This essay will appear
one day after my father’s
birthday. I do not have
much that is concrete to hang
on to since he died when I
was two and a half, sixty-three
years ago.
Add three years and that
will be my age early next
month. But I do have stories,
told to me by my mother and
several relatives. One of the
things that I have learned over
the years is that memories,
replete with their images, are
often more powerful than the
realities that they represent.
I felt that way quite starkly
when I finally got around to
visiting Thoreau’s Walden
Pond. I had a great day walking
the pond’s perimeter,
standing in the middle of the
small plot of ground that was
his cabin, and sitting on the
bank he sat on
musing on the
pond’s innate
wisdoms and
nature’s infinite
capacity to
teach us all we
will ever need
to know about
ourselves and
our preciously
short existence.
Today’s Walden
Pond has a
public beach,
its perimeter
path is littered
here and there
with trash, and
the silence that
so buoyed Thoreau’s
spirit has dissipated,
replaced by the sounds and
vestiges of modern life. There
is something to be said for
staying away
from mythical
places.
One of
my mother’s
favorite
stories about
my father is
about how he
would come
home from
his office, often
late, and
pick me up
and carry me
around the
Oriental rug
in his office.
At the height
of his career
he was the
country’s leading theater architect.
As a result, he worked
long hours and was away
from home often. I did not
have to be crying or cranky;
he just wanted to spend some
time holding me.
I can not claim to have any
immediate memory of those
moments.
But now, when I hold my
grandson Grant in my arms
and walk around the rug in
his living room humming the
tunes to him that I hummed
to his dad, it is as if time has
backtracked on itself and I am
my father and Grant is me.
The void deepened within me
over the years by his palpable
absence closes, if just for a
few moments, and I feel my
father presence in so tangible
a way that it is impossible
to describe. These are rare
moments of pure joy to hold
on to.
In ``The Brother’s Karamazov,’’
Dostoyevsky writes, "
that there is nothing higher
and stronger and more wholesome
and good for life than
some good memory, especially
a memory of childhood.’’
Mine is not an actual memory.
But it is a memory nonetheless,
a quite powerful one that
has always had the effect on
me of what Wordsworth calls
``a renovating virtue.’’
Pictures also have a way of
either conjuring up the past or
creating a memory that is as
meaningful, and useful, as any
rooted in real experience. Earlier
this year my cousin Fred
sent me several photographs
of my paternal grandparents,
neither of whom I ever knew.
One picture of them, standing
arm in arm, and seeming
to be looking right at me, sits
atop my desk.
My mother and father are
to their right, and my son Tim,
their grandson, sits to their
left. It is as close as we have
ever come to being together.
If I include myself, it is the
closest we have ever come to
a family gathering.
And the wonderful part
of it is that every day when I
turn on my desk lamp before
first light and see my family it
is as if time and death never
happened.
The pictures animate both
past experience and imagined
experience. Both are equally
powerful.
I would like to think that
each of us carries such lovely
baggage and that as we travel
through life and time from
year to year these moments
in our lives serve to wash
away the despair so easily felt
in light of humankind's increasingly
adept capacity for
self-destruction. Perhaps, to
Columns
Hawthorn Hill: Handed down memories of dad
- Columns
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From Fly Creek: Passing fronts and settled weather
(I owe the first part of this column to an informal writers’ workshop sponsored by the Smithy Pioneer Gallery. The small group, led by Gallery Director Danielle Newell, meets Sunday afternoons and is open to anyone interested in the writing craft. As a warmup exercise on that very rainy afternoon, we each wrote a few paragraphs on the weather and emotions. Here’s what that keen group prompted me to scribble down) The dour old Scotsman, the one featured in jokes without number about buying lottery tickets, pinching pennies, scorning worldly ways, etc., once silenced a friend who was praising the beautiful weather.
Continued ... -
In These Otsego Hills: We're back from Michigan ...
Unfortunately, we once again find ourselves stuck in a time warp. When we look at the calendar, we realize that Labor Day is fast approaching. Yet, we seem to be operating under the misconception that it is still early July due in large part to the fact that we spent the almost five weeks from July 15 to August 17 in Grand Rapids, Michigan. We feel the summer has sailed by and we, unfortunately, have not kept pace.
Continued ... -
Otsego Herald: Censorship?
All those indebted to John Lawrence, Post-rider, and do not settle the same IMMEDIATELY may rely upon having to pay cost!! Otego, Aug. 24.
