tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60296715137752624952024-02-19T10:33:36.758-05:00What Would Katharine Hepburn Do?I never dreamed that any mere physical experience could be so stimulating.Susan Champlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10048154401015032595noreply@blogger.comBlogger66125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029671513775262495.post-41601611788081713792015-03-11T10:32:00.000-04:002015-03-13T16:17:32.371-04:00Dad: A Celebration<style>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBQbcg30YZOB8gaD3rHydCdeINk-9pLydgMuPiBmUqF8ilta68kGQ0i__sWtZ2tJ9AkOb9xq9Kmz66LxdGzTT0xznq_Qzhvpunpt-L4DwZ9KUK-aGYN_QTNicQUIHR0txGNmYmiYU1H9I/s1600/grandpa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBQbcg30YZOB8gaD3rHydCdeINk-9pLydgMuPiBmUqF8ilta68kGQ0i__sWtZ2tJ9AkOb9xq9Kmz66LxdGzTT0xznq_Qzhvpunpt-L4DwZ9KUK-aGYN_QTNicQUIHR0txGNmYmiYU1H9I/s1600/grandpa.jpg" height="320" width="226" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Charles Champlin, 1926–2014</td></tr>
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<i>This past weekend in Los Angeles, we celebrated the life of my dad, former </i>Los Angeles Times<i> arts editor and film critic Charles Champlin, at the Directors Guild Theater. Dad died in November, after a nearly decade-long struggle with Alzheimer's, throughout which he remained his kind, good-humored, gentlemanly self. Macular degeneration had already robbed this writer, reader, and film lover of his eyesight, a cruelty that he managed with unfathomable grace—and by writing about it, in his book, </i><b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Legally-Writers-Struggle-Macular-Degeneration/dp/1880284480/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1426277661&sr=8-1&keywords=my+friend%2C+you+are+legally+blind+champlin" target="_blank">My Friend, You Are Legally Blind</a></b>.<i> Dad's legacy, in addition to his storied career and his prolific and elegant writing, includes a 66-year marriage to our miraculous mom, six children, 13 grandchildren, and seven great-grandchildren. As 30+ family members gathered for Thanksgiving dinners, Dad liked to say to Mom, "Peg, what have we wrought?!" You wrought good, Dad. These are the remarks I wrote for his memorial service: </i></div>
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Most mornings when I was little, I
woke to the sound of machine-gun fire. That would be Dad, typing furiously on
his IBM Selectric as he wrote his review of the film he’d seen the night before.
Within the hour, he’d be showered, dressed, dictating the piece into the kitchen
telephone, then following the review down to the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">L.A. Times</i> in his Triumph TR-250.</div>
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If ever a child had a role model
for just plain getting the job done, with style and without whining, it was
Dad.</div>
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And if there was ever an example of
both a writer’s art and a writer’s craft, it was Dad. He was the Fred Astaire
of writers: With the hard work and blisters kept out of sight, he made it look
effortless.</div>
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Having a <span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">film critic</span> for a father has obvious benefits—like impressing your
high school friends in 1977 by seeing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Star
Wars</i> two weeks before its release, or getting to go with Dad to the Academy
Awards as he took each of us kids, democratically, in turn.</div>
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Having a <span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">writer </span>for a father has other benefits—less obvious, maybe, but
deeper and longer-lasting. </div>
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Learning the skill of thoughtful
observation, for example, so that you see not just who or what is right in
front of you, but what’s around the edges and what’s underneath. Dad had a particular
gift for that—whether it was understanding a filmmaker’s intentions and not
just their final, perhaps studio-edited product; or whether it was listening to one of
his many children or grandchildren and getting straight to the heart of what
was on their mind, and not just in their fumbling words.</div>
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That skill of listening and seeing
between the lines was one he learned early, in his hometown of Hammondsport,
New York, population 1200. In his book, <b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Back-There-Where-Past-Was/dp/0815602359/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1426277542&sr=8-1&keywords=back+there+where+the+past+was" target="_blank"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Back There Where the Past Was</i></a></b>, Dad wrote:</div>
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“My maiden great-aunts, my
grandmother Masson, and my mother…had what I remember now as <span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">semaphore eyebrows</span>, a secret
communications system for dealing with things my brother and I were not supposed
to hear or know about.</div>
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“ ‘How is dear Fannie Cameron?’ one
of the aunts might ask my grandmother.</div>
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“ ‘Much the same,’ my grandmother
would reply, with a theatrically eloquent lift of her eyebrows. Even then I
understood that, <span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Mrs.</span> Cameron being
in excellent health, the import of the eyebrowing was that <span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Mr.</span> Cameron…was either drinking again or philandering again or
both. I knew this from listening a lot to grown-up conversations when I was not
thought to be listening. Even then I may have been aiming for a career in
journalism without knowing it.”</div>
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Of course, the other great benefit
of having a writer-dad was being given, on a daily basis, the gift of language.
Dad loved words. He loved the infinite variety of them, and the Play-Doh
quality of them. Puns may be the lowest form of humor, but they were in high
demand around the Champlin dinner table. In his writing and even in his casual conversation,
Dad illustrated for us not just the power of words, but the <span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">acute</span> power of the un-obvious word, the
unexpected phrase.</div>
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In his review of Mel Brooks’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Blazing Saddles</i>, Dad wrote: </div>
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“[This]
mock-down, knock-down, bawdy, gaudy, hyper-hip burlesque western is irreverent,
outrageous, improbable, often as blithely tasteless as a stag night at the
Friar’s Club and almost continuously funny…It is to Zane Grey as Little Annie
Fanny is to Daddy Warbucks’ wide-eyed ward.” </div>
</blockquote>
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Of Robert Altman’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nashville</i>, he wrote: “…Altman abhors a
vacuous screen, and he can make almost anything interesting on it…[H]is
instincts for that existential half world between security and failure are
sure, accurate and special, and he is never dull.”</div>
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I would say the same for Dad. </div>
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Even when macular degeneration left
him legally blind and Alzheimer’s gummed up the works, he never lost his true
vision, or his gift for the unexpected insight.</div>
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One day, when I made the
unfortunate choice to wear blue jeans <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and</i>
a denim jacket, Dad looked at me through his peripheral vision and said,
“You’re looking very <span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">agrarian</span> today,
Susan.”</div>
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But the most remarkable gift of all
about Dad is that through everything—in his personal life and his professional
life, on television or in the grocery store, in blazing health and while
enduring insidious disease—Dad was a gentleman. He was, right down at his core,
a fundamentally kind and generous human being. He was a small-town boy who
maintained his small-town decency and manners, even in a much bigger town that
didn’t often honor those things. </div>
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As our Dad and grandfather, and as
a husband to our mighty Mom, he was gentle, proud, generous, a wise and
encouraging counselor, wonderfully silly, and an
excellent cook—as long as your tastes ran to beer bread and frozen peas. He was
also deeply loving. In his later years, when certain phrases began to be
repeated with regularity, the phrase we heard most often, as his hand crept
across the dinner table toward Mom’s hand, was, “Have I ever told you I love
you?” </div>
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We’re especially lucky in our
family to have had a writer for a father, because we have his stories. First we
had them over family dinners, where all heads would be angled toward the west,
where Dad sat at the head of the table and told us the stories of Hammondsport
and Smellie’s Drugstore and the office he shared with David Snell at <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Life</i> magazine, which Dave had named the
“Hotel Plunge” after the phrase made famous by tabloid newspapers—as in “Sailor Dies in Hotel Plunge,” “Tourist Dies in Hotel Plunge.” And, of course, there
was the story we loved best: the family legend of how Dad met Mom. </div>
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But we Champlin kids are luckier
than most, because now we have those stories in his books, which his great- and
great-great-grandchildren can read when they come to that point in their lives
when they realize what they’ve lost—and also what they gained, what we all
gained, on that day in 1946 when Charles Champlin arrived at the Hammondsport
library to pick up his grandmother and met a beautiful young brunette named
Peggy Derby.</div>
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I know I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">have</i> told you Dad, but I’d like to tell you again: I love you.</div>
Susan Champlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10048154401015032595noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029671513775262495.post-91659592567223893942015-01-27T20:23:00.001-05:002015-01-27T20:27:22.997-05:00Changing Horses MidstreamYesterday I had a new kind of New York adventure. I walked over to the West 4th Street subway station, took the F train up and over to 63rd and Lexington, walked north five blocks to 68th Street, hung a left into the building, and got this:<br />
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<br />
Yes, I am a student again. After 30 years as a reporter, editor, and freelance writer, I am entering a masters program in special education, to teach kids who are deaf or hard of hearing. Classes start tomorrow.<br />
<br />
I know—I'm a little surprised myself!<br />
<br />
Not that this hasn't been a long time coming. Two years ago, in the midst of career disillusion, I wrote a <span style="color: blue;"><b><a href="http://wwkhd.blogspot.com/2013/01/undercurrent.html" target="_blank">post</a></b></span> saying, "Shouldn’t I be doing something that matters? Shouldn’t I, like
a backpacker in Yosemite, leave the campground a little cleaner than I found
it?"<br />
<br />
At the time, I thought that might mean using my writing skills on behalf of a nonprofit whose cause I believed in. I've toyed with other possibilities over the years, including law school, an Etsy shop for my <span style="color: #0b5394;"><b><a href="http://instagram.com/susanchamplin" target="_blank">Instagram</a></b></span> photos, and my escapist go-to: the used bookstore on the coast of Maine.<br />
<br />
The funny thing is, I didn't go looking for this particular path. I
didn't have a vision or wake up from a dream. My Beloved went for a walk
with his cousin, who is herself profoundly hard of hearing and has a
Ph.D. in deaf education, and who runs this program at Hunter College. He
came home and said, "I think you should look into this." I did. And the
more I researched outward and the more I looked inward, the better it
fit. <br />
<br />
It fit my history as someone who helps others
communicate. It fit my love of kids (besides The Child I have 13 nieces
and nephews, seven great-nieces and -nephews, and three and 8/9ths
grandchildren I was lucky enough to marry into). It fit the
interest in deafness I've had since playing Helen Keller in <i>The Miracle Worker</i>
in high school, when I first realized that there were people
experiencing the world in a completely different way than I was. <br />
<br />
Most of all, it would tap into the part of me that I had only put into play in my personal life, never in my professional
life; the part that I described as "the person who believes
that the human connection can change everything." The
pieces all snapped into place with a satisfying click.<br />
<br />
So, classes start tomorrow. As a "career changer" (agh, I'm an AARP spokesmodel), I'm taking the long program—two years, fulltime—which earns me a teaching credential as well as the special ed training. In a burst of wild optimism, I've registered for four courses, each of which meets one day a week for two and a half hours. <br />
<br />
I'm a little nervous, less than I would have thought or than I probably should be. I'll likely be 30 years older than everyone in my "cohort" (do you think it's a requirement that I start speaking in academic jargon?). But I know that every time I've gotten off the subway and walked up the four sets of escalators to Lexington Avenue, I've felt a skipping beat of the heart—not just from the exertion.<br />
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I've been told I'm brave. I don't feel that way. Making this decision felt like lifting an anvil off my chest. So I bought my color-coded spiral-bound notebooks...<br />
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<br />
... and my two-pocket folders...<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqBseeK3FMzbqokX46E06ibcFcmWG4oh_hrLF23Nqn3_jDaSYG_cAnEpg17IeXsQ94nhyTFoZRQGBap3-Jtgol5LO_GTbhXchVhQSlQ8azQa2inX0wGRoZefEna2wHhDbSRnqdr2csOqQ/s1600/81xArEHrzuL._SL1280_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqBseeK3FMzbqokX46E06ibcFcmWG4oh_hrLF23Nqn3_jDaSYG_cAnEpg17IeXsQ94nhyTFoZRQGBap3-Jtgol5LO_GTbhXchVhQSlQ8azQa2inX0wGRoZefEna2wHhDbSRnqdr2csOqQ/s1600/81xArEHrzuL._SL1280_.jpg" height="200" width="158" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>[Okay, not really these, but I wish.]</i></td></tr>
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...and I'm well-supplied with Bic pens.<br />
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<br />
I also signed up for my new Hunter e-mail address, registered for an online Blackboard account, and downloaded the app onto my iPhone (hello, progress). As Monty Python would say, I'm not dead yet.<br />
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<br />
The adventure begins. Wish me luck. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Susan Champlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10048154401015032595noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029671513775262495.post-13721474183709519432014-07-15T17:50:00.001-04:002014-07-16T08:17:02.948-04:00Ghosts of New YorkMourning the loss of old New York is practically a cottage industry in new New York. <br />
<br />
Websites like <span style="color: red;"><b><span style="color: blue;"><a href="http://vanishingnewyork.blogspot.com/"><span style="color: blue;">Jeremiah's Vanishing New York</span></a></span> </b></span>document the domino fall of mom-and-pop stores and longtime watering holes, killed by $30,000-per-month rents and replaced with TD Bank branches and designer boutiques. (In the interests of full disclosure and blatant promotion, I should mention that Jeremiah <span style="color: blue;"><b><a href="http://vanishingnewyork.blogspot.com/2013/07/stan-macks-real-life-funnies.html"><span style="color: blue;">covered My Beloved</span></a>,</b> </span>whose <i>Stan Mack's Real Life Funnies</i> comic strip in the <i>Village Voice</i> Jeremiah describes as "...an invaluable time capsule of two decades
when New York City was still a wild, weird, creative place filled with
people who, at the very least, had something interesting to say.")<br />
<br />
A niche site, <span style="color: blue;"><b><span style="color: blue;"><a href="http://nowitsafuckingfroyoplace.tumblr.com/"><span style="color: blue;">...and now it's a f***ing froyo place</span>,</a></span> </b></span>hilariously specializes in the transformation of locals businesses into...you got it. Meanwhile the glorious <span style="color: blue;"><b><a href="http://ephemeralnewyork.wordpress.com/"><span style="color: blue;">Ephemeral New York</span> </a></b></span>celebrates the old city—before MetroCards replaced subway tokens, before froyo places replaced everything.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj538BOFCFCXGordbuvTIZCLNb0LxsOUc1Fa4rT5C3w-68pwqV4VZN_DQ5EdN74liq2P-YLEqzPzcMeSa4m7RscsGGwFSWcBj0iOwmXvOcjXxqaG4vl72sfdUi7CyHEcBbhJehAnxZHXxw/s1600/boyleapingintohudsonruthorkin2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj538BOFCFCXGordbuvTIZCLNb0LxsOUc1Fa4rT5C3w-68pwqV4VZN_DQ5EdN74liq2P-YLEqzPzcMeSa4m7RscsGGwFSWcBj0iOwmXvOcjXxqaG4vl72sfdUi7CyHEcBbhJehAnxZHXxw/s1600/boyleapingintohudsonruthorkin2.png" height="400" width="336" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Boy Leaping Into Hudson River</i> by Ruth Orkin, via <span style="color: blue;"><a href="http://ephemeralnewyork.wordpress.com/2014/07/10/leaping-off-the-roof-and-into-the-hudson-river/"><span style="color: blue;">Ephemeral New York</span></a></span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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Even I, a relative newcomer at four-and-a-half years in, get snarly when I look out my window and see cranes on the old St. Vincent's Hospital site, now erecting a behemoth of "five unique addresses and five
townhouses nestled together in the West Village"—for cozy nestling prices ranging from $2.195 million (for 892 square feet) up to $19.15 million. With, no doubt, proximity to a frozen yogurt place.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfNDa2eqBtgsPPqM11jrOrRdUDsO_4exGYdHpVVU6mxA8JkgdPE-VpEO3GUsP8oFKqHnwThB6_Bp5b79hlsg0wLCfEGiUfM4ABfye4okdOePTyw9y3ecuN0DOLVbK1lKY3k5RMt6wcmms/s1600/IMG_4616.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfNDa2eqBtgsPPqM11jrOrRdUDsO_4exGYdHpVVU6mxA8JkgdPE-VpEO3GUsP8oFKqHnwThB6_Bp5b79hlsg0wLCfEGiUfM4ABfye4okdOePTyw9y3ecuN0DOLVbK1lKY3k5RMt6wcmms/s1600/IMG_4616.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In the gloom of a storm, the cranes of "The Greenwich Lane" rise above the Village.</td></tr>
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I know the rule of thumb: The Golden Age of New York was 20 years before whenever you got here. And I know that New York has never stood still. Still, it's feeling lately like the pace of change has gone to lightspeed—closures-building-closures-building-CLOSURES!-BUILDING!—with wads of new money greasing the skids.<br />
<br />
But once in a while, you get to reach through a tear in the fabric and touch old New York. As on July 4, when we made a last-minute decision to have dinner at Fraunces Tavern before watching fireworks over the East River. Though it's been through many permutations through the years, the original building dates to pre-Revolutionary times, and it was here that George Washington bid farewell to his officers in 1783, as he prepared to resign his commission from the Continental Army.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5GRD4Uuozn1g5xJIWkOE2ONZkLdMjylKMBKBc-aTuzahiNYIj4lNLjWjJH7aBfR04kv5PFpZVl8-Zrp9nQXDbsxLzkuP4Ni575rYk_XOL5pBSEjt1RzSaI-AdBRWL9YUAs1LnoK7igF0/s1600/IMG_4654.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5GRD4Uuozn1g5xJIWkOE2ONZkLdMjylKMBKBc-aTuzahiNYIj4lNLjWjJH7aBfR04kv5PFpZVl8-Zrp9nQXDbsxLzkuP4Ni575rYk_XOL5pBSEjt1RzSaI-AdBRWL9YUAs1LnoK7igF0/s1600/IMG_4654.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fraunces Tavern, where 1719 meets 2014.</td></tr>
