There was a fine adventure
during our first week in
England, but I’d like to tell you
about one in the second week
first. (Did that make sense?)
During the first week we
were visiting the Throwers,
down in Chichester near
Portsmouth.
At week’s end they kindly
drove us up to Buckinghamshire
and turned us over to
Paul and Beryl Witheridge,
genealogical buddies of Anne.
Like the Throwers, Paul and
Beryl showed us a great time:
she, a superb cook, laying out
splendid meals (including a
salmon en croute I’m going
to try reproducing very soon);
and he, an Oxford graduate,
touring us around the University
and the old city.
Because Paul knew that
Anne and I were both fans
of the TV series, ``Morse,’’ he
created a ``Morse’’ pilgrimage
for us, leading us around to
area pubs and seating us right
where Chief Inspector Morse
had sat, berating his patient
subordinate Lewis. And Paul
and Beryl also conspired to
remedy a problem from an
earlier visit by Anne and me,
maybe ten years ago.
Back then, I’d been riding
her through Salisbury Plain,
spouting pedantry about
historic spots we were passing.
Ground mist steadily
thickened into fog just as we
approached a major attraction:
the Great White Horse of
Uffington. I was excited about
artist Anne seeing this awesome
figure, carved through
the turf and into the limestone
face of a great hill over
three thousand years ago. The
figure is stylized and seems
timeless; it almost portends
those spare paper cutouts
made by Matisse during his
last years.
And here’s what astounds
me: The local folk have carefully
maintained the Great
Horse, even as religions and
attitudes changed around it,
for thirty centuries.
The country folk have
always regarded it as sacred,
and neither medieval church
nor the 17th-century Roundhead
iconoclasts dared to
move in and destroy it. Hurray,
I say, for a sense of the sacred!
The horse, all sharp angles
and vital energy, is a football
field in length from nose to
tail.
Seen from below against
the lush green of the mountainside,
it’s breathtaking.
That’s what I wanted my Anne
to see, even as the fog thickened.
We crept along the road
below it.
``There it is!’’ I shouted,
keeping eyes riveted on the
obscured road. ``The Great
White Horse, right up there on
the hillside!’’ Anne’s response
was laconic. ``What hillside?’’
she said. And what hillside
indeed? There was no hill to
be seen, much less a prehistoric
horse.
When I told the Witheridges
about that disappointment,
they privately decided to
remedy it.
Without Anne’s knowledge,
we four set out on a leisured
drive to the Great Horse, approaching
the site from the far
side of the rounded mount on
which it is carved. We parked
halfway up the steep slope
and then trekked on by foot.
I can’t tell you my personal
elation at find that, though at
some cost, I could still climb
a height as I had for so many
years of hiking in England.
And when we reached the
mount’s broad top, I felt, as
Brits say, ``over the moon!’’
For the windswept top was
several acres of stubby grass,
and grazing idly across it were
dozens of sheep. As I walked
through them, they gazed
up with eyes wondrously innocent
of intelligence or guile.
Of course I said ``Hello, sheep,’’
repeatedly and got a few baa’s
in response.
As I walked towards the
edge of the hilltop, still another
wonder opened before
me: the whole of Salisbury
Plain, or at least a 180-degree
panorama of part of it.
A thousand feet below us,
it spread out for hundreds
of square miles, blanketed
by farm fields. There were
crisscross roads, church spires,
and clustered village houses.
Rising smoke suggested cozy
hearthsides indoors.
What an experience! Even
if it should be my last time
on such a height, no matter;
it will live on within me. I’ll
imagine that climb and the
wind-blown hilltop, the grazing
sheep and, oh, most especially,
that breath-stopping
view of the dear old Earth, still
steadily turning.
My Anne, meanwhile, had
been walked to another spot
of the mound’s edge and
realized that she was standing
just above the head of
the Great White Horse. (Later
we walked down beside it,
steadily more amazed by its
size and artistry.) Anne was
delighted, as were our hosts.
