tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11383149352797517732024-03-13T01:18:22.877-04:00IN THE SHADEWelcome to my blog on personal narrative and memoir, Irish history/culture, writing and language. Click in the sidebar on right to become a follower, and feel free to comment on individual blog posts.
Thanks for visiting --
Thomas D. Kersting.
You may REACH ME at tdkerst@gmail.com
Tom Kerstinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06723518010027224406noreply@blogger.comBlogger40125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1138314935279751773.post-69950644733594749152023-04-01T16:08:00.000-04:002023-04-01T16:08:13.034-04:00<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgHtZppjourwnJ3ectUs7sygUzKnksKMUTBNRYWNzVPYH_FN1QTTGIwGKgQHnfLI2FofeKaPOxKcW8aqB6KV18tOSFqnhqcU6fD3W2GY7ZtYHwElQQVu34bglhxdKgC-cS3nA5UbQrlDE5tv9gWxi_UOqgw3RD6KL6BieUxJ8lS3AojwCjR3JN00O0U" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgydytV85RwlqgE0Ce17X0u1CQtgcOE-i2gwGTMJFrWQEBwY9pP-usdm5-HQampTmNW4rjvBh6uIRQxe-7HLsVe8TRYU4Qt4p_SficrXHa7fWdvB9gssITh8-YPbMqlWUbDhBAa75WchoBT72fZAmyGHn8EXGL47kWtOrhXGZWtH48rV0AvXc0UV3iT/s4032/PXL_20211205_215630676.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgydytV85RwlqgE0Ce17X0u1CQtgcOE-i2gwGTMJFrWQEBwY9pP-usdm5-HQampTmNW4rjvBh6uIRQxe-7HLsVe8TRYU4Qt4p_SficrXHa7fWdvB9gssITh8-YPbMqlWUbDhBAa75WchoBT72fZAmyGHn8EXGL47kWtOrhXGZWtH48rV0AvXc0UV3iT/s320/PXL_20211205_215630676.jpg" width="320" /></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><br /><p><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>On Turning Seventy-Five</p><p><br /></p><p>In the early weeks of January, on a gray and dreary morning in the midst of the mildest winter in years, I turned seventy-five. I remember when that used to sound old. Now it seems just another milestone in a long life of moments worth noting. Along the way, among the restive rhythms of the years I’ve come to recognize that time drives all. We can lament it, rail against it, or embrace it with grace, but we cannot escape the cold resolute torrents of time, as relentless as the waves of the sea. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I’ve now reached a point where, in the words of Willie Nelson, I’m “well past my halfway in time,” but, as Willie continues, “I still have a lot on my mind.” Anyone over fifty will tell you that the years pass quickly. Yet after seventy, while the nights often trudge along hour by hour, the days are swifter still and the years somehow accumulate faster than most of us can keep up—perhaps because there’s now so much more time to keep track of in the long sweep of memory.</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>On some mornings when we wake in the fog of sleep, daylight seeping through the blinds, we forget about time and age and decline. Then we turn to get out of bed and that painful shoulder or creaky back or throbbing hip reminds us of the years that have taken their toll. I have far more wrinkles and age spots than ever before. I am slower and achier and much more tired than I used to be. But through the wonders of modern medicine, I’m able to manage my physical ailments, and I realize what a gift the Lord has bestowed on me through these seventy-five years. Every day that I am upright is a blessing in itself. Every day, indeed, is a gift. </p><p>While the years have been kind to me, life also, of course, has had its travails, and I have come along the way to know one of the eternal truths: that life is both an embrace and a letting go. What inestimable love and joy, and yet what loss, I have known through all these years. In the lives and eventual deaths of my grandparents, then my parents, relatives, a sister, and countless friends, I have felt both the boundless exhilaration of love and the deep searing anguish of grief. But in the births of our sons and then of their own children I have seen the depths of that love renewed again across the span of the generations. </p><p>Over the years, while we were busy living our lives, one by one our parents’ generation passed on and then one day we suddenly found that we were the older folks, the senior citizens, the elders. As the seasons inevitably tick on, our time, in turn, will come and we too will take our place in the great scheme of things—but not too soon, I hope, not too soon.</p><p>I take some solace at seventy-five in these lines from Tennyson’s <i>Ulysses</i>:</p><p><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>Old age hath yet his honor and his toil; <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>Death closes all: but something ere the end, <span> </span>Some work of noble note may yet be done . . . .</p><p>And as I read these words now I am heartened by the speaker’s wisdom and his grit. There’s a dignity to these lines, a resolve to push on despite the constraints of age and time, to contribute what we still can, to make a difference yet.</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The sun is setting as I write this, the twilight, fiery red and tinged with streaks of wispy blue. I look away, but when I look back again the red tint is fading fast, the blue now smudged to gray as the day wanes toward the deepening darkness. Time drives all. But tomorrow is to be a fine day.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></span></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />Tom Kerstinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06723518010027224406noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1138314935279751773.post-49103059899067586232022-12-26T23:38:00.001-05:002023-04-01T15:05:04.476-04:00Fading into Mist<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVxTsJhJFCU4bfNCCA5nzkunlCVVONLFPykBG1bcB7o--zGWO3AmX509yC-4CAQ8VjHJ13Wfx7YcS86NCaFC4DlHQ0qnI4DC3-P_yfrppUsNg7aHuut0W88m1zLRPZqEKRZA1rmDdbfSGGCAkM2XzknJKk5wh1Umz2WDFPOMBePwiP_8Ywr9TNeFzj/s220/220_F_179793044_OsAYq6tIMvqClHvNO4moa5SFBoy0fouu.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="208" data-original-width="220" height="126" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVxTsJhJFCU4bfNCCA5nzkunlCVVONLFPykBG1bcB7o--zGWO3AmX509yC-4CAQ8VjHJ13Wfx7YcS86NCaFC4DlHQ0qnI4DC3-P_yfrppUsNg7aHuut0W88m1zLRPZqEKRZA1rmDdbfSGGCAkM2XzknJKk5wh1Umz2WDFPOMBePwiP_8Ywr9TNeFzj/w208-h126/220_F_179793044_OsAYq6tIMvqClHvNO4moa5SFBoy0fouu.jpg" width="208" /></a></div></div> <p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: arial;">In Ireland, December 26 is known as St. Stephen's Day, traditionally a time when the Wren Boys would pay a visit. A group of young lads of a townland would disguise themselves and </span><span style="font-family: arial;">go from house to house in the parish</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> carrying</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> a holly bush on which they perched a wren they had captured and killed. With traditional instruments, they'd </span><span style="font-family: arial;">dance and sing:</span></span></p><p><i style="font-family: arial;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>The wren, the wren, the king of all birds<span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>St. Stephen's Day was caught in the furze;<span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>Although he is little, his family is great,<span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>So rise up, landlady, and give us a treat.<span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>. . . <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>On with the kettle and down with the pan,<span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>And give us a penny to bury the wren. <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></i><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span><i style="font-family: arial;"> <span style="font-size: medium;">T</span></i><i style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;">his or some regional variation would delight each household as everyone tried to guess the identities of the visitors, who were rewarded with hospitality and coins. In more recent times the wren has been replaced by an effigy of the bird.</span></i></p><p><i style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> The ritual of the Wren Boys in Ireland is said to have various origins. Perhaps the most popular version is that during penal times, when Catholic rights were restricted, the song of the wren alerted English soldiers to the approach of Irish rebels. The practice of the Wren Boys is an old medieval custom in much of western Europe, however, and is likely of much older beginnings. Another account tells of the wren song spoiling an Irish ambush of Norse invaders in the 8th century. A different story says that the song of the wren betrayed St. Stephen's hiding place to those who were pursuing him. Yet even earlier accounts may be rooted in older, pagan times.</span></i></p><p><i style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> Like most traditional rural customs in Ireland, the practice of the Wren Boys is fast fading into a misty past as the modern world colors all things anew with its global digital imprint of instant communication. Yet with the coming of such progress we all, I think, have lost another of the few remaining links to our agrarian past. Those of us born and bred in cities had lost that connection to our ancestors' way of life long ago. In our lifetimes most of us have never known what it was to work the soil, grow our own food, tell time by the position of the sun, or make our way home by the moon or stars. We do not know what it was like to live our days never traveling more than a few miles from our homes, or to illuminate the dark by the flicker of candlelight, living attuned truly to the cycle of the seasons, the rhythm of the land. Despite all of the modern conveniences with which our lives are blessed, we have, I fear, lost something irreplaceable.</span></i></p><p><i style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span><span>Thomas D. Kersting <span> </span></span></span></span></i><i style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;">December 26, 2022</span></i><i style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></i></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><i><span><span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><br /></span></span></i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><i><span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><br /></span></i></span></p><span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span></span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><br />Tom Kerstinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06723518010027224406noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1138314935279751773.post-27657281937569651812022-09-01T17:54:00.001-04:002022-09-01T17:59:36.110-04:00For All That Is And Yet May Be<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijvW01EeX40jezd4Ng0ON6Fi8CSnLRxokNy0jOvLMndvNeEpRqvHCw9q1x6_BGdj8OSvS1tCQ6sOAvF6GbGWH1fQYiV9Zj7hc8CmTfvv2MHGWzB5vtMraqFLy_sOPma8hEbClZKG4IRaY38q16FPv3c64onacvxIA5Hu_7vCyGGh-J2RiXaeoiPC87/s4032/PXL_20220506_153019462.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="279" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijvW01EeX40jezd4Ng0ON6Fi8CSnLRxokNy0jOvLMndvNeEpRqvHCw9q1x6_BGdj8OSvS1tCQ6sOAvF6GbGWH1fQYiV9Zj7hc8CmTfvv2MHGWzB5vtMraqFLy_sOPma8hEbClZKG4IRaY38q16FPv3c64onacvxIA5Hu_7vCyGGh-J2RiXaeoiPC87/w210-h279/PXL_20220506_153019462.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEglwFQGoVSCEKcZDHjSR5LX8ggURaUhQiqy0sXmo-dxmhAqF0y4x4HIRW7J1I84129_1QkxFwLJXyH-4Af_i7qCww7dKpVk7OTO9SwYh7zyndSVs8Sdu3RDtbSZRJBhvaadlsPBSW-4yEcyFU41IKHeLI_VYdVyQqyLwSS3HF71MMGdzRiMOouGtln4" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="background-color: #f9cb9c; color: black; font-size: x-large;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1060" data-original-width="936" height="605" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEglwFQGoVSCEKcZDHjSR5LX8ggURaUhQiqy0sXmo-dxmhAqF0y4x4HIRW7J1I84129_1QkxFwLJXyH-4Af_i7qCww7dKpVk7OTO9SwYh7zyndSVs8Sdu3RDtbSZRJBhvaadlsPBSW-4yEcyFU41IKHeLI_VYdVyQqyLwSS3HF71MMGdzRiMOouGtln4=w523-h605" width="523" /></span></a></div><br /><p></p>Tom Kerstinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06723518010027224406noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1138314935279751773.post-18805108923854628902022-08-02T16:29:00.000-04:002022-08-02T16:29:16.142-04:00<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUe9QAzQmSQ84eEfF0T_zEYyqaxRU7mvhpClWn7DOqilSZOs8JWgwdxiA6geAVjyqitQb21ciRjR7qTWIGCJIhsLemMiQyT--wS2UpJ2A83cROUdBo9V70c3H2aSwdtEJFsCmDO8fgifSbvVmX8-aSbOAYAAuSuCv_aWx3eGW2o-xq7lbg4PxptNsl/s4080/PXL_20220720_202849519.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUe9QAzQmSQ84eEfF0T_zEYyqaxRU7mvhpClWn7DOqilSZOs8JWgwdxiA6geAVjyqitQb21ciRjR7qTWIGCJIhsLemMiQyT--wS2UpJ2A83cROUdBo9V70c3H2aSwdtEJFsCmDO8fgifSbvVmX8-aSbOAYAAuSuCv_aWx3eGW2o-xq7lbg4PxptNsl/s320/PXL_20220720_202849519.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /></div><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Flying Home With Amy Tan</span></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-5896acfb-7fff-6e00-322e-49f046cec9df"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My wife wasn’t talking to me for a few hours, or more accurately, I wasn’t talking to her. Sometimes we’re blessed with the gift of serendipity, a moment of good fortune that falls into our laps like manna from the sky. I had such a moment recently when we were flying home from visiting the kids and grandkids in California. Rushing to load the bags into the car for the ride to the airport, I left my backpack behind. Not the catastrophe it might have been, for our boarding passes were loaded on my phone and our IDs were secure in our wallets. Besides, our son Dave would bring the backpack a few days later when he would be flying east. But both the book I was reading and my phone charger were in that bag. How would I pass the five-and-a half hours flying from San Francisco to New York? I could dive into my library of e-books on my phone but doubted my battery, already down to 60%, would last the journey.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Delta, it turns out, offers an array of in-flight entertainment from HBO, Showtime, Hulu, some network TV series, and a selection of featured movies. While none of them piqued my interest, what did catch my eye was a program that was to captivate me for the next 2,586 miles: a Master Class on writing by Amy Tan, author of </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Joy Luck Club</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As my wife dozed in her seat beside me, I flew home with Amy Tan, who regaled me with reminders and new insights to the craft of writing. Her suggestion, for instance, that writers should not do too much research rang true for me as a writer of historical fiction. I recalled having gone down a rabbit hole when trying to date the invention of friction matches in the nineteenth century for my novel about the Irish Famine of the 1840s. Had they been invented yet when my characters lit a fire? I needed to know, and so I spent hours researching one link after another through the history and intricacies of sulfur and safety matches, which were a significant technological advance in their time. But how much of the research would I actually use in my story? Amy Tan’s advice to avoid needless details in research, then, was a timely admonition.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Her recommendation that writers keep a Nature Journal where we sketch what we see and consider its implications for story or essay was intriguing. While I’m not gifted with an artist’s skill, sketching what I observe will no doubt train me to notice details more closely. I liked, too,</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Amy Tan’s assertion that every word in a story has a relationship to the rhythm of the next one since I’ve long been attuned to the sounds and rhythms of words in my writing. Her suggestion to break down the revision process to manageable components was also a useful tactic, and her views on the causes of writer’s block and strategies to avoid it were helpful. Finally, her thoughts on knowing how and when to end a story were particularly insightful for both new and seasoned writers.