury capsule? How did they even fit inside it?) Then the countdown, and the scenes of the crowds waiting at Cape Canaveral, and the scenes from inside Mission Control, and finally "T minus 10 seconds and counting". Oh, my goodness, what an exciting moment.

Glenn's spacecraft successfully entered earth orbit and we cheered. On the television, we could follow his path around the earth via a track that as I recall looked like a sine curve. An anxious moment made us watch intently as his capsule communications switched from the continental US to Perth, Australia. Static, static, then the acknowledgment that Perth "had him". Yes! One orbit, two orbits, and then three orbits. Time to come home. Of course, nothing is a given in spaceflight, and Glenn and NASA had to deal with the possible loosening of the heat shield and the destruction of everything in a re-entry fireball. What would happen? Watching that capsule break through the clouds and safely land in the ocean caused much rejoicing. We were on our way to space!

John Glenn was everywhere in the news for the next couple of years. He paraded in cities big and small. He was the face of the space program without a doubt. The parade I remember best was when he returned to his hometown in Ohio and the citizens honored their native son. I remember watching Glenn and his wife Annie, and watching the friends and neighbors amongst whom they had grown up. It didn't get much better than that in those early years of NASA.

What I admired most about John Glenn was his determination to continue contributing to our country. You would think his career as a fighter pilot and an astronaut fulfilled that goal. Yet Glenn's integrity and ideals led him to the U.S. Senate for over 20 years. By all accounts, he served his constituents well and faithfully.

After retiring from the Senate, while in his mid-70s, Glenn returned to space! He flew again, this time on the space shuttle. I still smile at the thought. No age barrier for him. Good for you, Mr. Glenn.

Now he has slipped the bonds of earth and belongs to history. I'm sad to say goodbye but oh, so grateful for his courage and his service to us all. Thank you, John Glenn.

Tuesday, December 6, 2016

A Little Behind in My Decorating

Last Saturday, delivery men brought us a new couch. I am enjoying it very much. We enjoy having the extra seating space and look forward to having our family stretch out comfortably over the holidays.

The one fly in the ointment is that the loveseat and overstuffed chair it replaces can't be picked up by St. Vincent de Paul until the 19th. Our living room closely resembles a furniture warehouse, in fact. This would not necessarily cause a problem in, say, September, but it certainly is cramping my Christmas decorating plans. No point in buying a tree: no place to set it up. No point in unwrapping all my little knick-knacks and dispersing them throughout the house. No point in bringing my decorative lighted penguins up from the basement, because I can't get them outside onto the porch! No point in sending my husband up into the attic to bring down the boxes of decorations: they would completely fill up the rest of the living room and we would not be happy.

All of this means I truly am celebrating Advent this year rather than Christmas! I enjoy the anticipation of Christmas itself. I light the Advent candles every time I sit down to eat. I faithfully put the little magnetic figures of my Advent calendar up on my kitchen cabinet door. I listen to my collection of Christmas and Advent CDs playing all day long. I watch the snow falling and hear the winds blowing. I read.

I'm not able to get out to the shops very much this year, so most of my Christmas purchases come on-line. This brings its own fun, because I can also spend time poring over catalogs! Frankly, this enforced calm regarding decorating and shopping brings quite a nice change from the usual compulsions.

I don't recommend redecorating your living room just before Christmas, but there might be compensations. Savor that hot chocolate and listen to Christmas music, because you can't put lights on your non-existent tree anyway!

Saturday, December 3, 2016

Tiny Tim, George C. Scott, and Christmas

Just on a whim, today I re-read Dickens' A Christmas Carol. It never stales. I paid more attention than usual to how descriptively Dickens writes, and how economically he advances the story. Wouldn't it have been amazing to hear him read his own stories when he toured the United States so long ago? Today proved a good time to cuddle up on the couch and spend Christmas with Tiny Tim.

Tomorrow I'm going to hunt out our DVD of A Christmas Carol, starring George C. Scott as Scrooge. Our family regards this as the best film presentation of the story, hands down. If you haven't seen this version, do try and track it down over the Christmas season. The supporting cast are excellent, even though I can't remember any names! But George C. Scott elevates this film to a high level that other versions don't. (Do any of you remember watching "Mr. Magoo's Christmas Carol" way back when? Oh Lord.)  As he follows the three Spirits through the visions of Christmases Past, Present, and Future, Scott delivers a masterful presentation of the terrified, haunted, and repentant Scrooge. Scott brings Scrooge to life more realistically than other actors I have seen. Once you've watched him awaken on Christmas Day, overwhelmed with joy and delirious with happiness, you won't settle for any other film presentation of this universally beloved story. I never tire of watching it. I urge you to add it to your holiday film list. You won't be sorry! And God bless us, every one.

