The Canadas
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Summer 2000 News Updated August 11, 2002 |
Dizzy, Busy Days of SummerGoing into this summer, I knew it would be a busy one. It also was a fun one. Only a few days after we returned to North Carolina from Philadelphia with a group of college students, we were off on another trip, this time to Indiana to visit our families. We spent a week or so in Indianapolis, where my parents reveled in seeing Essie for the first time since Easter, and Lisa and reveled a bit in spending some time by ourselves. We then headed up to Fort Wayne to see Lisa's family, but I had to leave early to be back home in time for summer school. On the way home, I stopped in Indianapolis again to spend another day or two with my parents, who took me to the new Civil War Museum on Monument Circle downtown. Lisa and Essie actually wound up coming home early, as well, so that Lisa could tend to her flourishing catering business. Over the next two months, she catered several large and small events, including an anniversary party for 100 people. Meanwhile, I taught three classes and got to work on a book that a colleague and I are editing on service-learning in higher education. We also made some more improvements to our house. In one of the biggest projects yet, Lisa single-handedly refinished the floors in the foyer, living room, and dining room. She also redecorated the guest room, and I installed several things, including two closet organizers, new closet doors, and some new cabinets in the carport to store Lisa's catering supplies. We farmed out two jobs: the repainting of the exterior trim and installation of new carpet in the bedrooms. In August, we were on the road again, first heading up to Malone,
New York, for the wedding of our friends Pete Amstutz and Bridget
Fitzpatrick. On the way there and back, we stopped in Harpers Ferry,
West Virginia, and Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, as well as Hyde Park, New York,
and Summit, New Jersey. A week or so after we returned home, we took a
weekend trip to Atlanta, Georgia, where we saw two more friends--Mark Murphy
and Sarah Beth Lassiter--get married. We got back home only a few days
before my fall semester began. |
Follow the Leader
July: Keeping an eye--and a handle--on Essie is not always easy. While she generally has a positive attitude, she also usually has her own plans, which often do not coincide with mine. Take our recent trip to the North Carolina Museum of Art, for example. In my mind, it was a great idea. Lisa needed to go to Raleigh anyway to shop, and I thought I would take the opportunity to see a traveling Rodin exhibit that was in town. To make things easier on Lisa, I offered to take Essie to the museum with me. After all, she's a good girl, and maybe she would absorb a little culture. The cultural experience, however, did not go as planned--at least not as I had planned. For starters, about a minute after we walked inside, I discovered that she had soiled her last disposable diaper. Later, after I had returned to the van and put a cloth one on her, we entered the intimate hall of prized sculpture, or, as Essie would have it, an exotic playground filled with objects to run around and climb. Instead of soaking up the beauty of Rodin's figures, I had to worry that Essie would revise them, turning them into modern-day Venus de Milos. I found out later that Rodin was famous for his fragmentary sculptures; some people, I suppose, think he created them deliberately, but I suspect he had a two-year-old collaborator. Anyway, the excursion turned out to be a disaster--but for a few glimpses of the sculptor's brilliance and one gleaming moment: Shortly after we arrived, I showed Essie Rodin's most famous sculpture and told her it was called The Thinker. She promptly held the backs of her fingers to her chin and said, "I'm thinking!"
Today, however, was different. Today was special. While I was at work, I had been thinking of her and looking forward to spending time with her, as I often do in the afternoon. When I got home from work, we ran some errands together and then went to St. Andrews College, where I thought we might go for a swim. When I found out the pool was closed, I decided we would go for a walk around the campus. Having no pressing responsibilities, I was ready to let go. In fact, instead of trying to guide her to this place or that, I let her be the leader. For close to an hour, she got to go where she wanted to go, do what she wanted to do, and generally control her own fate, while I got to give up control over my regimented life and float behind her like a kite on a string. We went up steps, down ramps, and through tunnels. We jumped off stoops, visited geese and ducks, took a close look at a bug, played a game of chase, and walked what must have been a mile or more. I was in heaven, and, though she is still too young to say so, I could tell that she was enjoying herself, too; I read her joy in her beautiful little face, especially when she was standing on a stoop, waiting for me to join her and saying, "Jump togedder." Later, though, as we were walking away from that stoop, she found a way to put the experience--and her feelings about it--into words. "Daddy," she said, "I love you." Feeling an even deeper bliss, I told her that I loved her, too, then knelt down and hugged her, holding her and the moment close to me. Then, strangest of all for a child who usually wants mainly to wrestle and play with her dad, she asked for another hug. As I held her, longer this time, she never climbed or squirmed, but merely remained there in my arms, as if she was feeling what I was feeling: a moment when the two of us were as close as we've ever been.