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Sure, the place was full of tourists, but it felt both appropriate and privileged to join George on the 4th of July. Even if he wouldn't have been drinking Abita beer during his last supper.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXjTAVvUaT0WVG144cXgv5tKarIwzwEYR3t37b_TQ5pnj1G4pBwXr2fm62MSqXRiZ2tXmBxhJKqKdMjdKYagWD0POnFTxijSTbkcHix0J9Y5O2WRc5qoKaNyI76ih5Yk3YDoSjv_tPAA0/s1600/IMG_4662.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXjTAVvUaT0WVG144cXgv5tKarIwzwEYR3t37b_TQ5pnj1G4pBwXr2fm62MSqXRiZ2tXmBxhJKqKdMjdKYagWD0POnFTxijSTbkcHix0J9Y5O2WRc5qoKaNyI76ih5Yk3YDoSjv_tPAA0/s1600/IMG_4662.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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By the time we finished dinner, we couldn't get anywhere near the East River for fireworks, so we ended up in Battery Park behind the glassy new Staten Island Ferry building. As we watched the fireworks rise up over the roof, I was drawn to the quote on the wall inside the building—we could only see its final phrase:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-88xMupbGGw0o_WaCrWHK2L3q5DV200f_wV-Kg8BlceVwMBIINalMKflBTCtMDF7lvjIA__nTWOi-M6FKzXM_mxYYRE7NVtSGOPr7zoXA4VmfCa4fHZSPwVzycMB4lvguVjzY9QVIqVY/s1600/IMG_4676.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-88xMupbGGw0o_WaCrWHK2L3q5DV200f_wV-Kg8BlceVwMBIINalMKflBTCtMDF7lvjIA__nTWOi-M6FKzXM_mxYYRE7NVtSGOPr7zoXA4VmfCa4fHZSPwVzycMB4lvguVjzY9QVIqVY/s1600/IMG_4676.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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It turns out to be two lines from Edna St. Vincent Millay's poem <span style="color: blue;"><b><a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poem/3607"><span style="color: blue;"><i>Recuerdo</i></span>:</a></b></span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span itemscope="" itemtype="http://schema.org/CreativeWork">We were very tired, we were very merry, </span><br />
<span itemscope="" itemtype="http://schema.org/CreativeWork">We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry. </span></blockquote>
On Sunday, we joined Ms. Millay and went back and forth on the ferry. It was hot and humid—no surprise in July—and as I often do during summer months here, I was trying to imagine exactly how unbearable it was in New York in the days before air conditioning.<br />
<br />
<i>The New Yorker</i> recently re-posted on its website a <span style="color: blue;"><b><span style="color: blue;"><a href="http://www.newyorker.com/archive/1998/06/22/1998_06_22_144_TNY_LIBRY_000015831?currentPage=1"><span style="color: blue;">piece by Arthur Miller</span></a></span> </b></span>that had appeared in a 1998 issue on this very topic. Writing about an "extraordinarily hot September" in the late 1920s, Miller said: <br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Even through the nights, the pall of heat never broke. With a couple of
other kids, I would go across 110th to the Park and walk among the
hundreds of people, singles and families, who slept on the grass, next
to their big alarm clocks, which set up a mild cacophony of the seconds
passing, one clock’s ticks syncopating with another’s... </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
...Broadway had open trolleys with no side walls, in which you at least
caught the breeze, hot though it was, so that desperate people, unable
to endure their apartments, would simply pay a nickel and ride around
aimlessly for a couple of hours to cool off. </blockquote>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTM6r7NB2ezDVTcZCntqbHJ_1oz5g8GX_D9y-7PSF1_iLGJUt73m56UFMVt-FWZ5wpPhSyLhdizatf9fPqvf0maacP_ZdAHhmhbatV8DvqVWwhnThP1ZpndR5v8r5CpY70A4Gq6yp7gC0/s1600/rai007-cp001-045.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTM6r7NB2ezDVTcZCntqbHJ_1oz5g8GX_D9y-7PSF1_iLGJUt73m56UFMVt-FWZ5wpPhSyLhdizatf9fPqvf0maacP_ZdAHhmhbatV8DvqVWwhnThP1ZpndR5v8r5CpY70A4Gq6yp7gC0/s1600/rai007-cp001-045.jpg" height="312" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trolley at Broadway and Bleecker, 1917 (c) Culver Pictures</td></tr>
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From 1897 until 1972, you could also ride the Staten Island Ferry for a nickel—crisscrossing New York harbor, hanging on the railings, just to feel fresh air on your face. Today, miracle of miracles, the Ferry is free for foot passengers, and on a muggy July afternoon, we were two of them. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoTDe-ZoEqF1fClKbEmEop3EDxy71w2jPndhEQvL7zgZ7LW2w6WJ79orAFHfoHpue9iPVhZPdwHD0-p4xbMyt7xwqwTEgfpM0fy9GxY57gaCHUu9JnJwmtHy0JsB0MGj-nbW_YIjgF8Ys/s1600/IMG_4853.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoTDe-ZoEqF1fClKbEmEop3EDxy71w2jPndhEQvL7zgZ7LW2w6WJ79orAFHfoHpue9iPVhZPdwHD0-p4xbMyt7xwqwTEgfpM0fy9GxY57gaCHUu9JnJwmtHy0JsB0MGj-nbW_YIjgF8Ys/s1600/IMG_4853.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view from our outside bench on the middle deck of the Guy V. Molinari.</td></tr>
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<br />
Some things never change:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoo0uyMZyKa4m0Ojuv1q8A2AfF452uIHV8NCq72xvMGE9mTMdJNbMHTYA4zfQR9BQQ_98nUCu4tzRetfrwWjfF7LivDIJelq0l_iLfvWsXWoSdRLcmuqtxvFE_wMC7DZmdRFFs-9Icc1Q/s1600/IMG_4857.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoo0uyMZyKa4m0Ojuv1q8A2AfF452uIHV8NCq72xvMGE9mTMdJNbMHTYA4zfQR9BQQ_98nUCu4tzRetfrwWjfF7LivDIJelq0l_iLfvWsXWoSdRLcmuqtxvFE_wMC7DZmdRFFs-9Icc1Q/s1600/IMG_4857.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
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Once docked on Staten Island, we disembarked from the Guy V. Molinari, circled through the ferry building, and immediately boarded the Spirit of America. There was a lot of competition for railing space on the side of the ferry with a view of the Statue of Liberty, but I muscled my 5'2" self into position on the top deck...and there she was.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwZyVOOwCtNL9A8ISnN_CQFPt1w6gVRGYyC9axphFm1dPLP8jNFKTVcjSFWU5D3OdO6ihAJ-s4Zz0x1dLo6NhRquzTKMkKms_dQ7MLQiR4EX1zZnxoAfr1Bdxl6st3YiRlsqZz7MtmCUc/s1600/IMG_4885.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwZyVOOwCtNL9A8ISnN_CQFPt1w6gVRGYyC9axphFm1dPLP8jNFKTVcjSFWU5D3OdO6ihAJ-s4Zz0x1dLo6NhRquzTKMkKms_dQ7MLQiR4EX1zZnxoAfr1Bdxl6st3YiRlsqZz7MtmCUc/s1600/IMG_4885.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
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Then, an hour after we'd started, we were back again—now a little cooled, a lot windswept—facing new-old New York, and greeting the ghosts of Arthur Miller and Edna St. Vincent Millay and generations of hot and sweaty New Yorkers.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicaFAS-tEs4x50FVbYQrPy983Q8QsDzH1Rv1Ov_jxGOCUULrfujJQWEcaO0y2d1KJIHMdjR-2suf6Y3buX8xJe2qyCeCeuoxLCKMduOPgl1Q9XbXPyY4J6cGzOJGDWtF1cX0nakyGHiTE/s1600/1438b4c800867c4e2da336ca16b40545.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicaFAS-tEs4x50FVbYQrPy983Q8QsDzH1Rv1Ov_jxGOCUULrfujJQWEcaO0y2d1KJIHMdjR-2suf6Y3buX8xJe2qyCeCeuoxLCKMduOPgl1Q9XbXPyY4J6cGzOJGDWtF1cX0nakyGHiTE/s1600/1438b4c800867c4e2da336ca16b40545.jpg" height="256" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the Staten Island Ferry 1956 by <span style="color: blue;"><a href="http://www.davidmoorephotography.com.au/100photographs.html"><span style="color: blue;">David Moore</span></a></span></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTHkDLLxVm7VWt0Spxos01ZcsdKPv1VVRGxeGABqXiSqq_hJa1635ib8reyk9xGpVWorHt4IuX39RPBlQp-diKSNVF6gTsmjIxXCmROFs5oTvBcZHTMLWZq0rL67dbVCUyYB9SrykDY14/s1600/WWKHD-FerryView.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTHkDLLxVm7VWt0Spxos01ZcsdKPv1VVRGxeGABqXiSqq_hJa1635ib8reyk9xGpVWorHt4IuX39RPBlQp-diKSNVF6gTsmjIxXCmROFs5oTvBcZHTMLWZq0rL67dbVCUyYB9SrykDY14/s1600/WWKHD-FerryView.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From the Staten Island Ferry, July 2014<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i>** Click any photo to enlarge and see slideshow.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>POSTSCRIPT: I
was going to draw a line between the late St.Vincent's Hospital (now the
site of The Greenwich Lane) and Edna St. Vincent Millay, but thought
maybe I was going overboard...so to speak. Many thanks to Ephemeral New
York for alerting me to the fact that Edna St. Vincent Millay was in
fact named for the hospital, where her uncle had recently been treated
and whom the family credited with saving his life. </i></span> </div>
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Susan Champlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10048154401015032595noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029671513775262495.post-65720380298711353472014-07-10T11:29:00.000-04:002014-07-16T08:14:28.139-04:00The Story About RalphSometimes you wake up grumpy. You slept hot; or a disturbing dream hangs on you like a bad suit; or joints that did their job in compliant silence when you were 23 are now whiny and demanding. Whatever. Grumpy. Obviously, the answer is ducklings.<br />
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We went down to the river around 6:30 this morning, thankful for a mottled sky and a nice breeze off the water.<br />
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We sat on a bench and talked about work and advertising and Harvey Weinstein (briefly, that), and then a mother duck and nine fluffy-bottomed ducklings pulled up alongside us.<br />
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Most of the ducklings, eager and well-behaved, tended to cluster close to their mother's tail feathers. Ralph, the nonconformist, would drift to the outer reaches of her tolerance before she sent him the universal maternal signal for "Get back here."</div>
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Now we became the Jane Goodalls of the Hudson River duckling set: We followed the family's progress as they moved toward and around the pier, the implacable mama and her erratic toddlers, their tiny flippers whirring under the water to keep up. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2hf6thtNPkl1YKaWhrdDUEBXwzOymCc1TjSTTtSOb5NwFiR5PAVi21a5ugWLCtSwWPf28rTE6P1CxdH9EeqhA4xvBeSimRiWaIdfumtJOkWSHoMI3sWGziV-Qf0OzdTyTuUIGCnY9Ias/s1600/IMG_4785.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2hf6thtNPkl1YKaWhrdDUEBXwzOymCc1TjSTTtSOb5NwFiR5PAVi21a5ugWLCtSwWPf28rTE6P1CxdH9EeqhA4xvBeSimRiWaIdfumtJOkWSHoMI3sWGziV-Qf0OzdTyTuUIGCnY9Ias/s1600/IMG_4785.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's a big world out there.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
They negotiated obstacles…<br />
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…and then she got them to toe the line.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZHzIHPTx0kSArBL63dtedvTcOPmev8wSYdmrxn8_eSi8VVsidDxDgRU_rtNBXlDsutzmln2TV3nFmFAhL9bcWecpb5S6ksjyA4_5YEpXx9v9_kRWm7ECLzdqVwMlKDSL6znijIWLSMmc/s1600/IMG_4791.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZHzIHPTx0kSArBL63dtedvTcOPmev8wSYdmrxn8_eSi8VVsidDxDgRU_rtNBXlDsutzmln2TV3nFmFAhL9bcWecpb5S6ksjyA4_5YEpXx9v9_kRWm7ECLzdqVwMlKDSL6znijIWLSMmc/s1600/IMG_4791.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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Finally it became clear that they were heading to this little cul-de-sac...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSGOJOQ4NGA_9mXPcizZSORZwEJEyFshCBtOKHtPJ0mtUB38ZWINyLKGM-Ufll8JfiFtyTGibIueqPqVCdXj0CGoet2YW7LPZyc9Bkj3QgvIjhgBn7TfpX3nYUo-RJSs5J-ZvChEct1B8/s1600/IMG_4796.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSGOJOQ4NGA_9mXPcizZSORZwEJEyFshCBtOKHtPJ0mtUB38ZWINyLKGM-Ufll8JfiFtyTGibIueqPqVCdXj0CGoet2YW7LPZyc9Bkj3QgvIjhgBn7TfpX3nYUo-RJSs5J-ZvChEct1B8/s1600/IMG_4796.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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…where they lined up and pecked at the slimy green stuff (scientific term) growing on the concrete containment walls. Periodically the sloshing tides would lift the family nearly a foot, and they'd crane their necks for another bite...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJg5f_DQyR-zzrZlSdWpfxKwO4i8PxrJBMwnPdkjNI5VAFysRWtOV7cmzXstQcDR2YJZvoPGcMQ_s7Ga_Apf_hoWB6C_7iu8xP1cnEavCzhyphenhyphenGleMwk70ELN8A_ZmrxAUm1ApSs6IxPc7w/s1600/photo+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJg5f_DQyR-zzrZlSdWpfxKwO4i8PxrJBMwnPdkjNI5VAFysRWtOV7cmzXstQcDR2YJZvoPGcMQ_s7Ga_Apf_hoWB6C_7iu8xP1cnEavCzhyphenhyphenGleMwk70ELN8A_ZmrxAUm1ApSs6IxPc7w/s1600/photo+1.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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…but Ralph went in search of a cheeseburger.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPQXcp0k8_WefMd75Qr-BxQWm5XZOqU6p7njuSUYXx2MVaEyPhLFVWfc9L63YMFJMo287WTXCmSdGGJoC82grk6DUsgzYSuJ3dh86-5AA4y-MlLi1B7NL9HUSkdgA1agMpGWcFmrS9Gd8/s1600/photo+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPQXcp0k8_WefMd75Qr-BxQWm5XZOqU6p7njuSUYXx2MVaEyPhLFVWfc9L63YMFJMo287WTXCmSdGGJoC82grk6DUsgzYSuJ3dh86-5AA4y-MlLi1B7NL9HUSkdgA1agMpGWcFmrS9Gd8/s1600/photo+2.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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It all reminded me of <i>The Story About Ping,</i> the "beautiful young duck" who lived on "a boat with two wise eyes on the Yangtze river," and who got separated from his "mother and father and two sisters and three brothers and eleven aunts and seven uncles and forty-two cousins" for one scary and eye-opening day.</div>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7vWNuciVfAlm5dvN99KEQRpLGv3OvZ-SVIJEBgMfT54uoohGVurD-RqAwD8lwCnL4bfk4_QrsNJmZJDeEg_kHvCWaMisx9EWwNH0Ty83CbXYEAzhvUrNSkWZ5021emfqyCLIMhMDWWgw/s1600/IMG_4800.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7vWNuciVfAlm5dvN99KEQRpLGv3OvZ-SVIJEBgMfT54uoohGVurD-RqAwD8lwCnL4bfk4_QrsNJmZJDeEg_kHvCWaMisx9EWwNH0Ty83CbXYEAzhvUrNSkWZ5021emfqyCLIMhMDWWgw/s1600/IMG_4800.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">My stained and well-loved 1933 edition. <br />
Rather, my mother's edition, which I stole.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
At six or seven or eight, I read Ping's story as a "Whew" tale—as in, "Whew, he got back to his family safely and he'll never do THAT again."<br />
<br />
Now I think, Isn't there some lingering token from his day of misadventure—the look of awe, maybe, in the wide, wide eyes of his forty-two cousins as he describes the "big boats and little boats, fishing boats and beggars' boats, house boats and raft boats" that he saw on "the yellow waters of the Yangtze river?"<br />
<br />
Keep paddling, Ralph. Ride the tides.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxwM7VYUvN1So1bcvn82HBCWSpBLB1nvmbB5YQN4CK90h2N-Hk-HaSpFUieHKWmbroUDXuTII6wrEs2DJgLrfldtdIR1oyGZGcN6u-JJWBmdUHpm0cwoattk8W9IsTxErq9jnuD-awvjQ/s1600/Ralph_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxwM7VYUvN1So1bcvn82HBCWSpBLB1nvmbB5YQN4CK90h2N-Hk-HaSpFUieHKWmbroUDXuTII6wrEs2DJgLrfldtdIR1oyGZGcN6u-JJWBmdUHpm0cwoattk8W9IsTxErq9jnuD-awvjQ/s1600/Ralph_2.jpg" height="320" width="258" /></a></div>
<br />
<i>** Click any photo to enlarge and see slideshow.</i>Susan Champlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10048154401015032595noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029671513775262495.post-63672422342317301762014-06-01T22:12:00.000-04:002014-07-16T08:18:01.987-04:00Look Up, Look DownIt’s important to look down in New York City. Cobblestone
streets are waiting to break your ankle; sidewalks are cracked and uneven and
too often smeared with dog poop or coated with ice. You literally have to watch
your steps.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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But you have to look up, too. Up to street level, to see
who’s around you, who’s wearing what, whom you might be about to bump into,
which bicycle messenger riding the wrong way down a one-way street is going to mow
you down, which shaft of sunlight is turning the leaves a translucent
yellow-green or setting an ordinary block on fire during the golden hour.<o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhh4YJU5Opon3k-oGBRHT3YITPTUMGeBDar8sDyw1bKYPDYBlwF94GIyslFdPmp4Av3h6C68COVWTtFfBgZayMOjMnFQZTFiRKNDzxP-EZ0ZA7mwhlhp3valDf1xWZafwDalIq7xXdX0I/s1600/IMG_3443.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhh4YJU5Opon3k-oGBRHT3YITPTUMGeBDar8sDyw1bKYPDYBlwF94GIyslFdPmp4Av3h6C68COVWTtFfBgZayMOjMnFQZTFiRKNDzxP-EZ0ZA7mwhlhp3valDf1xWZafwDalIq7xXdX0I/s1600/IMG_3443.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">10th Street, West Village</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Then look up further, to see
the juxtapositions of water towers and capitalism…</div>
<div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdlyfBrw8bKfktcJxJKlQppHyaivR1s_HskAqADsoBIwVdXPkcieAGkvRXSzFd84875QD6InWLn41j0iiEa-hNSWwJzxNKFDMA2W1Aqqpr41aeWO2ENelvOptowT4H_HizJGmPecB1OT0/s1600/IMG_4117.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdlyfBrw8bKfktcJxJKlQppHyaivR1s_HskAqADsoBIwVdXPkcieAGkvRXSzFd84875QD6InWLn41j0iiEa-hNSWwJzxNKFDMA2W1Aqqpr41aeWO2ENelvOptowT4H_HizJGmPecB1OT0/s1600/IMG_4117.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Broadway and Houston Street, Soho</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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…and the intricate motifs carved into buildings all over
this city, high above the street, where they can be enjoyed by—whom? Pigeons? I
love that these exist, that so much care went into crafting ornamentation and
detail nearly for its own sake.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIDmSOe_HvKXbWWNHw-CdNFrTW9DWbbBBnE_24nfu46qLy_4t1g_NyH7pQZWtWewuyL5GlgvaBSi8YUCiEr3ZOL-wYTvSF0UEiA8lz4CGhT3XtSqPntBTq6ytDHR3sW5rlnI1FxOLWTW0/s1600/IMG_4064.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIDmSOe_HvKXbWWNHw-CdNFrTW9DWbbBBnE_24nfu46qLy_4t1g_NyH7pQZWtWewuyL5GlgvaBSi8YUCiEr3ZOL-wYTvSF0UEiA8lz4CGhT3XtSqPntBTq6ytDHR3sW5rlnI1FxOLWTW0/s1600/IMG_4064.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">14th floor, Central Park West</td></tr>
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</div>
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In answer to one of those ubiquitous
what-makes-a-real-New-Yorker questionnaires that people here love so much,
someone said, “Real New Yorkers never stop to look up at the tops of
buildings.”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I thought, “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. What a
waste of a life.” But I realized recently that I, too, have been guilty of not
looking up.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
It’s been a complex few months, with two family health
crises (one happily resolved; the other ongoing), The Child graduating from
college and moving back to the West Coast, and a shifting work landscape that
has left me, like one of <a href="http://stanmack.com/market.php"><b><span style="color: blue;">My Beloved's cartoons</span></b></a>, with question marks floating
around my head.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwQJhaqhuu3N04TYmFP_F8_YfCO2B8kU0vKfJqVT1pH63zokunmPnj-gCx4P4yaPf5b4XjE9bkY_QvklMtZMAD27m07SHwaoB91Q5O-l4IyAredI2fpDCgn4BID0obhYAwDWEcM9iERpk/s1600/susan+question+mark+200+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwQJhaqhuu3N04TYmFP_F8_YfCO2B8kU0vKfJqVT1pH63zokunmPnj-gCx4P4yaPf5b4XjE9bkY_QvklMtZMAD27m07SHwaoB91Q5O-l4IyAredI2fpDCgn4BID0obhYAwDWEcM9iERpk/s1600/susan+question+mark+200+copy.jpg" height="320" width="305" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stan Mack's Real Life Funnies: "Fishy Story"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
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My response has been to keep my head down. I have a tendency,
when things get emotionally complicated, to go inward; to let things roil