Friday, December 2, 2016

Yes, I still send Christmas cards.

I set aside today for the annual signing and addressing of my Christmas cards. I'm about halfway there at this point and hope to mail the lot tomorrow. South Bend doesn't offer a great variety of sources for what I consider good cards, but I can always count on Barnes & Noble for Gaspari cards. I'm pleased with what I bought yesterday.

Why should I bother?

Precisely because it's not a bother.

This yearly activity has become a present I give myself. My card list has remained the same for decades, with a few emendations. In my little address book, I note which years I sent cards to which people. (Note to self: Santa needs to drop a new address book in my stocking!) As I work my way from A to Z, I focus on who will receive that card. I see them in my mind's eye. I hear their voices. I may even recall their houses! I remember what lovely, happy moments we've shared in the past, as well as the times we have wept with each other. The hardest moments come when I have to strike out someone's name because they have died. I sometimes comment to my husband about a particular person and share an anecdote with him. When I'm carefully writing the name and address on that card, I am actually in the presence of that person and sharing everything about that friendship or family relationship. I am 'visiting' with those who are going to receive that card.

What could be more refreshing amidst the ridiculous clamor of commercial Christmas? Spending a couple of minutes in communion with a dear friend or family member as I write out a card? Absolutely. This simple yearly custom gives me far more than it gives the recipients. I realize anew how rich I am in amazing and loving friends and family. I travel down memory lanes without number, which brings back memories of more friends and family who have left this life. I confess that I wallow in love and laughter as I address my cards.

Needless to say, I also pray for the recipients as I seal up each card.

I know it's a little bit expensive in this day and age, but I plan for this every year and count it as one of my Christmas presents. If you don't send cards, please don't feel guilty if you receive one from me. Rather, think of your card as a present to ME that my remembering you allowed me to give myself.

Now back to 'visiting' with those on my list. Happy Christmas!

Thursday, December 1, 2016

Pregnant at Christmas

No, I am NOT pregnant. Rest easy. I have been reflecting on the fact that my first and third pregnancies spanned across the Christmas season, which led me to some treasured moments. I know that some of my former students and other friends are pregnant right now. I'm thinking of them, too, this season.

Advent made quite an impression on me during my first pregnancy. By that point, I was feeling quite well and could enjoy all the preparations. To my surprise, Mary increasingly became the focus of my Advent reflections. I think she really gets lost in all the hype about Christmas anyway, and I received so much grace and encouragement in my own journey to childbirth from reflecting on Mary's journey from the Annunciation to the Nativity. Reading and re-reading the Gospel stories about the Nativity gave me more insight into Mary's experiences than I could ever have imagined. Carrying my own first child made me feel like a true companion to Mary as she carried Jesus. I hadn't anticipated this at all.

My first Christmas as an expectant mother forever changed the way I experienced Advent. Now I understood the waiting, the anticipation, the longing. I tried to emulate Mary's calm, Mary's quiet joy, Mary's faith. I celebrated the Nativity with extra joy that year, I think.

My second Christmas pregnancy followed the loss of our second child two years before. I was near to term by Christmas, so Advent mimicked Mary's journey to Bethlehem even more closely. You may imagine how anxious we all were that this child would be born live and healthy. I clung to Mary during those weeks. And our little family rejoiced on the Twelfth Day of Christmas when our first son arrived, hale and hearty. His birthday provides us with a welcome excuse to keep celebrating Christmas until Twelfth Night.

Obviously being pregnant at Christmas can't happen to all of us. At least not in the sense that we will give birth to a child. But I think that Advent does give each of us the opportunity to prepare for the coming of something new in our own lives. Is there a new direction we want to follow in our life, one that brings fulfillment and joy? Is there something creative within us that we long to make present in the world? Is there some love that we want to share with those who have no love? Is there a way we want to engage with life that makes the angels sing? I believe this can be true for each of us. Mary taught me this long ago. I am preparing for yet another opportunity for grace this Advent and asking for her help along the way. I pray that each of you may find what you are seeking and that Christmas joy will find you.