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’d put Amy Tan on pause every hour or so to snap a shot of the Rockies over Colorado and to share a snack or talk briefly with my wife. But this Master Class so absorbed me through most of the flight that I hadn’t noticed the passing hours as we cut across the sky at nearly 500 mph, 34,000 feet high. Jotting notes on my phone, I was distracted from time to time by the fear that my battery would drain before the end of the class. Five-and-a-half hours later and three hours back in time, we landed at JFK with 6% left in my battery and what would turn out to be more than five pages of printed notes.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Later my wife complained that I hadn’t talked to her for most of the flight, and she was right, of course, for I was “in the zone, that magical, mystical sphere writers and artists and athletes are sometimes blessed to know when they’re immersed in their work, enthralled by it, transfixed beyond time. I was engrossed in a Master Class and flying home with Amy Tan.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span></div>Tom Kerstinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06723518010027224406noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1138314935279751773.post-56132400256290594962022-06-30T17:00:00.002-04:002022-07-08T13:35:54.647-04:00<p style="text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJdBnQTJdzQ51E7RYYIyQhbxIwGSrTiVwVA0qDxUvtKd9_UMDmVVAQeC6_JqpCVggnW9u5cfzkw6GyUgdBIppojcKlhmZ0sKQwq0wgzBl4z7PNJyreTkBJgyh0E_W8sZ5gsu9domoUoI9mmcyEzWcvte9yQt9RerbNVbj85oN48vVlqwJKdK7pbVQq/s4032/PXL_20211108_203544657.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJdBnQTJdzQ51E7RYYIyQhbxIwGSrTiVwVA0qDxUvtKd9_UMDmVVAQeC6_JqpCVggnW9u5cfzkw6GyUgdBIppojcKlhmZ0sKQwq0wgzBl4z7PNJyreTkBJgyh0E_W8sZ5gsu9domoUoI9mmcyEzWcvte9yQt9RerbNVbj85oN48vVlqwJKdK7pbVQq/w282-h291/PXL_20211108_203544657.jpg" width="282" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif1lJrG59RrUqNL-Vo3f5EbhQy6bc_mHdmvMKhKe0Xpk00M0bg387ksISBVDR_7zHmFxxWwOpFsOz9OfE2xHagWjuCB5GBDOp1k7Ox4VhmCQuKS8gZLwQWidKwA5E-ykQPOSX_d4nipsbrrf_z1CxuFNFiIrddzYdTbeIxd0XsOLKvs16TIExy8qXL/s4032/PXL_20220507_153813109.PORTRAIT.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif1lJrG59RrUqNL-Vo3f5EbhQy6bc_mHdmvMKhKe0Xpk00M0bg387ksISBVDR_7zHmFxxWwOpFsOz9OfE2xHagWjuCB5GBDOp1k7Ox4VhmCQuKS8gZLwQWidKwA5E-ykQPOSX_d4nipsbrrf_z1CxuFNFiIrddzYdTbeIxd0XsOLKvs16TIExy8qXL/w304-h320/PXL_20220507_153813109.PORTRAIT.jpg" width="304" /></a></div><br /> To Celebrate a Life<p></p><p><br /></p><p>Long before I came to know them by name, I was only vaguely acquainted with trees. While not a single tree was to be found on the paved streets of our neighborhood in the Bronx, up on Fordham Road in a sliver of an island we called Banana Park, two or three trees graced a few benches with a canopy of shade. But as a city boy I could not tell you what types of trees they were. To me they were just trees. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>On occasional jaunts to other parks in the area, we became acquainted with some variety among trees, mainly by the seeds they dropped. We gathered chestnuts in the Fall and pelted each other with “itchy balls” that dropped from the branches and clung miraculously to our clothes. We opened other seeds and made polynoses or twirled them like helicopters when we sent them aloft in Spring and dove headfirst into piles of leaves in the Fall, all the while blissfully unaware of the species that had dropped these treasures in our paths. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>When my wife and I bought the house “in the country” some years later, trees, of course, abounded everywhere we looked. Over the decades I came to appreciate their species, their lifecycles, and their boundless beauty. We mourned the loss of trees to storms, infestations, and disease. We were ambivalent when the stilted willow that had served many years as first base in our backyard baseball games made way for the pool, but we lamented having to cut down the choke cherries and ash lest they fall on a neighbor’s house. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Over the years I have come to cultivate many trees, mindful that they will grow to imposing maturity after I myself have returned to the earth. I planted whips of poplar and ash, honeysuckle and lilac. More recently, I have planted twigs of hawthorn, buckthorn, and crape myrtle, all of which have sprouted hardy stems and leaves after four years of blazing New York heat and frigid winters. They’ll soon be ready for transplanting to more prominent areas of the yard.</p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I can think of no more fitting gesture to commemorate someone we love than the planting of a tree in that person’s name. Whether to mark a birth or a death, planting a tree celebrates a life in all its transient beauty and all its enduring memory. So it is that we plant a tree each time a grandchild is born. We planted a sugar maple when our Canadian American granddaughter Chloe was born in 2010 and a Kwanzan cherry tree when our Japanese American grandson Alex was born in 2017. This year we planted a Yoshino cherry to mark the 2020 birth of our Japanese American granddaughter Lilia. All three of these grandchild trees grace the yard with their distinctive beauty and celebration. The maple drops its helicopter seeds with which I may someday teach the children to make polynoses, and in the Fall its golden yellow leaves illuminate the dusk. The Kwanzan cherry sprouts its graceful pink blossoms in the Spring and, alongside it now, the Yoshino cherry opens its snowy white blooms. If the grandchildren are visiting in springtime, we may picnic beneath the cherry blossoms to celebrate their transient beauty. </p><p><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It is with such transience in mind that I planted a clump of white birch trees to commemorate the life of John Palencsar, my closest friend of more than sixty years, who died rather sooner than we’d expected in 2021. John was fond of Robert Frost’s poem “Birches” with its idyllic image of a young boy swinging the pliable branches who “flung outward, feet first, with a swish,/Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.” I see that tree now, John’s birch, outside my den window, and I find comfort in knowing that, like those of the grandchildren, it is rooted firmly to mark a life, the “going and coming back,” in all its days of storms and resplendent beauty, to celebrate a life that once was, and—in all its seasons—a life worth remembering. </p><div><br /></div>Tom Kerstinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06723518010027224406noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1138314935279751773.post-6392167037365010862016-12-29T18:58:00.000-05:002017-01-28T18:32:01.655-05:00WINTER SOLSTICE<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: 12pt;"> My wife looked out upon a single fawn</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>that gnawed, unaware, at the hedge beside<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>the rock garden on this first day of winter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“There’s something wrong with one of its legs,”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>she told me with a frown. As it grazed its way <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> t</span>o the yew bushes along the front walk, I could <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>see that she was right.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The deer was young, a few months old at best,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>from its size, left hind leg hobbled a bit by<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>what seemed a tumor that shackled her<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>to her fate.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The fawn foraged in solitude amid a carpet of <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>snow, cast out perhaps from the herd to fend <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>die at last a solitary death and take with it <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>the blight it bore.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Was this the lone deer we saw below our <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>on the birdseed I had scattered beneath <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>the feeder? We’d thought it odd to see but <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>one. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She’d stood, legs splayed, nearly genuflecting<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>as she fed, the nap of her young fur smooth <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>and gleaming in the moonglow. We hadn’t<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>noticed in that swath of silver light the knob<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>that hobbled her, her outcast plight.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As the shadows lengthen on this longest night,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> the </span><span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: 12pt;">coming darkness, the feeble light.</span></div>
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<style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Calibri; panose-1:2 15 5 2 2 2 4 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:Cambria; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style>Tom Kerstinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06723518010027224406noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1138314935279751773.post-78902689684782310062016-03-13T15:57:00.000-04:002016-04-09T12:58:53.583-04:00Four Dead in O-hi-o<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> </span><span style="line-height: 150%;">Rummaging through some old college notebooks from a box in the attic the other day, I came upon a protest flyer from my senior year at Iona College, in New Rochelle, New York. It was May of 1970, and I was weeks away from graduating. “ON STRIKE” the flyer proclaims. I lifted it to my face for a whiff of the familiar purple smell of the mimeograph ink, but the scent had long-since faded, much as the memory of that year has receded into our collective national unconscious of that fateful time. </span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtG5p9WsA3SUqb3UmoVtwxlqsfohdmCKsZ8qpQXRnWccGlMT01HWr3xc0POF3_rAh_bJqyuwHy9fYbB1AivEXeaTfbVMIQRvPKGbMj7By6UKiPGiHI3GnMKiUA85kJyFL4A6wTjwR9kC0/s1600/IMG_2582.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtG5p9WsA3SUqb3UmoVtwxlqsfohdmCKsZ8qpQXRnWccGlMT01HWr3xc0POF3_rAh_bJqyuwHy9fYbB1AivEXeaTfbVMIQRvPKGbMj7By6UKiPGiHI3GnMKiUA85kJyFL4A6wTjwR9kC0/s320/IMG_2582.JPG" width="240" /></a><span style="line-height: 150%;"> But the flyer brought rushing back the angst that roiled American campuses 46 years ago this spring. Just eight months earlier, in September of 1969, Lt. William Calley had been charged with leading his platoon in a massacre of Vietnamese civilians—including women and children—in the village of My Lai the previous year. That atrocity surely did not reflect the actions of most American troops in Vietnam; but in the virulent outrage that resulted, many in the anti-war movement unjustly vilified all American soldiers as “baby killers.” It got that ugly.</span></div>
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Three months later, in December of 1969, President Richard Nixon reinstituted a draft lottery. Nearly half a million U.S. soldiers were serving in Southeast Asia and nearly 50,000 Americans and countless Vietnamese had already been killed. Then, on April 30, 1970, Nixon went on television to announce to a weary nation that U.S. and South Vietnamese forces had crossed into Cambodia to launch preemptive strikes against North Vietnamese supply lines. He also declared the need to draft 150,000 additional men. This escalation of the war provoked mass protests across American campuses. Days later, on May 4, twenty-eight national guardsmen opened fire at an unarmed crowd of protesters on the campus of Kent State University in Ohio. Four students were shot dead.</div>
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The news stunned the nation: for the first time in our history, American students were being killed by American troops on an American college campus. In response, colleges all over the country erupted in furious protests. Hundreds shut down or canceled classes as students went on strike. On campuses across the nation, ROTC buildings were set ablaze and students clashed with police and National Guard units. Within weeks, Neil Young’s song “Ohio” blared from radios across the land, stoking the flames of outrage:</div>
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<i>Tin soldiers and Nixon coming,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i> We’re finally on our own.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i> This summer I hear the drumming,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i> Four dead in Ohio.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i> </i><i> </i>On May 14, just ten days after the Kent State shootings, without warning, police shot dead two students during a protest at the all-black Jackson State University, in Mississippi. That unprovoked attack garnered comparatively little national attention. Some blacks complained at the time that maybe black lives didn’t count as much as white ones. This grievance sounds eerily familiar today.</div>
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On the whole, college campuses in 2016 are very different places from what they were in 1970. They are communities where political correctness and nurturing of perceived slights prevail. A far cry from the university as a place to broaden one’s perspectives, American campuses have become bastions of intolerance for opposing points of view. Just ask Condoleeza Rice or the growing number of other controversial figures who have been disinvited to speak on college campuses because some group or other is offended by their role or viewpoint. Or ask Erika Christakis, a former lecturer at Yale who resigned in the face of student protests over her suggestion that perhaps they might themselves be better suited than the administration to decide what Halloween costumes they should wear. Ask the college professors who are required to give “trigger warnings” when they are about to broach a topic that may provoke unease or trauma in any of their students. Assigning a reading of <i>The Great Gatsby </i>or <i>Hamlet</i> without trigger warnings about their possibly disturbing issues of physical violence or dysfunctional families would be considered a “microaggression” against vulnerable and unsuspecting students—<i>college</i> students, mind you. Or ask the professors in Texas and the seven other states that allow students to carry concealed weapons on public campuses what the impact is likely to be on free and open expression of ideas or on grade inflation.</div>
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Yet, as spring approaches in 2016, the most enduring protests on American college campuses are those over issues of persistent racial tensions. Nearly 46 years after the killings of American students at Kent State and Jackson State, numerous incidents of black men killed by police in the streets of American cities have given rise to the Black Lives Matter movement, which in turn has galvanized minority student protests. Beginning at the University of Missouri over the slow response of administrators to a series of racist incidents, the protests and their demands for equality have spread to campuses across the land.</div>