around inside and to never speak of it for fear of letting the beast out of the
cage. The problem with that is, the beast just gnaws away at the inside.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then a young man with mental health issues and knives and
semi-automatic weapons went on a rampage at UCSB, killing six people and
himself, and I felt despair—again—at living in a society that places
more value on an individual’s right to arm himself with weapons of mass
destruction than on the right of first graders and college kids not to be shot
to death.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, what with internal forces meeting external forces, I spent more time
than I cared to in a miasmic fog of negativity and self-doubt. I can’t
swear that I’ve left it behind, but in the last few days, something changed. Spring sprung. There was
a shift in the Force. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As my dear-friend-whom-I-haven’t-met-yet, J Clement Wall,
said in <a href="http://www.judyclementwall.com/a-life-full-of-yes/"><b><span style="color: blue;">a recent blog post</span></b></a>, “<span style="color: #1a1a1a; mso-fareast-language: JA;">I
think it really may be just this simple: to get unstuck, say YES.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yesterday, My Beloved and I did some work together on a book
project we’re cooking up. It’s a really, really good idea, and it’s on a topic close
to my nerdy heart. We had fun with it. And then we went for a long walk up the
river, from the West Village to our favorite riverside café at 70th Street. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Within the first five minutes of our walk, it started sprinkling. Then
raining. Then hammering down like arrows against a medieval battlement. We hid under the
eave of a warehouse to wait it out, and eventually the gray cracked open to
reveal hope.<o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUNzFUBQaeddCceCvljEXGBW1e1MJMJXTk2hoSH2WuKP-ftgJ3WMUT-LO_khlbPk0g0NkKwnxBWqY2rfRIxBXg2ZEwEt4PV3DOcU4M_xiLtLQF1yt1hKkhBUZMpKsjVW28G-IAeCOdsIo/s1600/IMG_4092.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUNzFUBQaeddCceCvljEXGBW1e1MJMJXTk2hoSH2WuKP-ftgJ3WMUT-LO_khlbPk0g0NkKwnxBWqY2rfRIxBXg2ZEwEt4PV3DOcU4M_xiLtLQF1yt1hKkhBUZMpKsjVW28G-IAeCOdsIo/s1600/IMG_4092.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hudson River Park bikeway, Chelsea</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is a trip we usually make by bike in 20 minutes. Walking it over the course of an hour and a half gave us the chance to see things in focus that are usually a peripheral blur—and gave me the opportunity to lurch to a stop every few feet to snap
pictures. Of the aircraft carrier <i>Intrepid:</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOtRj-mMbe1OZY0QHJAlwCNZnNu1vJHFi_2TzEo6CyMS1eT1XmJIPaRGsLFVyE7h-S25b30WKBTTmmwGhO3PmxT1TohAEtNLYIpOFtNUlROMHT4icg94O-sPQZFRZxsTy35NnmqtJmSr4/s1600/IMG_4112.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOtRj-mMbe1OZY0QHJAlwCNZnNu1vJHFi_2TzEo6CyMS1eT1XmJIPaRGsLFVyE7h-S25b30WKBTTmmwGhO3PmxT1TohAEtNLYIpOFtNUlROMHT4icg94O-sPQZFRZxsTy35NnmqtJmSr4/s1600/IMG_4112.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The menace with an iPhone.</td></tr>
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Of kayakers on the shimmering Hudson:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hudson River Park, Chelsea</td></tr>
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And, unexpectedly, of a giant wine bottle in Clinton—a sculpture by Malcolm Cochran called <i><a href="http://www.hudsonriverpark.org/explore-the-park/art/private-passage"><b><span style="color: blue;">Private Passage</span></b></a></i>, with portholes revealing an interior that looked like that of an Airstream trailer but is supposed to be a Queen Mary stateroom.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Private Passage</i>, Pier 96, Clinton</td></tr>
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We got to the café, mobbed with families and couples and bikers and dogs, many of whom—not the dogs—were threading their way among the tables with sloshing pitchers of beer and sangria. We scored seats under the shade of a sage-green
umbrella and drank our beer while traffic
on the Henry Hudson Parkway overhead provided a vacuum-cleaner-in-the-apartment-upstairs ambience.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pier i Café, Riverside Park, Upper West Side</td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sitting and sipping, I thought to look up:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Umbrellas, Pier i Café </td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Afterwards, we headed uphill away from the river, arriving in a forest of Trump towers:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Riverside Drive, Upper West Side</td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
But by now, not even the garish hand of The Donald could
spoil my mood. We walked east to the Lincoln Center subway stop…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">66th Street/Lincoln Center stop, 1 train</td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
…and rattled our way home. This morning, the first of June, before
7 a.m., I opened my eyes and looked up.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilcj3rvbiEP45zuFfqgWtbzxcZ0XzTeIcxOTgYDUvKcGmlDl9veIwE468fg0ah9Zjji3m5SxUTt6iy-dFq3dCsN4FEKvFGApcNqXs4xgGIGOsPSzObiNobvypRoYPIARNHLRa1CWNdu6Y/s1600/IMG_4113.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilcj3rvbiEP45zuFfqgWtbzxcZ0XzTeIcxOTgYDUvKcGmlDl9veIwE468fg0ah9Zjji3m5SxUTt6iy-dFq3dCsN4FEKvFGApcNqXs4xgGIGOsPSzObiNobvypRoYPIARNHLRa1CWNdu6Y/s1600/IMG_4113.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I whispered <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rabbit_rabbit_rabbit"><b><span style="color: blue;">“Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit,”</span></b></a> with the hopeful
little thought that it would bring me luck for the month. I think so. Things
are looking up.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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Susan Champlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10048154401015032595noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029671513775262495.post-56704884024744213372014-05-11T21:43:00.003-04:002014-07-16T08:18:44.901-04:00Sunday in the ParkIt was 77 degrees and sunny in New York today.<br />
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My Los Angeles friends and family are politely stifling yawns and trying to look interested at this point. But here in the east, we've just barely escaped a winter that was like one of those nightmares where you stumble around a maze-like space in total darkness, being tortured with brief glimpses of daylight but never quite managing to get there.<br />
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To me, the highest and best use of a 77-degree sunny day in New York is to spend it in Central Park.<br />
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We took the 1 train up to West 103rd Street. I've never approached the park from there before. I love the way the geology looms up at you—a startling mountain of schist exploding along Central Park West next to a street light and a Subaru.<br />
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The park is lush and woodsy up in those reaches, with lovely pockets of solitude—a gray-haired woman sat on a log reading peacefully, her German Shepherd at her feet—and a sylvan Children's Glade that provides a view <i>almost</i> reminiscent of the island hundreds of years ago (with a Narnia-like lamppost for intrigue).</div>
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A wood-chip path and a dogwood in full bloom led us out of the Glade and onto the Great Hill, where Frisbee players and picnickers and a great gaggle of guitarists were in full throttle.</div>
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Near the North Meadow, a patch of dandelions waited for wishes.<br />
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We tried to stay on the offbeat paths, but it's difficult to avoid veering toward the main drive that circles the park, where packs of cyclists will mow you down as soon as look at you. The crowds picked up. We heard Spanish, French, Turkish, German, a little English.<br />
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Along about 86th Street, it became clear that 70% of the universe had woken up this morning and said, "You know what would be a good idea? Walking slowly four abreast through Central Park!"</div>
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So we zig-zagged back to Central Park West and over to Columbus Avenue in search of a sidewalk cafe. Refreshed with one Negra Modelo (My Beloved) and a margarita that was 9 parts rum and 1 part ice cubes (me), plus a bowl of <i>pozole</i> (My Beloved) and three carnitas soft tacos (me), we wove toward the subway and caught the 1 train back home.<br />
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The park was gorgeous, but I'm not sure it was as gorgeous as this woman on the train. I asked permission to take her photograph, saying, "You look so beautiful!" The woman in the Yankees shirt sitting next to her slid one seat over and said, "I'll get out of the way since I'm not so beautiful."<br />
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"Are you dressed for an event?" I asked her.<br />
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"I went to church," she said. "Happy Mother's Day."<br />
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Or as I call it, Happy Day.</div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i>** Click any photo to enlarge and see slideshow.</i></span></div>
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Susan Champlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10048154401015032595noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029671513775262495.post-7273153065817870682014-05-09T11:26:00.000-04:002014-05-09T11:29:06.547-04:00From the ground up<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
The prompt for my college-application essay asked, "If you could write any kind of book you wanted, what would you write and how would you do the research for it?" I said that I would write a historical mystery set in England, and research it by reading headstones in village churchyards.</div>
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I’ve always had a thing for cemeteries and the stories they
tell. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Yes, there’s always a ribbon of sadness that winds through cemeteries
like a low-lying mist. But I’ve never found them creepy or frightening or
dreary or morbid. The opposite: They’re like libraries of lives, the headstones
compressed autobiographies, condensed as for Twitter.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I grew up in West Los Angeles, and drove past the Veteran’s
Administration’s National Cemetery almost every day, its endless rows of
precise white headstones stretching in every direction.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh7km3NqbxuUazvV8OYMdfdpoAkjDEGG0BBukqzC2oFTuShNYCb_o6bs4ZTGFyn2InxkjerQ40EX2tdMsPx3cFEJLR0Wds2A6axx1NyQg8PXn8WB6ZKyNj5YM2t73VK8DSYTrDvgSqqng/s1600/Cemetery-WLA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh7km3NqbxuUazvV8OYMdfdpoAkjDEGG0BBukqzC2oFTuShNYCb_o6bs4ZTGFyn2InxkjerQ40EX2tdMsPx3cFEJLR0Wds2A6axx1NyQg8PXn8WB6ZKyNj5YM2t73VK8DSYTrDvgSqqng/s1600/Cemetery-WLA.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">[Los Angeles National Cemetery]</td></tr>
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It was awesome, a little overwhelming, a place of national pride
shadowed with the realities of war.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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There are impressive cemeteries everywhere we travel, from the fantastically
gothic Agramonte cemetery in Porto, Portugal…<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtubGz0VSqfCgj-Sa-RqKgLVP7JGokVHfixNHYhsex0yCs29wi95IDDRE-kAxC5orOC-tM1TaPs6zmRDrhKgQ0ik68QYphKhJem6bZVlhO4Yd0AVUR4o17zq7gD8DZ6GV3vFfmf2quc8o/s1600/Cemetery-Port.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtubGz0VSqfCgj-Sa-RqKgLVP7JGokVHfixNHYhsex0yCs29wi95IDDRE-kAxC5orOC-tM1TaPs6zmRDrhKgQ0ik68QYphKhJem6bZVlhO4Yd0AVUR4o17zq7gD8DZ6GV3vFfmf2quc8o/s1600/Cemetery-Port.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">[Mausoleum at Agramonte, Porto, Portugal]</td></tr>
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…to the dramatic, eclectic Lafayette Cemetery in New
Orleans, where <i>les bons temps</i> no
longer <i>roulent…</i></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijv5QQuRkDmsj_OcNoWAaIh1NJKvrgseMSiSz8F9ua2p8zcVTemu-ZaNdQgs4JojlERldFvoGtdp6DY5683wc2lXzagW3oxhJBvSyrO47iQtfT9ZL_wzAPg9pmS-XMLwkRqredWVRjbS8/s1600/Cemetery-NewOrleansSisters.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijv5QQuRkDmsj_OcNoWAaIh1NJKvrgseMSiSz8F9ua2p8zcVTemu-ZaNdQgs4JojlERldFvoGtdp6DY5683wc2lXzagW3oxhJBvSyrO47iQtfT9ZL_wzAPg9pmS-XMLwkRqredWVRjbS8/s1600/Cemetery-NewOrleansSisters.jpg" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">[Lafayette Cemetery #2, New Orleans]</td></tr>
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…to a lush and tranquil churchyard in South Africa, where a
friend’s baby is buried. As we bumped down the dirt road toward the church, his
two-year-old asked brightly, “See Sasha?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">[Cemetery, Limpopo Province, South Africa]</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The grand Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx is imposing…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIMlQFYt6rDgnp64Ndr6tn7Cz5d-1IfOvULWnZiC5Bj76PiLBy7ovnomeIYOA03JAeDVVZrejguEXpFqd533fnoEEg-G5_OAyO6filYIDsUjeba7toM_RGmCDIm2LNSOqx2PQT8dBbFoU/s1600/Cemetery-Woodlawn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIMlQFYt6rDgnp64Ndr6tn7Cz5d-1IfOvULWnZiC5Bj76PiLBy7ovnomeIYOA03JAeDVVZrejguEXpFqd533fnoEEg-G5_OAyO6filYIDsUjeba7toM_RGmCDIm2LNSOqx2PQT8dBbFoU/s1600/Cemetery-Woodlawn.jpg" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
...hosting Duke Ellington and Elizabeth Cady
Stanton, with monuments and mausoleums designed by McKim, Mead & White and
Louis Comfort Tiffany. It struck me as a place almost devoid of grief—except
when the human instinct spoke through the marble.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJhvvfaVdnuQ0yxqEgFx7UqA0-QF8Op-boX-RJh2IdQmif80-3X7ny5bJHDXjvmyGWWRjwIsj6wJQMmNfU-6tnoRCUtrFWIIRAkzO4HbJ2TWl10nqvK8zNJtBrWYVu4BqHZyDqqw9Yzf0/s1600/Cemetery-Georgie.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJhvvfaVdnuQ0yxqEgFx7UqA0-QF8Op-boX-RJh2IdQmif80-3X7ny5bJHDXjvmyGWWRjwIsj6wJQMmNfU-6tnoRCUtrFWIIRAkzO4HbJ2TWl10nqvK8zNJtBrWYVu4BqHZyDqqw9Yzf0/s1600/Cemetery-Georgie.JPG" height="302" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
But the cemeteries that pull me in with an invisible hand are
the smaller, rambling affairs with worn headstones listing to one side, where
recurring family names pop up in widening arcs, and moss grows on old stone. A
place where the local residents make themselves at home.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBvI7qV7Lk_rU7P8w7DVCZnztctmUtJud_h1bo3XUkPy-m8nOhC4Y-E2WB_25-MwLVBJUPxau3fV5N3L_SgttgE1E9dS29bWEEJA3TeRR4huhpdICIXBzD3GtxktwzXPoht26ijNcKKgI/s1600/Cemetery-Ptown.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBvI7qV7Lk_rU7P8w7DVCZnztctmUtJud_h1bo3XUkPy-m8nOhC4Y-E2WB_25-MwLVBJUPxau3fV5N3L_SgttgE1E9dS29bWEEJA3TeRR4huhpdICIXBzD3GtxktwzXPoht26ijNcKKgI/s1600/Cemetery-Ptown.jpg" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">[Provincetown Cemetery, Cape Cod, MA]</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In New Hampshire on a college visit, I left the teenager
sleeping at the inn and wandered into the cemetery next door. The graves were
tucked in up to their chins by a blanket of fresh snow. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN1wdmyibmh3Df7gX6mI1itzrSEKv7RZpqlSwGpdIR9sGMyXrBERMy7u0frqqmprPKQ2pqJyl8KwQgstAZ8J_6Ej1lLMzM1vOIUHTU2EmG-N3tkUlosE9msrOGvWysxyNuF-jc5cFu3U0/s1600/Cemetery-NH.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN1wdmyibmh3Df7gX6mI1itzrSEKv7RZpqlSwGpdIR9sGMyXrBERMy7u0frqqmprPKQ2pqJyl8KwQgstAZ8J_6Ej1lLMzM1vOIUHTU2EmG-N3tkUlosE9msrOGvWysxyNuF-jc5cFu3U0/s1600/Cemetery-NH.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In one corner, lest anything go to waste, buckets hung on a
tree gathering maple sap, flavored with…? I decided not to think about it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYfPuyEY98mApwfJxV4Y-ic5dV5B7XwrWSVXoScSGxbKTMMi-HqkTbaWrX7rv6-KgS-stacbOAPChfbbdYRRHWQtapdC1QqtnzovRNxkKtYnzrNy_mULfRqPd2_vABxaM052Pew40xBo8/s1600/Cemetery-NHSyrup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYfPuyEY98mApwfJxV4Y-ic5dV5B7XwrWSVXoScSGxbKTMMi-HqkTbaWrX7rv6-KgS-stacbOAPChfbbdYRRHWQtapdC1QqtnzovRNxkKtYnzrNy_mULfRqPd2_vABxaM052Pew40xBo8/s1600/Cemetery-NHSyrup.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I try to tread carefully between the graves, stooping to
read the epigraphs. Of course most are simply names with birth and death dates. Sometimes a name is accompanied by another name, with just a birthdate and that predatory dash, waiting
to pounce on a recalcitrant death.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But once in a while, in a few words, a headstone conjures a clear
snapshot: maybe of a cheerfully cluttered study illuminated by the glow of a
plump lamp, where an elderly husband and wife sit in two comfortable armchairs
with a newspaper and a book, occasionally reading a passage aloud or calling
out a crossword clue. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6cAGbF0Y_D4RuqEhwqwtVZNhF0JzcVM9ynqf5taJL8SVNX9C1zQa4XRkPEZCPd5GmT1qnqv-wLc75wsvpmICuZNVUV0gbfHVjutaAgyuRsZh8btM9o6U45XLG_XByG1kROWVzzJ07gnQ/s1600/Cemetery-Princeton.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6cAGbF0Y_D4RuqEhwqwtVZNhF0JzcVM9ynqf5taJL8SVNX9C1zQa4XRkPEZCPd5GmT1qnqv-wLc75wsvpmICuZNVUV0gbfHVjutaAgyuRsZh8btM9o6U45XLG_XByG1kROWVzzJ07gnQ/s1600/Cemetery-Princeton.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">[Cemetery in Princeton, NJ: <b>"…classmates at Bates, full partners in marriage, <br />careful parents, always devoted teachers"</b>]</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Or of a sturdy 18<sup>th-</sup>century New England housewife,
floury hands on a rolling pin and a few wisps of hair escaping from under her
cap, dispensing no-nonsense advice in brisk tones.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQvC83TPswa-WVx7bYnqEG3Zrst6VsO_h-B0Hs6qdCeXIYyIxCp5JSvtHtKhECEpPzAzCZ37Mb_3cr74GidMPZxxP3IzGnNBVSfCmQChDgJcuxmE7luOCR2OTdDmR5FxY0UO1lmlwLteA/s1600/Cemetery-Experience.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQvC83TPswa-WVx7bYnqEG3Zrst6VsO_h-B0Hs6qdCeXIYyIxCp5JSvtHtKhECEpPzAzCZ37Mb_3cr74GidMPZxxP3IzGnNBVSfCmQChDgJcuxmE7luOCR2OTdDmR5FxY0UO1lmlwLteA/s1600/Cemetery-Experience.jpg" height="400" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">[<b>Mrs. Experience</b>, Provincetown Cemetery]</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then there are the mysteries. A New Orleans tomb
commemorates 22-year-old Mathilda Williams and 19-year-old Dorothy Williams,
each “beloved” by their husbands but identified by their maiden
names. Sisters. Who died on the same day, May 15, 1949.<o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQY78Vc2P1aSu-lcqjpADNBvrOHpTjFNV2t2puh-HzSe7JmQsAmBIJohDrenvpuoQbg7clFHIjo3VHlVKb3JvKB7gWjcSUuyi7Iyu7K1m2xXosxqYy6dbBK3G6s9TctgHgiqkowchlQ-g/s1600/Cemetery-NewOrleans.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQY78Vc2P1aSu-lcqjpADNBvrOHpTjFNV2t2puh-HzSe7JmQsAmBIJohDrenvpuoQbg7clFHIjo3VHlVKb3JvKB7gWjcSUuyi7Iyu7K1m2xXosxqYy6dbBK3G6s9TctgHgiqkowchlQ-g/s1600/Cemetery-NewOrleans.jpg" height="400" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">[Lafayette Cemetery #2, New Orleans]</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>What. Happened?</i> A car crash? A boating accident? Were they
on a double-date—a picnic, maybe, with bottles of Jax beer and muffuletta sandwiches from Central Grocery—when the Packard took a corner too fast and…?
