(In "Huck Finn House" in Hannibal, Missouri.  It was about the only thing in there, to be honest.)

Well, the festivities have come to an abrupt halt, reality has reasserted its icy grip. Yet, it is with some relief I write that sentence-it means I survived.  I have gazed into the gaping jaws of hell and not succumbed to all-consuming fear. If you've read my mother's blog, you are now familiar with the events to which I allude.  If you have not, let me relate, in condensed form, the terrifying experience of flying in a model airplane.  My mother and I decided some little while back that we wanted to visit Nauvoo.  This eventually became an 850+ mile car-trip around most of the state of Illinois.  We made it from the east coast to Illinois without much to disturb the delicate balance of brain functioning on three or so hours of sleep.  However, air travel within the state of Illinois is a horse of a different color entirely.  During the near-fatal 45 minute flight I myself ranged the color spectrum from hunter, forest, to pea-green.  Landing in St. Louis we were directed upstairs where we were to pick up our 'boarding passes.'  As we began the trek to the extreme ends of the earth, things began to eerily resemble the opening sequence of some cheap 1930's horror movie. The place was deserted.  Imposing metal grilles protected the entrances of long-abandoned stores.  The 'conveyor belt' for people ran headlong into a wall, which still bore the sign "Walkers to left.  Strollers not encouraged." hanging above the abruptly severed belt.  We descended into the portals of the mysterious and discovered the 'waiting area' for our airline.  Hello, Mr. Hitchcock.  How are you? Fancy meeting you here.  At the counter, Helen checked our baggage and handed us over to Lowell who informed us of the time we would be boarding, but not before we were asked to reveal our most well-guarded secret-our weight.  "Say what?" I asked a bit dumbfounded.  Apparently to even out the weight on the plane.  Presently, the time arrived and we boarded.  Joe, or maybe it was Brian, I couldn't keep them straight, turned around and informed us that the fire extinguisher was under Brian's seat.  Well lovely.  He also informed us that we might experience some turbulence, courtesy of the weather system which was on its way out.  "Fine," I thought, "I've been flying through the tail-end of this system since we left home; I've handled it alright so far."  Oh, the comfort of ignorance.  We began to taxi down the airstrip.  Joe flipped open his window.  Seriously.  I looked out and saw a gremlin on the airplane wing.  (Okay, maybe that last bit isn't true, but under the circumstances I wouldn't consider it entirely impossible.)  We hit a crack in the pavement.  I felt us hit a crack in the pavement.  "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death..."  We're. All.  Going.  To die.  I promptly pulled out my copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray and buried my nose in it, alternating reading with experimenting with Lamaze breathing.  You know how you hear the stories of those who have survived being shot keep the bullet(s) as souveniers?  I'm keeping that copy of Dorian Gray.  It still has fingernail punctures in the cover.  Joe was entirely too chipper to suit my mood; the one time I mustered the courage to glance up, the pilot was looking back, giving me a thumbs up.  I wanted to respond in kind with an alternate digit, but my fingernails were still imbedded in my book's cover.  I know there are no double yellow lines to drift over up there, but for pity's sake, look where you're going please.  There ain't no Hudson to ditch in around here, darling, just freshly ploughed furrows. I have to admit, though, when I finally did calm myself enough to look out the window, it was breath-takingly beautiful.  We were flying low enough (I was hoping dearly that we were supposed to be that low) to see the patchwork fields and miniature farmhouses and barns.  It was like looking at Mr. Roger's neighborhood.  We finally landed in Quincy and from there my  mom and I drove to Hannibal, Missouri, origins of probably America's most widely-known author, Mark Twain.  You know, it was funny to find out when I got a little older that he and another of my favorite childhood authors, Louisa May Alcott, despised each other with a passion.  She, for some reason, thought him loud and 'vulgar.' 

A display in his childhood home.  The child waving at the window is actually in the room behind me.  The rooms were all glassed off at the door, so the reflection of the representation of his most famous character appeared to be present in some phantom form in the room in which Mark Twain's statue stood.

I just thougth the sign was cool; it's kind of 1930's Depression-ear looking to me.

Looking through the open doorways of the "Huck Finn" house.

Not from Mark Twain's era, apparently, but close by.  We stopped at a small eatery on the famous Route 66.  I got a postcard and admired the history embodied in the idea, but I just can't eat a glorified corn-dog at 10 a.m., so I missed out on the gastronomical experience of Route 66.  I was still recovering from the death-flight anyway.  Next post will be about Springfield.  Be prepared.  I have a lot to say about Springfield, and its all "over-enthusiastic, history-dork, confessed hero-worshipper of Lincoln style" praise.   