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But just as the vast majority of American soldiers in Vietnam were not “baby killers,” most American police officers do not shoot young black men in our streets. The truth is that police lives matter too, white lives matter, Latino lives matter. All lives deserve respect. Still, time after time, black men—often unarmed—are killed at the hands of those entrusted to keep the peace. The point of the protests is that black lives matter too, and enough is enough.</div>
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<span style="background: white;"> </span>Perhaps, then, some progress has been made in the spirit of dissent on our campuses amid what seems at times a national regression. The Black Lives Matter movement is a protest that speaks for its time. In the midst of an indulgent culture of trigger warnings, it seems heartening that some college students today are clamoring for justice and equality, demands that echo the high moral ground of bringing an end to an unjust war and the killings of innocent students. Such protests are today what my generation’s reaction to the killings at Kent State was—a defining moment, a time to take a stand on what you believe in. As Neil Young would put it,</div>
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<i>What if you knew [them]<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i> And found [them] dead on the ground<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i> How can you run when you know?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Tom Kerstinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06723518010027224406noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1138314935279751773.post-90790363615566824462015-11-06T16:28:00.000-05:002015-12-03T10:51:15.072-05:00A Road I've Taken<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFtTweBEKJpu-8-WUFMpcT-aztuHo_6wfUiigbIqXEv9MKYSSvZDE7mOKJafIPHOMrfJoYEs5f5AcL3dcnUqdWFonPZSj-MVH2ZSgDjYAiopjWWt9eQWGHDkS8VghCrYom7Oz0670SMgE/s1600/DSC_3284.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFtTweBEKJpu-8-WUFMpcT-aztuHo_6wfUiigbIqXEv9MKYSSvZDE7mOKJafIPHOMrfJoYEs5f5AcL3dcnUqdWFonPZSj-MVH2ZSgDjYAiopjWWt9eQWGHDkS8VghCrYom7Oz0670SMgE/s320/DSC_3284.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
On some occasional rambles through my blog earlier this year, I came upon a path that had been calling me for quite some time. And so I’ve been away from these pages for the past few months, consumed with a historical novel that I’m writing.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The working title is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tobarmaire</i> (Mary’s Well). The story is set in a fictionalized blend of Dowra, my wife’s native village in County Cavan, and the old village of Tobar nearby that had preceded it. It takes place in 1845-46 during the Great Famine (An Gorta Mor—The Great Hunger—as it’s known in Irish), when the potato blight ravaged the land.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tobarmaire</i> tells the story of Michael Corrigan, a fiery young man brimming with resentment as his family and neighbors, evicted from their cottages for non-payment of rent, face starvation. I've been thinking and reading and writing about this story for quite some time. It began, for me, on a summer evening in Ireland in 1981, when Nan McGovern, my mother-in-law, brought me up Gubaveeny Mountain near her home in County Cavan to meet an old man who lived alone in a cottage. He was known in the region as a “shanachie” (pronounced “shanakey”), a sort of local historian who was said to have “a head full of knowledge about the history of the place.”</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>During ancient times, Gaelic clans lived in particular areas of rural Ireland. Evidence of that survives today when so many families in a region have the same surnames. And so, for example, to distinguish one family from another of the same name, a man and his own family would be known locally by his first name, then his father’s first name, then his grandfather’s first name, followed by the family surname. He would be known locally as Charley Thomas Ned McGuire, and his family (if he had one), as the Charley Thomas Ned McGuires, or more simply as the Charley Thomas Neds.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Charley Thomas Ned—Charley to his face—heard our car approaching and met us at the door of his stone cottage. Stooped, with a gray stubble and rheumy eyes, he greeted us through a mostly toothless grin in the dusty voice of his eighty-five years. “You’re very welcome,” he said to Nan, and turning to me, nodded. We sat before his open hearth, his only source of light. Many of the older folks on the mountain never had the electric hooked up when it came to the region in the 1950s—afraid of it, or just never seeing the need. The light of the hearth, for Charley Thomas Ned, was enough.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He recalled for us the history of the region as it had been passed down to him in the oral tradition in the years before tape recorders or television, and he regaled us with tales of a local hero who roamed the area nearly 250 years ago. Dick Supple (pronounced “Souple”) Corrigan was a “rapparee,” a highwayman who ran with a gang that robbed from the rich and gave to the poor. Through many daring exploits, Supple Corrigan bedeviled the English who oppressed the native Irish in the region in the late 18<sup>th</sup> century. He is remembered in legend and song in the northwest of Ireland to this day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As the late summer dusk descended on the mountain, the turf fire in the hearth glowed brighter and Nan and I rose to leave. We thanked Charley Thomas Ned for his hospitality and his stories, and the old man replied in a lyrical echo of ages past: “Sure, and wouldn’t ye be happy of the visit if ye was sitting here all the week long with nary a Christian soul to cross yer doorstep?”</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tobarmaire</i>, my protagonist, Michael Corrigan, is the great-grandson of Supple Corrigan. Through a series of encounters, he seeks to settle some scores with the English during the famine of the 1840s, some seventy years after Supple had done the same.<br />
So this is where I’ve been of late, consumed with the past in the present. I’ll be back with some more blog posts from time to time—I’ve just recorded a post at the radio station, which I’ll link to these pages soon. But if I’m away from the blog for a stretch of time, I’m probably just wandering the lanes of my imagination, thinking, researching, or writing about the characters and happenings of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tobarmaire</i>.</div>
Tom Kerstinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06723518010027224406noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1138314935279751773.post-26980732924160994372015-11-06T15:41:00.001-05:002016-11-29T13:08:21.139-05:00Speechless in the Battle<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
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“I have no voice,” he said, barely audible. I was driving my friend John Palencsar to SUNY New Paltz so he could teach his history classes at the college. John is battling cancer of the vocal chords and had just had a radiation treatment that morning. His speech reduced to a raspy whisper, he told me what frustrated him most: “I have no voice.” Later, in his class, he would repeat those words into a microphone that merely amplified his gravelly message to his attentive students.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I think it might serve as a metaphor, too,” he told them. His class by now was rapt, leaning forward, intrigued by what “Professor P.” was saying. “I never felt this before,” he continued. “I always had a voice.” He looked around the room and smiled. The class smiled back and nodded.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Maybe some of you have felt this way all along,” he said. “Women . . . and minorities . . . and gays. Maybe you’ve known for a long time what it means to not have a voice. Maybe those of you who are shy or lonely know. Those who are different in any way—to feel that you don’t have a voice.” The students were riveted now by the power of his metaphor.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Having seized upon a “teachable moment,” Professor P. related the point to the aim of his lesson—that Thomas Jefferson alone was able to articulate a voice for those colonists who objected to a king denying them a say in the conduct of their own affairs. That in the phrasing of the Declaration of Independence, Jefferson had given vent to their frustrations and their passions. He had given them a voice.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After weeks and weeks of radiation and chemotherapy, John’s prognosis is good. His doctors are hopeful that he will not need surgery to remove his larynx and guardedly optimistic that as his vocal chords heal from the barrage of radiation, he will, in time, recover his voice.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I think of those who, metaphorically, have much less hope, of those who need not to “recover” their voice, but to “discover” it for the first time. How empowering that moment would be. When the poor pursue means to climb out of their penury, they have found a voice. When minorities refuse to accept that the color of their skin should hold them back they have found a voice. When women or gays or trans people insist that their gender or sexual orientation be respected in their fight for pay equity or civil rights, they have found their voice. Whenever any who feel disenfranchised in any way declare, “Enough! We’ve had enough! We’re not going to take it anymore!” they have found a voice.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It is one thing to declare one’s passion, to have a voice, but quite another to attain one’s demands. As Professor P. would attest, the American Revolution dragged on from 1775 to 1783. But by conveying the frustrations and desires of the colonists in the Declaration of Independence in 1776, Jefferson gave expression to their hopes and their dreams. He inspired them to fight against the odds. As with all who feel unrepresented or ignored, however, the journey started with discovering their voice.</div>
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Tom Kerstinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06723518010027224406noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1138314935279751773.post-70907824510727948292015-05-02T00:14:00.000-04:002015-05-08T10:57:06.246-04:00A Walk to Remember<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA9C6Tuz2I45FQsiSEqfx6Hiq8jJKeFFFkf4vKggkRdsz879pd4Eto3oHbnKy_9Zj9asj9lAVtMgnRoiECd0cFOPzRBh2mcQMYnmYLmrH4EAY9soWOMb6oDOX8onOvG2jlbnzrlMLcw0Y/s1600/IMG_0354.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA9C6Tuz2I45FQsiSEqfx6Hiq8jJKeFFFkf4vKggkRdsz879pd4Eto3oHbnKy_9Zj9asj9lAVtMgnRoiECd0cFOPzRBh2mcQMYnmYLmrH4EAY9soWOMb6oDOX8onOvG2jlbnzrlMLcw0Y/s320/IMG_0354.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
Rich Albero has a long history as a generous soul. When we taught high school together in New York for twenty-five years, he would occasionally show up to school in the morning looking a bit rumpled and haggard, perhaps even unshaven. Some would make assumptions based on this appearance. He’d had a rough night, they’d think, or he didn’t care about how he looked. Both conclusions were right, but not for the reasons assumed.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I knew that, in fact, Rich had arrived at school having volunteered to help supervise a homeless shelter in his hometown overnight. If he seemed less concerned with his own appearance, it was because he was more concerned with providing a warm meal and a safe bed for others in need. At school, he kept his work at the shelter to himself and asked me not to mention it to anyone. That selfless volunteer spirit spoke to who Rich was.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It came as no surprise to me, then, when Rich began to talk last year about wanting to walk more than 1,200 miles from Steinbrenner Field in Tampa, Florida, to Yankee Stadium in the Bronx. That grand plan spoke of who he still is.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Rich Albero is sixty-five years old now, retired several years from high school teaching and just this past year from teaching math at St. Petersburg College, not far from his home in Dunedin, Florida. Having travelled around the world as a young seaman in the U.S. Merchant Marine, Rich was later to take other trips of note with his nephew Gary Albero—a memorable excursion to the Grand Canyon, for example, or a drive up to Boston to cheer his beloved Yankees as they battled the Red Sox at Fenway.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But now, his grandest of journeys, this trek from Tampa to the Bronx is a tribute to Gary, who died in the World Trade Center towers on 9/11. True to Rich and Gary’s generous spirits, the walk is also raising donations to the Wounded Warrior Project.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The Yankees organization has been very supportive of his walk. In the first week of March, Rich started his journey from home plate at Steinbrenner Field in Tampa, where in the midst of spring training the Yankees gave him an enthusiastic send-off. “See you in New York,” manager Joe Girardi said with a hug.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>With some help from a few sponsors—ionic sportwater, Brooks shoes, Tilley hats, Wyndham Hotels, and Wish You Were Here Productions, among others—Rich is now well past the half-way point of his journey. Calling on a small cadre of close friends or family as his support drivers, he recently made his way north through the Carolinas one step at a time. Now, in early May, with more than 800 miles behind him, he has reached the rolling hills of Richmond, Virginia.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> As he approaches Washington, D.C.</span>, I’m to join Rich as his support driver for a week. He’ll rise before dawn, do his morning exercises, then wake me for breakfast. Next, I’ll drive him to where he had ended the previous day’s walk, and he’ll resume his journey, aiming for another twenty miles that day. Around noon, Rich will call to tell me his location. Along with an afternoon’s supply of sportwater, I’ll bring his lunch and a bucket of ice water to soak his feet mid-day. Following that, he’ll resume his walk until late afternoon or early evening, when I’ll pick him up and drive him to our next hotel. After a hearty dinner, it’ll be early to bed and up again before dawn.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Rich hopes to reach New York City by Memorial Day weekend. There he will lay a commemorative wreath beneath Gary’s name at Ground Zero. He will end his walk with a ceremony at home plate before a game at Yankee Stadium, a fitting conclusion to a selfless journey by a sixty-five-year-old Yankee fan who walked more than 1,200 miles from spring training to a home game in the Bronx to honor his nephew and our wounded warriors.</div>
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<![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Follow Rich Albero’s progress and donate if you can at <b>www.richardsyankeeswalk.org</b></span><!--EndFragment-->