I hate not knowing. I’ve Googled their names every which way, but haven’t
found anything. I’ll just have to make up my own story, pieced together between the lines on a headstone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A few years ago, My Beloved and I were in Boston doing the research for our historical graphic novel for kids, <i>Road to Revolution!</i>, which takes place in 1775. After climbing the worn wooden steps to the steeple of the Old North Church to see where the lanterns were lit (did I mention it was 104 degrees that day?), we walked up the road to Copp's Hill Burying Ground, which dates back to the 1600s. Sexton Robert Newman, who lit the lanterns at Old North that fateful night, is buried here, along with Cotton and Increase Mather, merchants, tradesmen, and free African-Americans.<br />
<br />
We set a pivotal scene on Copp's Hill, when our heroes, Penny and Nick, meet to exchange information gathered by Penny, who has gone undercover as a servant girl to eavesdrop on a British general. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsublnIShSS5iBeF9NdpN6OtNoLuaOhUoxbiI-83VyqQ657idpHZpQobw3QTlht9X9pgRlkARA3jRQ81TEZgBNOiedtZ769CIKvAREgVVXCgTCUG288f-WtLPsqnxACC5BWnBjibBd73M/s1600/Cemetery-Revolution.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsublnIShSS5iBeF9NdpN6OtNoLuaOhUoxbiI-83VyqQ657idpHZpQobw3QTlht9X9pgRlkARA3jRQ81TEZgBNOiedtZ769CIKvAREgVVXCgTCUG288f-WtLPsqnxACC5BWnBjibBd73M/s1600/Cemetery-Revolution.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so my college application essay came, sort of, true. In the library of lives, we found a story to tell to young people just starting their lives. Not a circle of life, exactly; more like a spiral. I like it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Susan Champlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10048154401015032595noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029671513775262495.post-50836745818485594062013-10-07T17:39:00.002-04:002014-04-29T13:11:18.342-04:00A vision softly creeping<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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Walking to the subway yesterday afternoon, Stan and I passed a striking-looking woman
standing on a stoop, talking on her cell phone. A black town car waited at the
curb, rear door ajar. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“<i>You</i> make me
beautiful,” the woman said into her phone as we passed by and out of
earshot. I turned to Stan.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“Her stylist? Photographer? Mother? Lover?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“This conversation is just the kind of thing I would have
put in my strip,” said Stan, whose <i>Village Voice</i> comic strip, <span style="color: blue;"><a href="http://www.stanmack.com/market.php"><b>“Stan Mack's Real Life Funnies,<o:p></o:p>”</b></a> </span>specialized in the found art of overheard dialogue.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRHG0i2at2UZg6mgFDROcBT3-ZRx5Q7vYUtAJ1PolVI_JyynqqkVLjSNll-ZVJt-WBkF10Ca89eEisagDmR0TYocehCYVEx_mSajkI-X9P_GqveoBMFKGBFYWNlUAseBFLfBNU9k9NSTY/s1600/odds+and+ends+72.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRHG0i2at2UZg6mgFDROcBT3-ZRx5Q7vYUtAJ1PolVI_JyynqqkVLjSNll-ZVJt-WBkF10Ca89eEisagDmR0TYocehCYVEx_mSajkI-X9P_GqveoBMFKGBFYWNlUAseBFLfBNU9k9NSTY/s400/odds+and+ends+72.jpg" height="281" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Click to enlarge</i></td></tr>
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The moment proved to be a propitious segue to the event we were headed for: Paul Simon talking with poet and <i>New Yorker</i> poetry editor Paul Muldoon as part of the weekend's New Yorker Festival. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I say that casually, but my teenage self was sending up a high-pitched squeal. Paul Simon has been a hero of mine since the 1970s, when I was old enough to swipe albums from my older brothers and sisters. <i>There Goes Rhymin' Simon </i>was my first hot-fisted filch, with its graph-paper album cover design (thank you, Milton Glaser) and its king's-ransom's worth of songs, including <i>Kodachrome</i>, <i>Love Me Like a Rock</i>, <i>Something So Right</i>, and the never-out-of-date <i>American Tune:</i><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
I don't know a soul who's not been battered <br />
I don't have a friend who feels at ease<br />
I don't know a dream that's not been shattered<br />
Or driven to its knees.</blockquote>
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Simon's music has gotten him inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame twice, Muldoon pointed out.<br />
<br />
Simon: "Yes, the first time was for Simon & Garfunkel. The second time was to aggravate Artie."<br />
<br />
Muldoon: "How did that work out?"<br />
<br />
Simon: "It worked out well. He's pretty aggravated."<br />
<br />
I love Simon's music, his groundbreaking mixture of global rhythms and musicians on <i>Graceland</i> and <i>Rhythm of the Saints</i>, his guitar-playing—but it's his lyrics I roll around in like a dog rolls in dirt.</div>
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"Everybody loves the sound of a train in the distance." </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"You've got the cool water when the fever runs high." </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"She said the man in the gabardine suit was a spy." </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"There's a girl in New York City who calls herself the human trampoline." </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"I like to sleep with the windows open, you keep the windows closed, so goodbye, goodbye, goodbye."</blockquote>
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<br /></div>
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And, of course, "The Mississippi Delta was shining like a National guitar"—cited by Derek Walcott, with whom Simon collaborated on the ill-fated Broadway musical <i>The Capeman</i> (whose music I love), as evidence that Simon is a poet.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So it was surprising, often hilarious, and strangely not at all disillusioning to hear Paul Simon talk about the many seemingly accidental ways that titles and lyrics ended up in his songs.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"I was in a Chinese restaurant and on the menu there was a chicken and egg dish. And they called it the Mother and Child Reunion."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"I was flipping through a book on Magritte, and there was a photo with the caption, 'Georgette and Rene Magritte with their dog before the war.' But I thought it should be, 'Rene and Georgette Magritte with their dog <i>after</i> the war.' " </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Asked by a girl in the audience to reveal the mystery of what "me and Julio" were doing down in the schoolyard, Simon said, "If I tell you I'm just going to wreck it for you—that was all about just getting the name 'Julio' into a song."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
When another woman cited "The cross is in the ballpark" (from <i>The Obvious Child</i> on <i>Rhythm of the Saints</i>) as one of her favorite lines, Simon said, "Me, too. I wish I knew what it meant."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And he happily admits to quoting many, many lines from the songs he grew up with in the 50s, "when every song used the same three chords."<br />
<br />
One of those chords ended up in <i>Graceland—</i>an unexpected minor chord played by South African guitarist Ray Phiri.<br />
<br />
"They almost never use minor chords in South African music, so I asked him, 'Why did you use that chord?' " Simon said, "and he said, 'Because <i>you</i> use that chord'—a chord I took from <i>Earth Angel.</i> That's when I knew we were really making global music."</div>
<br />
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The racing percussion line that underlies <i>Graceland</i> gave the tune a rockabilly feeling that put Simon in mind of Sun Studios in Memphis, where Johnny Cash and Elvis had recorded.<br />
<br />
With no lyrics for the song, he started singing, "I'm going to Graceland, Graceland"—"but I thought, 'Well, I'm not using that, it makes no sense.' " Until he returned to the States and actually took a trip to Graceland, his first.<br />
<br />
"I was driving down the highway, and there was the first line of the song actually laid out before me: 'The Mississippi Delta was shining like a National guitar.' "<br />
<br />
Muldoon interrupted: "It should be said, not everyone would put it that way."</div>
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<br /></div>
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Simon is either modest or flatly realistic about his lyrical gift. Most of the time, he says, "I don't know where it comes from"—a sentiment echoed by Muldoon, who encouraged a budding poet in the audience to "go in ignorance."<br />
<br />
But ignorance with your eyes open.</div>
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<br />
"When I was a kid, I was always looking at the sidewalk, because you might find a quarter," Paul Simon said. "One time I found a dollar. The thing is, you always have to be looking."<br />
<br />
The evening ended with Paul Simon and his guitar and a simple, almost conversational version of <i>The Sound of Silence. </i><br />
<br />
"Hear my words that I might teach you"?<br />
<br />
We heard. We learned. He got a standing ovation.</div>
<!--EndFragment-->Susan Champlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10048154401015032595noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029671513775262495.post-70674062228828389782013-09-18T09:08:00.000-04:002014-04-29T13:12:39.111-04:00A Made-Up Life<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">[I'm very pleased to have had this piece run on <a href="http://betterafter50.com/">BetterAfter50.com</a> on September 17, 2013.]</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></i>
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></i>
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<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
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On the wall in my mom’s home office, there’s a plastic box
frame that holds a yellowing page from <i>McCall’s</i>
magazine. A 22-year-old has just been given a makeover, her waist-length hair
cut into a fluffy mass of ’80s feathering, courtesy of cowboy-hatted superstar
stylist Jose Eber. Her eyebrows have been groomed, her skin foundationed, her oversized
glasses removed and her eyelashes mascara’d. She wears a strapless bodysuit, a
plastic necklace that took its design cues from molten lava, and a big smile.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“I look in the mirror
and I see this glamorous, sophisticated woman,”</i> the caption reads. <i>“I can’t believe it’s really me!”</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was misquoted.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What I actually said was, <i>“I look like a hooker.”</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, that was me, wearing a smock and looking sheepishly at
my reflection as Jose picked up my long hair in both hands and held it out to
the sides, as if measuring my wingspan. (The master of disdain, Jose was unimpressed.)
That was me, mortified by the yellow polka-dot outfit that made me look like a
back-up singer for Shaun Cassidy. And that was me, driving away from the photo
session and hoping the police didn’t pick me up on suspicion of solicitation at
traffic lights.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve always had a tense relationship with cosmetics. Mascara
feels like I’ve drizzled my eyelashes with Elmer’s Glue. Foundation feels like
a death mask. Lipstick wears <i>me.</i>
Basically, I don’t like stuff on my face. (That feathery haircut, constantly
wisping my forehead, ugh.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Which was a perfectly plausible attitude from age 22 until
about age 35, when I could get by with a 10-minute morning routine, including
the shower.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But now I’m 52, and no chapter in Nora Ephron’s <i>I Feel Bad About My Neck</i> resonates more
emphatically with me than “On Maintenance”:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“You know what maintenance is, I’m
sure. Maintenance is what they mean when they say, ‘After a certain point, it’s
just patch patch patch.’ Maintenance is what you have to do just so you can
walk out the door knowing that if you go to the market and bump into a guy who
once rejected you, you won’t have to hide behind a stack of canned food.”</blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By now, I’ve had to make cosmetic concessions. I won’t ride
the elevator the six floors down to the lobby to get the mail without first
applying my $1 eye pencil, for fear of running into someone I may or may not
know. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I look at the unfamiliar landscape that used to be my skin,
and try my best to smooth it over with a few drops of Clinique ‘Almost Makeup.’
I even bought a drugstore lipstick in a shade that most closely approximates
the color I used to achieve by biting my lower lip.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
The problem is, I’m an old dog now, and this new trick may be beyond me. I just
don’t know what I’m doing. I once watched a young woman apply her makeup while
holding on to the pole on a rattling subway train who did it better than I do. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I live in fear of ending up with that jittery trail of
eyeliner that breaks my heart when I see it on an old woman—the kind of whom
you think, “God bless ’er, she’s still trying.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today my getting-dressed routine lasts about 45 minutes and
generally ends with my flipping off the bathroom light and making a little <i>ucchh </i>sound in the back of my throat.
The cosmetic equivalent of, “Forget it Jake, it’s Chinatown.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
God bless me, I’m still trying. I’d even be open to another
magazine makeover. But wouldn’t you know, <i>McCall’s</i>
magazine is long gone. And so is that 22-year-old glamorous, sophisticated
hooker in polka dots.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimOpJI_0laVq07bICSLjtU0qzsz0gFv8LhLwBAu-NSkpJGvlp0KIz1dnOHxo7jtpuqTQEcBxsIrIbTk8xXzYThSu5FOOzz04ybYyfs9WSsvQD_NlnMven7MFcndai7yFGRF9F9X_fogfc/s1600/McCallsMakeover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimOpJI_0laVq07bICSLjtU0qzsz0gFv8LhLwBAu-NSkpJGvlp0KIz1dnOHxo7jtpuqTQEcBxsIrIbTk8xXzYThSu5FOOzz04ybYyfs9WSsvQD_NlnMven7MFcndai7yFGRF9F9X_fogfc/s400/McCallsMakeover.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's faded. It's been 30 years.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Susan Champlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10048154401015032595noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029671513775262495.post-10979749268963194672013-08-25T16:12:00.001-04:002014-04-29T13:14:10.238-04:00Surprise<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">I’ve lived in New York for 3 years and 235 days now, and still the city reaches out and surprises me every day.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUSgy0yULPkMLn8arglZsPtHinkc_TzGnh7sKvqpiiZtwgceUdRyC3M5Ibmz6RykGrUhyoxFVKaD6iHNBygpfln4E1VcigpGod6pv-vV3t0ZUB-sBFXuofCJesDg1Kl-rs1T98bzpVcXU/s1600/IMG_2570.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUSgy0yULPkMLn8arglZsPtHinkc_TzGnh7sKvqpiiZtwgceUdRyC3M5Ibmz6RykGrUhyoxFVKaD6iHNBygpfln4E1VcigpGod6pv-vV3t0ZUB-sBFXuofCJesDg1Kl-rs1T98bzpVcXU/s400/IMG_2570.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>This morning's greeting from the Hudson River.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
It's partly a numbers game: With so much time spent on the street, you have a 90 percent chance at any moment of bumping up against the beautiful or the strange. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I may be over-sentimental—my father once described us as "a family that cries at Stop signs"—but I find myself constantly moved by humanity. The old man in a white undershirt, bent at an almost 45-degree angle over his walker, his young female caregiver's hand hovering behind his back. The baby crawling on chubby knees over the grass at Hudson River Park. The owner guiding his three-legged dog through a crosswalk.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But even the city's inanimate features—the geometry of it alone—can yank me to a halt. </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFQzVxn3396PgzoGOnr7BAlfDM-wh2B2wSivGHSfKcjrEX8eNK-PUkMKO1x88XIyy3WhKnNxnTL0pjLQm3trdQk2CjbKrKoLBLyiHm371k1dQ5hTI9T4QYu9NSDDTmuV6-QDqfXCCopPo/s1600/IMG_2454.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFQzVxn3396PgzoGOnr7BAlfDM-wh2B2wSivGHSfKcjrEX8eNK-PUkMKO1x88XIyy3WhKnNxnTL0pjLQm3trdQk2CjbKrKoLBLyiHm371k1dQ5hTI9T4QYu9NSDDTmuV6-QDqfXCCopPo/s400/IMG_2454.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Lower Manhattan</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Ninth Avenue, from the Apple Store</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>East 32nd Street</i></td></tr>
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And the art. It's frigging everywhere. It's in the places you expect it, of course; like MoMA, where Robert Rauschenberg's "combine," <i>Bed—</i>created from pencil, paint, pillow, sheet, and quilt—demonstrates his philosophy of "acting in the gap" between life and art.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYSktwHmQ3WWFQ4IBtkjZh4GGCwSfXfkmd91o5b-57Sa0Sk3KB2lvjpRpDWHCRtRkBV60PIxGT_utZPA2o4qJrG50Kwgu5Nt9MiztZ5deLwd-CF62imBUHhJ1xOGy15ewO87-KuDuI9LQ/s1600/IMG_2552.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYSktwHmQ3WWFQ4IBtkjZh4GGCwSfXfkmd91o5b-57Sa0Sk3KB2lvjpRpDWHCRtRkBV60PIxGT_utZPA2o4qJrG50Kwgu5Nt9MiztZ5deLwd-CF62imBUHhJ1xOGy15ewO87-KuDuI9LQ/s400/IMG_2552.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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But it's also in places you don't expect it. In fact, the amazing thing about New York is the amount of art that exists in the gap between life and Art. </div>
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It's in subway stations.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2_45-6jw6DujSCXJvLFOTc0FCgHJG8gDA5FZDv6T0fmze6rCLzbirqVxtXomXF4fLKhILB4bxfjvwmnizHaTGXTK3lQqqMuNEr8y5Ve5an7jnE7KSsRBwKVT47lTwBfZ2CzfQzUQyOKA/s1600/IMG_1217.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2_45-6jw6DujSCXJvLFOTc0FCgHJG8gDA5FZDv6T0fmze6rCLzbirqVxtXomXF4fLKhILB4bxfjvwmnizHaTGXTK3lQqqMuNEr8y5Ve5an7jnE7KSsRBwKVT47lTwBfZ2CzfQzUQyOKA/s400/IMG_1217.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></div>
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It's on West 21st Street, where this fantastic creature greeted us from the side of P.S. 11.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtmxnY9CTIMvhEZZRt1F28v-Pz3RHLkWDOHWtjOKfGxGbqeSE_XrAxQ_BexshJnQMgmzsD95x5uc8hiT96X4sMAVKevTVnmFoY-1NxFBxgqASbJUfBAHQY9qac0mHcmA3KcaTasrAI4xc/s1600/PS11Creature.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtmxnY9CTIMvhEZZRt1F28v-Pz3RHLkWDOHWtjOKfGxGbqeSE_XrAxQ_BexshJnQMgmzsD95x5uc8hiT96X4sMAVKevTVnmFoY-1NxFBxgqASbJUfBAHQY9qac0mHcmA3KcaTasrAI4xc/s400/PS11Creature.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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How could a child <i>not </i>learn great things after walking through these doors each morning?</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsSk4H-swnouU7diUd4oyIJpRBEa1eaT2uwKMAeH9HowtJZmHx0fiKLVtHuwMMXRNldudYDWqqFFs_TnqKQGqTJYWK5xmHCEtu7YGYFitRXvIyzn7_Ohau8fl1_zhmNS4iR1HHflzHg0M/s1600/IMG_2561.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsSk4H-swnouU7diUd4oyIJpRBEa1eaT2uwKMAeH9HowtJZmHx0fiKLVtHuwMMXRNldudYDWqqFFs_TnqKQGqTJYWK5xmHCEtu7YGYFitRXvIyzn7_Ohau8fl1_zhmNS4iR1HHflzHg0M/s400/IMG_2561.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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And clearly, they have.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVZC4z_ff3gS0GWWIYBuu_ThdlkZKldK0X8xkNp5QNWJ9th1s7IkEcsAKd1fCb1NkIXORugBbzXOcnADeqpRLM7y-DUhg__fldQlo_5E3uKN2BBNUlt9NO_6OR7a-tFbUbpV4lS2ZaO5c/s1600/IMG_2562.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVZC4z_ff3gS0GWWIYBuu_ThdlkZKldK0X8xkNp5QNWJ9th1s7IkEcsAKd1fCb1NkIXORugBbzXOcnADeqpRLM7y-DUhg__fldQlo_5E3uKN2BBNUlt9NO_6OR7a-tFbUbpV4lS2ZaO5c/s400/IMG_2562.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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There's also art in the middle of the lawn in the middle of Governor's Island in the middle of New York Harbor, where <i>head in the clouds,</i> made from 53,780 recycled plastic water and milk jugs, invites you to step inside and think awhile...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5eYZzI2meVrT-pgMp0pCKJl1xJzJkIwhliH0qV3GUCBh2oYnpz_WGCafQ1ZF-pJYrxECEjLjMjjLliMY4cMFtS30UhhxeQCLXfSJD353cxvHtQ_a-jGt2FE46zO-MiAYtfICIVy6LtBA/s1600/IMG_2506.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5eYZzI2meVrT-pgMp0pCKJl1xJzJkIwhliH0qV3GUCBh2oYnpz_WGCafQ1ZF-pJYrxECEjLjMjjLliMY4cMFtS30UhhxeQCLXfSJD353cxvHtQ_a-jGt2FE46zO-MiAYtfICIVy6LtBA/s400/IMG_2506.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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...and where antique French carousels carried children and parents into the past.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwvL4b5q577rRhVDzQviRKTug5racotAsSPqkvxq4I7R665AciNZ4Z2XeW722AKKahHVsyhvSoSHvsvhXXy99-3rc4JHVtnEUulLYBGmsI29BezioP3n6sRPHZZ4a0T2SA0UzfP7qT5kk/s1600/IMG_2526.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwvL4b5q577rRhVDzQviRKTug5racotAsSPqkvxq4I7R665AciNZ4Z2XeW722AKKahHVsyhvSoSHvsvhXXy99-3rc4JHVtnEUulLYBGmsI29BezioP3n6sRPHZZ4a0T2SA0UzfP7qT5kk/s400/IMG_2526.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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The past is a constant companion here. You can time-travel while standing still. </div>