Tuesday, April 12, 2016

The Sandbox

I want to get a sandbox for my yard. My twin grandchildren will be visiting me more and more and I think they will enjoy playing in sand at Grandmama's house. This afternoon, I roamed the internet looking at sandbox choices, and I found them in abundance. I could spend quite a bit of money on a sandbox! More than likely I will go for either a red plastic crab or a green plastic turtle (each with supposedly sturdy lid). I don't need Virginia Beach's oceanfront in my backyard.

Memories of our childhood sandbox rolled over me as I pictured the fun my grandchildren will have. In a shady, open spot at one edge of our backyard, my father constructed our sandbox. I remember his building it, so this must have occurred before I started school. He had scavenged some boards from our church during a renovation/construction phase, and he attached them in a large rectangle. He put the rectangle directly on the ground and made sure it was solidly sited. There it waited, no sand in view.

In a few days, a large dump truck stopped beside our gate. What on earth did that portend? The driver came to our door and spoke to Mother. They agreed on something, and he went back to the truck. He moved the truck so that the tailgate opened exactly at our by-then-opened gate. To our astonishment, he then dumped a load of sand right into our side yard. I can still see all that sand cascading out of the truck and piling up at the foot of our porch steps. After closing the tailgate, he drove away.

Now what? We had to wait until my father came home from work. He seemed delighted with this huge obstacle in our yard. Apparently, this pile of sand would move to our sandbox over the next few days as Daddy filled the wheelbarrow and pushed each load of sand to the box. The sand had even originated with one of our dear friends at church. Daddy had paid Mr. Robbins (who worked at the local hardware store) to send out a truckload for us.

Only a few days elapsed before Daddy completed the transfer of sand to the sandbox. We could barely contain ourselves. He had made a solid wooden cover for the sandbox and had put it on each night, so we couldn't even give the sand a trial run while he was at work. Once his work was done, we jumped in and began a stretch of years of happy play in that sandbox. Every night we helped him close it up,  and every day we helped Mother take off the lid. Our cousins would often visit and play with us there. It was so much fun, and even on the hottest Virginia summer days we stayed cool under that shady tree.

Each year, Daddy ordered a fresh truckload of sand and replenished the sandbox. We never knew when that would arrive. Yet seeing that pile of pristine sand in our yard came to mean that spring had come at last and summer would follow quickly.

Writing this has brought a smile to my face, remembering that sandbox. I can hardly wait to get out tomorrow and buy that red crab and set it up for my grandchildren! I hope there's room in it for all three of us.

Thursday, April 7, 2016

Sweet Harmony

I have been travelling for more than a month, here and there, so the blog has suffered. Not that I haven't had access to the internet, but rather because I've only had my mobile phone with me and I do not like typing long posts on the phone. Now it seems as if I will be in one place for awhile.

Here's what's on my mind today.

Last October I spent a long weekend in England, in the very north of Cumbria, not far from Carlisle and very near Hadrian's Wall. I attended a singing workshop at Stones Barn, offered by Maddy Prior, a marvelous singer whom I've admired since I first "discovered" her and her band, Steeleye Span. The weekend brought many opportunities to sing and have fun with her and with her co-teacher, Abbie. I enjoyed myself immensely.

To put this in context for those of you who don't know Steeleye Span or Maddy Prior, it was rather like one of Taylor Swift's devoted fans getting to hang out at Taylor's house for a weekend and sing with her till you dropped. Really. I didn't know whether to levitate with delight or keep singing.

One of the most memorable times came on the Saturday. All the participants had gathered to share a delectable meal at Stones Barn, and after we cleared away the pudding, some rather ad hoc singing occurred. This proved great fun. Up to that point, Maddy had sung only one of her signature songs for us, earlier in our rehearsals. Now that changed. Maddy and Abbie came forward to sing, and were joined by Maddy's former husband Rick Kemp, a formidable musician himself and long-time member of Steeleye Span. My delight knew no bounds. (I didn't even know he was going to be present.)

What they sang doesn't matter here, although the songs were gems. What struck me was the absolute comfort and harmony and ease that permeated their singing together. This is a special kind of harmony, born from years of working through music together, performing together, and living in close proximity. I could see it as they tuned the rest of us out completely and simply became part of the songs. I could see it in their glances, in the inflections of their voices, in the phrasing of the songs. I watched them pass the music back and forth among themselves. They showed us what the effortless beauty of years of singing together looks like. They gave us such a gift and they sparkled. I will long treasure that performance.

