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
-
-
From Fly Creek: Revving up for spring
Time to bring you up to date on Fly Creek’s happy clambering into Spring. First, the eatery scene. “Is Jerry’s open yet?” The answer is, “Oh, yes!” The porches are freshly stained; the lawns a uniform green, and the hop vines are already climbing the posts on the covered side deck. Blue and I went up there to lunch earlier this week, and I celebrated spring with my traditional bacon, onion and Swiss cheese hamburger. We two sat on the deck, enjoying the broad view and some spectacular clouds marching across, up toward Schuyler Lake.
Continued ... -
In These Otsego Hills: More from 1986 ...
This week we continue with the discussion of telephone service from the pre-dial days. On March 12 we noted that: “No one has yet produced a telephone directory from pre-dial days, but Doug Preston of New Hartford recalls that some business (which one?) in the village had the phone number 7.”
Continued ... -
Home Notes: Celebrations abound at the Thanksgiving Home
April was a month of celebrations and much to appreciate. We had a 90th birthday celebration for Wanda Noyes on April 4 including her family and friends. Personal care staff Dee Bouck worked with residents to hand paint Easter eggs for the tree in the activity room.
Continued ... -
In These Otsego Hills: 1986 continues ...
This week we continue our journey through the columns of 1986 with the answer to the question “for whom, according to tradition, was Hannah’s Hill named?”
Continued ... -
Book Notes: Baseball book features local contributors
Baseball is part of the nation’s fabric. Most kids have a memory of the game either from playing Little League, attending a major league contest or meeting a favorite player. In Cooperstown that feeling is magnified since we are the official home of baseball. We get to see firsthand what has made the sport the national pastime.
Continued ... -
From Fly Creek: Ya really wanna know?
SETTING: Fly Creek General Store. CAST: Assorted seated geezers, drinking coffee. [Door opens, enter heavy-set geezer; walking slowly with wide stance, maybe prostatitis.]
Continued ... -
In These Otsego Hills: Returning to 1986 ...
For the past several years now we have undertaken sharing some of the area’s oral history we have collected over the years that we have written this column. Therefore, this year, we would like to go back to 1986 to share that rather unusual year. Those who were here then no doubt remember that it was that year that the village celebrated the bicentennial of its founding.
Continued ... -
From Fly Creek: For reasons unknowable
[Jim’s reached back to 2002 to share one of his favorite columns.] My father was born as the last century began into a river village in tidewater Maryland. He told me once of a man there in his boyhood who, like so many, made a thin living tonging for oysters in the cold months and, in the hot and humid ones, crabbing and raising vegetables.
Continued ... -
In These Otsego Hills: CCS balancing act ... side two
Last week we shared a number of activities in which students at CCS can participate. We thought it was an impressive, if not overwhelming, list. And we are indeed pleased that the young people of our area have these opportunities. However, we think it is also important to keep in mind that these undertakings do have a cost associated with them. They are not free. In fact there are, no doubt, those who would say they do not come cheap.
Continued ... -
From Fly Creek: A graceful crowd
Make of this what you will, friends. I feel I’m really meant to share it with you. Despite good medication for my Parkinsonism, every four or five weeks I can sensethe symptoms building up on me, giving me more than ordinary trouble. Lately it’s been falls, and last week brought a typical one. I’d gone out to get the paper, moving along with penguin steps on the snowcoved ice patches, and usingmy spike-tipped cane the waya climber uses an ice axe. But circumstances overcame me. Parkinson’s wipes out the possibility of multi-tasking.
Continued ... -
In These Otsego Hills: This and that and the other side ...
We note that the CCS Class of 2012 is presenting its senior class play, “Snow White” by Tim Kelly, this week with performances 7:30 p.m Thursday and Friday, March 29 and 30, and at 11 a.m. and 7:30 p.m. Saturday, March 31. All performances will be at the Nicolas J. Sterling Auditorium at the Middle/High School.
Continued ... -
In These Otsego Hills: That green thing ...
Of late we have noticed that our email inbox has been much busier than usual. In fact, we find ourselves hard pressed to keep up with all the various messages we receive. As a result we suspect we have not answered some in as timely a fashion as might be thought appropriate.
Continued ... -
From Fly Creek: What you need to know
In their last Sunday’s bulletins, all 84 churches of Otsego County were to have carried announcements of an important meeting; most of them did. But because the announcement is so important, and not just to the churched, here it is again.
Continued ... -
Book Notes: Living the magic of ‘Hoosier’
A lot of people consider “Hoosiers” the best sports film of all time. The 1986 classic follows the exploits of a fictional small town Indiana high school basketball team in 1952 as it attempts to achieve the impossible dream of a state championship. The story is inspired by the true life achievement of the 1954 Milan team, who with an enrollment of only 161 students shocked big city power Muncie Central on a last second shot to win the state title. It’s the kind of sports story that represents something that is hard to grasp unless you live in a small town.
Continued ... -
In These Otsego Hills: The most perfect village... home to heavy industry?
We suspect we would get a whole lot more accomplished if we spent less time thinking, pondering and musing about things. In fact, there is a good possibility we might actually have completed our goal of cleaning the basement if we only focused on the task at hand, instead of trying to figure out the world around us. It almost makes us wonder if it is possible to think too much about things. We certainly hope not because should that be the case, we are in deep trouble.
Continued ... -
Up On Hawthorn Hill: The past in the present
Clichés abound about the value of photographs. Most are probably true at least to a certain extent. What I do know about an image is that it represents something of the past that is not the pastitself. But that is the power of any image. It represents something that once was. The beauty of an image, revisited, is that it functions as a catalystfor reliving in the present a past experience. My own view, one that I thank the Spanish writer Jorge Luis Borges for, is that all we ever can experience is the present.
Continued ... -
Home Notes: Workshops held for Thanksgiving Home residents
We welcomed Linda Keller, Ph.D. of the Bassett Research Institute and Ida Baker of NYCAMH who presented a six-week workshop for residents and staff.
Continued ... -
From Fly Creek: Late-winter hamlet news
Well, at least I’m “guessing” it’s late winter now — in the winter that wasn’t. But, if not snow, I can provide a flurry of Fly Creek news to share with you, scooping Associated Press, Reuter’s, and United Press International, not to mention all local news services except our General Store.
Continued ... -
In These Otsego Hills: Waiting for spring to have sprung ...
Difficult as it to believe, both January and February seem to have flown by and we find ourselves turning the calendar over to the month of March, which we have long thought is one of the more dreary months of the year. Of course, as in the pastthere are signs of spring as reflected by the tapping of the maple trees. For many years, the trees sprouted buckets to capture their all important sap. However, we now know to look for the sap collection lines that are strung from tree to tree.
Continued ... -
Book Notes: Kennedy: a unique individual
It’s been almost 50 years since the Kennedy assassination shocked the nation. Since then much has been written about President John F. Kennedy and whether he would have achieved his destiny (whatever that may have been) if he had lived. It is said he inspired young people in a way that has never been equaled. And there is the notion of Camelot, espoused by his widow Jackie, that there will never be a time of hope and promise like that again.
Continued ...
-
From Fly Creek: Revving up for spring
