Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Monday, April 29, 2013
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
Boston On My Mind
Sometimes, timing is everything.
My mother called me this morning and said, "I was standing in front of the hotel where that bomb exploded, just a couple weeks ago."
My mother was born and raised in the city of Boston. Her grandfather was a streetcar conductor from the poor neighborhood of Paisley, Scotland who came to this country seeking an opportunity.
Somehow, through a turn of fate, his daughter met a sailor boy from the wild, exotic "Indian Territory" that became Oklahoma and a few years later, my mom was born.
Yesterday I got a package in the mail from a cousin in Arizona. Inside where some photos I've never seen before.
A short while later, I heard the news of the Boston Marathon bombing.
I found myself wanting to escape all the ugliness of the world, into the soft flowers of the coming spring... like I did this past weekend... but my mind kept dragging me back... but... I can escape backwards in time. At least briefly.
A Christmas holiday in Jamaica Plains, Boston, Massachusetts, 1949. My mom is holding a guitar on the far left, her older sister holds an unknown little girl with a doll. My grandmother sits behind my grandfather who is playing with one of my cousin's toy. My boy cousin looks like he has a ray gun or something aimed at the camera. My cousin Belle (Isabella, my grandmother's sister) sits with her father and my great-grandfather Robert McPherson on the sofa. ...Pondering who the mystery girl was... another photo fell out of the package...
A simple scene. But so powerful to me. My mom's mother stands in the snow, having shoveled out to the clothesline behind the farmhouse in Milton Mills, New Hampshire. My best memories of her are from this very place. The field behind the farmhouse, heading out to the trees (and a stone wall) were not farmed, but held wild clover and strawberries that smelled so good in the basking heat of the summer sun.
My grandmother had a twinkling eye and a low chuckle she would use to express her obvious glee and delight she took when me or my brothers did something "cute."
Her last 10 years spent with failing memories as her numerous strokes to away her personality and in fact, her very being, were very hard - especially on my mom - who visited the nursing care facility she was in, faithfully week after week. My seeing her with such life in her eyes was a special moment and a treat indeed. I can't thank my cousin enough for this...
What my great-grandfather would have thought of the bombing of a race on Patriot's Day, I do not know. I scarcely know what to make of it myself. I hear that many of the citizens of Boston have opened their homes and wallets to those that are far from home and stunned and shocked by this ugly event. I saw in the videos shown all over, over and over again, a large number people running towards those that were hurt and maimed to offer help and aid... Knowing Boston as a "removed Bostonian," I'm not at all surprised. The people there are "Yankees" in the best and most admirable sense of the word.
My mother called me this morning and said, "I was standing in front of the hotel where that bomb exploded, just a couple weeks ago."
My mother was born and raised in the city of Boston. Her grandfather was a streetcar conductor from the poor neighborhood of Paisley, Scotland who came to this country seeking an opportunity.
Somehow, through a turn of fate, his daughter met a sailor boy from the wild, exotic "Indian Territory" that became Oklahoma and a few years later, my mom was born.
Yesterday I got a package in the mail from a cousin in Arizona. Inside where some photos I've never seen before.
A short while later, I heard the news of the Boston Marathon bombing.
I found myself wanting to escape all the ugliness of the world, into the soft flowers of the coming spring... like I did this past weekend... but my mind kept dragging me back... but... I can escape backwards in time. At least briefly.
A Christmas holiday in Jamaica Plains, Boston, Massachusetts, 1949. My mom is holding a guitar on the far left, her older sister holds an unknown little girl with a doll. My grandmother sits behind my grandfather who is playing with one of my cousin's toy. My boy cousin looks like he has a ray gun or something aimed at the camera. My cousin Belle (Isabella, my grandmother's sister) sits with her father and my great-grandfather Robert McPherson on the sofa. ...Pondering who the mystery girl was... another photo fell out of the package...
My grandmother had a twinkling eye and a low chuckle she would use to express her obvious glee and delight she took when me or my brothers did something "cute."
Her last 10 years spent with failing memories as her numerous strokes to away her personality and in fact, her very being, were very hard - especially on my mom - who visited the nursing care facility she was in, faithfully week after week. My seeing her with such life in her eyes was a special moment and a treat indeed. I can't thank my cousin enough for this...
What my great-grandfather would have thought of the bombing of a race on Patriot's Day, I do not know. I scarcely know what to make of it myself. I hear that many of the citizens of Boston have opened their homes and wallets to those that are far from home and stunned and shocked by this ugly event. I saw in the videos shown all over, over and over again, a large number people running towards those that were hurt and maimed to offer help and aid... Knowing Boston as a "removed Bostonian," I'm not at all surprised. The people there are "Yankees" in the best and most admirable sense of the word.
Monday, April 15, 2013
Monday, April 8, 2013
The Thrill of Victory and the Agony of the Feet
As you know, a year and a half ago, while I was doing some photographs of gravestones requested by Find-A-Grave members, I found myself short of breath and nearly passed out amongst the mossy stones. Early the next morning, I did pass out on the way from my bed to the bathroom, a few short feet away. Alarmed, I got myself to the emergency room, and there, after much poking, prodding and testing, it was determined that I had been waylaid by a pulmonary embolism, a blood clot in my lungs.