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In These Otsego Hills: 1984 comes to a close ... finally
As we continue traipsing through 1984, we realize that even though we were supposed to be covering the comings and goings of Cooperstown, we actually were able, even then, to touch on a number of pressing community, as well as personal, issues. Of course, much to the relief of the powers that were at CCS, the school was not among them. The he-we ran for the school board in 1984 and was elected. Thus the school was deemed off limits by the powers that were at the paper. But we discovered there was still a wide range of issues upon which we could write.
Continued ... -
Otsego Herald: New school book
From the Otsego Herald for Saturday, Aug. 18, 1810
Continued ... -
Book Notes: Books offer tennis insights
Professional tennis sometimes seems to be the ultimate life. Where else could you travel the world, earn gobs of money, get in great shape, and have groupies from the opposite sex chasing you all the time? And you get all your equipment free to boot (which may explain why players smash racquets without remorse). Quite a glamorous life, isn’t it?
Continued ... -
In These Otsego Hills: Continuing our 1984 musings
Now that we have undertaken the beginnings of this column, we fear we find ourselves unable to stop our review of the early writings. In fact, we seem to be completely addicted to the project. And thus, we will continue to explore the very foundations on which this column has been built.
Continued ... -
Book Notes: Burnett's book recalls 'Golden Age'
It’s a shame that today’s young generation missed the golden age of television from the 1960s and 70s. The fact that Hollywood studios with their ``original’’ ideas of constantly remaking hit TV shows from that era into new movies and reunion specials is quite telling. Even Fox with its ``That 70’s Show’’ is a reminder of that whimsical time.
Continued ... -
Home Notes: A place to cherish
As we enter into the middle of summer, let us pause and relish in the fact that we have been blessed with such lovely weather.
Continued ... -
From Fly Creek: Hurray for Mother Bassett!
Just back from my annual week at Lake George’s Silver Bay, in company with about 600 other Quakers. As always, it was a great time: Friends shared silence in the early morning by the lake and during the day in the big brown-shingled tabernacle. (Silver Bay is an old YMCA camp.)
Continued ...
Plenty of fine stringed music and singing in the evenings; lots of daytime rocking-chair stints on the deep veranda, facing across rolling lawns and lake to green mountains and skies of startling blue. -
In These Otsego Hills: In the beginning
Our remembering Jerry in last week’s column has now lead us to muse about our early days of writing a weekly newspaper column.
Continued ... -
Book Notes: Prohibition should not be ignored
I was an American history major in college and one topic that my professors never discussed was prohibition.
Continued ... -
Otsego Herald: Elopement
From the Otsego Herald for Saturday, July 21, 1810 Compiled, with comments BY HUGH C. MACDOUGALL
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Home Notes: Personal Care is a rewarding occupation
When I was a young girl in the early 50’s my family would often take rides through Cooperstown and the Cherry Valley area.
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In These Otsego Hills: Remembering Jerry ...
Difficult as it is to believe, we have been a widow for eleven years this week. And yet it seems as if our late husband Jerry just died yesterday. The memory of it remains most vivid in our mind. We suppose there is much that we don’t remember about July 20, 1999. But we do remember just how much that day changed our life forever. We lost not only our spouse of 28 years, but also our best friend.
Continued ... -
Otsego Herald: Celebrating the 4th
From the Otsego Herald for Saturday, July 14, 1810 Compiled, with comments by
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Our Opinion: What’s good for the goose...
The board of trustees has decided to hire an engineer to review the work of CLA Site, the firm hired to do the site assessment and design work for the Village Gateway Project _ now known as the Cooperstown Intermodal Transit Project. That review will cost up to $12,000.
Continued ... -
From Fly Creek: ‘Thump-thump, dum-lum’
Since I last wrote to you I’ve been several times embraced to Mother Bassett’s bosom.
Continued ...
(Oh dear, I hope that’s not a disrespectful metaphor. But if you’ve seen photos, you know she was a handsome, dignified woman with an ample superstructure.) This time, for variety, the hospital visits at first seemed to have little to do with Parkinsonism. But a new problem had turned up that had me tested in every part of the hospital except obstetrics. -
In These Otsego Hills: Travels with The Widge...
We have decided that the role of grandmother is quite to our liking. As we have been told any number of times, as a grandparent it is perfectly acceptable to hold, play with and fawn over the grandchild until such time as said grandchild becomes fussy. And then, and this is the best part, it is completely within the purview of the grandparent to return the fussy grandchild to the parents. We love it.
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Otsego Herald: Shocking accident, American arrested
On Wednesday last, as Joseph Faulkner, esq. of Middlefield, was returning home from Cherry-Valley, a gust of wind arose up suddenly, a large Elm was blown across the road, directly on Mr. Faulkner, who, together with his horse was instantly killed.
Continued ...
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From Fly Creek: Passing fronts and settled weather
