Friday, August 20, 2010
Despite the glorious weather ...
... these past few weeks of summer have been "challenging." Not so much for me but for others, for whom I have the duties of pastoral care. The Book of Common Prayer brings this sentiment home: In the midst of life we are in death: of whom may we seek for succour? Plus, the combination of weighty decisions and a doozy of a summer cold has really gotten to me. No time to write, but now that the moods of the community are lifting my own mood is lightening. What I really need this next few weeks is the beach and the water. And this afternoon I connected with those vital ingredients!
Sunday, July 25, 2010
An Old School tie...
As readers of these rambling columns know I am a great reader of travel literature during the summer and autumn seasons, and that I have been frustrated of late. A few days ago I listed my favorite literary adventurers, but all have disappointed me. Chatwin and Thesiger are dead, so it is unlikely that they will be publishing future titles, let alone journeying down an unreported Somali river. Thubron has gone silent. Theroux has not traveled much of late and is publishing short stories and collections of his adventures. Bill Bryson has become all-too-serious, and clearly deeply rooted in his adopted Yorkshire, and as for that scoundrel Thornburgh… let’s just say that I’m long awaiting the sequel to Never Look Back, and wondering if it will ever come. So what am I reading this mid-summer?
A chance conversation with another writer and reader brought up the name Jonathan Raban. Nodding politely I thought, “I’ve never heard of this guy.” And of course that is a perfect example of my ignorance in this field, and later that day I went to Amazon Dot Com and ordered two of his works.
After three chapters into Old Glory: A Voyage Down the Mississippi, I am intrigued by many things. Yes it’s a great read and will sustain me for many days, but more than that. Something about his vocabulary, musings and world view addressed me in a very personal way. I had to know more about this stranger who seemed to share many of my views and interpretations as a “Brit” in the USA.
Imagine my surprise when I discovered that Jonathan Raban was not only the son of an Anglican priest (which I am) but also went to the King’s School, Worcester, (which I did.) He now lives in Seattle with his daughter, and I am about to write him a wonderful letter of greeting and invitation!
A chance conversation with another writer and reader brought up the name Jonathan Raban. Nodding politely I thought, “I’ve never heard of this guy.” And of course that is a perfect example of my ignorance in this field, and later that day I went to Amazon Dot Com and ordered two of his works.
After three chapters into Old Glory: A Voyage Down the Mississippi, I am intrigued by many things. Yes it’s a great read and will sustain me for many days, but more than that. Something about his vocabulary, musings and world view addressed me in a very personal way. I had to know more about this stranger who seemed to share many of my views and interpretations as a “Brit” in the USA.
Imagine my surprise when I discovered that Jonathan Raban was not only the son of an Anglican priest (which I am) but also went to the King’s School, Worcester, (which I did.) He now lives in Seattle with his daughter, and I am about to write him a wonderful letter of greeting and invitation!
Monday, July 19, 2010
AN OFFICER AND A GENTLEMAN
This fleeting weekend of summer marked the fifth anniversary of the death of a great man. Those readers outside of the United States may be forgiven for not knowing who Bill Westmorland was. And as for those readers inside the United States who do not know who he was? You have only yourselves to blame, or possibly your revisionist schoolteachers.
This weekend was also almost the eighth anniversary of my meeting with General William Childs Westmoreland. It was hardly a formal cocktail party! Six of us: Sandi and me (Kate playing somewhere), Helen, the local rector, the General and his delightful wife Kitsy. Gathered in a woodsy house in Cashiers, North Carolina. A Sunday evening also, and I had not been to church and expected the rector to poke fun at me, but it didn’t happen. That evening was simply a gentle gathering of neighbors.
It has to be said that Bill was, by then, in an advanced stage of Alzheimer’s syndrome, and although I had been warned about this in advance of his arrival, it did not help my disappointment on meeting him. He was every inch the soldier, upright, shoulders squared, chin up with cobalt (with a touch of steel) eyes. And yet he told me three times in the first few minutes that he had lectured in every state in the Union (which he had). But couldn’t remember where. Neither could he remember the Vietnam war, and his significant leadership.