The images showed that the probable source of the clots (there were three larger ones in my lungs) was the calf of my left leg. Forced off my feet for a bit, I was unable to walk much, and unfortunately my weight ballooned.
After several weeks of intense Physical Therapy for my shoulder, I was able to walk more normally, swinging my arms as I did so - for the first time in many months. I was able to use the treadmill at the local YMCA as well as the swimming pool, and with some effort (mostly stubborn muleheadedness) I worked myself to the point were I could walk 90 minutes at 3 1/2 miles an hour on a 8 percent incline.
The Doctor asked me if I felt "recovered," and my answer was "I don't know. I'd have to test myself."
So yesterday morning found me at the Hamburg Reservoir, (north of Reading, Pennsylvania) and looking at a sign that said "Commemorating the Appalachian Trail - 75 Years - 1937 to 2012 - Georgia to Maine. This sign is at the foot of Blue Mountain and near the location of the now long gone Winsor Furnace and the famous Hawk Mountain.
I used to walk up the mountain here when I was in Boy Scouts (many years ago) and have not attempted the rather strenuous hike in years. Could I do it? The path from the parking lot looked daunting.
About 1/2 a mile of steady walking up the path brought me to the crystal clear waters of the reservoir. The morning was cool, but I had started to sweat pretty freely from the exertion.
After stopping only once for a minute to catch my breath at a particularly steep part of the trail, I at long last reach the ridge line trail. I exulted! "I did it!" The trail from here to the overlook, while long and rocky, is basically level. One step after another, I plodded onwards. After some time, I spotted a neon yellow vest ahead, "I'm catching up to someone! Me!! Slow pokey me!" and then the vest disappeared at a bend in the trail.
"Oh well," I thought, "I guess they got their second wind." And onwards I went. The path getting more rocky and difficult. Suddenly, I was spooked by a voice behind me!
It was a lady wearing a neon yellow vest and two friends of hers, walking determinedly behind me. "Where did they come from? I thought to myself?" as they eventually overtook me and went by me. Somewhat befuddled by the exertion of the hike, and confused by the need to eat, I let the mystery of their appearance go. By that time, we were nearly at the overlook.
"Ugh! Look at the rocks underfoot, now I remember why I didn't come up here all that often!" I slowly scrambled over them and at long last, the object of my walk came into view. The Pinnacle. 1635 feet above sea-level, and 920 feet above the level of the parking lot, the overlook is spectacular. The three ladies that passed me asked me to take their photograph, which I did, asking them, "I thought I saw you ahead of me, and then you spooked me coming up behind me."
With a loud voice, overheard by the dozen or so people sitting in the rocks around us, one of the ladies says, "Jenny had to stop and pee!"
My brain flickered, and I thought, "oh...Oh... OH!!!!"
After a brief snack on a cool rock, during which I congratulated myself for having made it to the top. I started back down the hill, still working on getting arm around so I could pat myself on the back, when I saw three young guys in shorts and t-shirts RUN up the path I had so laboriously trod.
Now that burst my bubble! :)
The images showed that the probable source of the clots (there were three larger ones in my lungs) was the calf of my left leg. Forced off my feet for a bit, I was unable to walk much, and unfortunately my weight ballooned.
After several weeks of intense Physical Therapy for my shoulder, I was able to walk more normally, swinging my arms as I did so - for the first time in many months. I was able to use the treadmill at the local YMCA as well as the swimming pool, and with some effort (mostly stubborn muleheadedness) I worked myself to the point were I could walk 90 minutes at 3 1/2 miles an hour on a 8 percent incline.
The Doctor asked me if I felt "recovered," and my answer was "I don't know. I'd have to test myself."
So yesterday morning found me at the Hamburg Reservoir, (north of Reading, Pennsylvania) and looking at a sign that said "Commemorating the Appalachian Trail - 75 Years - 1937 to 2012 - Georgia to Maine. This sign is at the foot of Blue Mountain and near the location of the now long gone Winsor Furnace and the famous Hawk Mountain.
I used to walk up the mountain here when I was in Boy Scouts (many years ago) and have not attempted the rather strenuous hike in years. Could I do it? The path from the parking lot looked daunting.
About 1/2 a mile of steady walking up the path brought me to the crystal clear waters of the reservoir. The morning was cool, but I had started to sweat pretty freely from the exertion.
At the far end of the reservoir a small stream trickles down from the heights and the path wends its way through the green rhododendron bushes. I said to myself, "Okay, slow and steady. Its about a mile and half climb from here to the ridge line."
Time seemed to slow, the only sounds were the gurgling of the stream beside me, and the call of the birds lost from view high in the still bare trees.
At length, I passed a couple walking hand and hand that stopped and said, "Gorgeous morning!" And I replied, "Indeed it is!"
After stopping only once for a minute to catch my breath at a particularly steep part of the trail, I at long last reach the ridge line trail. I exulted! "I did it!" The trail from here to the overlook, while long and rocky, is basically level. One step after another, I plodded onwards. After some time, I spotted a neon yellow vest ahead, "I'm catching up to someone! Me!! Slow pokey me!" and then the vest disappeared at a bend in the trail.