Recently my friend Alice visited our dear friend and former choir director, Les. He hasn't been well, lives far away now, and has suffered many serious physical problems. We mourn the diminution of his vigor, his mobility, and his overall health. He and Alice and I and our dear friend Dan enjoyed years of sweet harmony together. Les was our director and composer and creative challenger. Dan was our solid foundation (natural for a bass) and lent his erudition, wit, and charm to the quartet. Alice covered us all with her lovely, lovely soprano voice, fed us, and bound us together with deep friendship. I held down the alto role and generally helped out with everything, as well as being Les's substitute organist at various parishes.

We fit together well for years. We used to say that Les directed us with his eyebrows or his eyes. It's also true that whenever I played the organ and Dan or Alice cantored, we had a similar harmony in that we could read each other very well. We had shared so many things, not just music, over the years that our harmony was sweet indeed.

All of this changed more than 10 years ago. Les moved to Wisconsin and then to South Dakota, Dan moved to the Loyola area in Chicago, I moved to Indiana, and Alice remained in Skokie. We have never sung together since then. In fact, Dan died last year and has left us completely. Never did we imagine that we would reach our 60's and find everything so different.

Watching Maddy Prior and Rick Kemp singing together, then, in October felt bittersweet to me. I recognized and treasured the sweet harmony they showed us, because I remembered the sweet harmony that my friends and I had shared as well. Alice, Les, and Dan, we were so blessed.

Monday, February 29, 2016

Thanks, Lord Clark

At my high school graduation ceremony, many students received well-deserved awards in math and science and the humanities. Some of these awards came to me. Somewhere I still have the certificates and the plaques. The watch I received has long since bitten the dust. The award I have most cherished all those intervening years was the book derived from the television series "Civilisation", written and narrated by Sir Kenneth Clark. That book still resides on my bookshelf and has followed me everywhere since that June day. I could have jumped for joy when I realized it was a prize for me.

My son gave me the remastered DVDs of the "Civilisation" series for Christmas this year. At the moment, I am working my way through the 13 programs in the series. These programs transport me through time and space as wonderfully now as they did then. Let me tell you why.

Thanks to Lord Clark, I discovered the cultural heritage of Europe. He began with the struggle of European civilization to rise from the Dark Ages, and he led his viewers through century after century of art and literature and invention and music and architecture up until the 20th century. Although I was generally pretty competent in history, my knowledge lacked the depth as well as the breadth of Clark's presentations. He showed me the rich heritage available to study and to visit and to appreciate. He tantalized me with glimpses of the European cultural patrimony I have inherited. He instilled in me the longing and the dream someday to see these paintings and walk in these places and touch these buildings. I knew of some of these things, but now I saw them on the television screen and that opened a whole world to me.

When I spent my junior year at the University of St. Andrews, I travelled for three weeks on the Continent with two friends. I didn't actually have Clark's book with me, but his voice and his examples were always near. I stood amazed in front of Notre Dame du Paris, and in the Louvre, and in Saint Chapelle. When we got to Rome, I tried to see as many things as I could remember. When we walked round Florence, I felt as if I were in the programs, and when I saw Michelangelo's "Slaves", I had no words. (Never mind my first sight of the Capella Sistina...) It was an utterly overwhelming trip. I also filled that year with several trips to London and its treasures, and I spun round Scotland, England, and Wales as well.

The first course I enrolled in for my senior year when I got back to William and Mary was the intro art history course. I needed to delve deeper into what I had seen. I also needed to make my list of what I would see and do if ever I had a chance to return to Europe. The doors had been opened and have not closed yet. Many of you know I have a limitless appetite for art museums, architectural treasures, historical sites, and cathedrals. I'm always adding to my list, too.

I tried to incorporate these treasures into my teaching. I hope that sneaking art and architecture and literature into my classes grabbed a few students' interest and led them to look and hear and read more widely as a result. I doubt I'll ever know, but I  tried to pass on to them what Lord Clark did for me.

Lord Clark showed me what to look for and I am chipping away at that list. (I still hope to get to Aachen and see the head reliquary of Charlemagne,)  Clark died in 1983. I wish I had written him a fan letter to tell how much that BBC series has meant to me. Now back to the DVD...

Monday, January 18, 2016

Why Did We Want To Go To Australia?

After my friend's recent death, I took a long trip down memory lane and spent some time looking through my high school yearbooks. Oh my. Not only did I smile and reminisce, but I frequently scratched my head when reading what my classmates and friends had written. You will probably understand my dilemmas when I read things that began with "Don't ever forget..." or "I'll always remember when..." or "Can you believe we...". Honestly, I just don't remember most of these at all. At all. Amnesia doesn't blanket my entire high school career, and I can remember plenty of events and people. Yet all those little shared moments which seemed absolutely deathless then have vanished completely into the decades which intervene.