Harpers Ferry, West Virginia
August
2, 2000: When abolitionist John Brown seized the federal armory at Harpers
Ferry, Virginia, October 16, 1859, he gave America one its most dramatic and
historic moments. With the seizure, conducted with the help of some 20
men in his "army of liberation" and secretly supported by prominent
people such as New England Transcendentalist Theodore Parker, Brown hoped to
ignite and arm a massive slave insurrection. The effort failed, however,
after only a few days and resulted in Brown's execution on December 2.
Nevertheless, Brown's bold move inspired Herman Melville's poem "The Portent" and
may even have helped to bring on the Civil War. During our visit to Harpers Ferry National Historical Park on a
warm, clear afternoon, it occurred to me that Brown deserves credit for one
other service: Thanks to his history-making move, America has taken the
initiative to preserve a lovely town in a breathtaking spot. Having
climbed a stone staircase that the town's residents carved out of a hill, Lisa,
Essie, and I could look down on simple but lovely red-brick buildings situated
among sheer cliffs. Later, we climbed even higher, and I scaled a few
rocks to take in a sight that Thomas Jefferson--standing in the same spot two
centuries earlier--had said was worth a trip across the Atlantic Ocean.
In addition to the towering cliffs, I could see the Shenandoah River far below
me. As a whole, Harpers Ferry was surely worth a trip across two states.
Gettysburg, Pennsylvania
August
3, 2000: History occurs in unassuming places. As Lisa, Essie, and I
drove through the peaceful farmland in Gettysburg National Military Park,
past a large barn that once belonged to a local farmer, I thought about the
people who were living their lives and minding their own business here back in
July 1863. Except perhaps in the First Folio of the Divine Playwright,
the Battle of Gettysburg was not scripted, scheduled, choreographed, or
rehearsed. It just happened--live on the first take, in front of an
audience that could not get up and leave or flip the channel. Soon after
some of Confederate General Robert E. Lee's troops accidentally encountered
some Union cavalry near McPherson's farm, the rolling hills and bucolic meadows
of Gettysburg became the set for what would become perhaps the most famous
battle in American history. In just three days, some 51,000 Americans
lost their lives, and, some might say, the South began to lose the Civil War.
Made sacred by those three days, this land has been preserved and today looks much as it probably did nearly a century and a half ago. From Seminary Ridge, we looked over at the copse of trees on Cemetery Hill, just as the men in General George Pickett's division did before they charged boldly into the fire of Union troops. "Pickett's Charge," as this fateful maneuver came to be known, left nearly 3,000 men dead, injured, or captured -- all within a few hours. We stood atop Little Round Top and gazed down into the Devil's Den, a gnarled collection of tipped and turned boulders where Confederate sharpshooters hid undercover and fired at Union defenders above them. In Gettysburg National Cemetery, we stood where President Abraham Lincoln first pronounced the ground sacred. His brilliant Gettysburg Address, perhaps the most famous and beautiful 14 sentences in the history of English oratory, was the only scripted portion of the Gettysburg drama and the perfect epilogue to it.
Malone, New York
August 4-6, 2000: The wedding of our college friend Pete Amstutz and Bridget Fitzpatrick brought us to northern New York, where we experienced the scenic Adirondack Mountains, several beautiful lakes and creeks, and some of the loveliest rolling hills we have seen anywhere. Near the visitors' center at a community called Paul Smiths, I took Essie on her inaugural "moving experience," a hobby I developed for exercising and sightseeing at the same time. Together we hiked the same woods where a young Theodore Roosevelt explored the wild back in the 1800s. In fact, signs along the way quoted from his journal. Like Teddy, we saw several natural wonders, including a chipmunk, aspen and birch trees, a lovely creek, a beaver lodge, and a butterfly that Essie asked to pet. For me, the highlight of our walk was a breathtaking view: From a spot beside the trail, we could look out over a quiet pool and a clump of trees in the foreground and a mountain peak in the distance. Essie and I took turns photographing it.
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Between visiting Adirondack State Park and attending our friends' wedding, Lisa spent a few hours at a homestead very significant to her:
When I was 10 years old, my mom and dad gave me the Little House series of books by Laura Ingalls Wilder. I read the books voraciously all through that winter -- the Blizzard of '78. The third book in the series, Farmer Boy, is about the childhood of Almanzo Wilder (Laura's husband). His parents operated a successful farm about 5 miles outside of Malone in the late 1800s, and the home has been partly restored and partly recreated to match the original. This living museum gave me the chance to drop into Farmer Boy and spend a few hours visualizing the jars and crocks in the family's pantry, fingering the linsy-woolsy that the girls would have woven, and peering under the porch where Almanzo's pig got loose. My search for the wallpaper that Almanzo stained with oven blackening, though, was in vain: the parlor had been repapered years previously. Although most of the original house has been rebuilt, Laura Ingalls Wilder described the home so accurately, and caretakers have restored and preserved the home so meticulously that I couldn't help but feel transported back in time, to my tenth year, to the Blizzard of '78, and -- best of all -- and into the life of Farmer Boy.