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Walk down a side street, and you may find yourself peering through bars at a tiny Jewish cemetery, sandwiched between brick buildings that loom on either side. <span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOWIdSGsHH6lALBElVGbDIlPyNvMsK3JI2dVv04qpahKrPgyTln1a-CSfAOuPWkXHPR-u03oaTR8yNEpZEmD6mpUsFUWS3EmzuhZXiJAuZnQxhz4uY5IphQxsym8jMd_-LZvwQoj2sjI4/s1600/IMG_2565.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOWIdSGsHH6lALBElVGbDIlPyNvMsK3JI2dVv04qpahKrPgyTln1a-CSfAOuPWkXHPR-u03oaTR8yNEpZEmD6mpUsFUWS3EmzuhZXiJAuZnQxhz4uY5IphQxsym8jMd_-LZvwQoj2sjI4/s400/IMG_2565.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: -webkit-auto;">This is the Third Cemetery of the Spanish and Portuguese Synagogue Shearith Israel—the oldest Jewish congregation in North America, established in 1654, according to </span><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><b><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: blue;"><a href="http://www.tabletmag.com/jewish-news-and-politics/76248/buried"><span style="color: blue;">Tablet Magazine.</span></a> </span></b></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="background-color: white;">(</span>Also from </span><i style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Tablet:</i><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: -webkit-auto;"> The Second Cemetery, tucked between brownstones on West 11th Street in Greenwich Village, sits next to a building that once housed a Civil War </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: -webkit-auto;">tavern known as The Grapevine, where Southern spies would eavesdrop on Union soldiers—hence the expression "I heard it through The Grapevine.")</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmrPsI3Ce0nNrAUmuCCXQZzA9MUF0a0kPy4nwsTcIq7oWBTMRpmm64lW0C5CkjDteVVHATRrpCDCunqXNCAdmpWwW8GENnGSbsV9H_MssTDE3jxuM_bSGSqxcM6kEg8cedad-M-11zCIA/s1600/IMG_2567.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmrPsI3Ce0nNrAUmuCCXQZzA9MUF0a0kPy4nwsTcIq7oWBTMRpmm64lW0C5CkjDteVVHATRrpCDCunqXNCAdmpWwW8GENnGSbsV9H_MssTDE3jxuM_bSGSqxcM6kEg8cedad-M-11zCIA/s400/IMG_2567.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #343434; line-height: 21px;">I think of these men and women who've slept here for hundreds of years while Sixth Avenue and condominiums and Trader Joe's have grown up around them. Wouldn't they be surprised, just as I'm surprised every single day, by what New York has to show. </span></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Susan Champlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10048154401015032595noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029671513775262495.post-89640978617355944422013-07-22T10:35:00.000-04:002014-04-29T13:15:30.178-04:00In August I dream of the sea<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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In August I dream of the sea.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
I dream of Cape Cod</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVx89Ow6cHjkzDs3Pn3j5AUJsEkXbqZyhwWWOcJkysMoUU3dNDiZK6r0LlU27Fa8LHxUJLLpkTuwiKOim9_pP6_M1nVGzQExhQBtJD-70bN0MXIBDkihy1lcmwrK9zIgkY2zjngVfVLmY/s1600/IMG_1083.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVx89Ow6cHjkzDs3Pn3j5AUJsEkXbqZyhwWWOcJkysMoUU3dNDiZK6r0LlU27Fa8LHxUJLLpkTuwiKOim9_pP6_M1nVGzQExhQBtJD-70bN0MXIBDkihy1lcmwrK9zIgkY2zjngVfVLmY/s400/IMG_1083.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></div>
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Where water like silk<o:p></o:p></div>
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Meets a Hopper shore.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I dream of Los Angeles<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQal3kQ-QbLFElJ1UnzcqUzx6hma1mVqDB7bCjhzu8DsN_FaJ08EWjCECTTXaQjaAcvtMqHwGwHkP-FDcSYSBUCjkUvUR8fAsazDp6MYcQmU8VJ9pg78CWlUzVQeY-v_d1SRRNSoXMrkM/s1600/IMG_1357.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQal3kQ-QbLFElJ1UnzcqUzx6hma1mVqDB7bCjhzu8DsN_FaJ08EWjCECTTXaQjaAcvtMqHwGwHkP-FDcSYSBUCjkUvUR8fAsazDp6MYcQmU8VJ9pg78CWlUzVQeY-v_d1SRRNSoXMrkM/s400/IMG_1357.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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Where the cold and wild Pacific<o:p></o:p></div>
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Meets a manicured coast<o:p></o:p></div>
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And the highway bends toward Malibu.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I dream of Istanbul<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxeSqmSUdL9P4N2nbwXQRnvfRaRYMqWvGhgp2cUnOQhSbcB-V_MMBE-iNJGNowMYhKvFzHLuFDUHd9tcvEEeMcOR0DrMStJeLwHHH8SABo0ugMdaqoSNLN2QxFYhPNjA4PejOypXiQqSk/s1600/IMG_1050.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxeSqmSUdL9P4N2nbwXQRnvfRaRYMqWvGhgp2cUnOQhSbcB-V_MMBE-iNJGNowMYhKvFzHLuFDUHd9tcvEEeMcOR0DrMStJeLwHHH8SABo0ugMdaqoSNLN2QxFYhPNjA4PejOypXiQqSk/s400/IMG_1050.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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Where ferries ply the Bosphorus<o:p></o:p></div>
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Where Europe meets Asia;<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Where protest meets pepper spray,<o:p></o:p></div>
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Old men and their ways<o:p></o:p></div>
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Meet unvanquished youth.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
I dream of Cape Town<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxxUlfOExfp866ff12r-tD1LoklgJAZRmkQbF7lUrSM8M6G7RNkEIqFQ85nOONaGRxJ50_mMu33tNHSLs7rucFy4L4exbUzAxB7la5F3Wr9rh4hErLawIhJZmhfMKH56jxm2cd5lwuiY8/s1600/IMG_0124.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxxUlfOExfp866ff12r-tD1LoklgJAZRmkQbF7lUrSM8M6G7RNkEIqFQ85nOONaGRxJ50_mMu33tNHSLs7rucFy4L4exbUzAxB7la5F3Wr9rh4hErLawIhJZmhfMKH56jxm2cd5lwuiY8/s400/IMG_0124.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></div>
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Where a billowing cloth<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tumbles off Table Mountain,<o:p></o:p></div>
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And rolls toward the harbor,<o:p></o:p></div>
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Where boats carry the faithful<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
To rocky Robben Island<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9T42Lz88FZrOD_yTlpViKdt9z91XoeUTmOhbdX-DAvczHpqu-JAC1_PbbBv-zTjpZK7kc7Fob1t4h0XD8kdkDMy-y_GGS_0rD5ygHZkF4FPR-IBqWfRqNDv17eXGuua1r3CKLgHRfQaY/s1600/IMG_0171.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9T42Lz88FZrOD_yTlpViKdt9z91XoeUTmOhbdX-DAvczHpqu-JAC1_PbbBv-zTjpZK7kc7Fob1t4h0XD8kdkDMy-y_GGS_0rD5ygHZkF4FPR-IBqWfRqNDv17eXGuua1r3CKLgHRfQaY/s400/IMG_0171.JPG" height="400" width="298" /></a></div>
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And Mandela’s tiny green cell.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
I dream of the ocean in August<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
The sweet salt water of hope.<o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Susan Champlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10048154401015032595noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029671513775262495.post-36657660800499899232013-06-12T19:09:00.002-04:002014-04-29T13:17:38.540-04:00Turkey, Revisited<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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“On a recent night at a bar in one
of the narrow alleyways of Istanbul’s European quarter, not far from Taksim
Square, Duygu Duman said she was so exasperated with her government that she
might finally take the green card for the United States that she won in a
lottery and pick up and move. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“ ‘The perception of Turkey has changed dramatically under this government,’
said Ms. Duman, 36, drinking Jack Daniel’s Lynchburg Lemonade while a Bon Jovi
song blared from the bar’s speakers. ‘And now it’s getting worse.’ ”<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
—<i>The New
York Times,</i> “Resisting By Raising a Glass,” June 10, 2013</div>
</blockquote>
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: right;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The young woman in the window seat was reading a comics
magazine. Stan was eyeing it from his seat on the aisle, but he couldn’t read
the captions. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Excuse me,” he said, leaning across me to the woman. “Do
you speak English?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes, of course,” she said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Could you tell me what that says?”<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She pointed to the image of a woman going into a toilet
stall. A man in a suit appeared to be following her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“He is saying, ‘How can you be trusted if you’re in there by
yourself?’ ”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We were on a Turkish Airlines flight last June from Istanbul
to Selçuk, preparing to visit the colossal Roman ruins at Ephesus. We had just
spent a week in the beach resort town of Bodrum and in Istanbul with the Aydan
Do<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', Lucida, 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 24px; text-align: justify;">ğ</span>an Foundation’s International Cartoon Competition, for which My Beloved was
serving as a juror. (I wrote about our experiences during the competition <b><a href="http://wwkhd.blogspot.com/2012/06/sketches-of-turkey.html"><span style="color: blue;">here.</span></a></b>)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With the Turkish cartoonists on the judging panel, we had
discussed censorship, freedom of the press (or the lack thereof), and the
difference between the secular Muslim country that Turkey used to be and the
increasingly conservative, religiously driven mandates of the government led by
Prime Minister Recep Tayyip Erdogan.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Many of the cartoons, entered into the competition post-Arab Spring, focused on themes of revolution.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKxuO1FRrtNcAiWVEcA0zmwRtCc8V-km1YttxyZT5LOMFWZl6tElrm_AGxpKQugIWtsVFm4hZ5J3T9XaGLJdrzd_OqKmZc-fEoSfMG5jaEMTAwCOcS4K16o-8Ps7UDWdkGqrd1WmNsAGI/s1600/IMG_0499.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKxuO1FRrtNcAiWVEcA0zmwRtCc8V-km1YttxyZT5LOMFWZl6tElrm_AGxpKQugIWtsVFm4hZ5J3T9XaGLJdrzd_OqKmZc-fEoSfMG5jaEMTAwCOcS4K16o-8Ps7UDWdkGqrd1WmNsAGI/s400/IMG_0499.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now the cartoon competition was over and we were traveling by
ourselves to Ephesus, then to the phallic moonscape of Cappadocia, and then back to
Istanbul before heading home to New York. The young woman next to us on this
flight was a psychiatrist who worked with patients at a hospital in Istanbul and with residents of a poor community in the city.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As we discussed the political cartoons in the magazine she
carried, she described with emotion and heat the changes she’d seen in her
country in the ten years that Erdogan had been Prime Minister. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s frightening,” she said. “Especially for women.” She
cited some of the things Erdogan had done or vowed to do: ban abortion; “reform”
education so that girls could leave school earlier, effectively lowering their marriageable age to about 14; increase religious education in schools. We've since heard about other edicts—restrictions on the sale of alcohol, forbidding public displays of affection, exhorting married couples to bear at least three children.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She also described a distrust of professionals on the part
of the more conservative, less educated Erdogan supporters—to the point that
her boyfriend, an ER doctor, had been kicked and had his ribs broken by a
patient who thought the doctor was plotting against him because he read his scans on a computer screen instead of on old-style x-rays.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Do you think about leaving the country?” I asked the woman.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Many of my friends have already left,” she said. “But this
is my country. My ancestors are here. Why should I have to leave?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve been thinking of her—and of our impassioned tour guide,
Suleiman, who had said, “I have to speak out for my son, who is one year
old”—as I’ve watched the coverage of the protests in Istanbul’s Taksim Square
over the past week. Last year, I had wondered if or when the anger we heard in
conversations would bubble up into physical protest.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So when the environmental protest over plans to raze Gezi Park
and build a shopping mall evolved into a passionate demonstration against the
government and for democracy, I wished I were back in Taksim Square to support
the protestors.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On our first visit to Taksim Square last June, we had only been in Istanbul one day. I'd heard that the square was a center of political protest, and imagined it as something like the Federal Building in West Los Angeles, where you'll often see crowds with Iranian flags or placards lined up along Wilshire Boulevard. When we saw a march coming up Istiklal Cadessi, the famous pedestrian shopping thoroughfare that leads into Taksim Square, I got my hopes up that we were about to witness citizen outrage in action. But no—the marchers were carrying banners for cell phone companies and corporate brands.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH00yITXzFsKsODXnCnxYrLIsTGG1rPUay_mcst39jLgOpPDFAiyJwyj1XY228YDrImBHhZV0_9U9QLaugpJk4oy2Ueu4NZBq0Yp40DtBLzkFUUYTbXB8FlU1fBB_6dMNUS-hn8mS1P3s/s1600/IMG_0892.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH00yITXzFsKsODXnCnxYrLIsTGG1rPUay_mcst39jLgOpPDFAiyJwyj1XY228YDrImBHhZV0_9U9QLaugpJk4oy2Ueu4NZBq0Yp40DtBLzkFUUYTbXB8FlU1fBB_6dMNUS-hn8mS1P3s/s400/IMG_0892.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was continually flummoxed by the contradictions in Turkey—how the country seems to be moving forward and backward at the same time.<br />
<br />
In the seat-back pocket on the flight from the U.S., a thick and glossy publication laid out in spectacular detail the hospitable infrastructure that Turkey offers to potential international business partners—including the country's growing young work force. (That three-children mandate seems to fit neatly with Erdogan's business plans.)<br />
<br />
Shopping was already a thriving industry in Istanbul, from the historic Spice Market and Grand Bazaar...<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRz4K_Mj8L_lNuf0pclPAEx-WuBqO3aXoourkw6cZRjwZ12m5bHEHhwSoAybFDOQoUQUfKDRFp5PUVqZWvYzXlGcAa0cH6f9qchFiBgsmDjwocf2PUPh9waTVs_uAJKOZZexpzXX1eAE8/s1600/IMG_0880.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRz4K_Mj8L_lNuf0pclPAEx-WuBqO3aXoourkw6cZRjwZ12m5bHEHhwSoAybFDOQoUQUfKDRFp5PUVqZWvYzXlGcAa0cH6f9qchFiBgsmDjwocf2PUPh9waTVs_uAJKOZZexpzXX1eAE8/s400/IMG_0880.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
...to the rushing river of Turkish lira-bearing humanity along Istiklal:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnr_CX0e-T45i-pQqgglzGcUUm6tl_6GYPV-zhzRMCVcWUJik5T-Rei9abVY6ETGMhAQOU3H-HddmBMOVjRsBfw55eAmclEke5VRvHeGeLU5RBWzoxX1L7F3CDLxdoUSn2fg7e-n6oClM/s1600/IMG_1023.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnr_CX0e-T45i-pQqgglzGcUUm6tl_6GYPV-zhzRMCVcWUJik5T-Rei9abVY6ETGMhAQOU3H-HddmBMOVjRsBfw55eAmclEke5VRvHeGeLU5RBWzoxX1L7F3CDLxdoUSn2fg7e-n6oClM/s400/IMG_1023.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
Yet on the societal front, the increasing religious conservatism seemed to be sending Turkey back to the dark ages. Marry girls off at 14? Ban abortion? Imprison opposing voices? As of June 2012, Erdogan's administration had jailed more than 100 journalists and 30 mayors—including the mayor of Bodrum, who was therefore unable to attend the closing night dinner of the cartoon competition as he had planned until two nights before.<br />
<br />
I loved Turkey. I adored Istanbul. My heart broke for our plane companion and our gregarious young tour guide, who were watching the country they'd grown up in disappear into a dark tunnel.<br />
<br />
“My parents feel guilty,” said the young psychiatrist on the plane. “They said, ‘We should have stopped this years ago. We failed you.’ ”<br />
<br />
Now a new generation is trying to succeed in Taksim Square.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj623U5CRfCpxR98IEnHE-WY6R3m7ptKtXNkOXibQoh2o77VP8K9L2e_3gWrtvIStbqfNBhmIoA_PcC7ll46qa9SWcIoPSm6BUtJgeWfNW5gO9oks6caBYFZfhIReDUpYSQJkh-JqmwGOw/s1600/taksim_2579289b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj623U5CRfCpxR98IEnHE-WY6R3m7ptKtXNkOXibQoh2o77VP8K9L2e_3gWrtvIStbqfNBhmIoA_PcC7ll46qa9SWcIoPSm6BUtJgeWfNW5gO9oks6caBYFZfhIReDUpYSQJkh-JqmwGOw/s320/taksim_2579289b.jpg" height="199" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Istiklal, June 2013. Photo: EPA From <a href="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/europe/turkey/10094499/Turkey-Taksim-Square-protesters-in-angry-victorious-carnival.html" target="_blank">The Telegraph</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
****************************************************************<br />
<i>For a more complete photo album of our trip to Turkey in June, 2012, click <b><span style="color: blue;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10201506301366362.1073741830.1441314421&type=1&l=27677877f6">here.</a> </span></b></i></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Susan Champlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10048154401015032595noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029671513775262495.post-50319604726055758022013-04-07T12:30:00.000-04:002014-04-29T13:21:13.146-04:00The charm<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
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Drawing a shadow across our faces.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Across the country,<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcrsvE8x1i8vdhtGh-kbpyod8sgzpgKrMMLeWTz1DUOPGJshU_NKvXOYFLdu05dtkcp2VHyIwpTsFcl_yH26PBZc_C_QyytMHJzbmv8qOQzFuYOxWdXumLN1NNaG2uSQbB9_cSRfAsBiE/s1600/youarehere-02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcrsvE8x1i8vdhtGh-kbpyod8sgzpgKrMMLeWTz1DUOPGJshU_NKvXOYFLdu05dtkcp2VHyIwpTsFcl_yH26PBZc_C_QyytMHJzbmv8qOQzFuYOxWdXumLN1NNaG2uSQbB9_cSRfAsBiE/s320/youarehere-02.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 9px; line-height: 14px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">you are here | 2002 | NYC by Soledad Arias</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Hola!</i> I’ve started
taking Spanish, an extension course through Borough of Manhattan Community
College. It’s me and several 20something women, many of them <i>au pairs</i> from Germany and Russia and Poland and Croatia, learning at least their third language. Aside from some
fumbling high school and college French, I have no second language, which is a
ridiculous state of events. And not to speak Spanish after decades of living in
Los Angeles is just shameful.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Pero,</i> that’s not
what I’m here to talk about. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today I visited my Spanish teacher’s website. <b><span style="color: blue;"><a href="http://soledadarias.net/" target="_blank">Soledad Arias</a> </span></b>is an Argentinian-born artist
who uses text in pieces and installations that encompass meaning, questions, thought.
A few months after 9/11, she created neon tubes, placed in Times Square and
other New York City locations, that slowly illuminated to reveal “you are here”—then
gradually went dark again. For an “urban intervention” in Montreal, she created
<b><span style="color: blue;"><a href="http://soledadarias.net/projects-more/whowhatwhere02.htm">pennants</a>
</span></b>that spelled out, letter by letter, phrases from Samuel Beckett’s <i>Texts for Nothing</i>: “What would I say if I had a voice” flapped
over a gritty urban park frequented by junkies; “Who would I be if I could be” rustled
between two trees in the city’s popular Parc Lafontaine. Their meanings changed
with the viewer, the time, the mood.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Also, Soledad teaches Spanish at BMCC. I’m guessing that
most of the other students in my class will never visit her website, and never
think of her as other than the woman they took Spanish from. Which made me think about how our
selves, like Soledad’s art-phrases, shape-shift depending on the
circumstance—and on whether we’re defining ourselves or others are defining us.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know this isn’t an original concept; all of us are multifaceted,
different people in different contexts. But I’ve started to wonder if there’s
some essential core of who-I-am-ness that doesn’t change. And if so, what the
heck is it? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We learned in class that in Spanish you don’t say, as you do
in English, “I am <i>a</i> writer” (as in,
“I’m one of a million billion writers, all of whom have blogs”). You say, <i>Soy escritora—I am writer!</i> Is that bold,
confident creature really down there running things in my engine room? I’m not
sure I recognize her. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A long time ago, a cousin of mine said, “You’re not very
ambitious, are you?” I was a little insulted—we’re supposed to be ambitious, dammit!—but
I couldn’t deny the basic truth of it. It’s not that I didn’t want to work; I
love to work. I love to create beautiful, true things from 26 characters. But I
wasn’t compelled to get to the tippy-top of a success mountain, or to be famous
(it seems like hell, actually), or to make obscene amounts of money. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Between some combination of talent and luck, I fashioned
a career that’s enabled me to use my fingers and my brain (more or less of the
latter, depending), made me enough money to enable non-starvation, and has kept
me <i>ocupada.</i> Meanwhile, my deepest priorities
were life priorities: raising the extraordinary Child-who-is-no-longer-a-child,
finding my way to My Beloved, making the human connections.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now I’m at that magical middling age when people lift their
heads up from their desks and blink, mole-like, in the unexpected light. “What?