Several of my friends referred to Australia when they inscribed their yearbook signatures. Apparently a group of us had talked, over the span of several years, of travelling to Australia sometime after graduation. We were serious. I think the plan was to get there and live there in preference to the U.S. We weren't all going to fly out together or buy a boat and sail there (although that would certainly have been an adventure!), but the general consensus seems to have been that, weary of life in the U.S. and hankering for adventure, we would make our collective way to the Land Down Under and start anew.

Why did we want to go to Australia? Why not California?

Certainly at this time in our lives, California held out all sorts of alluring possibilities. We were children of the Sixties, embroiled in the Vietnam era, ready to chuck our familiar surroundings and our families and get out there. California offered an easy and logical destination. California didn't seduce us, however. I should point out that we weren't interested in drugs of any sort, so perhaps the California magnet found nothing in us to pull toward it. We were a pretty straight bunch.

The magnetism came entirely from Australia. Was it because of the distance from southeastern Virginia? Australia sits pretty nearly at the opposite side of the world, that's true. Was it because Australia, though exotic, uses English as its official language? (Most of us had studied either German or French, but Europe didn't make the cut.) Had some of us recently read On the Beach and thus harbored apocalyptic visions? (I know some of us had, but our Australian vision predated my own reading of the book.) I don't recall anyone lusting after the variety of animal and plant species that are unique to Australia. None of us planned to examine the Great Barrier Reef or work with the Aborigines or surf or work on sheep stations. I really can't say what on earth we imagined we could possibly do once we were there. Yet Australia lured us with a persistent attraction.

Who knows why? After more than 40 years, to the best of my knowledge, none of us has ever been to Australia. I still hope to get there, especially now that my son's a commercial pilot and I can jet around anywhere. Interestingly enough, both my daughter and my pilot son have already been to Australia. My daughter has snorkled above the Great Barrier Reef and mingled with kangaroos. My son has roamed Sydney and its environs. Visiting Australia seems quite possible now. If I fulfill that wish, I will think of my friends. I'll probably feel like I should plant some sort of flag in our honor (perhaps take a selfie??), and treat myself to a nostalgic moment.

But I don't think I'll ever truly know why we wanted to go to Australia all those long years ago.

Thursday, January 7, 2016

Lenny's Witness

Very early Monday morning, my school friend Lenny died in his sleep. He had battled Parkinson's and another, very rare and debilitating, disease, for several years. He had, nevertheless, kept living with enthusiasm and as much activity as he could manage. I last saw him in October, when our high school graduating class had a mini-reunion. It is saddening and unsettling to realize that he has taken that final journey so soon.

Lenny and I became good buddies in our junior year of high school, when we took our first journalism class and worked on our school newspaper. We were just grunts that year, learning the ropes and honing our reportorial and lay-out skills. (I can never use rubber cement without being transported back in time to those page layouts.) Mr. William Holbrook was our teacher and advisor, continuing his instruction after we had both been his students in sophomore English class. Both Lenny and I relished that class, and signed up for the next level in our senior year.

Lenny and I were co-editors of Trucker Topics as seniors. That meant much more work but also a chance to 'break in' new staffers and try out some of our own ideas each issue. Mr. Holbrook kept us focused and on an even keel, but supported us with understanding and wisdom. On slow days, Lenny and I would take a hall pass (in those days made out of a chunky wood block) and roam at will through the halls of the school. We were ostensibly either on our way to or on our way from the journalism room on some fictitious errand or other. Oh, we were such big dogs, and could go anywhere! We would just walk and talk, and we certainly could talk. Those days remain some of the nicest memories from high school.

Lenny took me to my first rock concert in the spring of our senior year. We went to see the Guess Who at Hampton Coliseum. Wow! I had a great time. Another nice memory from that year that involves Lenny.

After graduation, as everyone's does, our class exploded out into the world. Many of us haven't really been back in our hometown very much since then. Lenny and I lost touch during college, and I didn't see him to speak to him for decades. At a couple of the 'significant' reunions (30th, maybe, or 35th, or 40th) I was able to talk very briefly with Lenny and his wife, Carol (who was another high school buddy), but those conversations were pretty superficial and definitely short, typical of any reunion. At our last reunion in October, I was able to talk much longer with Lenny, and had a later, even longer conversation with Carol. I am so thankful I had this chance.