Tom Kerstinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06723518010027224406noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1138314935279751773.post-59309346899987898802015-02-21T11:35:00.001-05:002015-02-22T23:11:28.529-05:00Going Home to a Place I'd Never Known<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> When I was a child, my father would regale my sisters and brothers and me with countless family stories of his youth and young manhood in the Bronx in the 1920s and ‘30s. But we knew little if anything of the life his own grandparents had left behind in Germany. Who were they? Where in Germany did they come from? What did they work at? Care about? What were their dreams? Why did they leave all they had ever known to come to this new land with its strange customs and language? And what became of them as they lived out the remainder of their lives in Massachusetts? It was all a mystery to us. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>His own father, Arthur Conrad Kersting, my paternal grandfather, had emigrated from Germany in 1880 as an infant in the arms of his mother and grew up in the only land he had ever known, as an American. In 1898, he served in the Spanish-American War, then in 1906 would wed Elizabeth O’Donnell in New York City. By the time my father was born in 1916, the Kerstings had fully assimilated as Americans for two generations. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Through the burning curiosity of my sister Liz and that of our cousin Eddie, whose passion for family history I share, a family tree began to emerge. Resources such as Ancestry.com and immigration and census records began to provide a sense of who our people had been. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We had always heard that our paternal great-grandparents had “come from” Hamburg, in northern Germany. That turned out to be true—in a literal sense. Genealogical records would reveal that before they emigrated from the port of Hamburg, they had lived in the village of Ottensen, which is now part of greater Hamburg. But Johann Conrad Kersting, our paternal great-grandfather, had been born in Wiedenbrück, Germany, about 175 miles away, in 1848—exactly one hundred years before I was born in the Bronx. He would wed Leonore Baer in her hometown of Ottensen in 1876. Johann Conrad immigrated to New York City in May of 1880, some months after my grandfather was born. Leonore and the infant followed a few months later.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> </span><span style="line-height: 150%;">In May of 2014, my wife, Rita, and I traveled to Weidenbrück in search of the place where so many generations of my ancestors had lived. But after 134 years, no one was home anymore. Before we left on our journey, I had tracked down on the Internet ten or so Kerstings in the Weidenbrück phone book. At our hotel in town, we connected with Renate Loebich, a local guide who confirmed for us that Kersting was indeed a local name in Weidenbrück. As our research had indicated, <i>this</i> is where the Kerstings had come from. With a promise to be in touch, Renate began to call the phone numbers I had shown her.</span><!--EndFragment--><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> In the meantime, Rita and I began to scan the gravestones in the local cemetery. An abundance of Kersting headstones suggested that we were in the right place. Yet, while some of the given names were familiar, none of the dates coincided with our genealogical research. A visit to the cemetery office explained why. After a grave is unattended for thirty years, we were told, the plot reverts to the state, which routinely resells the gravesite. And so, 134 years later, the graves of our ancestors were as elusive as the stories of their lives. Local church and burial records from that long ago, it turns out, are stored in the state archives in the nearby town of Paderborn. We would save that research for another trip, another time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoiP1hQ4LHJdL_ye2TU1XZASZ2ei3Yb800swLGJm7tWZNQnGmKss_xPV-br7vDNFArs6VEH00U9y5t3wqjbU0Jq3x1Iyw2iJv55kk3Yr87qUq4HxoqN-UtYN1X520mPH7rckvcM55FI4o/s1600/DSCN5565.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoiP1hQ4LHJdL_ye2TU1XZASZ2ei3Yb800swLGJm7tWZNQnGmKss_xPV-br7vDNFArs6VEH00U9y5t3wqjbU0Jq3x1Iyw2iJv55kk3Yr87qUq4HxoqN-UtYN1X520mPH7rckvcM55FI4o/s1600/DSCN5565.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> A call from Renate assured us that all was not so bleak, however. She had contacted Anton Kersting, a retired local farmer who was eager to meet us. A few miles outside town we came to his farm, mostly fruit orchards and several acres of meadows now. Anton and his wife Karola met us at the door of their house, which has been in his family for three hundred years. As they spoke no English and my German was dusty at best, Renate translated. Despite the language barrier, they were warm and welcoming, as was evident in their eyes and their smiles. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> To our dismay, though, we learned that Anton knew little more about his family history than we did ours. He had lost several uncles in the trenches of World War I, but beyond that—or perhaps somewhat because of it—his parents had spoken little of the past. Yet, in our search for common ancestral ground we discovered that our families shared our Catholic faith and several given names over the generations. We also shared some striking physical resemblances: height, body type, and several facial features. We departed with an invitation to return someday and hopes of doing so with my sister and some of my brothers. We were assured of a hearty welcome. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> Standing outside his door, Anton told us of a memory during World War II when he was a boy of five or six and allied planes were dropping bombs on a nearby farm owned by an SS general. Aside from that target, however, Wiedenbrück was spared destruction by the allied bombs, unlike the industrial sites in Germany. (As a port city, for example, 95% of Hamburg was destroyed by allied bombings.) </span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYrlrjgym2q0w06VFVilmq1HUh4NEAeREVzcPSNXSrFJSWvopOF-9HEfhTZU4nfMkxr-QKZCmctPW4_0EWPvIXrq-ERyBLgrAxDr4ZUh6bH_VzZ5Bj08JMaAUEnLazLVOkhz9fS9zd7qU/s1600/DSCN5508.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYrlrjgym2q0w06VFVilmq1HUh4NEAeREVzcPSNXSrFJSWvopOF-9HEfhTZU4nfMkxr-QKZCmctPW4_0EWPvIXrq-ERyBLgrAxDr4ZUh6bH_VzZ5Bj08JMaAUEnLazLVOkhz9fS9zd7qU/s1600/DSCN5508.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Today, many of the timber-framed houses and shops, some dating to the Middle Ages, survive in Wiedenbrück much as they were when my ancestors walked the streets of the town two centuries ago. The building next door to our hotel was in the midst of a renovation, though. “That used to be a cigar factory,” Renate told us, striking yet another genealogical chord. We had learned a while back from U.S. census records that Johan Conrad was listed as a cigar maker when he emigrated from Germany in 1880. This former cigar factory in the center of Wiedenbrück was likely where he had learned his trade as a young man. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2mBlvHN2UQ-RdROrFeYgcgvEq3QnaxJYBK7BBHBK2KbOyCOE10MOpuRA360PhGLDyDgUgHH7BJ7PTZ0qHedDFevApd2D0LvNL5Nnp5Vc-ZBbI2tFHfLEHqVt9TIYliP0yCjpRN1hbH1s/s1600/DSCN5417.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2mBlvHN2UQ-RdROrFeYgcgvEq3QnaxJYBK7BBHBK2KbOyCOE10MOpuRA360PhGLDyDgUgHH7BJ7PTZ0qHedDFevApd2D0LvNL5Nnp5Vc-ZBbI2tFHfLEHqVt9TIYliP0yCjpRN1hbH1s/s1600/DSCN5417.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> Built in 1505, the Roman Catholic church of St. Aegidius in the center of town, was where generations of our Kersting ancestors would have worshipped. For me the most striking feature of this historic church was not its medieval stone tower, not the bullet holes from the Thirty Years War, not its impressive gothic arches, nor its elaborately etched stone pulpit. Not its carved wooden statues, its well-preserved confessionals, not even its magnificent stained glass windows nor its historic wooden doors. I was drawn instead to the stone baptismal font atop a small pedestal of carved arches and biblical scenes. This is the font where generation after generation of Kerstings were Christened as infants, just as their descendants are today in “the new world.” </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMdhOZ2JqVsigDF1mm06igkr5qcjeQXvyeiO1DHS7f2-Y5G-Kzan_m_a_qYO5CRlsKhGR8DzjwoB5knyUeT9hcuUDMdy42GFnDQNOlAnkrcmrUvuEgkFCGXjByWcyKnagjovP9_jXwNxs/s1600/DSCN5400.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMdhOZ2JqVsigDF1mm06igkr5qcjeQXvyeiO1DHS7f2-Y5G-Kzan_m_a_qYO5CRlsKhGR8DzjwoB5knyUeT9hcuUDMdy42GFnDQNOlAnkrcmrUvuEgkFCGXjByWcyKnagjovP9_jXwNxs/s1600/DSCN5400.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> In hopes of finding a connection, I had come to the town where generations of my ancestors had lived out their hopes and dreams. I had arrived with a vague notion of what I might find. Having walked the same streets my ancestors had trod, eaten local traditional food, and sampled the warm hospitality—the Gemütlichkeit—of the townspeople today, I came away with a distinct sense of the place, both present and past. As the language my ancestors had left behind now echoed in my mind, I found, in the end, that you <i>can </i>go home again, even after 134 years.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Tom Kerstinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06723518010027224406noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1138314935279751773.post-3119626209653776452014-11-11T11:41:00.000-05:002016-11-29T13:03:19.119-05:00Me and My Shadow and Bobby McGee<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
The commonplace use of “Me and my . . .” as the subject of a sentence has long been the bane of English teachers everywhere. “Me and my friends went to the mall,” students will say. Or “Me and Harry are going out for football.” Consider this exchange I had with a student a few years ago:</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Clara: “Can me and Amy go to Guidance?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Me: “May.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Clara: What?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Me: “May Amy and I go to Guidance?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Clara: “You need to go to Guidance? Me and Amy do too.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Me: “I think I actually do, right about now.”<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
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She hadn’t a clue. But the “Me and my . . .” phrasing has a long history in American popular culture. In 1917, the song “For Me & My Gal” was a vaudeville hit. “Me and my Shadow” was a popular 1927 song that was revived periodically down through the decades. In 1932, the movie “Me And My Gal” starred Spencer Tracy and Joan Bennett. Ten years later, “For Me & My Gal” was heard again in the film of that title, starring Judy Garland and Gene Kelly. And DreamWorks and 20<sup>th</sup> Century Fox are aiming for a 2018 release of a 3-D animated film entitled “Me and My Shadow.” So the phrasing has long been enshrined in the language and, it seems, will continue to endure for the younger generations.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The ungrammatical construction “me and . . .” as the subject (doer) of a sentence, then, is by now ubiquitous. How often do we hear sentences that start “Me and my friend . . .” ? Yet, it’s not just the younger generations who do so. It’s so entrenched in the vernacular, that we’re likely to hear it voiced in everyday conversations, interviews across the social spectrum, TV scripts and commercials, and, of course, on social media. The mistake occurs so often now that it actually sounds “right” to many, perhaps to most. My wife kids me that I must be wrong about it, but its frequency is precisely what makes it so challenging for young people, in particular, to overcome. It simply sounds so “right.”</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The problem is with the pesky pronoun—is it “I” or “me”? Grammatically, it should be “My friend and I” as the subject of a sentence, which is usually found before the verb, that is, to the left of the verb, in English. I used to teach my students a sure-fire means of knowing which pronoun to use. In the sentence “My friend and (I or me?) went to the movies,” I’d tell them to mentally remove the words “My friend and” to make their ears reliable again. We would never be tempted to say “Me went to the movies,” and so we should never say, “My friend and me went to the movies.” Just as “I” do things, “My friend and I” do things.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In 1971, Janis Joplin’s version of the hit song “Me and Bobby McGee” entrenched another unconventional flaw in the vernacular of American youth:</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i><span style="font-size: 11pt;">But feeling good was easy, Lord, when Bobby sang the blues,</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><i> You know feeling good was good enough for me, </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><i> Good enough for me and my Bobby McGee. </i></span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span></div>
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Joplin’s posthumous version of the song, written by Kris Kristofferson and Fred Foster, would become one of the greatest blues rock classics, and deservedly so. Her rendition exudes the blues, imbuing the lyrics with a depth of raw aching feeling unparalleled in any other cover of the song. Even today it is revered as one of the best rock songs of all time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The phrasing “for me and Bobby McGee” is actually grammatical: “Good enough for me”—remember to remove the words “and Bobby McGee” to make your ear reliable again. But the phrasing ignores the grammatical etiquette of putting oneself last. (Perhaps it can be forgiven there, since “Good enough for Bobby McGee and me” just doesn’t scan.) “Me and my friend” ignores the etiquette too. But “My friend and me” is still inappropriate as a subject (doer) in a sentence. It’s a matter of grammatical <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">case</i>, one of the few areas where English is still an inflected language. That is, while meaning is usually conveyed by the placement of words in an English sentence, English words still <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">inflect</i>, or change their form, in a few instances. Whether a personal pronoun like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I, he, she, </i>or<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> they</i> changes its form to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">us, him, her, </i>or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">them) </i>depends on whether we're using it as the subject (doer) of a sentence (usually before, or to the left of, the verb) or as an object (usually after, or the right of the verb or preposition). So we would say, “My friend and I gave him the tickets,” but “He gave the tickets to my friend and me.) Just remember to mentally remove “and me” to make your ear reliable again. No one would be tempted to say, “He gave the tickets to I.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;">The English language—especially the vitality of spoken American English—continues to evolve every year. Who knows? Perhaps “Me and my friends went to the mall” may someday be widely embraced as grammatically correct. We used to make a distinction between <i>shall</i> and <i>will </i>when I was a boy,</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"> and we’re in the midst of such a shift with </span><i style="line-height: 200%;">who/whom </i><span style="line-height: 200%;">today</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">. But we’re not quite there yet, and we’re still a far way off from “Me and my friends” as the subject of a sentence being acceptable in any formal setting. </span><br />