Nearby stood a much younger
couple, she turning slowly,
eyes closed, arms extended.
When I glanced toward her
partner, he explained. An old
myth claims a wish made and
backed up by that ritual at the
Horse’s head would surely be
granted.
I considered and set aside
closing my eyes and spinning.
I’d have stumbled and
bounced, tail over teacup,
down a thousand feet to the
plain. But then I turned to see
my Anne, bless her, making
her own slow spin.
I didn’t ask what my love’s
wish was. Didn’t have to.
READ ABOUT Jim Atwell’s book, From
Fly Creek--Celebrating Life in
Leatherstocking Country, at JimAtwell.
com.
Columns
Jim Atwell: Dear old earth, still turning
- Columns
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In These Otsego Hills: The losses are adding up ...
It is with sadness that we note the passing of long time friend, and distantrelative, Jane Patrick. Over the years we have worked with Jane in a number of organizations including Women’s Club and the Community Advisory Committee at Bassett. And, of course, in later years we joined her, along with the other Dinner Belles, for any number of delicious meals. But we do think that our favorite memory that we shared with Jane was when we discovered, having both married Cooperstown natives, that we shared Cooperstown Christmas plans.
Continued ... -
Up On Hawthorn Hill: Bird Feeder?
Bird feeder is a relative term. At least that is the case around here. A few mornings ago we spotted the first rabbit to visit the feeders. Normally, all we see during the winter are rabbit tracks crisscrossing the gardens.
Continued ... -
From Fly Creek: Cheers for the Blue Rabbit!
My handwriting’s always been an embarrassment. Way back in elementary school, while most of the others were developing a clear, sometimes graceful hand (especially the girls), my penmanship showed no improvement.
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In These Otsego Hills: This and that ...
We have found the weather so far this year to be on the unusual side. And while we have no problem with the fact that we have received very little snow, we are of the opinion that what we have had instead is not particularly to our liking either. In fact, we are very hesitant to venture out much as we live in fear that the rain will turn to mixed precipitation which will freeze into a sheet of ice. And we are definitely opposed to encountering a sheet of ice underfoot. In fact, we are so hesitant that we now have taken to canceling our participation in events based on what just might be a dubious forecast.
Continued ... -
Book Notes: Feinstein’s latest is sheer enjoyment
Most people who follow sports have probably heard of John Feinstein. As a nationally known author, sportswriter, pundit and broadcaster, he has brought a unique angle to sports journalism. His groundbreaking book on Bobby Knight’s 1986-87 Indiana University basketball team, “A Season on the Brink,” still resonates today as an all-time classic.
Continued ... -
Book Notes: No Trekkie should miss Shatner’s books
It would be hard to find a television phenomenon as popular as “Star Trek.” Even though it was only on television for three seasons and 79 episodes (1966-69) it attracted viewers and devotees that still follow it passionately 45 years later. The fanatical supportspawned several movies and television spinoffs. Star Trek conventions continue to this day. There has never been anything like it.
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Up on Hawthorn Hill: Making sense of things
A book I have been reading investigates the various ways over time that we have made sense of the world. It carries the reader through to the present via several seminal classical texts and ultimately aims to suggest a strategy for “ finding meaning in a secular age.”
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In These Otsego Hills: ‘Property must be secured or liberty cannot exist.’ − John Adams
Last week we were asked if we would be interested in previewing a documentary, “The Empire State Divide,”produced by the Foundation for Land & Liberty. And we were more than happy to do so as we understood the documentary dealt with the problems that continue to face family farms.
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From Fly Creek: Now wait a minute!
On the ninth day of Christmas, driving down Cooperstown’s Eagle Street, I saw something astounding! No, not “nineladies dancing, eight maids a-milking, seven swans” etc. I saw one jogger jogging. And puffing on a cigarette.