Later, we enjoyed another spectacular view at the wedding ceremony, which took place at the home of Bridget's parents. From the spot where Pete and Bridget said their vows, we could look out over miles of rolling hills, trees, even the thin line of the St. Lawrence River and the plateau on which Montreal, Canada, rests. After the wedding ceremony, we relaxed and enjoyed the reception. Lisa and I did most of the relaxing--catching up with college friends, for example--while Essie did most of the enjoying. She took turns riding in a stroller with a little girl she met, kicked and threw a beach ball we brought along, threw snowballs made from snow that Bridget's family had saved in the freezer from last winter, and generally ran and climbed everywhere she could. Most of all, though, she danced--and danced and danced and danced. For a long time, she was content twirling around solo while everyone else talked and ate. Later, though, after the dancing had officially begun, she was spotted in the arms of a smooth-operating five-year-old who gave me the first disturbing taste of what I know I will have to experience when she turns 15.
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Hyde Park, New York
August
6-7, 2000: On our way south back to North Carolina from a wedding in Malone,
New York, we stopped in Hyde Park and I visited the Franklin D. Roosevelt Presidential
Library and Museum. In addition to several items from Roosevelt's
childhood, including a rocking horse and his notes on birds, I saw his crutch,
cane, leg braces, wheelchair, and White House desk, packed with gifts he had
received. The highlight of the museum was his office, the site of many of
his "fireside chats." Roosevelt designed the room
himself. The next morning, I got up early and went for a hike on the
estate grounds, which include his boyhood home, the grave where he and Eleanor
are buried, and the Hyde Park Trail. While his fifth cousin
Theodore was better known as the environmentalist, Franklin Roosevelt
also loved nature, especially trees and birds. I could see why as I hiked
the Hyde Park Trail, which meanders through the woods around his boyhood
home. Located only about 100 miles north of New York City, this miniature
wilderness looks as wild as anything you might find in upstate New York or even
the Appalachian Mountains. On a misty morning walk on the portions called
the Cove Trail and the Forest Trail, I saw rocky hills, piles of boulders,
creeks, a deer, even a small waterfall and the Hudson River. Here, young
Franklin fell in love with birds, eventually learning to stuff them. He
also became interested in trees and helped his father collect some that they
found in other countries. Over the course of his life, some 400,000 trees
were planted in these woods.
Summit, New Jersey
August 7, 2000: On our way home from upstate New York and the wedding of our friends Pete and Bridget, we took a short detour to Summit, New Jersey to visit a good friend from our Chapel Hill years, Brian Carpenter. Brian, who is finishing up his doctorate in English, and his new wife, a pediatric oncologist in a new practice, entertained us for the afternoon in their beautiful apartment in their beautiful town.
After a tour of their home -- on the first floor of a 120-year-old Victorian manse -- we walked to and had a great lunch in the downtown district. Brian and Michelle thrilled us with stories of their honeymoon on safari in South Africa and reminded us why we love meeting people and maintaining friendships. Good friends who share our sensibilities are, I believe, a way of living more lives than just the one we've got. Thanks to Brian and Michelle, I feel that I have, in some small measure, been on safari myself. I doubt I'll ever watch the sun rise over an African savannah, listen to elephants walking past my tent, or enjoy high tea in Cape Town, but it sure feels like I have.
I don't understand why people make fun of New Jersey. Summit is one of the prettiest towns I have ever seen. Quiet streets shaded by enormous hardwoods; giant homes right out of Ragtime; tidy, old fashioned store fronts selling everything from European cheeses to brocade ribbons -- and a train station with a commuter line into Manhattan are a far cry from the squalid garbage dump accessed by turnpike that has become the cliche. So, after spending a gorgeous summer day in that pretty little place I would have mistaken for Chapel Hill, I've decided that New Jersey's awful reputation is perpetuated by the residents of these charming little towns -- so that they stay charming little towns. Everyone knows that as soon as the secret of your little Eden gets out, thousand flock there and Eden is no more -- just ask the original residents of Jackson Hole, Wyoming, Ocracoke, North Carolina, and Sante Fe, New Mexico.
New Jersey is beautiful; just don't tell anybody. -- And maybe someday you'll get to live there -- if you're lucky.