Then came the most wonderful moment. I asked him, “Sir. May I fix you a drink?” He nodded and replied, “I’ll have a scotch and soda.” At that moment Kitsy intervened and said, ”Honey? I think you’d prefer a glass of red wine.” Which I duly poured and handed to him. And the WW2 Commander of the 82nd Airborne, and the Vietnam supremo's eyes (and maybe mind) came to life, flashed, then winked at me and said, “God damn it!”
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Of mountains and minnows...
“Oh my God! Smell that air!”
And we both said that, my travel companion and me, as we got out of the car in Lowe’s parking lot, East Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania. It was not so much a smell than a difference, a raw freshness that only comes with foreign mountain air. And for those of us who are conditioned to breathing in and out the saltiness of the Atlantic Ocean it is quite an intoxicating change.
Maggie and I were on our way to the International Sports Training Camp, way up in the Pocono Mountains, to collect our daughters from a week long camp. By pure chance, and that is a good word to describe driving on or off Long Island, we crossed Manhattan and the George Washington Bridge without any delays, and drove through New Jersey and the Delaware Water Gap (more about that in a later column) with speed. We were early, and so faced with the task of killing time in an area that is not actually full of time-killing diversions. Hence Lowe’s, and a supermarket named Giant, where we bought snacks for the journey home.
It was clearly too early to wait in line at the camp gate (and the smiling and polite Australian staff member pointed this out. (“No worries, mate!”) Clearly we had a quite unique opportunity to drive and explore the neighborhood. And that was when the interesting part of our journey of collection began.
The Pocono Mountains, geologically part of the Allegheny Plateau, rise to over 2500 feet in eastern Pennsylvania. In the early 20th century they became popular as a recreation center. Quakers founded summer camps (without pubs. Damn!) in the 1920s, which would grow into resorts, and hikers, hunters and fisher-folk followed. Despite boasting the Delaware State Forest, six designated natural areas, one national park, seven state parks and seventeen state game lands, the Poconos have, once again, been economically down at heel. Even the official Bureau website admits this, but is optimistic.
A wind of change … that is putting the Poconos back on the map.
The authoritative-sounding Pocono Mountains Visitors Bureau (Website: The Poconos in Pennsylvania have so much to offer to the adventurous soul) may paint a picture of great outdoor recreational opportunities, and I am sure that they are, and that I would enjoy the white water kayaking and fly-fishing, but the stark truth of the matter is that outside of the visitors’ playgrounds this area is desperately poor.
That became very apparent the moment we left the camp gate and meandered along a shadowy road for a few miles, in search of the gas station and general store where “you can get some refreshment, mate!” In among the dense forest were small houses, most in dire need of much more than a lick of the paintbrush. Some were solidly built; others had visible damage with windowpanes missing and hardwood board roughly nailed in their places. There was even an old railroad carriage, now on cinder blocks, where “All Aboard!” now meant “come home” to some individual or family. All breathed out neglect and poverty, and shared the same garden decorations: Rusting cars and coils of wire fence, broken bird houses (even the mountain chickadees shared human failure) and piles of wood. Not fire logs but old doors, window frames, pieces of furniture. And here and there a boat, not on a trailer or even blocks, but lying there at an odd angle, marooned as if a great biblical flood had seen fit to dump it there. It was the boats, sadly never to float again, that saddened me the most.
After two miles, and a right turn (“on the way back we must remember to turn left here at the Methodist Church sign”) we found the gas station. Craving a small amount of caffeine we both looked at the state of the coffee station, then at each other, and decided otherwise. It was as if the coffee had been first brewed at 6.00 that morning, and the pots and surfaces cleaned last Tuesday.