What’s going on? How did I get here? And what have I done with my coffee cup?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For me (and I know I’m not alone), it’s a reassessment time,
a time of thinking, Shouldn’t I be doing something that matters? Shouldn’t I, like
a backpacker in Yosemite, leave the campground a little cleaner than I found
it? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I’m slowly working my way toward knitting together the
dual impulses that have been at the core all along: the writer who believes that
a properly crafted sentence is a weapon and a gift, and the person who believes
that the human connection can change everything. I want to use my fingers and
my brain in the service of something that I feel in my gut. Something that’s
worth it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s a process, it may be murky, sometimes clumsy, but I
believe it’s the road worth going down, toward the neon sign that says, “You
are here.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Susan Champlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10048154401015032595noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029671513775262495.post-15869489709242736162012-06-28T22:52:00.000-04:002014-04-29T13:28:23.524-04:00Sketches of Turkey<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCbqU_wpA0iEl9G1edAzH2LCE4-P-ml6slsCWU213fFJTMKDCyOsmn6wMOffD8IfgW10r3hDc982O3OyTWvMjdPxpsA27Sn4DIHR1XtxiChrXNg0aK4GGg29aTuR5NEI9nZDZyjOnrhas/s1600/Courthouse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCbqU_wpA0iEl9G1edAzH2LCE4-P-ml6slsCWU213fFJTMKDCyOsmn6wMOffD8IfgW10r3hDc982O3OyTWvMjdPxpsA27Sn4DIHR1XtxiChrXNg0aK4GGg29aTuR5NEI9nZDZyjOnrhas/s320/Courthouse.jpg" height="239" width="320" /></a></div>
"NO PITCHAS!"<br />
<br />
I lowered my iPhone and walked over to the guard, who'd been yelling at me from 25 yards away and was now shaking his head with disgust.<br />
<br />
"I'm sorry. I looked for a sign that said No Photography, but I didn't see one. Where is the sign?"<br />
<br />
"You don't need a sign! There's no pitchas here!"<br />
<br />
I paused. I spoke more slowly.<br />
<br />
"But how do you know not to <i>start</i> taking pictures if there's no sign?"<br />
<br />
"I just told you—there's no pitchas!"<br />
<br />
Yes, I'm back. Back in New York, land of the free, home of the nutty. God bless America.<br />
<br />
My arrest-risking photo, taken in the rotunda of the courthouse where I went to postpone jury duty, caught my eye with its representation of Byzantine justice—a phrase that sounds ironic in more ways than one.<br />
<br />
My Beloved and I have just returned from Turkey, whose nerve center, Istanbul, is the former Constantinople, capital of the Byzantine Empire. I think I was at a frat party when they offered Byzantine history in college, so I can't tell you what justice was like in that Empire, but it's not pretty in today's Turkey. Currently more than 100 journalists, 30+ mayors, and thousands of citizens have been thrown in prison by the current government; many of them remain there for years without trial.<br />
<br />
The issue hung over us during an otherwise spectacular two weeks in this gorgeous country. It lingers, like the bruise on my knee that I got one late afternoon, walking up (up, up) an unpronounceable cobblestone street in Istanbul, where I waved at an old man on the third-floor balcony of a 19th century building and he waved back and I smiled and he smiled and I walked smack into one of the knee-high stanchions that separate the "driving" portion from the "walking" portion of the impossibly narrow street. The joy, the beauty, the bruise.<br />
<br />
We were in Turkey thanks to the generous Aydın Doğan Foundation, who had invited Stan to be a juror for their 29th annual International Cartoon Competition. The competition was founded on the premise that "tolerance is more important than ever and that cartoons rely on
tolerance and wisdom, and form one of the building blocks of societies
open to differences of opinion and beliefs." I found this a particularly compelling and poignant mission statement, given that many of the competitors and half of the jurors came from countries where tolerance is on something of a sliding scale.<br />
<br />
"Does the government tell your editor what he can and can't run?" Stan asked one of the Turkish cartoonists on the jury.<br />
<br />
"They don't have to," came the translated reply. "He edits himself." <br />
<br />
"In America," I said in the heavy lull that followed, "the only people editors are afraid of offending are advertisers."<br />
<br />
Communication was sometimes a challenge during our week with the cartoonist-jurors. They came from Turkey, Iran, Ukraine, Portugal, China, England—and one single mild-mannered cartoonist from the U.S. Translators spoke Chinese and Turkish...or Portuguese and Turkish...or Persian and Turkish. Or a Turkish woman who spoke no Portuguese and a Portuguese cartoonist who spoke no Turkish would instead communicate in their shared language, French.<br />
<br />
It was eye-opening and refreshingly humbling for two Americans to discover that the U.S. is <i>not</i> the center of the universe.<br />
<br />
But as My Beloved always says, English isn't his first language, anyway—drawing is. And if there was one thing these cartoonists did with no failure to communicate, it was <i>draw</i>. They drew each other, they drew their translators, they drew the spouses. They drew me!<br />
<br />
I might have hoped for a tiny bit more resemblance to Marilyn Monroe, but I am very fond of my caricature by the adorable Turkish cartoonist Tan Oral:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRSnoKxpIgoq5pcXAW2Il5fgZz9-deoWNF0o5oZ9uLZXOEape3eX14w0Tf6Ocmmc10LYQq7iXpBswbil0GvXKUfBwd4YR9btHlu8xnJDNhDMm4LZKdC7palIQWgHa5TyxNFCcXiM1KAKM/s1600/Bodrum-TanOralSC.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRSnoKxpIgoq5pcXAW2Il5fgZz9-deoWNF0o5oZ9uLZXOEape3eX14w0Tf6Ocmmc10LYQq7iXpBswbil0GvXKUfBwd4YR9btHlu8xnJDNhDMm4LZKdC7palIQWgHa5TyxNFCcXiM1KAKM/s320/Bodrum-TanOralSC.JPG" height="320" width="239" /></a></div>
<br />
And of the interpretation by Ukrainian cartoonist and architect <a href="http://www.kudin-arch.com/" target="_blank">Viktor Kudin</a>:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCE4PX0Gnody-X8A3mCipZr_CaVBGIOPbah9O7Dm0f29BJnYgtWVkTwWBdCaEiE8gOPVgl1bIEpg16y1dSgnxR3Oj4_q_2aQgC54OKlJFDNMSWxIjyi-UAyaregNPYhtIWXYQqSzUSuck/s1600/SCCaric-Viktor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCE4PX0Gnody-X8A3mCipZr_CaVBGIOPbah9O7Dm0f29BJnYgtWVkTwWBdCaEiE8gOPVgl1bIEpg16y1dSgnxR3Oj4_q_2aQgC54OKlJFDNMSWxIjyi-UAyaregNPYhtIWXYQqSzUSuck/s320/SCCaric-Viktor.jpg" height="239" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"I look sort of sad, or serious," I said.<br />
<br />
"A serious woman is very good!" he said in Russian.<br />
<br />
Wanting to show my appreciation, I rummaged through my attic for appropriate responses. I put forth one as if I were offering a too-small sweater.<br />
<br />
"<i>Das vedanya?</i>" — "Goodbye?"<br />
<br />
The day after the judging was over, the competition organizers treated us to a day sailing on the Aegean—the first and last time I'll ever feel like Jackie Onassis.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja3y-L-ctaX_H-XC5bCeNDgNkn8YrMUtvDAhQbgcTHJVlm3ElEJY6-Cod1o8r9P6EPwrncbiLiTqs_HuhzNjOIRp5Fq5fycWjZnJfDI8vyTvS1c5GtiVQnC8z_oYqzZLziI7KM5VkA1k4/s1600/Bodrum-SCBoat.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja3y-L-ctaX_H-XC5bCeNDgNkn8YrMUtvDAhQbgcTHJVlm3ElEJY6-Cod1o8r9P6EPwrncbiLiTqs_HuhzNjOIRp5Fq5fycWjZnJfDI8vyTvS1c5GtiVQnC8z_oYqzZLziI7KM5VkA1k4/s320/Bodrum-SCBoat.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
We sailed to a serene cove and parked the boat; then the swimmers among us jumped—I was very, very brave, and dove from the top step of the ladder, 8 feet above the water—into the unlikely turquoise-cerulean sea and swam with the tiny fishies who scuttled to the surface in search of bread. Then we sailed to another cove and started again. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTBEBFt6q0RVReV6PkHL_GoUki0IsEHHWUGa_2dKOLWMXHWUlgxvaCXFheJQ8wXBz2YyGhWJ5gKPgOYHUXUEFDUcDCLPUt2V5YV9UxiugiA4JMzSFVsP_tJQRdevNYkyGH3wQwrrSLgaI/s1600/Bodrum-AegeanView.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTBEBFt6q0RVReV6PkHL_GoUki0IsEHHWUGa_2dKOLWMXHWUlgxvaCXFheJQ8wXBz2YyGhWJ5gKPgOYHUXUEFDUcDCLPUt2V5YV9UxiugiA4JMzSFVsP_tJQRdevNYkyGH3wQwrrSLgaI/s320/Bodrum-AegeanView.JPG" height="239" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
At the end of the afternoon, we sailed back to the marina in the coastal town of Bodrum, where the cartoonists met some 12- and 13-year-old art students from the local school. Stan was matched with three boys, and assigned them to draw me while he drew each of them.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs0bYa-CYAv_x7UGLC8WK8m7g8vkkkZaYtxGSR8fEMONC0XNXZw60pbIghEIB-_2Qr3KV4epXGEhtI_pT6N5jy77iXqbHqI1sMwB26Sy8xaj8TwSAKCWG0I1Qj5xdrfGIdtYGhUBjRPkM/s1600/Bodrum-KidsStan.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs0bYa-CYAv_x7UGLC8WK8m7g8vkkkZaYtxGSR8fEMONC0XNXZw60pbIghEIB-_2Qr3KV4epXGEhtI_pT6N5jy77iXqbHqI1sMwB26Sy8xaj8TwSAKCWG0I1Qj5xdrfGIdtYGhUBjRPkM/s320/Bodrum-KidsStan.JPG" height="239" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
One boy had more English than the other two; he was a talker and joker, who drew everything in caricature.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH8fdQvCpXZoolkftXO5Umdnwu1qV_sw1mLyqa5P37JI2K2LcbNQStDTVHQwULtlQ7HAJDz-9bn2KVm-T25nmiSvyWGfD24qd23L45rca6HgBIb8CTxMabQ_6PAUSzoeec6QiHLmjwZ4A/s1600/Bodrum-KidsCaric.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH8fdQvCpXZoolkftXO5Umdnwu1qV_sw1mLyqa5P37JI2K2LcbNQStDTVHQwULtlQ7HAJDz-9bn2KVm-T25nmiSvyWGfD24qd23L45rca6HgBIb8CTxMabQ_6PAUSzoeec6QiHLmjwZ4A/s320/Bodrum-KidsCaric.jpg" height="320" width="239" /></a></div>
<br />
Another was quiet and dead serious; his work was a flurry of erasures and redrawings, until he presented me with this:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh94IrRICT9kNmCvBwJp7H-eouJtCj1UK0DfJ27URKRy3dFltDYfiVPwC-fFn8VhmBJ9Rw3kyj3_L658zhEPSPi8SEGfY_YJ8A2l4BIRYN_nOJsvdF7yh7fSixZx6XXYymul-zSP_ZAylg/s1600/Bodrum-KidsPortrait.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh94IrRICT9kNmCvBwJp7H-eouJtCj1UK0DfJ27URKRy3dFltDYfiVPwC-fFn8VhmBJ9Rw3kyj3_L658zhEPSPi8SEGfY_YJ8A2l4BIRYN_nOJsvdF7yh7fSixZx6XXYymul-zSP_ZAylg/s320/Bodrum-KidsPortrait.jpg" height="320" width="239" /></a></div>
<br />
The third boy, shy, sweet, and reticent, seemed to be searching for his own style among a host of others. Aren't we all?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeWIFgJ-aNbyryGoSDP47FXTssk4RnqFLPfIhWd0dZotrCJL_K_ZFFIe7x870iyqNIxPpNgNAu3YXeC4ZqGs25BmsDUZijfhixAreUT2yDoH1JhTyULebSl7X1mNIDYrVhRBju1rDtMaI/s1600/Bodrum-KidsBoy3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeWIFgJ-aNbyryGoSDP47FXTssk4RnqFLPfIhWd0dZotrCJL_K_ZFFIe7x870iyqNIxPpNgNAu3YXeC4ZqGs25BmsDUZijfhixAreUT2yDoH1JhTyULebSl7X1mNIDYrVhRBju1rDtMaI/s320/Bodrum-KidsBoy3.jpg" height="320" width="239" /></a></div>
<br />
"Enter mine in the cartoon competition," said the brash young caricaturist, confidently pressing his drawing into our hands.<br />
<br />
We told him the winners had already been chosen for this year—but who knew what could happen next year? The future waits to be drawn.<br />
<br />
<i>To see the tied-for-first-place winners of this years International Cartoon Competition (and many others), click <b style="background-color: white; color: blue;"><a href="http://sanalmuze.aydindoganvakfi.org.tr/Gallery/Prize.aspx?Prz=1&Lng=2">here.</a></b></i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Susan Champlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10048154401015032595noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029671513775262495.post-16473873562228741592012-06-24T09:36:00.000-04:002014-06-01T22:39:07.903-04:00The Wave<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Remarkable how it comes over me</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fast, from first prickle </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To full clammy rush</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like the swift tide of mortification</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In junior high.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At fifteen, I wailed with pain,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Take it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">out</i>!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I won't have children!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn't know</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Who was waiting for me</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fifteen years later;</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The squeaking package</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Who changed everything.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Who made all the mishegoss</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Worth it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now the package is opened </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And, twenty years on,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Rolls her beautiful eyes</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At all this.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And this heated rush</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Comes in a wave </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of goodbye to all that.</div>
Susan Champlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10048154401015032595noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029671513775262495.post-75569299574083780652012-04-25T11:43:00.001-04:002014-06-01T22:40:19.197-04:00The Weight<style>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We live backwards and forwards.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When the child was three,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I felt the weight of her against my chest,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her legs dangling, her feet hitting my thighs</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I carried her sleeping form</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
From the car,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I thought, Remember this.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today, she's twenty.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She can lift me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes, she sits her lanky self</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On my lap,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I feel the weight of her,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wrap my spotty arms</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Around her skinny waist</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I think, Remember this.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I'm reading <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Without,</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Donald Hall's elegy of</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Grief and remembrance and beauty</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To his poet-wife Jane Kenyon,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Who died too young.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My beloved is on the phone,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pacing from microwave to bookshelf</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With his coffee cup. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Yup," he says. "Uh, huh."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hear his voice all day,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Every day,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our desks just five feet apart.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes I, who lived so long in quiet,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Want quiet.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I think, Remember this.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let me write a pseudo poem</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To hold on to the sound</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of his voice in the room.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There's time enough for quiet.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
----------------------------------------------------------------------- </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Thank you to @Kcecelia and @BumbleWard, who led me to Donald Hall this morning.</span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></div>
Susan Champlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10048154401015032595noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029671513775262495.post-89461339518211836522012-04-14T07:50:00.000-04:002014-06-01T22:42:02.746-04:00Seasoned<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOXYWBBUkab5zQHOQWmiLlFxiCwOK-iUfEBjLVeFNJlnmagYP840z66s_jM3aAh1KW3xOdExG8r0Aa4KqOpbcY2p1ziNhuDwd2Eu4qEYzaMUMLhHhDwKDBj8PhOqkM7hBkPQlZUEx7TgI/s1600/CityofGold.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
As Paul Simon said, Yesterday it was my birthday; I hung one more year on the line.<br />
<br />
It wasn't a significant birthday, and I spent most of it at my desk dealing with the massive work project that's kept me silent here for lo, these many months. But it was an April birthday in New York City in a season that's been full of gifts. A weird hybrid spring-winter-spring season that's been going on for months, and about which we can only say "global warming" and shake our heads and then gasp appreciatively at tulips and ornamental pear trees coming on stage way before their cue.<br />
<br />
A wise friend of mine (and you know who you are, dear M.) once said that when you've been away from your blog for months, you shouldn't try to write the definitive recap. You should post pictures. So here are postcards from a winterspring (wing? sprinter?) in New York, the city that gives me gifts every day of the year.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpIQfK1mi7ADfQtAHqNX2ztvXjvP1u4qUb1S7aCdE7TdTHOqH3VC4Sc6N-s8gY1YyhZmBvHMz_jXj_AXo66bCw7qy9eB93hqOSVrbK3ltu6sffZY284QxYG6qNvVgO9Bcjz62Q8nVdVeM/s1600/CityofGold.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpIQfK1mi7ADfQtAHqNX2ztvXjvP1u4qUb1S7aCdE7TdTHOqH3VC4Sc6N-s8gY1YyhZmBvHMz_jXj_AXo66bCw7qy9eB93hqOSVrbK3ltu6sffZY284QxYG6qNvVgO9Bcjz62Q8nVdVeM/s400/CityofGold.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">New York aglow, January.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIo7yjRgqOHxbXyI4TDui6YuKRfAuV23A2GtLBRqBqx84qflNpfB8MFD6Qf_bFV2pwJLD0tgIC60AQz2rwHniZmxkBw_M4DsTknCBVDN0ufWj-iqWwpnkqbqUsa0XZsHN7kokZX1Q6wm8/s1600/RivParkArt.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIo7yjRgqOHxbXyI4TDui6YuKRfAuV23A2GtLBRqBqx84qflNpfB8MFD6Qf_bFV2pwJLD0tgIC60AQz2rwHniZmxkBw_M4DsTknCBVDN0ufWj-iqWwpnkqbqUsa0XZsHN7kokZX1Q6wm8/s400/RivParkArt.JPG" height="400" width="297" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Public art, Riverside Park, February.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLLZ8nwdSLf5wsI5Jybbbrh7QCoL724z-5oGJ7OxGu5wnF6ENweIMFOqrHXq6kIu-eLgjmoEqTZ0s8Dh8ZFSjG96aOFWEEbErMAg5y5F1806i4742hHnFGoxGTec3WykReJJUNLlOzsqo/s1600/HighLineSpr12.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLLZ8nwdSLf5wsI5Jybbbrh7QCoL724z-5oGJ7OxGu5wnF6ENweIMFOqrHXq6kIu-eLgjmoEqTZ0s8Dh8ZFSjG96aOFWEEbErMAg5y5F1806i4742hHnFGoxGTec3WykReJJUNLlOzsqo/s400/HighLineSpr12.JPG" height="297" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Hudson River and Hoboken, from the High Line, early March.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The High Line coming into bloom.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spring on Charles Street, West Village, New York City, March.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicADKGv7-aq7dwpuMzsC8y8ntGkTLIL2vBs53U7PbUL8a8vNLUxeDtTdrahwXzMZRfZkSXFadjTDJMFMfWq0Zr3pn9g1ShXvsqpogByAt0vYyqtIxeRdRJk9JoWdypR9sxozvypO8z4uk/s1600/MadSqPark.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicADKGv7-aq7dwpuMzsC8y8ntGkTLIL2vBs53U7PbUL8a8vNLUxeDtTdrahwXzMZRfZkSXFadjTDJMFMfWq0Zr3pn9g1ShXvsqpogByAt0vYyqtIxeRdRJk9JoWdypR9sxozvypO8z4uk/s400/MadSqPark.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Madison Square Park, April.</td></tr>
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<br />Susan Champlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10048154401015032595noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029671513775262495.post-34450533818638626082011-09-25T23:22:00.000-04:002013-01-24T08:56:02.959-05:00Still, HereNew York City is a series of gifts that you keep opening as long as you live here.<br />
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I'm never not amazed by the city. A mere walk to the post office on a Tuesday can be an exercise in geometry, sociology, aromatherapy, and modern dance. But sometimes you're offered an experience that takes you outside—or way inside—the usual-unusual.<br />
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Today's gift: <i>stillspotting nyc,</i> a series of architectural/musical installations put on by the Guggenheim that involved moving among different New York City sites (several of them closed to the public, all of the installations created by Norwegian architectural firm <a href="http://stillspotting.guggenheim.org/visit/manhattan/#snohetta">Snøhetta</a>) to experience a moment of stillness amidst the urban chaos, while listening to the music of Estonian composer <a href="http://stillspotting.guggenheim.org/visit/manhattan/#arvopart">Arvo Pärt</a>. <br />
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Here's how the <i>stillspotting</i> website describes it:</div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">The staging of five recorded works by Pärt gradually transports visitors
from the hustle and bustle of the streetscape to an elevated urban
experience that makes them newly aware of their sense of hearing.