<span style="line-height: 200%;"> But then, what it always comes down to, I think, is whether or not we see language as power. Among those aware of the "Me/I" distinction--and there are still many out there--which candidate is more likely to be offered the job, all other qualities being equal? The one who says, “Me and my last boss thought I should take a risk on that project.” Or the one who says, “My last boss and I . . .” ?</span></div>
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<![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <!--EndFragment--><span style="font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span><!--EndFragment-->Tom Kerstinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06723518010027224406noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1138314935279751773.post-13226020832664784622014-09-25T13:16:00.000-04:002014-09-25T14:54:54.229-04:00Irish Famine "Coffin Ships"<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVNDRV0_vUUsCPAFfHT_sx4iC1iq5fUR1FqIO2tVE9ko6OilA8MBwx3VHUPEB1SKLGYg2Zj4R0U_23BuvBEvi1cidfNNw_nJDGoLXzd_AN71nBDnGuBSczTGZ1yn2EO7d5u5jdHozFpZM/s1600/DSCN6464.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVNDRV0_vUUsCPAFfHT_sx4iC1iq5fUR1FqIO2tVE9ko6OilA8MBwx3VHUPEB1SKLGYg2Zj4R0U_23BuvBEvi1cidfNNw_nJDGoLXzd_AN71nBDnGuBSczTGZ1yn2EO7d5u5jdHozFpZM/s1600/DSCN6464.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a> <span style="line-height: 150%;">Alongside the River Liffey in the
heart of Dublin’s modern financial district, Rita and I recently came upon a
cluster of bronze statues—gaunt, despairing, their meager belongings clutched to their chests--walking to the docks. They are among a host of
memorials commemorating the 150</span><sup style="line-height: 150%;">th</sup><span style="line-height: 150%;"> anniversary of </span><i style="line-height: 150%;">An Gorta Mor</i><span style="line-height: 150%;">, the Great Hunger, as the
Irish Famine of 1845 to 1852 was known at the time. Docked along the quays
nearby is the Jeanie Johnston, a replica of a tall ship that made sixteen
crossings to Canada and America carrying a cargo of Irish emigrants. The ship
is a famine museum and testament to the millions who escaped </span><i>An Gorta Mor</i><span style="line-height: 150%;">. </span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> </span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> </span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqFSF3zFkY4zDLmT2jIu613hCNjSlFMtkXYDxjntxBAp6HB0BmTYaja55AOgsa2Z8Qv3DMGwIhdESlvM6cPxW6_bmh-9GANR8hzLZp4TU1OCS1AEkoPA_wVqL6AjdAe8IFU4cq7otSeD8/s1600/DSCN6486.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqFSF3zFkY4zDLmT2jIu613hCNjSlFMtkXYDxjntxBAp6HB0BmTYaja55AOgsa2Z8Qv3DMGwIhdESlvM6cPxW6_bmh-9GANR8hzLZp4TU1OCS1AEkoPA_wVqL6AjdAe8IFU4cq7otSeD8/s1600/DSCN6486.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a><span style="line-height: 150%;"> </span><span style="line-height: 150%;">As
a means of clearing the land for the more profitable raising of livestock, it
was often cheaper for landlords in Ireland during the famine to pay for
steerage passage </span>aboard a cargo ship to<span style="line-height: 150%;"> America, Canada, or Australia, rather than evict their tenants. Unlike
those in steerage class aboard most other famine ships of the time, however, no emigrant
aboard the Jeanie Johnston died during the dangerous sea crossing of nearly two
months, thanks largely to an enlightened captain and his ship’s doctor. Most of
those ships did not even have a ship’s doctor on board. Called “coffin ships”
for their deplorable overcrowding, scant provisions, and inadequate
ventilation, 30% of their steerage passengers were said to have succumbed to
cholera, typhus, and other diseases in the cramped quarters and to be buried at
sea. </span></div>
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<br />
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On
a road beside Clew Bay in County Mayo, in the village of Murrisk near the town
of Westport, sits The Coffin Ship, the Irish National Famine Monument at the
foot of the sacred mountain, Croagh Patrick. A stylized bronze sculpture
dedicated in 1997, it is a stunning sight. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJwUt7SsHjQPOG-2_cPtKkdqxbKAOe8wI94285ybiPW1jhfJhx52tx4N724MR50in-RHK5KWwLCkHtQNFhJPTdOplKyPLwcXw8Gsjd1KeCbPtgo6wDidzQQED1C08r3IDecdss4bKxeSY/w595-h476-no/Photo++11_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJwUt7SsHjQPOG-2_cPtKkdqxbKAOe8wI94285ybiPW1jhfJhx52tx4N724MR50in-RHK5KWwLCkHtQNFhJPTdOplKyPLwcXw8Gsjd1KeCbPtgo6wDidzQQED1C08r3IDecdss4bKxeSY/w595-h476-no/Photo++11_2.JPG" height="256" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> The
ship is an abstract rendering of a three-masted cargo ship, sails unfurled, the
main deck and hull diminutive in scale. A green patina mottles the sides of the
ship as the bronze oxidizes, suggesting perhaps the ravages of the sea during
the arduous crossing. With their abbreviated double yardarms, the three masts resemble
crosses, symbolizing the torment of the ship’s human cargo. But most poignant
of all are the skeletal figures that seem to leap and arc, as if caught in
ferocious sea gales as they escape the ship. This image of departing
spirits is stark and haunting.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> What
strike me most about the memorial are the dreams of those who did not live to
see the other shore and the legacy of those who did. How many of those who
perished on the infamous coffin ships left on board sons, daughters, spouses,
extended family who lived to see the crossing completed, the dreams pursued and
one day fulfilled, in their lifetimes or in those of their children or
grandchildren? Who might have been among them in the long lists of our own
ancestors? Whose immigrant dreams may we, ourselves, be living, one hundred and
fifty years later?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Tom Kerstinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06723518010027224406noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1138314935279751773.post-2946629297152954052014-09-04T19:11:00.002-04:002014-09-04T19:31:11.746-04:00Some Thoughts on Seamus Heaney, One Year Later<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie1z0_-QuaaTw9htMYBQ0ilC60Kl2cY_UXCl4efxg7_0lVC5t0ikW3m73EDH23yV5rnNhbDMdl-gQqSiN7HGCVHC6_YjWbVRgQtnDBYoaah6tB-AqpUS7f4aMNGww8iAUlinXhArXVjY8/s1600/DSCN6787.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie1z0_-QuaaTw9htMYBQ0ilC60Kl2cY_UXCl4efxg7_0lVC5t0ikW3m73EDH23yV5rnNhbDMdl-gQqSiN7HGCVHC6_YjWbVRgQtnDBYoaah6tB-AqpUS7f4aMNGww8iAUlinXhArXVjY8/s1600/DSCN6787.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A
year has now passed since the renowned Irish poet Seamus Heaney died in Dublin
at the end of last summer. He was buried near his family’s grave in the little
country churchyard of St. Mary’s in Bellaghy in his native County Derry,
Northern Ireland. This May, on the first of many pilgrimages to Bellaghy, I
stood beside the resting place of this great but humble man, the spot marked by
a simple wooden cross, his name and dates on a metal plate. It was tucked into a
corner of the churchyard, the grave capped with a bank of clay and chained off
by small white links. Alone, I read with rueful irony the line, "Each
year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not" from "Blackberry
Picking."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaoz3rGHUhKbUwkTq1qmKC5VH9s51TQ7GCPT1QP6zeLe3QQ688NxCi1t4vBWr_9cIWnRr6Lgd_VfnPDseFH0cFU29lqTG4azDsE90feAiA2rn-AUfbce4xp8IgiYoUN5vIPmMYlxwmDCY/s1600/DSCN6781.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaoz3rGHUhKbUwkTq1qmKC5VH9s51TQ7GCPT1QP6zeLe3QQ688NxCi1t4vBWr_9cIWnRr6Lgd_VfnPDseFH0cFU29lqTG4azDsE90feAiA2rn-AUfbce4xp8IgiYoUN5vIPmMYlxwmDCY/s1600/DSCN6781.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Seamus
Heaney left us on August 30, 2013, texting his last words to his wife: “noli
timere,” Latin for “don’t be afraid.” I find a comfort of sorts in the thought
that Heaney was himself unafraid of what lay before him as death approached. Now,
a year later, many continue to feel his loss but know that in his silence, his
verse is with us still. How can I enter a church anywhere, anytime, after
reading his “Poor Women in a City Church” without seeing “bright asterisks on
brass candlesticks:/. . . Blue flames . . . jerking on wicks” or “Old
dough-faced women with black shawls/ Drawn down tight kneel in the stalls”?
“Marble columns and cool shadows/Still them,” he tells us, and “In the gloom
you cannot trace/A wrinkle on their beeswax brows.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>How
can he be gone from us, this Nobel Prize-winning poet, when in his lines we
hear “the squelch and slap/Of soggy peat” as turf is cut from a bog and tossed
up upon the bank in “Digging”? Or when he recalls for us those childhood days
when we traipsed behind our fathers, following in their steps, then live to see
with awful poignancy the roles reversed in “Follower”:<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
I
was a nuisance, tripping, falling,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Yapping
always, but today</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> I</span>t
is my father who keeps stumbling</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Behind
me, and will not go away.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 150%;">How can he not be here, this poet
of grace and truth, who in “Mid-Term Break” is called home from school when his
little brother is struck by a car? He who captures forever the image of his
brother’s coffin: “A four foot box, a foot for every year”?</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivpHRSUfXuqF5gqk98qdFdl36ww5aVlzrDuavjoAiCs7DtBmkuHjXr7E5TF4Ah0M2ig6mTQErlqSVbAAXO17EKg9Ke2C7q8tW9OoDNlmnEks-1VPIms1yWHoK76vMYW0gEQWVaQdEdqNg/s1600/DSCN6784.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivpHRSUfXuqF5gqk98qdFdl36ww5aVlzrDuavjoAiCs7DtBmkuHjXr7E5TF4Ah0M2ig6mTQErlqSVbAAXO17EKg9Ke2C7q8tW9OoDNlmnEks-1VPIms1yWHoK76vMYW0gEQWVaQdEdqNg/s1600/DSCN6784.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In
the years to come, each time I return to Ireland I will make the journey to
Drumcliff churchyard outside Sligo Town, as I always do, to pay homage beside
the grave of the poet William Butler Yeats. But I will then drive on up to
County Derry in the North and find my way to the humble country churchyard of
St. Mary’s in Bellaghy. There I will pay tribute to Seamus Heaney. An Irish
friend suggested to me that Heaney’s grave will never attain the pilgrimage
status of Yeats’s final resting place, as Yeats lies beside a main road outside
a major town. One finds himself amidst the remote and lonely backroads leading
to Bellaghy, he told me, only if one has made a particular point of going
there, or if one is lost. Yet I envision a different future altogether for
Heaney’s gravesite. I see a poet’s grave marked by a polished granite headstone
and border to which the people whose lives his words have touched will journey
from near and far alike. They will come alone and in droves to pay tribute to
this poet who lives still in his words, whose voice we still hear. </div>
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Tom Kerstinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06723518010027224406noreply@blogger.com57tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1138314935279751773.post-69603232680056120182014-07-09T11:45:00.001-04:002015-09-07T15:54:19.558-04:00The Trees Wear Wool in a Cool Summer Breeze<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwnWCTuzsha5pdi8s7xh_kOegmMaG4X_7cgMi-dwAUOQuJREJgztN5q0ueBeHy9mhcu8EeCiqCwyLOcIBQhtyQJFM30Lf4lH3vpXkSotCkPFhGqXj34KwhqSN40aFhLbuL06iUq0k57xc/s1600/CAM01270.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwnWCTuzsha5pdi8s7xh_kOegmMaG4X_7cgMi-dwAUOQuJREJgztN5q0ueBeHy9mhcu8EeCiqCwyLOcIBQhtyQJFM30Lf4lH3vpXkSotCkPFhGqXj34KwhqSN40aFhLbuL06iUq0k57xc/s1600/CAM01270.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> I have always felt an affinity for nature, a deep atavistic sense
of kinship or belonging when walking in the woods, climbing a mountain, or
strolling along a deserted beach. Strange, I suppose, for a kid from the Bronx,
but there you have it, a connection where least you’d expect it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"></span><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We didn’t have
many trees in our neighborhood when I was growing up. In fact, we had none at
all in the unadorned urban stonescape of our block. The closest trees were marooned<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>in the middle of Fordham Road in a small
crescent island of soil surrounded by lanes of bustling traffic. Banana Park,
we called it, owing to its shape. There were many more trees, of course—in Poe Park, three blocks north;
St. James Park, four blocks west; Moshulu Parkway, about ten blocks north; and
the Botanical Gardens, a good ten blocks east, though we were mindful in such
places of being beyond the pale of our Tiebout Avenue neighborhood. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">But trees
themselves were nondescript in our world. While Eskimos are said to have some twenty
words for “snow,” given their exposure to the various kinds of precipitation in their
arctic experience, our lexicon of trees was strikingly impoverished. Those of
us growing up devoid of much direct contact with nature were largely unaware of
the rich diversity of tree species. With two delightful exceptions, to us a
tree was merely a tree. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We knew, of
course, that a Christmas tree was an evergreen, but we could not tell a pine from a fir or a spruce—all that mattered was to nudge our noses among the branches for an
aromatic whiff of the season. When the holiday lights of December gave way to the brittle dark of a new year, we’d watch the annual
ritual of the burning of the green as the older crowd gathered the trees
discarded curbside from the apartments in the neighborhood, and set them alight
in the gutter. The dried-out bristles and branches would flare and snap,
illuminating the night, and the sap would pop in the hard January air of the
city. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqsVLnzLT2JM2TRmVTuRGLgi2fFHJLxmyLA5b5_ggEHzrHTFiRNdDn4gr_OKvTxbpq88q-R9gVQJfwkLdRC0_fMXKiGbHO-gP1SHOLAdCLRzOM_6ylVaYzPwB4c8vS4W_nJfVWdux1D_4/s1600/CAM01265.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqsVLnzLT2JM2TRmVTuRGLgi2fFHJLxmyLA5b5_ggEHzrHTFiRNdDn4gr_OKvTxbpq88q-R9gVQJfwkLdRC0_fMXKiGbHO-gP1SHOLAdCLRzOM_6ylVaYzPwB4c8vS4W_nJfVWdux1D_4/s1600/CAM01265.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">The only other
trees we could identify were chestnut trees, though without their shiny brown
pearls encased in itchy balls and dangling like sneakers from the telephone
wires, we would not recognize them from any other tree. Of the furrowed bark, or
the serrated leaf, or the symmetry of the chestnut tree, we knew nothing. But
we knew where to find them on the campus of Fordham University four blocks
away. Every autumn, as the seasons turned, the kids in the neighborhood somehow
instinctively knew it was time to gather the chestnuts. In a rite handed down
from one generation to the next, with boasts and dares and dreams of
neighborhood glory, we’d open the itchy burrs and lift out the shiny chestnuts,
rubbing their gleaming hardness between our fingers and our thumbs. To harden
them even more, we’d soak the nuts in white vinegar in a mayonnaise jar and go
to sleep that night with visions of grandeur in our heads. Some days later,
we’d remove the soaking chestnuts and drive a nail through their cores. Then
we’d slip a shoelace through the hole, tie a knot on the end, and head for the
streets looking for conquest.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The object of
“chestnut fights,” as we called them, was not to beat each other with them,
though that inadvertently happened when we’d miss the intended target from time
to time. The idea was to hold high the shoelace, then lift the tethered
chestnut as far back as you could and fire it at the chestnut your opponent