It was a lady wearing a neon yellow vest and two friends of hers, walking determinedly behind me. "Where did they come from? I thought to myself?" as they eventually overtook me and went by me. Somewhat befuddled by the exertion of the hike, and confused by the need to eat, I let the mystery of their appearance go. By that time, we were nearly at the overlook.
With a loud voice, overheard by the dozen or so people sitting in the rocks around us, one of the ladies says, "Jenny had to stop and pee!"
My brain flickered, and I thought, "oh...Oh... OH!!!!"
Now that burst my bubble! :)
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
Morris Arboretum - Easter Weekend
The past weekend had some marvelous weather - so I headed to the Morris Arboretum, craving some fresh air and some signs of what seems to have become a belated Spring!
I was tickled to find some flowers had flowered - one of my favorites, Daffodils, or Jonquil (as my folks endlessly argue over which name should be used.) Narcissus jonquilla, or as I call them, daffy-dills were in abundance.
And so were the bugs!
Huge bugs...
Such fun! I lent the Lady Bug my embroidered "Houseboat Cap" while I took her (are any Lady Bugs "hims"?) picture and asked her to smile and say "Aphids!"
You can see the "complete set" of bugs on my Flickr page (here).
I think I wore that cap, subconsciously wanting the boating season "to get here." I am forever reminded of the lovely soul that embroidered it and some equally marvelous shirts - you know her, Punkn or Deanna of "My Loves, My Life," did them. I think she's amazing. :)
I was tickled to find some flowers had flowered - one of my favorites, Daffodils, or Jonquil (as my folks endlessly argue over which name should be used.) Narcissus jonquilla, or as I call them, daffy-dills were in abundance.
And so were the bugs!
Huge bugs...
 |
| A Daddy Long Legger! In the Redwood Grove. |
 |
| Praying Mantis amongst the Daffy-dills! |
 |
| A purposeful Ant striding through the English Meadow! |
 |
| A Lady Bug near the "Fernery" (a greenhouse loaded with Ferns) |
You can see the "complete set" of bugs on my Flickr page (here).
I think I wore that cap, subconsciously wanting the boating season "to get here." I am forever reminded of the lovely soul that embroidered it and some equally marvelous shirts - you know her, Punkn or Deanna of "My Loves, My Life," did them. I think she's amazing. :)
 |
| Embroidered Houseboat "Logo" |
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
Why Do We Anthropomorphize?
Giving human characteristics to animals, inanimate objects or natural phenomena is a human trait called “to anthropomorphize.”
Anthropomorphism carries many important implications. For example, thinking of a nonhuman entity in human ways renders it worthy of moral care and consideration. In addition, anthropomorphized entities become responsible for their own actions — that is, they become deserving of punishment and reward.
Although we like to anthropomorphize, we do not assign human qualities to each and every single object we encounter. What accounts for this selectivity? One factor is similarity. An entity is more likely to be anthropomorphized if it appears to have many traits similar to those of humans (for example, through human-like movements or physical features such as a face).
I don't see any face but it is easy to see that this poor, down on his luck OCHA is "riding the rails" (if the train ever comes!) ...Tossed from the saloon that featured Coors Light on tap because he had no money - he desperately wants to move on.
Where will he go? What will become of him? Is he destined to be run over and flattened like many of his ilk?
I hate to tell him that his wait for "the train" might be a long one. Those rails, while they connect at a nearby junction to others that head north (to destinations as exotic as Niagara Falls) and south to old mountain towns like Wilkes-Barre and "Jim Thorpe" (founded as Mauch Chunk in 1818), have not been served by a train in some time (sad to say.)
Those rails whose very existence were fought for and doggedly repaired after being badly damaged, repeatedly, by flooding caused by bad storms have an uncertain future - a future as uncertain as that poor, down on his luck, Orange Cone Head Alien's.
Anthropomorphism carries many important implications. For example, thinking of a nonhuman entity in human ways renders it worthy of moral care and consideration. In addition, anthropomorphized entities become responsible for their own actions — that is, they become deserving of punishment and reward.
 |
| -Courtesy of Photojournalist Alice Kay |
Where will he go? What will become of him? Is he destined to be run over and flattened like many of his ilk?
I hate to tell him that his wait for "the train" might be a long one. Those rails, while they connect at a nearby junction to others that head north (to destinations as exotic as Niagara Falls) and south to old mountain towns like Wilkes-Barre and "Jim Thorpe" (founded as Mauch Chunk in 1818), have not been served by a train in some time (sad to say.)
Well I lay my head on the railroad track
Waiting on the Double E
But the train don`t run by here no more
Poor poor pitiful me
Poor poor pitiful me
Poor poor pitiful me
Oh these boys won`t let me be
Lord have mercy on me
Woe woe is me
Those rails whose very existence were fought for and doggedly repaired after being badly damaged, repeatedly, by flooding caused by bad storms have an uncertain future - a future as uncertain as that poor, down on his luck, Orange Cone Head Alien's.
 |
| The late, great Lehigh Valley Rail Road |
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