Visitors can experience this confluence of music and architecture at
five separate locations downtown that quietly celebrate the city, ten
years after the September 11 attacks. </span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></i></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">We didn't make it to the two sites on Governor's Island, but </span>we did visit the three others, starting in Battery Park, where we walked a grassy labyrinth while listening (via iPods and headphones) to P<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">ärt's "Silentium," the second movement of </span>his <i>Tabula Rasa</i>, performed by the Lithuanian Chamber Orchestra.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMxw-Nns3QpgqbriP47cKCqTNyI2VTAXhUZWi0LxtdiYBuxWUMzcOQud65y0c5li3cureqgmTfqei_Llwpq0ACkwmiwi6yCrWrzhO48aHpm6GWceMmPb7Fcd9Pq50zYumLBQ3lMMlbQTM/s1600/Labyrinth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMxw-Nns3QpgqbriP47cKCqTNyI2VTAXhUZWi0LxtdiYBuxWUMzcOQud65y0c5li3cureqgmTfqei_Llwpq0ACkwmiwi6yCrWrzhO48aHpm6GWceMmPb7Fcd9Pq50zYumLBQ3lMMlbQTM/s400/Labyrinth.jpg" width="298" /></a></div>
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What looks like a white comic-strip word balloon at the right edge of the photo is actually a weather balloon; these were the constants in each installation, apparently because they "have a unifying and holistic character and simultaneously create and ignore space."<br />
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Like this description, the labyrinth experience was one you could take very seriously or with a grain of salt. Several participants appeared to be in a mild trance...or under the influence. I dutifully walked the concentric circles toward the weather balloon, finding it calmingly mindless; others in our party quickly decamped to a bench and watched the goings-on from a remove. When my three companions were ready to leave before I'd quite finished my trek, I felt sort of guilty at the thought of barging across the bricks that marked my path—so I mimed clambering over a three-foot wall. What can I say? I was under the influence of Arvo P<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">ä</span>rt.<br />
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We walked north along the Hudson River to the second site: the unoccupied 46th floor of the new World Trade Center 7, the last building to fall on 9/11 and the first to be rebuilt.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoeuFXCbCBcoqBEgod0ICsPbqEeyD5Avbd1zL2QApeIiq5IYStISsbvXfS4KHaCIHsnrp_eXPGcmM9sH_YHeqO8sRQMv5XwXO17Spk0kXv6qeyuv5SBmYB6wNTA5vsnyKnq93XkSKqpHk/s1600/WTC7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoeuFXCbCBcoqBEgod0ICsPbqEeyD5Avbd1zL2QApeIiq5IYStISsbvXfS4KHaCIHsnrp_eXPGcmM9sH_YHeqO8sRQMv5XwXO17Spk0kXv6qeyuv5SBmYB6wNTA5vsnyKnq93XkSKqpHk/s400/WTC7.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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The floor was open on all four sides, allowing 360-degree views of the city, the harbor, the Hudson—and an aerial view of the new World Trade Center Memorial.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM0DYj1jPq9Ug7daRpPJib9BnH0ptnjfkh5RO6ywbewAPlY9SHi3nXPd8mNSqX18Web8hJgq2EuvfH2wOdfYzdQTG9bumVH6Wib6o9v6ZX8trBq4dwar0-dpqC0qVpb6lKL8GqGIGQfyg/s1600/WTCMemorial.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM0DYj1jPq9Ug7daRpPJib9BnH0ptnjfkh5RO6ywbewAPlY9SHi3nXPd8mNSqX18Web8hJgq2EuvfH2wOdfYzdQTG9bumVH6Wib6o9v6ZX8trBq4dwar0-dpqC0qVpb6lKL8GqGIGQfyg/s400/WTCMemorial.jpg" width="297" /></a></div>
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We were so close to the unfinished 1 World Trade Center (formerly known as the Freedom Tower) that if I weren't so acrophobic I'd have considered swinging across on a zipline.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9BgwwkAru0LSILmS62COD1ak7aEA3z9T4l_3RD90AZ3mvASwtPHwWo4bkky3n9QUhpO1ApQFhAPPcJiyTc2JtvjfXqjP2b_7TMfQrRmry0lQpEagTa9Qaakckk12q9VGCYUYmk0b8imk/s1600/WTC1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9BgwwkAru0LSILmS62COD1ak7aEA3z9T4l_3RD90AZ3mvASwtPHwWo4bkky3n9QUhpO1ApQFhAPPcJiyTc2JtvjfXqjP2b_7TMfQrRmry0lQpEagTa9Qaakckk12q9VGCYUYmk0b8imk/s400/WTC1.jpg" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1 World Trade Center, reflecting WTC7 and the Woolworth Building.</td></tr>
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In this case, the drama of the setting and the kind of unnerving privilege of being, for the moment, a part of the new World Trade Center eclipsed any emotion the music tried to offer. The 3-minute selection ("Hymn to a Great City") played on a continuous New Agey loop, with speakers set among yet more weather balloons and plastic folding chairs.<br />
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I preferred a slow meander along the four edges of the 46th floor.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTycTusaglg3XjINDAgaJ4UIYpCFl02DiVrkaZZ16IfPJIG003QZqSgY-MgAEVU1RBtWvyuJj8Iq21lhXmbwAWrXhScHaOOPr5ztCPxy6KivVV49r4bnhFKEKAZJ8hxVnamkkGKKgVnV8/s1600/WTC7ESB.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTycTusaglg3XjINDAgaJ4UIYpCFl02DiVrkaZZ16IfPJIG003QZqSgY-MgAEVU1RBtWvyuJj8Iq21lhXmbwAWrXhScHaOOPr5ztCPxy6KivVV49r4bnhFKEKAZJ8hxVnamkkGKKgVnV8/s400/WTC7ESB.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Finally, we walked over to the spectacular 1913 Woolworth Building on Broadway, across the street from City Hall. The <b style="color: blue;"><a href="http://ci.columbia.edu/0240s/0242_2/0242_2_s5_7_text.html">legendary lobby</a></b> is closed to the public (a fact that makes my populist-minded Beloved very grouchy), so it's become an object of frustrated desire for many a tourist (and resident) eager to get a glimpse, only to be shooed out by zealous security guards. Even at a private art event, photographs and video were forbidden, so I've borrowed one from the <i>stillspotting</i> website:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX0xpmvbfCKnBZgvCUwsoOVUVRu9SGoEiQyVQWnVaib4yWZAXDGgPh9uW48xRI_u49fD-9Gaj57Ribpn5fkvFjG5Nn6XSE6Tc1gk3ZFWGYNOxUVc7kwh-VFRRzgz7NhnNg44H-Wnfrugc/s1600/4_Stillspotting-091511_ph25_450w.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX0xpmvbfCKnBZgvCUwsoOVUVRu9SGoEiQyVQWnVaib4yWZAXDGgPh9uW48xRI_u49fD-9Gaj57Ribpn5fkvFjG5Nn6XSE6Tc1gk3ZFWGYNOxUVc7kwh-VFRRzgz7NhnNg44H-Wnfrugc/s640/4_Stillspotting-091511_ph25_450w.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spatial installation by Snøhetta, music by Arvo Pärt. Installation view: <i>To a Great City</i>
at the Woolworth Building, September 15–18 and 22–25, 2011. © The
Solomon R. Guggenheim Foundation, New York. Photo: Kristopher McKay</td></tr>
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We sat on the steps between the marble banisters and the weather balloons and listened to P<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">ärt's "In Principio" for choir and orchestra. I looked up the whole time, trying to memorize the details of the arched mosaic ceiling, the gothic filigree on the walls, the gargoyle-ish faces (one with a snaggletooth), the sculptural caricatures, and the stained glass overhead bearing the names of countries (including Russia and the "German Empire") and the dates 1879 (when the first Woolworth store opened) and 1913 (when the building was completed). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">For 19 minutes and 19 seconds, until the last strains of the music faded, I felt completely still, completely mesmerized, and completely grateful for the gifts of this city.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br /></span>Susan Champlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10048154401015032595noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029671513775262495.post-44270549186257683852011-06-11T18:05:00.004-04:002014-04-29T15:23:50.145-04:00The African Queen<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRH6fJspXCwIFQTiE7E_sPG2WmlSgykQfUUSgOv19uU0RVlqlHPbtR6LJiNE5ugKkvgGLeB77Wvw-IOsReW08UrS33bHmIXs8n_vCKT9G8t1Q3fqQNB8pEa8VM69eIv7KH_CehBajR-lY/s1600/Zambezi-FallsSmoke.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRH6fJspXCwIFQTiE7E_sPG2WmlSgykQfUUSgOv19uU0RVlqlHPbtR6LJiNE5ugKkvgGLeB77Wvw-IOsReW08UrS33bHmIXs8n_vCKT9G8t1Q3fqQNB8pEa8VM69eIv7KH_CehBajR-lY/s400/Zambezi-FallsSmoke.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617059776187927074" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 299px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
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“You can see the ones who’ve been bitten,” said the middle-aged Canadian woman with the close-cropped red hair and the African-print pantsuit. “They come to Africa and never leave.”<br />
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She herself was one of the bitten: a former school principal from Ontario who’d visited Tanzania as a volunteer teacher-trainer, then met and married a man from a small village and was now living and working on local projects in Dar-es-Salaam, making $300 a month. <br />
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“I can’t believe I have a husband,” she said, shaking her head at the inexplicability of it. “I have a Tanzanian <i>cat.</i><span style="font-style: normal;">”</span><br />
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We were on a sunset cruise on the Zambezi, staring downriver at the billowing cloud of spray from Victoria Falls, on the border between Zambia and Zimbabwe. My Beloved and I had come here for three days following a two-week visit with our friends in South Africa. The entire trip was a multisensory extravaganza from beginning to end, and I’ll write and post photos separately about the spectacular landscape, the daily adventures, and the wondrous animals—the giraffes, cheetahs, zebras, elephants, kudu, wildebeest… .<br />
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I came home with a strong urge to turn right around and fly back (after recovering from the jetlag of the 18-hour flight). I felt that I, too, had been “bitten.” And I thought about two other non-Africans who had come to the continent for one reason and ended up staying for very different ones.</div>
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*****</div>
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Our innkeeper in Livingstone, Zambia, Lynne Mendelsohn, is a lively Scotswoman who spent many years as a high-priced corporate lawyer in London and Edinburgh. Shortly before her fortieth birthday, she decided to take a yearlong sabbatical to do volunteer work in Zambia and Mozambique. When the sabbatical ended, she half-heartedly returned to her job, and discovered she no longer had the stomach for it. </div>
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She quit the firm, bought the <a href="http://zigzagzambia.com/" style="color: #3333ff; font-weight: bold;">Zig Zag B&B</a> in Livingstone, and moved to Zambia permanently with her new Namibian husband. </div>
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The Zig Zag has the feeling of a place where NGO workers or foreign correspondents might land between assignments—small motel-like rooms of concrete floors and metal-framed four-posters with mosquito netting; beautiful gardens lush with bougainvillea; two enormous metal giraffe sculptures standing sentinel in the gravel parking lot; and the expansive bar-restaurant where guests, tourists and locals hang out at night or during an afternoon storm. The electricity predictably goes out for a few hours each day, and nothing works with the ruthless efficiency of a London law firm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Which is more than fine with Lynne.<br />
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<span style="font-size: 85%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 85%;">[Your intrepid, and ghostly, correspondent, having coffee at the Zig Zag B&B.]</span></div>
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Besides running the Zig Zag, Lynne coordinates a community crafts collective for local women who are HIV-positive. </div>
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“THIS IS THEIR WORK!” she shouted over the noise of the ferocious afternoon rainshower<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>thundering down on the tin roof of the Zig Zag’s restaurant-cum-front office. Lynn gestured to the racks of hand-beaded necklaces and earrings on display; all of the proceeds are returned to the local women.</div>
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Shortly after moving to Zambia, Lynn founded a UK-based charity, <a href="http://www.lifebegins.org.uk/index.php?option=com_frontpage&Itemid=1" style="color: #3333ff; font-weight: bold;">Life Begins</a>, to care for and educate the children in a nearby village—too many of whom would otherwise be sent to work in the local gravel quarry at ages as young as <span style="font-style: italic;">two years old</span>. She and her colleagues run a day-care center that feeds and cares for 100 children and 65 babies every day. Lynne collects used clothing, toys and books for the children, and on the morning we left, we handed over some t-shirts and my Disney World baseball cap in our feeble attempt to “help.” </div>
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And then there’s our friend Barry Berman. A screenwriter whom we first met at a coffee bar in Los Angeles, Barry traveled to South Africa four years ago to visit a friend and kick around the country for three months. Then he met the gorgeous human whirlwind known as Megan Kruger and fell in love. He began a bi-continental relationship with Megan, and an unexpected relationship with South Africa.<o:p></o:p></div>
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With one higher degree from Ringling Brothers’ clown college, a two-decade career in Hollywood, and completely self-taught gifts as a brilliant amateur chef, Barry made the natural next career move: helping start a cooking school in a country he knew almost nothing about.<o:p></o:p></div>
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On the third day of our visit to Cape Town, we drove with Barry down a leafy residential street in the suburb of Pinelands. We passed several young people walking singly or in pairs, dressed in chefs’ whites, heading to the same place we were going: a Masonic lodge that for five days a week in eight-week sessions is home to <a href="http://infinityculinarytraining.co.za/" style="color: #3333ff; font-weight: bold;">Infinity Culinary Training</a>, the life-changing establishment that Barry co-founded in 2009.</div>
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The three of us arrived at the school after a half-hour drive from the affluent Cape Town neighborhood of Sea Point, where gated, walled, and barbed-wired hillside homes overlook the Atlantic Ocean and Three Anchor Bay. The students, on the other hand, were walking from the train station, having arrived on third-class trains from the impoverished townships outside Cape Town, where many live in tin shacks with dirt floors, outdoor toilets and illegal wiring.<br />
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<span style="font-size: 85%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 85%;">[A bathroom in the township of Phillipi, outside Cape Town. "Not much privacy," noted our guide, Khululani, wryly. Khululani, a former ICT student, is now the school's Executive Chef/Lecturer. "I am living testimony to the school's motto, 'Changing lives through cooking,'" she says.]</span></div>
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Seventeen years after the end of apartheid, poverty and unemployment (25% in the nation as a whole; 50% among South African youth, according to an Al Jazeera report) are what one politician recently called “ticking time bombs” in South Africa. To see this in action, you need only read Barry Bearak’s staggering <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2011/06/05/magazine/watching-the-murder-of-an-innocent-man.html?_r=1&hpw" style="color: #3333ff; font-weight: bold;">article on mob violence</a> in a Johannesburg township in last week’s <i>New York Time Sunday Magazine.</i><span style="font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
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Life is cheap and short when you have no hope. Infinity Culinary Training is about giving hope—and, more to the point, getting jobs.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The students—who do not have to pay for their own tuition (none of them could ever afford it)—are required to commit to twelve intensive weeks: eight weeks of classroom study and kitchen training, and a four-week internship. Unexcused absences are cause for dismissal from the school. Their sponsor-donated chefs’ uniforms must somehow be kept clean and white. They must work with ingredients they’ve never heard of before and that look vaguely disgusting to many of them. They learn knife skills right off the bat and within days are chopping vegetables and julienning herbs like professionals.<o:p></o:p></div>
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After eight weeks, each student is placed with a local hotel, restaurant or market for a four-week internship, after which—if they make it through and earn their final certificate from ICT—they can get fulltime jobs. It's likely they’ll start at the bottom and earn low wages (Barry doesn’t mince words about this); but most are thrilled to be working and earning any kind of salary. Many are the first in their families to have jobs in generations.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Before I came here, all I did all day was eat and sleep and drink and do bad stuff,” said Thobani, as we sat outside on the grass with the students at the end of a school day. “I want to provide an example for my five-year-old daughter.”<o:p></o:p><br />
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<span style="font-size: 85%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 85%;">[Thobani in the kitchen at ICT.]</span></div>
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Abongile, a 19-year-old with a four-year-old daughter, was dubious when she first heard about this school where students didn’t have to pay tuition. “I thought, ‘This man has come all the way from America just to scam us South Africans,’ ” Abongile said. But she came anyway—why not take advantage of it until the scam was revealed, she reasoned. To her surprise, Barry’s promises turned out to be for real.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“People here make empty promises. All. The. Time.” said Verna, who at 39 was one of the two oldest students in the class. Verna had previously tried to get a loan from a local bank to go back to school, and had appealed to her local district representative for help, but with no luck. I met Verna in the ladies’ room, where she was happily adjusting her new “specs.” A few days into the class session, Barry had noticed that both Verna and Abongile were having difficulty reading the board, and arranged for them to see an eye doctor and get glasses.</div>
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“Nobody does what Barry is doing—<span style="font-style: italic;">nobody</span>,” Verna said.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Stan and I spent a day and a half at the school, watching the students study vocabulary words (“concassé,” “slurry,” and “investment” were on one day’s test); chop onions and carrots and sauté meat for the day’s lamb curry; slice potatoes thin on a microplane for a homemade potato chip garnish; and clean, clean, clean.<o:p></o:p> </div>
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“Clean as you GO,” Barry’s voice would boom across the kitchen. “A-B-C: Always Be Cleaning.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Yes, chef,” they’d answer in unison.<br />
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<span style="font-size: 85%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 85%;">[I joined the students to practice my non-existent flipping skills. There were dried red lentils in this pan when I started. By now, most were at my feet.]</span></div>
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Lunch is a highlight of the school day—except for Linda, who had a hard time eating because she knew her three children at home were hungry.<o:p></o:p> </div>
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In the afternoons, Barry offered improvised, heartfelt motivational talks, encouraging the students to let go of the insecurities and voices that told them they weren’t good enough. He praised their hard work and demanded that they resist falling back into their old ways, even as friends back in the township tried to pull them down.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Three weeks after Stan and I got home from Africa, the students we’d met left the school and went on to their internships. Only one fell by the wayside, ditching the restaurant job after a few days because he felt he was too good to do such lowly work. The rest stuck with it, graduating from ICT four weeks later. All of them now have fulltime jobs.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Barry continues to get messages from his former students.<o:p></o:p> </div>
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“The doors were opened and I had to enter,” Abongile wrote in a text message. “You were like a father to me and for that I thank you with all my heart.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Three of the guys got together in the township and called Barry on a cellphone on Easter Sunday.<br />
"They said they want to talk to the ANC about helping the school survive," Barry reported in an e-mail, "because 'When everybody in the locations feels what we feel, South Africa will become strong and good and loved.' " <o:p></o:p></div>
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A new class session has begun—as usual, without knowing exactly where the money will come from to see the session through. Barry has learned that one student was raped as a child. One was beaten and robbed on the way to school one day. Another is now homeless. And they keep coming to class. It gives them hope.</div>
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And I, bitten, am biding my time until we can get back to Africa.<br />