dangled in the air. If your chestnut eventually cracked your foe’s, you added
his total number of victories to your own and strutted about the block in
search of another victim. It was a ritual, I was years later to discover, that
must have been brought across the sea with the Irish immigrants in the 19<sup>th</sup>
century, for there it is in the pages of James Joyce’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man</i>, with its reference to a
“seasoned hacking chestnut, the conqueror of forty.” Well, we’d hack away at
those dangling brown beauties until the next street game vied for our
attention—spinning tops, or Skully, or stickball in the spring, by which time
we were once again largely oblivious of trees</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then, nearly forty years ago now, we moved to the outer suburbs of Putnam County, where I was to
become acquainted with a host of oak, and maple, and birch, hemlock, choke
cherry, ash, and spruce, along with an abundance of other species, coming
eventually to know each by sight and by name, and to relish the form, beauty,
and presence of each tree. I came to know them as if they were old friends I
was recognizing once again, for among the trees—especially in the
woods—I felt a familiarity, a sense of feeling attuned, of being in a place where
I belonged. I felt the oneness of God’s creation. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And so it came as
no surprise to me that I should feel a similar affinity in another place I’m
fond of, Falmouth, Massachusetts, on Cape Cod, where <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Portals & Passageways: An</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Environmental
Art and Sculpture Exhibition</i>, has opened at<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>Highfield Hall & Gardens. All along the road leading up to the
mansion, as throughout the grounds and in the adjacent woods, regional artists
have installed yarn, glass, and wood creations intended to transport the viewer
to a higher awareness of the rhythms and energy of nature. Branch arbors, rough-hewn
wooden chairs, hand-blown glass orbs dangling from branches adorn the site. Crocheted or knit patterns called "yarn bombing" cling like colorful sweaters to the trunks and limbs
of birch, and beech, locust, maples, oaks and sycamores. A wooden walking labyrinth
beside a rhododendron garden invites further contemplation of one’s place in
the grand scheme of things. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>With the sun
dappling the woodlands, birds trilling, the trees wear wool in a cool summer
breeze. I am a far cry from the urban landscape of Tiebout Avenue and Banana
Park. This is a place of soothing harmony with its natural surroundings, a
passageway, in what Joseph Campbell calls “a threshold moment” when one is poised
between two places, two worlds, two realities. Not surprisingly, it strikes a chord in me. In
an instance I am reminded that Nature is a part of us, and we a part of it, reminded
that no matter where we are, we are one with the earth.</span></div>
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Tom Kerstinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06723518010027224406noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1138314935279751773.post-46511774358126308732014-06-16T16:29:00.000-04:002014-07-12T10:02:29.010-04:00Traveling in Search of Ambiguity<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO-iLjzgA_UD1rw2cSeSjhAujYQo8sU9zIDEGcFgMg1I9MT9L2-5lWOGwICTOsW44Y_f3i9Y9bCsG6M5kYhYrhyphenhyphenl9wh2f2n5kfFWUx0ToOE9wIMLSmAeLEC6tL7TddNGwzFFXROWzOA5Y/s1600/DSCN6001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO-iLjzgA_UD1rw2cSeSjhAujYQo8sU9zIDEGcFgMg1I9MT9L2-5lWOGwICTOsW44Y_f3i9Y9bCsG6M5kYhYrhyphenhyphenl9wh2f2n5kfFWUx0ToOE9wIMLSmAeLEC6tL7TddNGwzFFXROWzOA5Y/s1600/DSCN6001.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Speaking
of traveling abroad, the writer Pico Iyer notes, “When we see people from our
own community, we’re particularly sensitive to all the things that are wrong
with them. When we see people from another community we’re alive to what’s
refreshing about them.” “I travel in search of ambiguity,” he continues. “To
me," he says, "the beauty of travel comes in dissolving one’s judgments.” Iyer speaks then
of the assumptions one typically makes about people in a foreign culture,
saying, “ . . . the beauty of going to [such a place] is quickly to have to
throw out all those notions, and to see a reality that’s much more human and
complex and to some extent unfathomable.”<br />
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Having
just returned from a five-week trip to Europe, I can attest to Iyer’s idea of travel in search
of ambiguity. It operates, this search, as do most of our assumptions, at an
unconscious level. It is not so much that we go abroad with a mindful attempt
to compare ourselves and our culture to others,’ yet inevitably that is what
occurs when we find ourselves at once amid another way of life. From language
to custom to food to architectural style, all is foreign, unfamiliar, somewhat
exotic, curious in its newness, utterly different. How quickly we come to realize,
as heads turn at the sound of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">our </i>voices,
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">our</i> accents, that it is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">we</i> who are different, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">we</i> who are the novelty amid all that is
so familiar to our hosts, yet so strange to us.<br />
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Our
own ears perk up at the sound of American accents when we encounter fellow
travelers from the States abroad. But then we meet the Floridian in Amsterdam who
discloses that he is a firearms instructor for the NRA and proceeds to
proclaim the virtues of owning semi-automatic weapons when the conversation
turns to the<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>killing of children
in Newtown. And the mid-westerner on a Dublin bus who, yearning aloud for a
taste of corned beef and cabbage in Ireland only to be told that corned beef is
an American substitute for boiling bacon, is dismayed that the Irish don’t eat
corned beef with their cabbage. We come quickly at such moments to recognize in these
fellow-Americans the folly of their assumptions. Perhaps in perceiving their
shortcomings, we come in turn to recognize our own.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjynQBFD8fstes5-P0D0XfFUCR_A9fvrXqd_P7ZE1CpY5uy8EnVJGGDELS5qihDhUMEg1IYA0wf-HZ1bIZ-VuNS7ZPnojA2zouVAG7PiY4o4eZ4o4QNGVHd3LgrWV6SZv3MiJVt8gkADOI/s1600/DSCN5771.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a> <span style="line-height: 150%;">Where
an American who stumbles on some impediment on a sidewalk might almost
instinctively seek to sue for damages, a European would be more inclined to
feel that he himself was at fault because he hadn’t been looking where he was
going. </span><span style="line-height: 150%;">Where an American might expect
efficient service at a restaurant or counter, a European is more mellow and
patient by nature. “There are two speeds in this country, Yank,” my Irish
brother-in-law reminds me, "slow and stopped.” </span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 150%;">Where Americans are more likely
to obliterate in the name of progress all traces of a historic site, the English
are inclined to memorialize even fictional ones: “The Tabard Inn,” a </span><i style="line-height: 150%;">historic</i><span style="line-height: 150%;"> plaque reads on a wall in the
London Borough of Southwark, “Site from which Chaucer’s pilgrims set off in
April 1386.” The reference, of course, is to the pilgrims in the </span><i style="line-height: 150%;">Canterbury Tales</i><span style="line-height: 150%;">, characters who never,
in fact, existed.</span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"> A foreign culture—that place that does things so differently—is “refreshing” in contrast to our own, as Pico Iyer observes, so challenging to the ethnocentric assumption that ours is the way to do things. And so we find it surprising that accident rates are lower on Germany’s Autobahn, most of which has no speed limit, than on U.S. highways. Or that spacious, cobble-stoned town squares in so many European communities, like the Grand Place in Brussels, can serve as popular public gathering places to savor a meal at an outdoor café, to saunter arm-in-arm with a lover, or merely to observe the passing crowds—rather than the paved parking lots they would likely be in America. And our assumption that pedestrians should take precedence over bicyclists is turned on its head in Amsterdam, where the bike lanes are wider than the sidewalks; the bikers don’t wear helmets because they are capable, cautious riders; and parking lots are filled with hundreds of bikes rather than cars. </span><span style="color: black; line-height: 150%;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: black;"> We come also, along the way, to let go of our stereotypes and assumptions
about the people themselves in our travels. Having heard that Germans are blunt
and rather cold emotionally, I am pleased to find them tactful, warm, and eager
to please. They also have a keen sense of irony. “It’s modern—only one hundred
years old,” says a waitress in Bacharach of a tapestry lining a wall of the
restaurant where we stop for lunch. We had heard that nearly 60% of Belgians
identify as Catholic, but found that a mere 10% attend church regularly.
Farther west, our Irish friends and family have always known how to party
enthusiastically, but their celebrations seem more subdued in the face of
economic austerity and the closing of many rural pubs throughout the country in
recent years. Yet the Irish have become much more “European” of late and, owing
to cheap regional airfares, are more likely to holiday in Prague, Budapest, or
Vienna, than in Ireland. </span><br />
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"> </span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> </span> </span> <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFcJrpgvtMUaKLhCoiFJ6ycrvOlcU9gRSYK1N1UG3zqPC6cyLM7p8BWW_ycXctDyy0TGs64f0AnX64-KDRtWoosAgGBEsrYmwm28-JzMvCQdm9HGtiwKyti5xzYxymz0uRsFb3H-ylybY/s1600/DSCN5771.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFcJrpgvtMUaKLhCoiFJ6ycrvOlcU9gRSYK1N1UG3zqPC6cyLM7p8BWW_ycXctDyy0TGs64f0AnX64-KDRtWoosAgGBEsrYmwm28-JzMvCQdm9HGtiwKyti5xzYxymz0uRsFb3H-ylybY/s1600/DSCN5771.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="line-height: 150%;">The
more we travel, then, the more we tend to see people in a true, authentic light
as we forego our assumptions about them. Like Pico Iyer, I too have come to
travel in search of ambiguity, dissolving my presumptions about a place and its
people. And in doing so, I come to know them—and myself—much more clearly than
I had before. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
Tom Kerstinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06723518010027224406noreply@blogger.com49tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1138314935279751773.post-55519417248903729312014-03-12T17:53:00.000-04:002014-03-12T17:54:12.245-04:00The Coming Spring<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>What
a glorious day. It’s 54° and climbing, the sun is warm and bright, the clouds low
lateral swaths in a cobalt sky. And the birds are back. All morning a flurry of
cedar waxwings alight on the bony branches of a choke cherry tree in the back
yard. With their tufted crests, signature black eye bars, and plump buff
breasts, they lazily preen their feathers and peck away at the fragrant bark.
They flutter off for a while, only to return and perch again, basking in the
warming sun. The robins have been back a few weeks now, and the chickadees,
though many of those tiny wonders have wintered over, eking out what spare feed
they could find in that harsh season that is fading now. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Suddenly
the yard is a flurry of commotion as whole flocks of birds cut through the air
like a meteor shower. Then a few break off from the pack, darting to and fro in
search, perhaps of incipient seeds or of nesting spots. Their shadows streak black
ribbons across the snow that still swaddles the yard in a foot-deep blanket. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
had spread some crumbs of seeded rye bread out on the deck this morning as a
welcoming treat, but so far, my hospitality has gone unappreciated and my
offering sits there like an unwanted gift. Some waxwings and a robin perch
nearby for a closer look, but the chickadees—usually so curious—have given it
no heed. Hours later there are still no takers. “Maybe they’re just not
hungry,” my wife offers. I nod in agreement but wonder too if the crumbs were
just not to their liking, or perhaps not stale enough for their taste. No
bother, really, as the blue jays and the squirrels will discover them by late
afternoon. <span style="line-height: 150%;"> </span><br />
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> It
is now mere days until the vernal equinox, but I’m reminded that we cannot rush
the spring, try as we might after this year’s “winter of our discontent.” We’ll
have more melt-off today and then some days of rain will follow. We may even
see a dusting of snow yet again. But every day we see more of the driveway
emerge from ‘neath its fringes of snow and ice. The yew bushes and privet hedges
spring back into shape and patches of earth reappear where we knew they were
hiding under a cover of snow. No, we cannot hurry the spring, but the winter now
is receding with the snows, and the welcome sighting of the birds is a
harbinger of warmer days to come.</span></div>
Tom Kerstinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06723518010027224406noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1138314935279751773.post-20577909513006628642014-02-07T13:15:00.001-05:002014-02-08T12:59:06.715-05:00Deep Winter <br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
find ourselves ensconced now in the heart of winter this early February day,
buried yet again under heaps of snow. Close to ten inches this time—not the
mounds of snow dumped during a blizzard, of course, but a pounding nonetheless
from storm after storm after storm in recent weeks, many mere days apart. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTq2q0-tuUhnHod7YocVVQGx9Q7akRphU-gHQx6_Z2XLji8kiSr33QtedaEzEyFrcxYL65RQSx5cFc-xYMVYs3uPMMk4neGfsuLB8vR9TM_xhi7XK3osDXWs6eRhBevxlU-zpHAl37J94/s1600/DSCN4080.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTq2q0-tuUhnHod7YocVVQGx9Q7akRphU-gHQx6_Z2XLji8kiSr33QtedaEzEyFrcxYL65RQSx5cFc-xYMVYs3uPMMk4neGfsuLB8vR9TM_xhi7XK3osDXWs6eRhBevxlU-zpHAl37J94/s1600/DSCN4080.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
are by now so weary of snow that we have stopped shoveling one-or-two-inch
accumulations, resigned instead to trudge through the drifts and hope that<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the sun will melt the driveway before
the next storm. But the heavier snowfalls we can't ignore. So we reach
for our parkas and scarves, don our earmuffs, hats, and gloves, step into our
wellies, crank up the snow blower, then set forth yet again to battle the
storm. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This
is deep winter in the northeast, with six more weeks till spring. Yet, despite our
Florida relatives’ playful facebook taunts to “come on down,” there's hope on
the horizon here in the lower Hudson Valley. A friend has reported the first
sighting of a robin. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’m
reminded too, that February 1<sup>st</sup> was St. Brigid’s Day in Ireland. On
that day, the ancient Celtic feast of Imbolc, the mid-way point between the
winter and spring equinoxes <span style="line-height: 150%;">was observed. Brigid was originally a Celtic fire
goddess associated with the coming of light amid the long days of darkness. St.