This grimy place was clearly a social center for many (but not the only attraction, as a sign up the road invited us to “DANCING GIRLS!!” Maggie did not stop.) In the busy parking lot was something I have never seen before on my travels. A vending machine selling minnows! Live bait! All the angler had to do was pay a few dollars and, clunk, a container of wriggling bait would drop into the tray. Then off to the lake, rod in hand! Brilliant and fascinating and I will return to these mountains for sport, fishing and paddling – but not the dancing girls.
And we both said that, my travel companion and me, as we got out of the car in Lowe’s parking lot, East Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania. It was not so much a smell than a difference, a raw freshness that only comes with foreign mountain air. And for those of us who are conditioned to breathing in and out the saltiness of the Atlantic Ocean it is quite an intoxicating change.
Maggie and I were on our way to the International Sports Training Camp, way up in the Pocono Mountains, to collect our daughters from a week long camp. By pure chance, and that is a good word to describe driving on or off Long Island, we crossed Manhattan and the George Washington Bridge without any delays, and drove through New Jersey and the Delaware Water Gap (more about that in a later column) with speed. We were early, and so faced with the task of killing time in an area that is not actually full of time-killing diversions. Hence Lowe’s, and a supermarket named Giant, where we bought snacks for the journey home.
It was clearly too early to wait in line at the camp gate (and the smiling and polite Australian staff member pointed this out. (“No worries, mate!”) Clearly we had a quite unique opportunity to drive and explore the neighborhood. And that was when the interesting part of our journey of collection began.
The Pocono Mountains, geologically part of the Allegheny Plateau, rise to over 2500 feet in eastern Pennsylvania. In the early 20th century they became popular as a recreation center. Quakers founded summer camps (without pubs. Damn!) in the 1920s, which would grow into resorts, and hikers, hunters and fisher-folk followed. Despite boasting the Delaware State Forest, six designated natural areas, one national park, seven state parks and seventeen state game lands, the Poconos have, once again, been economically down at heel. Even the official Bureau website admits this, but is optimistic.
A wind of change … that is putting the Poconos back on the map.
The authoritative-sounding Pocono Mountains Visitors Bureau (Website: The Poconos in Pennsylvania have so much to offer to the adventurous soul) may paint a picture of great outdoor recreational opportunities, and I am sure that they are, and that I would enjoy the white water kayaking and fly-fishing, but the stark truth of the matter is that outside of the visitors’ playgrounds this area is desperately poor.
That became very apparent the moment we left the camp gate and meandered along a shadowy road for a few miles, in search of the gas station and general store where “you can get some refreshment, mate!” In among the dense forest were small houses, most in dire need of much more than a lick of the paintbrush. Some were solidly built; others had visible damage with windowpanes missing and hardwood board roughly nailed in their places. There was even an old railroad carriage, now on cinder blocks, where “All Aboard!” now meant “come home” to some individual or family. All breathed out neglect and poverty, and shared the same garden decorations: Rusting cars and coils of wire fence, broken bird houses (even the mountain chickadees shared human failure) and piles of wood. Not fire logs but old doors, window frames, pieces of furniture. And here and there a boat, not on a trailer or even blocks, but lying there at an odd angle, marooned as if a great biblical flood had seen fit to dump it there. It was the boats, sadly never to float again, that saddened me the most.
After two miles, and a right turn (“on the way back we must remember to turn left here at the Methodist Church sign”) we found the gas station. Craving a small amount of caffeine we both looked at the state of the coffee station, then at each other, and decided otherwise. It was as if the coffee had been first brewed at 6.00 that morning, and the pots and surfaces cleaned last Tuesday.
This grimy place was clearly a social center for many (but not the only attraction, as a sign up the road invited us to “DANCING GIRLS!!” Maggie did not stop.) In the busy parking lot was something I have never seen before on my travels. A vending machine selling minnows! Live bait! All the angler had to do was pay a few dollars and, clunk, a container of wriggling bait would drop into the tray. Then off to the lake, rod in hand! Brilliant and fascinating and I will return to these mountains for sport, fishing and paddling – but not the dancing girls.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)