This will eventually evolve into a Mother's Day post, but as my mother is not a fan of this particular holiday, I have to disguise it somewhat as a regular post.  I've recently realized from whom I received my distaste for any emotional situation which could potentially end with the phrase, "Let's all have a group hug."  However, even Bonnie Parker loved her own mother, bringing Clyde home to meet mama's approval, good luck with that. So, we all have to 'fess up sometime or other and admit we love our mothers.  Might as well, most women are their mothers to some extent.  

Being the youngest child, I have two mothers: my mother and my older sister, who is now a mother, and a much better mother than I could even aspire to become.  Motherhood is certainly not for the faint of heart.  At the first sign of grime-covered palms I go weak in the knees and promptly go bathe in hand sanitizer.  The mere thought of organizing a preschool aged birthday party forces me to sit in the corner with a paper bag and my head between my feet.  So, again, I say, motherhood is not for the faint of heart.  Which is why I'm so privileged to have not only one, but two great mothers.  The most wonderful thing about this is that not only are my mother and sister my own personal champions, but my closest friends.  

The other day my sister and I were talking and ended up discussing the 'old-school' songs we used to love in high-school and had forgotten about.  My German history professor once said that you know you're old when you make the statement that "Music was better when I was your age."  It is a sobering thought to realize you've arrived at old age.  (Either that or the world just moves a lot faster these days, highschool was this side of ten years ago for me.....)  Experiencing the, "Oh! Do you remember.....?" was actually a pleasantly nostalgic phenomenon.  Which is miraculous considering the fact that I loathed, despised, hated, had a deep-rooted aversion to the brutal torture of the euphemistic appellation of 'high-school.' (I was the stereotypically diffident, mousy kid with the frizzy hair, glasses and no working knowledge of cosmetics who harbored a secret crush on the wonderful smelling, surprisingly intelligent baseball player with the Paul Newman eyes who sat next to her in English/History class.  Frankly, looking back, I still think he was hot.  Anyway...)   I agree whole-heartedly with the man who said that in an ideal world we'd go straight from kindergarten to college.  Amen.  Anyway, I promptly came home and looked online for some of the songs from back in the day (hence the change in the playlist), and swam a bit in the waters of reminisce.  This wasn't as painful as I assumed it would be, conjuring up as it did flashes of repressed memories of those four years.  I've never been a currently fashionable person, so I always relied on my sister to keep me up to date on music trends (still do), so any of the good songs from our day were introduced to me through my sister.  I realized as I sat there listening that the good memories engendered by these songs were all linked directly to my sister.  Indeed, the only good memories of high-school were due to my sister.  She has always had great people skills, and so fell into a very socially eclectic group.  She could count among her friends models, valedictorians, talented actors, musicians and artists.  As well as being one of the coolest people I know, she is also the kindest.  Without any apparent reservations, she let me, the younger, socially inept sibling attach myself to the group.  It was my only salvation in high-school.  So, although she is not my mother, my sister stood in my mother's place in caring for me when my mother could not be present.

While meandering down memory lane I also began to compile a list of cd's to take with me on the upcoming trip with my mother.  My mother and I, if I do say so, make great travelling companions.  In fact I'm sometimes afraid that we have a little too much fun.  If any of you have ever seen Thelma and Louise, you'll know what I mean when I say that I'm occasionally alarmed by the fact that I could very easily imagine either of us running out of a convenience store, vaulting into the car, and making the statement, "You know Louise, I think I've got a knack for this sort of thing" as the other drives away in a furious cloud of dust and burning rubber.  How many other mothers can find it funny when you quote lines from a Coen brothers film in the middle of church, even if it is arguably relevant?  It has always made me indescribably happy when, from middle and high-school all the way through college, friends who were visiting said they loved being around my parents.  Not to brag, but my parents are pretty awesome, always have been.  Most of my interests stem directly from my mother.  I read because she read to me.  I sew because she made me beautiful Halloween costumes as a child.  I like classical because she listened to Beethoven and Handel.  I love photography because she tinkered with cameras.  I paint and repaint, redecorate and move furniture because I was once gone for three days and came back to a different colored room.  (I still liked it better green, by the way, mother....)  I've recently been getting quite often the statement that, "You look like your Daddy, but you have your Mama's personality."  It makes me smile every time.  So, happy Mother's Day to both mother and sister. "I'll love you forever, I'll like you for always."  