Brigid’s Day observances in Ireland today are rooted in that pagan festival and
still identified with the welcome approach of spring.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Here
now, amid the menace of Nor’easters in the deep of a New York winter, the days
are growing noticeably longer as we nudge our way toward spring. Just a few
days ago my wife remarked how light out it still was at 4:45 p.m. And yesterday
the sun didn’t set until about 5:15. Having cleared the driveway of snow and
dug out the mailbox, I sit beside the fire, staring at the flames. I think of
Brigid and wait for the spring.</div>
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Tom Kerstinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06723518010027224406noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1138314935279751773.post-77155452603248209512013-12-25T16:12:00.000-05:002013-12-26T06:46:50.611-05:00Abie's Christmas<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="webkit-fake-url://47EDC248-E5CC-4EA5-974E-6D147D23DDD2/application.pdf" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="webkit-fake-url://47EDC248-E5CC-4EA5-974E-6D147D23DDD2/application.pdf" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoTitle" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><b>I
</b>always have a fondness for Jewish people at Christmas time. I remember one dark
winter night the week before Christmas many years ago, when Marge Coyle came to
the door and spoke with my mother, their heads inclined, their words cloaked in
adult whispers. She handed my mother a slip of paper that Mommy clutched in her
protective palm. It was a furtive, conspiratorial handoff as if they were
passing contraband. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
next day my brother Gerard and I walked fifteen blocks through the streets of
The Bronx with our mother, following that mysterious piece of paper like a
treasure map that brought us at last to Abie’s Toy Shop on West Kingsbridge
Road. It was for Gerard and me like unearthing a chest of pirate’s gold. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Abie’s
was, in fact, the answer to a Christmas prayer. My father, a bakery mechanic,
had been laid off some weeks earlier, caught up in a wave of consolidations
among the three national bakeries that still operated plants in the Bronx in
1961. It was to be a very humble Christmas. Still, we clung to our family
holiday traditions. My mother assembled the cardboard fireplace with its red
and white painted bricks and perched it snugly against the living room wall. We
hung our stockings from its cardboard mantel. My brothers and sisters and I
jostled daily to see who would get to open the new window of the advent
calendar. And we got the tree. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> Every year we walked with my father down to Elm
Place, a block away on E. 188<sup>th</sup> Street, to Mike Sedano’s tree lot
outside The Mayo Inn. Dad and Mike would dicker awhile, then seal the bargain
by spitting on their hands, shaking on the deal, and going inside the bar for a
ball and a beer as the six of us sized up the tree outside. In perhaps my
father’s proudest moments, we’d follow him home, Rose Ann, Elizabeth, Gerard,
and I carrying the trunk, and Richard and little Christopher in the rear holding
the tapered branches of the treetop in our annual family Christmas parade. The
scent of freshly cut balsam filled the house. After the tree was decorated and
draped with tinsel, we’d arrange the Nativity scene beneath it and then we’d
lie for what seemed hours playing “Colors,” in which we’d announce in turn, “I’m
looking at something . . . <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">red</i>,” and the rest of us would offer,
“Is it this?” “Is that it?” all the while Christmas carols jingled from the
record player. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> The
Coyles were tenants in our building, decent, caring people who couldn’t bring
themselves to celebrate the season of giving with their two sons, knowing that
my parents had no toys for their six children that year. And so, as people of
goodwill do in every time and place, they made arrangements. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoHeader" style="line-height: 150%; tab-stops: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Our
working class Bronx neighborhood in the Irish Catholic enclave of Tiebout
Avenue didn’t have much daily contact with Jewish people—or with many
Protestants, for that matter. In fact, as far as I was aware, we barely knew
any Jews. We used to know Terry and Herbert and their kids Bonnie and Howie, of
course—friends in our previous neighborhood—but we’d lost contact with them
years ago. There were the Siegels up in Apt. 4B and Mrs. Aaron in 2A with the
strange little </span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 19.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">mezuzas beside
their doors</span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">. And the Jewish family, the Starkys, in
the<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>building across the alley,
refugees from the Nazi atrocities in the war who were persecuted still by
some people in the neighborhood. And then there was Mrs. Weinstein, the kind
old woman several neighborhoods to the north, whose sidewalk Warren Bacon,
Gerard, and I would shovel for a dollar and steaming, frothy cups of hot
chocolate. But aside from Mr. Abromowitz, who owned the dry cleaners shop just
around the corner, we had little contact with Jewish people in our daily
affairs. Like the other parochial neighborhoods surrounding our parochial
school, we were growing up, for the most part, among people just like
ourselves. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoHeader" style="line-height: 150%; tab-stops: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoHeader" style="line-height: 150%; tab-stops: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So
Abie was as much a novelty to Gerard and me as was his toy store. A small
white-haired man with bushy brows and deep set eyes, he sat alone behind the
counter of his narrow shop, rising to greet us as we entered. My mother muttered
something to him in the hushed and reticent tone of one who knew that she was
about to accept charity. I heard her mention Mr. Coyle, and Abie’s face
brightened. His eyes, it seems to me now, conveyed the memory of one who had
himself known what it was to want over the years. It wasn’t exactly
deprivation—proud working class people would never allow themselves to use that
word, for we never thought of ourselves as poor, and I can barely bring myself
to use it now. But Abie’s eyes knew what it was like to be bruised by life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoHeader" style="line-height: 150%; tab-stops: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoHeader" style="line-height: 150%; tab-stops: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ah,
yes, yes, of course . . . come right in, mother,” he said in a grainy voice
that made me want to clear my throat. “I vant that you should fill these bags .
. . .”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He moved in a shuffling
gait, his arm gesturing in a wide, sweeping arc toward a pile of bags on the
floor behind the counter, as if we would somehow be doing him a favor by
complying with his wish. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoHeader" style="line-height: 150%; tab-stops: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoHeader" style="line-height: 150%; tab-stops: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
toys in Abie’s Toy Shop were displayed everywhere. Toys of every imaginable
description were stacked on shelves, hung from peg boards, or dangled like
temptation from the ceiling. It was a child’s vision of paradise, and Gerard
and I were lost in the luxury of it all: trucks and games and balls and skates,
Lincoln Logs and Tinker Toys, Mr. Potato Head and Fort Apache sets, cowboy hats
and guns in holsters, spinning tops and yo-yos galore, as far as the eye could
see.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoHeader" style="line-height: 150%; tab-stops: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoHeader" style="line-height: 150%; tab-stops: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But as we were leaving, burdened by our
bundles slung over our shoulders, what I remember most was the kind, knowing
smile on Abie’s face. “Vat for?” he responded to my mother’s humble thanks.
“Merry Christmas, Mother, Merry Christmas,” he said with a gentle nod.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoHeader" style="line-height: 150%; tab-stops: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoHeader" style="line-height: 150%; tab-stops: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
made our way home through the holiday crowds that afternoon faster than we had
come, despite—or perhaps because of—the sacks we carried. Old enough to be entrusted
with the source of this bounty, at 13 and 14, Gerard and I were drafted into
the conspiracy of adults in hiding the toys and their source from our younger
brothers until—Christmas Eve come round at last—they would appear,
mysteriously, under the tree. </span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">There would be no coal in the stockings that year
after all, thanks to Santa Claus, Mr. and Mrs. Coyle, and a kindly old Jewish
man named Abie.</span></div>
<div class="MsoHeader" style="line-height: 150%; tab-stops: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 15px; text-align: center;"> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 15px; text-align: center;">-- Thomas D. Kersting</span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; text-align: center;"> </span></div>
<h2>
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<br />
<br />Tom Kerstinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06723518010027224406noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1138314935279751773.post-36420737976088748232013-10-02T00:36:00.000-04:002013-10-07T10:07:56.031-04:00A Cornucopia of Books<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When
I was very young, my mother bought for her six children a set of Collier’s
Junior Classics from a door-to-door salesman. It must have taken my parents
quite some time to pay it off, but that ten-volume collection of stories, myths,
and poems planted a seed that I have been nurturing ever since. There were
books of Fairy Tales and Fables from around the world, Stories of Wonder and Magic,
Hero Tales, Stories From History, and many other tales and legends to fascinate young minds.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Each
book was a different color, each leather-bound, illustrated, and filled with
the wonder that words can weave. I don’t know whatever became of the books, but
nearly fifty years later I bought a set of them on e-bay. Today they’re among
my most prized collections. I think it was in those tales and poems that I
first was drawn to the alluring rhythm of words. In the budding imagination of
a kid in the Bronx, Lydia Maria Child’s lines from “Thanksgiving Day” with
their attendant lilt must have offered a rustic vision: </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Over the river and through
the wood,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>To
grandfather’s house we go;<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
horse knows the way<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>To
carry the sleigh<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Through
the white and drifted snow.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
And the opening lines of Henry
Wadsworth Longfellow’s “Hiawatha’s Childhood” enchanted me with their exotic sounds:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">By the shores of Gitche
Gumee,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>By
the shining Big-Sea-Water,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Stood
the wigwam of Nokomis,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Daughter
of the moon, Nokomis.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
A little later, I recall
falling under the spell of Robert Louis Stevenson’s poem “The Land of
Counterpane,” which fed my imagination with its simple metaphors and
conditioned my ear with its sinuous rhythms and orderly rhymes: </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">When I was sick and lay
a-bed,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
had two pillows at my head,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
all my toys beside me lay,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>To
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px;"> And sometimes for an hour or so </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 2.0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">I watched my
leaden soldiers go, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">With different
uniforms and drills, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Among the
bed-clothes, through the hills; <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 2.0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">And sometimes sent
my ships in fleets <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">All up and down
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Or brought my
trees and houses out, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">And planted cities
all about. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 2.0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">I was the giant
great and still <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">That sits upon the
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 2.0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">And sees before
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">The pleasant land of counterpane. </span></div>
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<br />
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<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 21.0pt;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px;">At about this time,
an intoxication of rhythm and rhyme came to possess me in our family ritual
called "Stage" when gathered at our cousins' house on Hermany Avenue
in Castle Hill. With Nana and our parents sitting front row and center, we'd each
take a turn "entertaining" the audience with a dance, a song, silly
gyrations, or a goofy act worthy of "Ted Mack's Amateur Hour." Cousin
Artie, who charmed the audience with his voice and guitar, always garnered the
most applause. The rest of us were his opening acts. He still performs
today in his 60s as "Party Artie." My act was always the same, yet
ever-changing in its litany of rhymes. Years before "The Name Game"
was to dazzle the nation, I'd take the stage and chant a string of nonsense
rhymes along the lines of "Santa Claus was a turkey, and the turkey's name
was Burky, and the burky's name was Furky, and the furky's name was Hurky, and
the . . . ," and so on and on in what was to me an endless incantation of
mesmerizing rhythm and sound. The audience had to applaud to get me off the
stage. I would bow with a relish and take my seat in the audience, awaiting the
next act.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;">
But it all began with that set of books. I didn’t know it then,
but sprawled upon the floor amid that cornucopia of books, I was becoming
attuned to the wonders of the imagination and to the sounds and cadences of
language that lift the soul and captivate and move me still. Fortunately, my
rhyming repertoire has expanded beyond my "Stage" act, though Cousin
Artie still draws a larger crowd. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB7eE2mE3gjdF4fXoTjXSF6sP7gRvgk3M0VoHyYJnHcDiib2Tg7PUJ3lO5O4dUFLgoWoocL3C8OMKac50_R5AHHZKg0XlIXrbKUeaOOka2A0zDSzS6vhLwT5ltJIdg5CkwaN9Ce_l88BU/s1600/DSCN5128.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB7eE2mE3gjdF4fXoTjXSF6sP7gRvgk3M0VoHyYJnHcDiib2Tg7PUJ3lO5O4dUFLgoWoocL3C8OMKac50_R5AHHZKg0XlIXrbKUeaOOka2A0zDSzS6vhLwT5ltJIdg5CkwaN9Ce_l88BU/s320/DSCN5128.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div>
</div>
<!--EndFragment-->Tom Kerstinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06723518010027224406noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1138314935279751773.post-58458374184076569042013-09-20T15:47:00.000-04:002013-12-31T12:37:52.089-05:00For Seamus Heaney<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 24px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">When Seamus
Heaney, the greatest Irish poet since Yeats, died on August 30<sup>th</sup>, I
was struck by the loss of this humble, approachable man. I had met him only
once, at the Yeats International Summer School in Sligo, Ireland, in 2003, when
he was signing some copies of his books. He had a warm, engaging smile; a most
amiable manner; and the rumpled look of a farmer. At home with heads of state,
academics, and common people alike, Heaney was the recipient of the 1995 Nobel
Prize in Literature, and, I think, our greatest living poet. The world that he
had so illuminated in his verse is a little darker now without his voice.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>From
my first trip to Ireland in 1969, when Heaney’s native Northern Ireland was
plunged into the sectarian violence that would seethe and detonate for three
decades, I was captivated by the storied Irish landscape that transcended any political
borders of the past century. The fields and ditches, the bogs and mountains of
Heaney’s County Derry in Northern Ireland bore the same prehistoric stone
monuments, the same ancient past as those of Counties Cavan, Sligo, and Donegal
in the Republic of Ireland to the south that I would come to explore over the
next forty years. Heaney, too, recognized that common ground in his poetry, often
writing as if excavating both a personal and a cultural past.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span> In
the turmoil that would come to be known as “the troubles” in Northern Ireland, the minority Catholic nationalists demanded equal rights and the
unification of the six counties of Northern Ireland with the Republic of
Ireland, while the majority Protestant unionists fought to sustain both their
allegiance to Great Britain and their privileged status. Reflecting the tension
of that conflict, Heaney chose to raise his family in the Wicklow hills outside
Dublin in the Republic. As his poetry reflects, his identity is often Irish rather
than British. In fact, Heaney once objected to being included in a book of
British poets with these lines:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Be
advised my passport’s green.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> N</span>o
glass of ours was ever raised </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"> To toast the Queen.</span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">
</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span><span style="color: #262626; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">Heaney’s nationalist sympathies were rooted in the
discrimination he knew first-hand growing up in Northern Ireland, where the minority
was long denied equality in voting, housing, and employment. His poems
sometimes spoke of “the troubles”
in a historical or cultural context, but by 1975, three years after British soldiers fired into
a crowd of civil rights protesters in what would come to be known as “Bloody Sunday,”
Heaney’s poetry became more politicized. Yet he resolutely avoided becoming a
spokesman for nationalist violence.</span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="color: #262626; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span><span style="color: #262626; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">In
his first published volume, in1966, when the long-simmering hatreds in the
North were festering, his poem “Digging” had set the tone for his life’s work:</span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">
</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"><span style="color: #262626; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"> Between my
finger and my thumb<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">
</span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"><span style="color: #262626; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
squat pen rests; snug as a gun.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #262626; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Under
my window, a clean rasping sound<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #262626; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When
the spade sinks into gravelly ground:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #262626; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My
father, digging. I look down<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #262626; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Till
his straining rump among the flowerbeds<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #262626; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Bends
low, comes up twenty years away<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #262626; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Stooping
in rhythm through potato drills<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #262626; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Where
he was digging.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #262626; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #262626; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Against
the inside knee was levered firmly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #262626; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #262626; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>To
scatter new potatoes that we picked<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #262626; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Loving
their cool hardness in our hands.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #262626; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>By
God, the old man could handle a spade.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #262626; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Just
like his old man.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #262626; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My
grandfather cut more turf in a day<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #262626; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Than
any other man on Toner’s bog.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #262626; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Once
I carried him milk in a bottle<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #262626; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Corked
sloppily with paper. He straightened up<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #262626; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>To
drink it, then fell to right away<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #262626; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Nicking
and slicing neatly, heaving sods<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #262626; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Over
his shoulder, going down and down<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #262626; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>For
the good turf. Digging.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #262626; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #262626; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Of
soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #262626; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Through
living roots awaken in my head.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #262626; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
I’ve no spade to follow men like them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #262626; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Between
my finger and my thumb<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #262626; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
squat pen rests.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #262626; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’ll
dig with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">it</i>.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: #262626; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #262626;"> </span><span style="color: #262626;">It is no accident that Heaney opens this early poem with the image of his pen</span><span style="color: #262626;"> </span><span style="color: #262626;">“snug as a gun.” Raised on a farm in the North, he was the first of his family to attend university. In poetry he finds an alternative to the agricultural labors of his ancestors, but as we come to see, he also rejects the violence that will scar his land for decades. In the end, there is no more mention of a gun.</span><br />
<span style="color: #262626;"><br /></span></div>
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">
In
rejecting farming, however, Heaney also finds a dignity in it as nature imagery—the
imagery of the land—pervades much of his poetry. The image of cutting “Through
living roots” on the bog becomes a metaphor for all searches for our ancestral
pasts. And his more literal image of digging for “the good turf” brings me back
at once to a summer morning in Ireland in 1972, when I had gone up to the bog
with my wife’s family to bring home the turf. With his reference to “. . . the
squelch and slap/Of soggy peat . . . ,” Heaney captures precisely the sound and
texture of cutting deep into the turf with a spade and slicing out a dripping
sod the size of a loaf of white bread, then flinging it up to be stacked and
dried in the sun. In a week or so, the turf—shrunken to a little larger than a
brick—would be brought down the mountain to warm the fires of the home for the
next year.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="color: #262626; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span><span style="color: #262626; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span><span style="color: #262626; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span><span style="color: #262626; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></div>
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="color: #262626; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That
is the power of Heaney’s poetry: its crisp, precise images; its accessible
language; its affinity with the natural world and the ancestral past. And its
ability to capture for all time a moment worth remembering. Seamus Heaney once
wrote, “. . . I rhyme/To see myself,
to set the darkness echoing.” It seems now that with his death, he has “set the
darkness echoing” for all time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment--></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Tom Kerstinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06723518010027224406noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1138314935279751773.post-9051076676305735812013-08-14T15:21:00.000-04:002013-08-17T12:05:06.539-04:00“Summer’s lease hath all too short a date”<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Chilled
by a cool morning breeze this lovely mid-August day, I realize that the season
is fading fast and, indeed, “summer’s lease hath all too short a date,” in the
immortal words of Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18. Then, as the sun warms the air, I’m
reminded once again that every day’s a blessing, and I am astonished at the beauty
all about me. It’s found, mostly, in the little things, the small unheralded
moments of joy, like the medley of birdsong that greets the promise of the day. The warble of a thrush, the subdued cooing of the mourning doves, the dit, dit,
dit of the cardinal as if tapping out some Morse code to announce the glory of
this day. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sometimes
the beauty is found in the scarlet splendor of a cyclamen blooming
anew amid its lush green foliage in a window pot. Or in the trembling glimmer
of sunlight that plays upon the leaves of the chokecherry tree in the yard.