Now I have been reading Lenny's obituary (what a hard thing to do) and the multitude of comments posted on the funeral home's guest book site. All of this has filled in the intervening 40-plus years since Lenny and I were buddies. And these narratives and comments make me so proud to have known him, because Lenny shone like a wonderful star as he lived his oh too short life. He taught English at our neighboring, rival high school, and then became an administrator. Judging from the comments in the guest book, Lenny's students and fellow faculty members value him as one of the best teachers and colleagues anyone could have wished for. I have read comment after comment relating Lenny's high standards, creative teaching, caring advice, wicked sense of humor, unfailing support, and personal integrity. Think of how many lives he touched in those decades in the classroom! His friends remember his enjoyment of life, his wit, the hospitality of  his home, and the love he lavished on his wife and children. Lenny seems to have blessed so many during his life. That doesn't surprise me. It confirms that the qualities which made Lenny a good friend at age 18 continued to define him.

What a witness he has been to the power of virtue and wisdom and kindness and humor and love. I am so happy that he was my friend. I am even happier that he flourished into such an exemplary man. God bless you, Lenny. I will see you again.

Friday, January 1, 2016

A Memorable New Year's Celebration

My family didn't celebrate New Year's Eve with much enthusiasm or flash. No parties or dances or hoopla. We watched the Orange Bowl Parade on television, and if we were motivated, we stayed up until midnight. Usually we didn't make it that far!

When I spent my junior year of college at the University of St. Andrews in Scotland, I discovered how amazing New Year's Eve could be.

I didn't have money to fly home for the Christmas vacation, so I stayed in the UK and my parents sent my sister across to spend Christmas with me (as her high school graduation present). She returned to the US before New Year's, and then I went to stay with a good friend in Bridge of Weir, near Glasgow. Two other friends joined me there, and another friend from St. Andrews lived in the same town, so we had a nice group to celebrate with.

The evening began with a lovely meal at my friend's house. After that, we walked over to her schoolmate's house to spend the hours remaining until midnight. We received a warm welcome there, and the family treated us to a little concert of chamber music which they performed for us! Yes, there I sat, entranced to be included in such a wonderful musical moment. One of the boys had arranged the music for his family, and each person played a different string instrument, and I thought that this was a brilliant way to celebrate the new year. (I also promised myself that if I ever had children, they would learn how to play musical instruments and then we could have musical evenings like that!)

As it turned out, the evening was only getting started. We adjourned into the front hall of the house (which was a good-sized house and had an ample entryway) and commenced Scottish country dancing. I was delighted. By this time in my stay at St. Andrews, I had developed a great interest in and fondness for Scottish country dancing, and took every opportunity to attend ceilidhs (social evenings featuring the dancing). To be dancing in a friend's front hall at midnight on New Year's Eve seemed an unimaginable present.

Then the doorbell rang.

Some of you may have heard of the Scottish tradition of first-footing at the new year. Scots believe that the first person to cross your threshold after midnight influences your fortune in the coming year. If this person is a woman, or a redhead of either sex, your new year isn't going to be very lucky. If, however, your first footer is a tall, dark man, things could go very well for you in the months ahead. My friend's father opened the door and in stepped a fine, tall, dark-haired young man, so the new year was secure. We resumed dancing.

At this point, I thought a Scottish new year's celebration was pretty darn good. It even had a name, Hogmanay.  My friends and I were having a grand time, and it was already nearly 1 AM. This was heady stuff for me.

Suddenly, the dancing ended and we bundled ourselves up in our coats and headed out the door. Once we walked out to the street, I could hear bagpipes playing nearby. Sure enough, up the street came a piper, followed by a small crowd of people. Oh, goody, a parade, thought I. We fell in behind the piper and walked along the street. Soon we stopped at a house, and the piper led us inside. Clearly there was a party here, too. I remember meeting quite a few of my friend's neighbors and quaffing some nice whisky (Scotch) and nibbling some tasty tidbits. After a short while, the piper gathered us up and led us out to the street again.

To the best of my recollection (which is dimmed by the number of years that have passed and not the amount of Scotch consumed that night), we stopped at three other homes during the course of our 'first-footing parade'. We never stayed too long at any one house, and we had lovely breaks of fresh air between visits as we marched along. We might have even been singing some traditional Scottish songs at various points as well.

It was all quite magical and full of fun and good spirits. No fireworks that I recall. No incapacitating or obnoxious drunkenness. No huge masses of people making streets impassable. Just a small town's first-footing parties, with a piper to lead the way. Who wouldn't be charmed by such an evening?