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In These Otsego Hills: Goals of the past and goals of the future
We have long subscribed to the concept that we are always more successful if we, number one, set a goal and then, number two, meet it. And this was our thinking when we decided before Christmas to watch at least part of every college football bowl game. It was perhaps an odd, if not completely nonsensical, goal.
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In These Otsego Hills: Not to our liking ...
It is with sadness that we note the recent death of Steve Nagel. The son-inlaw of our late husband’s cousins, Alice and Harvey Eckler of Fly Creek, Steve was married to the Ecklers’ oldest daughter, Gail. We had the pleasure of spending Christmas Eve with the Nagels and the Ecklers in Fly Creek, greatly enjoying the delicious food and delightful conversation.
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Up on Hawthorn Hill: Of birds and faith
I watch birds quite a bit. Every five days or so I send in a report to Cornell as partof its annual Project Feeder Watch program. The data, collected from volunteers from all over the country, enables scientists to track population trends. I would spend quite a bit of time checking out the visitors to our feeders anyway. Participating in the feeder program makes a personal pleasure that much more meaningful. It is rare that aesthetical and scientific endeavors work in tandem.
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Book Notes: Biography captures the real Stephen Colbert
It would be hard to find a comedian as unique as Stephen Colbert. As the host of “The Colbert Report” on Comedy Central he hasmanaged to leave his mark on the nation’s consciousness in both a serious and humorous sort of way. His unusual wit has allowed him to become American icon. It would be difficult to find another entertainer quite like him.
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From Fly Creek: Christmas and varied blessings
I’m still astounded! The last farmers’ market before Christmas, I was sitting up front, directly under the ceiling heater, shmoozing with the hoi-polloi. (That’s an awkward linguistic mix,but let’s let it go.) As I sipped my hot coffee, a gloved hand came to rest on my shoulder and a warm voice said, “Merry Christmas, Jim.” I looked to my left—it was Santa Claus!
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In These Otsego Hills: Always a learning experience ...
We must admit that we thoroughly enjoyed our 2011 Christmas celebration. We partook of Christmas Eve dinner at the home of Alice and Harvey Eckler of Fly Creek and Christmas Day dinner at the home of Sandy and Al Bullard of Milford. We had our usual Christmas Day brunch at home on Pioneer Street, although we must admit it was a tad bit later than usual as, what we enjoyed most about Christmas, namely our granddaughter Abby, took a great deal of time opening her Christmas presents.
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In These Otsego Hills: Coming up ... 2012
Difficult as it seems, 2011 is fast coming to an end. And it is always our hope that as a year draws to a close, the issues which have been in the forefront during the year will be resolved. Unfortunately, we suspect that will not be the case this year. Instead, we are fairly certain that many of the issues that plagued this year, will continue to plague next year. Thus we will find ourselves still musing about the same issues we have spent time with already. And while we have not come toany conclusions about many of the issues, we do think they would all likely benefit from both sides thinking critically about perspective, risk assessment and possible solutions.
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Up on Hawthorn Hill: Circularity
When she was a puppy my dog Gabby would run in what I described then as “circles of joy.” She celebrated her15th birthday a few weeks ago and despite the inevitable frailties that old age imposes upon all of us, she is doing pretty well.
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Book Notes: Grisham doesn’t disappoint
John Grisham is one of this country’s most popular authors. Every time he publishes a book it’s an instant best-seller. He appeared on the scene about 20 years ago with his tense legal thrillers, “A Time to Kill” and “The Firm,”and hasn’t stopped producing top-notch novels since.
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From Fly Creek: Still singing, beyond our hearing
This column from Christmas 2001 still speaks deeply to me, and perhaps will to you, too. Take it, please, as my Christmas gift.
Continued ... -
In These Otsego Hills: The 2011 Cooperstown Carol
Since 1984, with the exception of one year, 1999, we have looked forward at the end of the year to going through all the issues of the paper in order to glean those news items which have been worthy of note throughout the year and which should make their way into our annual Cooperstown Carol.
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In These Otsego Hills: The losses are adding up ...