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<span style="font-size: 85%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 85%;">[Infinity Culinary Training graduation, April 2011. To donate to ICT, please click <a href="http://infinityculinarytraining.co.za/donate.html" style="color: #3333ff; font-weight: bold;">here.</a>]</span></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Susan Champlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10048154401015032595noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029671513775262495.post-86435232902541936372011-06-03T14:20:00.001-04:002011-06-03T14:24:17.393-04:00The Glass MenagerieThere are two kinds of people in the world. No, not "the kind who divide people into two kinds of people and the kind who don't." There are the kind who, when walking down the street and feel all eyes upon them, think, "Damn, I look hot today" and the kind who think, "Is my underwear showing?"<br /><br />I'm in the second camp.<br /><br />Idiotic insecurities run through me like water flowing downhill, carving familiar channels and sometimes overflowing their banks. Why? Where did they come from? Why are they so persistent in the face of contradictory evidence that I'm an otherwise competent person who rarely wears her underwear on the outside of her clothes?<br /><br />A friend of mine, now an insanely fit exercise maven, once said that she'll never <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> think of herself as the chubby child she used to be.<br /><br />I believe that, locked and sealed inside the control room in my brain, running the lights and the sound board, there's a replica of my seventh-grade self, with bad skin, bushy eyebrows, crooked teeth and the nickname "The Computer Who Wore Tennis Shoes," given to her—not admiringly—by the boys in her class. She'll just never go away, this girl, and neither will her image of herself as the awkward, undesirable odd girl out.<br /><br />This isn't a play—I swear—for pity or compliments (which that 13-year-old girl would never believe, anyway). It's just an intriguing notion to me, how our self-image can get so stuck in the wrong groove for so long.<br /><br />I've been thinking about this since last week, when My Beloved and I traveled to Rhode Island for three days to visit schools and talk about our <a style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 0, 153);" href="http://www.amazon.com/Road-Revolution-Cartoon-Chronicles-America/dp/1599900130/ref=tmm_hrd_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1307124007&sr=8-1">book</a>, a historical graphic novel for kids. Typically we speak at elementary schools; fourth and fifth grade is pretty much our sweet spot, when the students are studying the American Revolution for the first time.<br /><br />It's delightful to talk to kids at that age. They—boys and girls equally—are enthusiastic, spontaneous, confident, open, eager to throw their hands in the air to answer a question or ask one. ("Why didn't you include the part where the French came to the aid of the colonists? I think that was extremely important," asked one precocious fourth grader in Providence. "Why do people always start wars?" asked a fifth grader in California.) They request our autographs, even though they've never heard of us before. They laugh at our jokes. What's not to love?<br /><br />But last week, after two and a half days of talks to the young ones, we wound up our trip with two classes of eighth graders. Now there's an exercise in humility.<br /><br />"Can anyone tell me what a Tory is?" I asked the assembled teenagers. Silence, hair-twirling, chair-shifting, smirks. I rushed in with the answer to my own question before I'd be tempted to add, <a style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 0, 153);" href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dxPVyieptwA&feature=related">"Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?"</a><br /><br />One girl spent the entire time with her face turned 180 degrees away from us. Another, asked to help read aloud a short scene from our book, grimaced as if she'd been asked to stick a pencil in her own eye.<br /><br />One of the boys eyeballed me and My Beloved and asked, "Are you two twins?" Another asked, "Were you forced to commit holy matrimony?"<br /><br />The kids were restless, noisy, jokey, cocky (the boys), silent (the girls), and would rather have been anywhere else.<br /><br />And really, I understood. You couldn't pay me enough money to go back to junior high; sorry, "middle school." What a bizarre time—having your body abducted by aliens, feelings you can't articulate, hyperactive self-consciousness, and wanting so badly to be cool enough to fit in while normal enough not to stand out.<br /><br />I imagined me sitting at that desk with my head turned to the back wall of the classroom (or toward the boy at the next desk). "Please," I'd be thinking, "don't look at me, talk to me or let me know in any way that you know I exist."<br /><br />But I do know you exist, darlin'. And someday, you will, too. Then do me a favor: Leave this girl and all her wretched insecurities in the eighth-grade classroom where she belongs.Susan Champlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10048154401015032595noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029671513775262495.post-64194131832371621802011-01-02T12:35:00.002-05:002011-01-02T12:43:41.703-05:00"...an adventure any woman would relish for the rest o' time."Dear 2010,<br /><br />You're not very popular around these parts, what with all the lost jobs, unfound jobs, obscene political jello-wrestling, rampant greed and chicanery, and general displays of the end of civilization as we know it (exhibit one: any cover of <span style="font-style: italic;">OK!</span> magazine). As my friend Michele said on Twitter the other day, "Dear 2010: Do not let the portal pummel your posterior on your way out."<br /><br />So I feel a little sheepish—like the employee who says of a tyrannical boss, "Gosh, he's always been very nice to <span style="font-style: italic;">me</span>"—when I thank you for the gifts of the past 12 months.<br /><br />I don't know what little bird was whispering in your ear, but you seem to know my taste exactly. The life in New York is a perfect fit, and I'm already getting tons of use out of it! And I've received heaps of compliments on my new husband—what a great find! Thank you, so much, for everything.<br /><br />Our arrival in New York City on January 1, 2010 after a spectacular <a style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);" href="http://wwkhd.blogspot.com/2009/12/laura-lansing-slept-here-road-trip-day.html">cross-country drive</a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">.</span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCS3iw45gRKZVTQ3ACHf-5OSQ4ZXqaspemb4Co8ogz3nRn577Lf4cLUDBU2MwaBIUnyKBQUX8Io0jKKEsLCrew4eKyFKFUQu0wUWnaB8W227-SHoINgJVgFGhNyUKHvBMoKYnykfRIhRY/s1600/DustyNYC.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCS3iw45gRKZVTQ3ACHf-5OSQ4ZXqaspemb4Co8ogz3nRn577Lf4cLUDBU2MwaBIUnyKBQUX8Io0jKKEsLCrew4eKyFKFUQu0wUWnaB8W227-SHoINgJVgFGhNyUKHvBMoKYnykfRIhRY/s400/DustyNYC.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557241207145259330" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The sale of The Child's and my Los Angeles home of 10 years—and the successful arrival of our belongings in New York.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNFtjfksDyBLO1hQYbTCqiWTjdOiJRf3QZ34mnfJIZHh6-n62khmRxgarf5gY2MVyCjObk29xk9c8Pus09FgM7fxlig6ecJIg6u6fvsjeXlsRmlg1_6x3u9a3WB650FHS4PJVf_NIGUlQ/s1600/Wineglasses.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNFtjfksDyBLO1hQYbTCqiWTjdOiJRf3QZ34mnfJIZHh6-n62khmRxgarf5gY2MVyCjObk29xk9c8Pus09FgM7fxlig6ecJIg6u6fvsjeXlsRmlg1_6x3u9a3WB650FHS4PJVf_NIGUlQ/s400/Wineglasses.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557247711261538690" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The visits of four of my five siblings, three of my in-laws, and six of my nieces and nephews, and our adventures...<br />* circumnavigating the island on the factoid-rich <a style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);" href="http://www.circleline42.com/site/browse.aspx?group=1">Circle Line</a> boat tour (did you know that 4/5 of the immigrants at Ellis Island never set foot on Manhattan, instead heading off by train to other states?).<br />* discovering (in the presence of three minor-age nieces and nephews) that yes, exhibitionists really <span style="font-style: italic;">do</span> take the rooms at the Standard Hotel that overlook <a style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);" href="http://thehighline.org/">The High Line.</a><br />* eating pizza at <a style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);" href="http://grimaldis.com/2/Index.htm">Grimaldi's</a> after walking the Brooklyn Bridge.<br />* falling back in time at the <a style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);" href="http://mcny.org/">Museum of the City of New York.</a><br />* eating at <a href="http://www.cafelalo.com/"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">Cafe Lalo</span></a> with the <span style="font-style: italic;">You've Got Mail</span> devotees in my family.<br />* paying respects to the <a style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);" href="http://www.amnh.org/">Museum of Natural History</a>—even if we only got as far as the lobby.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBFW74xj94FLSRd78awcJPbIWu9qnLZnXSdTS-llOPbsGpUuElIWNXXbQ_ctE6952kHr55-rNNS32E6F6gtPQ36UjDOH5J3n9DMUmoDtTHznlF4poQS-tuQnvihoxo-bi2g6VFCDRxSFY/s1600/NatlHist.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBFW74xj94FLSRd78awcJPbIWu9qnLZnXSdTS-llOPbsGpUuElIWNXXbQ_ctE6952kHr55-rNNS32E6F6gtPQ36UjDOH5J3n9DMUmoDtTHznlF4poQS-tuQnvihoxo-bi2g6VFCDRxSFY/s400/NatlHist.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557330465355079986" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />A sunny April morning with arctic temperatures at the tippy-tip of Cape Cod, where My Beloved and I <a style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);" href="http://wwkhd.blogspot.com/2010/04/adams-rib.html">got married</a>.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2V9IsLlu72yabAjVrbIlm8rfqK1F75CJq-6t-3egviRYWsXfm1ADi89koGXpE8GlpkBDlsSrJXc1KgATXLF5diQV4n_Pf3CRHOISxkZlTk0qWjHCCgriy1FMreW44tMp6heE8YKlDZEM/s1600/Wedding.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 251px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2V9IsLlu72yabAjVrbIlm8rfqK1F75CJq-6t-3egviRYWsXfm1ADi89koGXpE8GlpkBDlsSrJXc1KgATXLF5diQV4n_Pf3CRHOISxkZlTk0qWjHCCgriy1FMreW44tMp6heE8YKlDZEM/s400/Wedding.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557333315252959394" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Squiring The Child away from the disaster college. I asked if there was anything she'd miss about it. "Well, there was a tree that was great for climbing," she said.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2aVJQlST7dDEiGI0UAM2Totb_Q0wFHv5EIdlCYpNabd5iMJ5kkJloongpIG47lQWZ9oENtchPqgSHhaZJG6g7V1pAzMDLqMmkLxIuD9qMrz4TtftthbQNv1vV89Zwfga11dSDInve5qM/s1600/Annietree.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2aVJQlST7dDEiGI0UAM2Totb_Q0wFHv5EIdlCYpNabd5iMJ5kkJloongpIG47lQWZ9oENtchPqgSHhaZJG6g7V1pAzMDLqMmkLxIuD9qMrz4TtftthbQNv1vV89Zwfga11dSDInve5qM/s400/Annietree.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557343808530971474" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Watching the plants grow lush among the boardwalks on the Hudson River as we entered summer.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ3aCyUFfFYrKozobX4ihAm3pq8nhajcRd_okxQlyRAWUisbOungO8Tmy5coi6dqFl-o2wtjtBS-zccrWLGvdlCgAoNKxd6g9Z0RACy21PEM7KR3AuNomhQqZMUtrdtCJ2nNyLnHiv1OE/s1600/RiverBoardwalk.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 299px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ3aCyUFfFYrKozobX4ihAm3pq8nhajcRd_okxQlyRAWUisbOungO8Tmy5coi6dqFl-o2wtjtBS-zccrWLGvdlCgAoNKxd6g9Z0RACy21PEM7KR3AuNomhQqZMUtrdtCJ2nNyLnHiv1OE/s400/RiverBoardwalk.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557414425137348914" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Thick, humid July days and sultry August nights. Do I dare to eat a peach? I did.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-oV5qGcfSYP5Eab1z3mdIOtfYBtqLuGdnM8IgE2U-n8AX8pnEVeil_5NBw-rPUEOtOXix7q_X_D0Xu-_jlgl0ciqRvEaczrR9vCUKbnizM_sHkm1wSCk2UwEW4sp44PQfxVIjIX0T2uk/s1600/peach.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 299px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-oV5qGcfSYP5Eab1z3mdIOtfYBtqLuGdnM8IgE2U-n8AX8pnEVeil_5NBw-rPUEOtOXix7q_X_D0Xu-_jlgl0ciqRvEaczrR9vCUKbnizM_sHkm1wSCk2UwEW4sp44PQfxVIjIX0T2uk/s400/peach.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557418653740420002" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />A final September trek to New England to gather The Child's now-mildewed belongings from storage—just before she started her new job in the fiction department at Barnes & Noble.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9bMe78f6etgPYJWpYqeQHbuYwLSTTFqZ0SOB908Wlls3U-iVbyzuCJvpQMKH9FBIsJz6iJR0k47mhnkEpmAVi0AtbSBTr0SeFECTjl02nfx19ihzYefxg7Wl3yCSZD6HumMAYeyOQ8ZU/s1600/RhinebeckLeaves.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 299px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9bMe78f6etgPYJWpYqeQHbuYwLSTTFqZ0SOB908Wlls3U-iVbyzuCJvpQMKH9FBIsJz6iJR0k47mhnkEpmAVi0AtbSBTr0SeFECTjl02nfx19ihzYefxg7Wl3yCSZD6HumMAYeyOQ8ZU/s400/RhinebeckLeaves.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557433803842915858" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />A 10-day October visit to California, where we celebrated my miraculous mother's 85th birthday.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD9ePk3WBbZsxdIjyFN7o4XEEMyn7FT9I70LkSzqJ5rmOh6q3DeK8xATS-R_hTwV3JyoKGTNF3hgezxrC65LSv-8mTCg0fQ5jeyE2r6mUolyAJqGZRdS5gz2pDeUf0o1FlVjJcrUf52dk/s1600/MomGmaDerby.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD9ePk3WBbZsxdIjyFN7o4XEEMyn7FT9I70LkSzqJ5rmOh6q3DeK8xATS-R_hTwV3JyoKGTNF3hgezxrC65LSv-8mTCg0fQ5jeyE2r6mUolyAJqGZRdS5gz2pDeUf0o1FlVjJcrUf52dk/s400/MomGmaDerby.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557618822985276530" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />(My mother and her mother, taken sometime in the late 1940s or early '50s.)</span></span><br /><br /><br />My first chance to vote in a New York election. (But really, did you have to take away the cool voting lever thingies just when I got here?)<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7FC5PEtbqdXgXHbgFbLZHhqHB7m3Lff3atXCxqBl7-4HMGaUTBURvD4n-HjuQJ6gsmASUSTU3lmmMMg8MC6kWwG4zJ2j215kuVW4Rhteqxo5cOw6zgc4cKwd4Xkt4kUmpCgllfzMvdZ0/s1600/Voting.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 299px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7FC5PEtbqdXgXHbgFbLZHhqHB7m3Lff3atXCxqBl7-4HMGaUTBURvD4n-HjuQJ6gsmASUSTU3lmmMMg8MC6kWwG4zJ2j215kuVW4Rhteqxo5cOw6zgc4cKwd4Xkt4kUmpCgllfzMvdZ0/s400/Voting.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557636055639744066" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The spectacle of a New York City autumn...<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7Oh6EsP-_PtIduFnTuOeFqzuscaJ5PXMctlHKY9kG5-wCi9vSb3MCDKcjAMDsdocnkULteTDyORnu1zWQTO2phChy81M8qyJ99mcXgtA7P_OZu0MJdC2UedqG40CQ-at07rH9EmOBpVU/s1600/LeavesPerry.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 299px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7Oh6EsP-_PtIduFnTuOeFqzuscaJ5PXMctlHKY9kG5-wCi9vSb3MCDKcjAMDsdocnkULteTDyORnu1zWQTO2phChy81M8qyJ99mcXgtA7P_OZu0MJdC2UedqG40CQ-at07rH9EmOBpVU/s400/LeavesPerry.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557435663395306914" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />...and the quiet ferocity of a New York City blizzard. My first. Not my last.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvNxToGyTxf758BVYISvPUdxooMAmH0S-lrFzIObIDOcGQ2AUfblp-_z2tkj2y0xYOC4xpbMoTh12V5G4aew2AF0W-8U7vhAXT4Z8-r1UlQTzxAEgD4o46sAGiyH8lU39MxHsk-i8y_HA/s1600/SnowSC.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 299px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvNxToGyTxf758BVYISvPUdxooMAmH0S-lrFzIObIDOcGQ2AUfblp-_z2tkj2y0xYOC4xpbMoTh12V5G4aew2AF0W-8U7vhAXT4Z8-r1UlQTzxAEgD4o46sAGiyH8lU39MxHsk-i8y_HA/s400/SnowSC.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557620677761287522" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />It's been a great ride. And, hey, thanks for introducing me to 2011! I think we're going to get along.<br /><br /><br /><br />* <span style="font-style: italic;">Title taken from Katharine Hepburn as Eula Goodnight in </span><span>Rooster Cogburn</span><span style="font-style: italic;">.</span>Susan Champlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10048154401015032595noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029671513775262495.post-63489605068518966302010-10-08T16:33:00.002-04:002010-10-08T16:40:21.941-04:00Suddenly, This SummerMy Beloved and I went back for a weekend visit to Provincetown, Mass.—or as my friend Jenny calls it, "the scene of the <a style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);" href="http://wwkhd.blogspot.com/2010/04/adams-rib.html">crime</a>." We arrived in rain on Friday, were rewarded with a glorious blue-sky Saturday, and stumbled across two barefoot-on-the beach weddings, one gay, one straight. I love P'town.<br /><br />On an overcast Sunday morning, we bicycled through the rambling Provincetown cemetery, which differs from other small-town cemeteries in the number of gravestones that read "drowned" or "lost at sea."<br /><br />I was particularly struck by the plot of Captain Barzillai Higgins and his wife Abigail, and by the five little headstones laid out in front of them. Five of their seven children died before they turned seven. Two of them, little Abigail, age 4, and Isaac, age 1, died within six days of each other in April 1832. Captain Higgins was lost at sea when a steamship collided with his whaling schooner. Son Solomon died at 35 while at sea in Haiti. And Abigail lived to age 75—surviving her husband, one granddaughter, and every damn one of her seven children.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7MBMAEj0BYX1mzsZSHf11gF7MesD6hAor0N5vYC1mAurJOaA0dHSPOVK2Bpn_XbWqAwKsPYB1uJX0eH0XF5OgnE9TgxUDDd2dzBuc2NMkPhsZQY3XeRsceXJh6D6skKvKRfn3Gn5H0rE/s1600/Higgins.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7MBMAEj0BYX1mzsZSHf11gF7MesD6hAor0N5vYC1mAurJOaA0dHSPOVK2Bpn_XbWqAwKsPYB1uJX0eH0XF5OgnE9TgxUDDd2dzBuc2NMkPhsZQY3XeRsceXJh6D6skKvKRfn3Gn5H0rE/s400/Higgins.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5525741530233567554" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />If there's ever a sign from the universe that you need to <span style="font-style: italic;">get over yourself,</span> you'll find it in a 19th-century cemetery.<br /><br />I did some fretting this summer, but I do realize (after the fact) how first-world and 21st-century my worries were. This was our summer of transitions: our first together in New York, and the first time I've witnessed the bubbling-up of spring into summer and the fitful slide of summer into fall. This summer also marked the end of The Child's first year at college, a year that, not to put too fine a point on it, sucked. The qualities that looked good on paper—structurelessness, independence, having no roommates—proved less charming in realities on the ground; a year that started with anticipation, hope and a little stress ended with only the stress remaining.<br /><br />So The Child is not going back to that college; in fact, she's not going back to college at all this year. After a couple of months in L.A., she decided to join us in New York and look for a job and an apartment. Which meant the three of us living together in a one-room loft apartment where the only wall is in the bathroom. Cozy!<br /><br />We established house rules, we danced the complex minuet of three adults living in a small open space, we endured some gritted teeth and frayed nerves. But we—and she—rose to the occasion, too. She'd come home from days of pavement-pounding and resume-delivering, and we three would compare notes over dinners at our little table by the window. We'd all turn out our lights at the same time each night.<br /><br />The Child got a job at Barnes & Noble, and thanks to Craigslist, has found an apartment with an adorable and compatible roommate in Brooklyn. In an emerging, gritty-turning-hipster neighborhood that had me fretting again as I researched crime statistics and haunted local blogs for comforting words on safety.<br /><br />I consulted a young female acquaintance who has lived there for six years. Brigitte wrote back, "I'm not sure what I can say that would be reassuring except it is home to many people who live, love, and experience joy in this neighborhood." I calmed down. We walked the streets and appreciated the ingenuity and optimism of people opening bakeries and organic markets and coffee houses in former industrial spaces. The Child started schlepping stuff into her new fourth-floor walk-up.<br /><br />It's only been a few days so far, and maybe I'll never lose my maternal capacity for spooling out worst-case-scenarios while I lie in bed listening to the sounds of the city. But though my child is not under my roof, she's not at sea, nor is she lost.<br /><br />In fact, I think this may be a chance for both of us to find something.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH1mn5C0-ajSiF6fsic2Wlh0Q0DTMge8ajOVkzoiglnM6EJJJIqe2N1rh1K2dHr4qMAFDxZMwrzjyjXhEHn_2qZr9SR8q4_Z9vxZGW3Zv3m4J5KsMgwz0iiKmdG2cZE4fZAxirhcxCAuY/s1600/LightOnRiver.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 299px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH1mn5C0-ajSiF6fsic2Wlh0Q0DTMge8ajOVkzoiglnM6EJJJIqe2N1rh1K2dHr4qMAFDxZMwrzjyjXhEHn_2qZr9SR8q4_Z9vxZGW3Zv3m4J5KsMgwz0iiKmdG2cZE4fZAxirhcxCAuY/s400/LightOnRiver.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5525756758418977474" border="0" /></a>Susan Champlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10048154401015032595noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029671513775262495.post-20005419494070736652010-08-31T12:29:00.002-04:002010-08-31T14:10:39.627-04:00Without LoveI started to write a long-overdue blog post about something completely different than this—about the usual: my life. I'll write that post next time, but not right now.<br /><br />My former colleague at <span style="font-style: italic;">Modern Maturity</span> magazine, Marcia Forsberg, has been missing since February, and her husband of 39 years has just been arrested on suspicion of murder. The police are searching the Lake Piru campground area in Ventura County, California for her body, based on "incriminating statements" her husband, Rick, made to the detectives. They think he killed her in their home in February and rented a car—rented a car!—to transport her body elsewhere. He then stayed in their Orange County home for the next six months—<span style="font-style: italic;">six months!</span>—and told neighbors that she'd gone to Arizona to visit friends.<br /><br />We've all seen these stories on the news, on <span style="font-style: italic;">CSI</span>, on <span style="font-style: italic;">Without a Trace</span>, on <span style="font-style: italic;">Law & Order</span>, on <span style="font-style: italic;">Bones</span>, on <span style="font-style: italic;">Mystery</span>. I've never seen this kind of story flash on the screen with the face of someone I know. I'm not processing it.<br /><br />I watched the bleached-blonde reporter end her story by ominously intoning, "And, neighbors say, Richard Forsberg had recently taken up...<span style="font-style: italic;">fishing,</span>" and I thought, "This is some kind of bizarre satire."<br /><br />Marcia—pronounced "Mar-SEE-ya," because she didn't do things in a typical way—was tall, striking, with big curly hair and a constant conspiratorial smile. She was what you'd probably call touchy-feely, a woman who believed that her experience with breast cancer had taught her invaluable lessons, and who found the good and the humor in most situations.<br /><br />She and Rick had no children, just each other, and from what Marcia always said they loved it that way. I had the impression of mutual, even slightly obsessive, devotion.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Modern Maturity</span> moved from California to Washington, D.C. in 1996, and our work group broke up. A few of us met for occasional lunches and catch-ups, but I hadn't seen Marcia in years. But I can hear her voice, see her leaning over to me (I was 8 inches shorter) to share an observation or a mild piece of gossip and laughing richly.<br /><br />Even if the police get answers, they'll never get the answers I want. I don't mean to sound naive, but how does this happen? What goes on in a nearly 40-year marriage between high school sweethearts such that it ends not in divorce, but murder? Who is this man, and where did the guy go whom Marcia loved and trusted?<br /><br />I'm sorry, Marcia.Susan Champlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10048154401015032595noreply@blogger.com12