As Easter approaches, bleak
news on the candy front.
Cadbury’s, the staid old British
firm that produces such
splendid cream eggs, has
itself been gobbled up by the
American giant, Kraft.
The Cadbury’s name will remain
on the cream eggs; but
in the future, be careful. Some
may be stuffed with Velveeta.
In face of the takeover,
and as a comfort to you and
to me, I’m offering you your
Easter basket a week early. Its
contents are two final stories
from our recent England trip.
The events occurred within
minutes of one another; but
there’s some other, more
elemental link between them
that I sense but just can’t
pinpoint. Maybe you can.
Our first English week was
in Chichester, that dear old
cathedral town not too far
from Portsmouth. Early one
morning, I rode the bus into
the town center, intending a
quiet day of enjoying a place
that, again, I never expected
to see again. On arrival, I
opened my day of celebration
at a small restaurant down a
narrow, cobbled side street.
Wickedly, I ordered a classic
``cooked breakfast,’’ a lovely
spread of comfort foods and,
I suspect, a real maelstrom of
cholesterol. Not something
youÆd want very often, it features
a couple of fried eggs,
British bacon, baked beans, a
grilled tomato, and, if it’s the
real thing, a link of black pudding.
The last is hog’s blood,
simmered till it darkens and
thickens. It’s then made into
a link sausage. I’d call it an
acquired taste, like the Scots’
haggis or the Norwegians’
lutefisk. No black pudding
for me that day; I have some
self-control.
The first of my two events
occurred as I walked toward
the 11th-century Chichester
Cathedral, ambling along a
slate sidewalk between cathedral
and West Street. To my
left and down a slight slope,
a wide spread of lush grass
stretched to the building’s
side wall. To my right, alongside
the street, a bus shelter
held a cue of patient, waiting
Brits. An overcast day, and
comfortably brisk. So much
for scene-setting.
From the bus shelter, a lad
of about four escaped his
mother and galloped down
the slope onto the greensward.
It was a cold enough
that Mum had him sealed up
in a hooded snowsuit. Well,
you know I’m a sucker for
kids; I stopped to watch his
progress.
The lad picked up a fallen
twig about the length of his
arm, and was at once deep
into some man-against-monster
fantasy. He brandished
the stick above his head and,
considering his very small
lungs and voice box, produced
a creditable battle cry.
``ARRRGH!’’ he roared and
charged an invisible, much
larger foe. To my delight he
vanquished it, ending with a
foot clamped on its chest and
a flourish of the stick. Then he
turned toward further adventures_
and spotted an ancient
and half-sunken tombstone,
rising out of the grass only to
about half his height.
Again came his ``ARRRGH!’’
as he charged this new monster,
one dragging itself out of
the earth. ``Uh, oh,’’ I thought.
``He’s going to try to leap that
stone.’’ I saw at once that the
snowsuit legs were too baggy
to allow it, but leap he did. He
was partly successful.
The lad pivoted over the
small stone and ended hung
up on it, head on the ground,
legs waving behind. No roar
now; just a little boy’s panicked
cry. He struggled and
freed himself to fall sideways
onto the grass. I thought sure
he was going to cry. But then
he saw some old man watching
him from the sidewalk.
This warrior wanted no
sympathy. He picked himself
up, found his stick, and brandished
it at me. ``ARRRGH!’’
he roared, and galloped off to
attack the cathedral wall. Oh,
thanks, lad! What a show!
Then, in minutes, the
second event. I walked on
and rounded the base of the
bell tower. Between it and
the cathedral main entry
was a statue I don’t remember
seeing before. On a tall
granite plinth and made of
burnished steel, it represented
St. Richard of Chichester, a
12th-century bishop of that
very cathedral. A holy and
compassionate man, Richard
took special care of the poor.
He was much loved, and was
canonized not long after he
died. A short prayer that he
wrote was carved into the
statue’s stone base. As I stood
reading it, I realized it was
memorizing the prayer. It was
entering my heart.
The prayer’s first short
paragraph was thanks for all
of one’s life’s blessings and
for Christ’s bearing pain and
insult for humankind’s sake.
Then the prayer eased away
from formality, addressing
Christ directly as savior; then
friend, then, movingly, as
brother. And there followed
lines that seemed to leap forward
to the 1970’s, then back
to St. Richard’s time:
``Let me see you more
clearly, love you more dearly,
follow you more nearly, day
by day.’’
Yes. The writers of ``Godspell’’
had pirated Richard’s
prayer, though I’m sure the
old bishop didn’t mind. (And
of course, no copyrighting
back then.) But if you’re about
my age, you’ll remember
those gentle words and the
lilting melody that accompanied
it. ``Day by day, day
by day, these three things, O
Lord, we pray:’’ Then, in three
phrases, the whole Christian
pilgrimage is summarized.
Now, how do those two
events outside the cathedral,
that little boy warrior, so vulnerable
but so full of zest; and
the twelfth-century bishop
and his eloquent prayer_why
are they bonded in my spirit?
Beats me, friends. And so I’ll
just leave them in your Easter
basket. Let me know if you
figure them out. Meanwhile,
Easter blessings on you, day
by day!
READ ABOUT Jim Atwell’s book, From
Fly Creek--Celebrating Life in
Leatherstocking Country, at JimAtwell.
com.
Columns
Jim Atwell: Here’s your Easter basket
- Columns
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In These Otsego Hills: Continuing on from 1986 ...
We continue this week by answering the question we asked if anyone remembers the old Cooperstown National Bank? On May 13, we wrote: “Martha Dickison, Delaware Street, called to tell us about the Cooperstown National Bank where she worked at her first ‘real job’ after her graduation from school.
Continued ... -
Up On Hawthorn Hill: Spring inventions
The second line of Lawrence Durrell’s novel “Justine” reads as follows: “In the midst of winter you can feel the inventions of Spring.” I first read all four novels of his magnificent Alexandria Quartet during the year I traveled from Saigon to Paris after working in Vietnam for a refugee organization for several years.
Continued ... -
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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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In These Otsego Hills: Continuing on from 1986 ...