Then, later, in the stubborn sway and tussle of the branches as clouds obscure
the sun and a late summer wind sweeps by. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At
times, the shrill cries of children at play outside or the jingle of the ice
cream truck triggers warm memories of earlier times on those same roads. As the
day wanes in the lazy, languorous way of summer, the late afternoon sun casts a soft sepia tint upon the houses and
lawns, the privets and trees, and soon the shouts of the children fade with the
evening. Then—earlier now, around 8:30 or so—a soft glow appears in
the neighborhood windows as dusk gives way to dark and the katydids begin their
raucous overture to the night. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The days grow perceptibly shorter now,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> and </span>we ease our way toward the end of summer, the
Labor Day weekend and the return to school. Pre-season football is back, while the Yankees faithful
cling to the hope of a wild card berth. Soon it will be time to gather wood.
Already some leaves, as if weary of clinging to their branches any longer,
drift to the earth, a harbinger of the Autumn that awaits us just around the
bend. And some nights in the suburbs even dip into the forties.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>While summer, in fact, will last until the Autumn equinox on September 22nd,
still more than five weeks away now, we know <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i> is just a calendar fact, that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">psychic</i> summer ends much sooner. Yet there is so much beauty still
to behold. It is to be found every day, in the little things.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Tom Kerstinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06723518010027224406noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1138314935279751773.post-65308955417398997372013-07-03T20:41:00.000-04:002013-07-04T11:26:05.787-04:00O Beautiful for Spacious Skies<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> In Egypt, one of the world’s most
ancient of nations, the military has just deposed the democratically elected
president, its fragile young democracy having lasted but one year. As I write
this, here in Falmouth, Massachusetts, the town where Katharine Lee Bates,
author of “America the Beautiful,” was born, I think of tomorrow’s celebration <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>of the 4<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup> of July, the 237th anniversary
of our nation’s birth. Though we’ve had our problems—indeed, we still do—our country,
so young in the annals of nationhood, has managed to endure for more than two
and a third centuries.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
has not been easy, yet our republic has survived the Revolution itself, the War
of 1812, the Mexican War, our own devastating Civil War, the Spanish-American
War, two world wars, Korea, Vietnam, Afghanistan, Iraq, and various
constitutional crises—including the contested presidential election of 2000, a
low point in American politics. At times, to paraphrase George Orwell, it seems that all Americans are equal, but some Americans are more equal than others. Yet through countless debates, divisions, and disasters
down through the decades, our nation has endured; through populist political
extremes, our nation has endured; through racial, religious, and ethnic
bigotries, our nation has endured. And through the horrific atrocities of
September 11, 2001, and a wave of subsequent terrorism, we have endured. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Though
our government at times may be less than we want it to be, though our
representatives in Congress may seem chronically dysfunctional and we may wring
our hands in despair at the direction in which the country seems to be heading,
America is more than any of these. America is an idea that through our worst
crises, through our bleakest days, through our darkest hours, our nation will
prevail. Though we are not yet that which we one day may be, we strive still to
become that “shining city upon a hill” toward which all nations, all peoples,
will aspire.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
America! America!</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> God shed His grace on thee,</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> And crown thy good with brotherhood</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> From sea to shining sea.</span></span><br />
<br />
<dd><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></span></dd><dd><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></span></dd><br />
</div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
</div>
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"></span><br /></div>
Tom Kerstinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06723518010027224406noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1138314935279751773.post-7247697686808645062013-06-09T19:52:00.004-04:002013-06-10T22:15:35.063-04:00What's So Great About Gatsby?<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 24px;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span>Suddenly, like the glow of
fireflies on a summer night, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Great
Gatsby</i> is everywhere. The Leonardo DiCaprio remake of the film has
generated a renewal of interest in the story. Tiffany’s is advertising <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Great Gatsby</i> Collection, and Gatsby
parties are suddenly the rage. While we might expect<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a revival of the fashions of the period as well, the style
and excesses of the Roaring Twenties do not account for the greatness of F. Scott
Fitzgerald’s seminal work. Many astute readers make a case for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Great Gatsby</i> as the “Great American
Novel” for its tight story line, complex characterization, and luminous
language. But in the end, the “greatness” of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gatsby</i> lies not in the plot, or the glitz, or the age, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 24px;">but in the
character himself.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>What
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">makes</i> Jay Gatsby “great”? It’s not
his mystique, though from the start there is an elusive aura of mystery about
him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Someone says he killed a man
once, another that he’d been a German spy, still another that he’d served in
the American army during the war, and some that he was a bootlegger. “It was
testimony to the romantic speculation he inspired that there were whispers
about him . . . ,” Fitzgerald tells us. And Gatsby himself seems intent on feeding
the wild rumors. He’s the mythical masked man with a mysterious past who throws
lavish parties “where men and girls came and went like moths among the
whisperings.” He wanders incognito among his uninvited guests, there one
minute, gone the next, which adds, of course, to the mystique of the man. Gatsby’s
enormous wealth does not define his greatness either, for the extravagant preparations
for his parties—like the uncut pages of the books in his library—are a superficial
display meant only to impress Daisy Buchanan, the girl of his dreams.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Gatsby’s
greatness is found, on the other hand, in his capacity to dream and his
determination to pursue that vision, however improbable it seems. The narrator,
Nick Carroway, says of Gatsby that there is “some heightened sensitivity to the
promises of life” about him, “an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic
readiness.” Gatsby’s capacity for wonder, his pursuit of a dream wrapped in
enchantment, is captivating and “great” in both scale and imagination. In one
of our first glimpses of Gatsby we see him stretching out his arms over the
dark waters of the bay toward the green light at the end of Daisy’s dock across
the way, as if in homage to his ideal Beauty, the Golden Girl of his dreams. Having
amassed a bountiful fortune in order to impress Daisy, he later dazzles her
with the evidence of his newfound wealth, only to find that the moment is
anti-climactic, as Nick tells us:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There
must have been moments even that afternoon</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>when
Daisy tumbled short of his dreams—not through</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>her
own fault, but because of the colossal vitality of his <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>illusion.
It had gone beyond her, beyond everything. . . .</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>No
amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>will
store up in his ghostly heart.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>How
does Gatsby’s dream differ from illusion? Well, perhaps it doesn’t, in a way,
in that his pursuit of Daisy is not grounded in reality. Who could possibly
live up to Gatsby’s idealized image of Daisy? Certainly not Daisy herself,
given the shallowness of her character. He has in fact created an illusion of
her, rooted in what she once was and in what he needs her now to be, the Golden
Girl of his dreams. Yet, once Gatsby is reunited with Daisy, she cannot measure
up to his dream and as with the green light at the end of Daisy’s dock, the
enchantment vanishes. “His count of enchanted objects,” Fitzgerald tells us,
“had diminished by one.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
enchantment gone, the remnant of Gatsby’s dream has become a delusion as he
squats beneath the bushes of Daisy’s window seeking to protect her from her
abusive husband. Inside, she plots with him to abandon Gatsby to clean up her
mess. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
so, we learn from Gatsby in the end that while great passion is admirable,
great delusions may be lethal. Nick tells us in the final paragraphs of the
novel that he </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>thought
of Gatsby’s wonder when he first picked out the</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>green
light at the end of Daisy’s dock. He had come a long </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>way
. . . and his dream must have seemed so close that he </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>could
hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>already
behind him . . . .</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fitzgerald closes the book with the
words that grace his own epitaph in a quiet little churchyard in Rockville,
Maryland:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So
we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.” <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span id="goog_736883889"></span><span id="goog_736883890"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
</div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Tom Kerstinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06723518010027224406noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1138314935279751773.post-38836756847888836892013-04-09T18:00:00.000-04:002013-05-05T16:54:31.074-04:00To Every Thing There Is A Season<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
On this, the second warm day in a
row in the second week of April, we are assured that spring, at long last, has arrived.
I’ve removed the tree tape from the red maple sapling and have treated the buck
rub wounds with pruning spray in hopes that the deer will find some other place
to scratch their backs. The forsythia, oaks, maples, and black cherries are in bud,
though the ash and honeysuckle linger in their winter husks awhile longer.
Crocuses, daffodils, and bluebells are in bloom, and a breath of spring is felt
on the warm, gentle breeze. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My
thoughts turn now to treating the lawn once again. In years gone by I’d work
the length of the yard—front, sides, and back—row after row of raking, cutting,
seeding, and fertilizing, but now I have the luxury of hiring a landscaper to
manage those chores. It is a blessing, surely. Yet I notice once again the
shifting contours of the back lawn, a phenomenon that would astound me every
year as the grip of winter yielded to the softening spring. Amid the yard that
I had come to know so intimately—an outcrop of rock to the right of the
hemlock, a bit of thatch here, some moss there, bare patches where I’d cut back
the pachysandra, a deep green swath of grass over the septic fields—I’d see
some subtle changes in the topography of the yard. It was as if the rocks underground
were shifting in silent seismic undulations so that the landscape formed a new
and different terrain. Where once had been a little rise, the lawn lay level
now; where once a gentle rolling slope, a little knoll appeared; and there,
where the rain would puddle in a furrow beside the silver maple, it rolled down
the hill toward my neighbor’s yard.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>What
are we to make of such reshaping of the earth, such shifting of the landscape
every year? Perhaps it's a metaphor of all that changes in Nature from
season to season, all that shifts silently, subtly, but certainly from year to
year. The trees are imperceptibly taller each spring, some sturdier, some
feebler, others more mottled with lichens or blight. Perennial plants nudge
their way through the soil reaching toward the sun, bloom for the season, then
fade and die. Annuals flourish in kaleidoscopic glory until, exhausted, they
spend themselves or succumb to the cool nights of an approaching autumn. The
lawns too have their cycles, from the lush greens of a wet spring to the dry
and brittle browns of the midsummer heat or the hibernation of late fall and
winter. Often we celebrate the joys that the season has to offer, but perhaps
more often we take them for granted, hardly noticing the changes as they come
to pass. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
is like that, I think, with us too, in the subtle silent shifting of our own lives
from year to year. Oh sure, we live intensely all the seasons,
knowing full well “a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a
time to dance.” But we barely notice the seasons of our lives passing, hardly
notice most of the changes until they have come to pass. How could it be that
we are ten years out of college now? Or twenty? Or forty? When did our little
boys grow to be such fine young men? How is it that my wife and I approach our
42<sup>nd</sup> wedding anniversary this year? When, along the way, did my
beard become more gray than brown, and my joints begin to ache? It all happened
so quickly, it seems. <span style="color: #343434; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">"<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Life is what happens</span> while you are busy making other plans,"</span>
John Lennon told us. Perhaps we were too busy living our lives to listen. And so, in the fullness of time, we
grow a little older and a little wiser. Unlike the trees, we tend to stoop a
little more as the years proceed. But like the lawn, trees, and flowers that
keep growing anew each spring, we too greet the next season as it comes, changing
subtly as need be, but reaching—always reaching—toward the promise of the sun.</div>
Tom Kerstinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06723518010027224406noreply@blogger.com0