  

 

I'll go ahead and 'fess up: the picture has nothing to do with the (long-delayed) post.  It just seemed like this post needed to start out with something bright and cheerful; I haven't posted in quite a while, as I've had no stories which would be very interesting to anyone else or which wouldn't make my niece hate me the second she hits thirteen, so I haven't written.  I finally capitulated to myself, however, and decided to write about something which I've been mulling over quite a bit lately.  It isn't funny.  It isn't witty (not that mine ever accomplish that, but you get the idea.....) It isn't cute.  It isn't memorable. Hopefully I won't make a fatal blogging faux-pas; I guess I'll see what the deep end of the blogging pool feels like.
Ever since I can remember I've been told that I take things too seriously.  My first grade teacher, whom I loved dearly, once told my mother that I was going straight from first grade to the old-folks' home.  Ah, well, 'fish is fish,' it is what it is, I suppose.  (Which anecdote is my way of apologizing in advance for being too serious, by the way.)  As long as I can remember as well the unfairness and injustice of this life has troubled me profoundly.  That people choose to be cruel cuts deep; the fact that some must struggle and never reach the heights others are placed in from the start seems so cruel.  Those who struggle with handicaps of a physical or mental nature, the presence of hunger when others throw away money on thousand dollar clothing accessories, children who must suffer because of the terrible judgement of others, lack of compassion, suffering caused by greed, somehow it all seems to be almost too much sometimes. (Not that I'm saying any of this makes me a kind or compassionate person, mind you, I suppose I'm just a wimp for letting it get to me.)
I was once told that if you don't stay up to date on the news it means you are choosing to remain ignorant of what is occuring in the world around you.  Well, sorry, but I just can't watch the news-I'd need a triple dose of Prozac if I watched it too closely.   So, when I read about the death of a homeless man who intervened on a stranger's behalf (passersby kept walking as they watched him die of exsanguination from his stab-wounds, one individual even rolled him over before walking on), it upset me terribly.  Authorities have recently made three arrests in the murder of a school-principle.  The idea that a car-bomb was left in Time's Square is terrifying, whether it was intended to detonate or not.  Again, I just don't need to watch the news.  Crazy is the only game in town, apparently.  Now, attending four years of college to study history, this does not come as a tremendous shock.  The only thing consistent about the human race, aside from its inconsistency, is the fact that it is overwhelmingly insane.  Period.  There are the creatively insane, who contribute positively; the academically insane, who don't realize that boundaries and accepted facts are unshakeable and therefore discover new things such as a heliocentric universe; there are the comically insane, who make us laugh; and then there are the simply insane.  These seem to be multiplying exponentially, spawned mainly by greed and hate.  A co-worker of mine has recently become very interested in the Holocaust, so we've spent quite a bit of time discussing the topic, and we generally end by asking each other the same things: how can eleven million people be annihilated voluntarily by their fellow men?  What happens within the mind which causes an individual, or a group, to forfeit their own humanity by depriving another of his human dignity and his life?  How and why do people allow themselves to descend lower than the 'unreasoning beast'?  We have the ability to reason and that is the use to which it is placed?
In spite of what it sounds like, we've had some very good discussions.  However, it has only added to the frustration.  Occasionally it becomes wildly and overwhelmingly frustrating that I cannot change the world simply through sheer will-power; the knowledge that I can't fix everything for everyone, or in reality, very little for very few becomes nearly too depressing.  Everyone always gives the example of ripples, you never know how widely they spread, but to be quite honest, that analogy doesn't help much.  However, these discussions have led me to ponder a few things.  I studied history in order to find a field in which I can teach others, whether in a classroom, a museum, or wherever I end up.  History is the collective memory of all mankind, and if correctly studied, teaches us how to be human, whether by good examples or terrible warnings.  Maybe that's a bit idealistic, but there it is.  We are what we have been but also who we wish to become.  History teaches us both.  Very few have changed the world, but many have quietly altered the course of those few.  There are more of the latter than the former. 
All of this 'pondering' has led me to many conclusions.  1. I can't change much for many, but I can change something for someone.  Think of the elderly people lost in the whirl of a modern world.  Smile and acknowledge them, it makes most of them very happy; trust me, I've experimented with it a bit.  2.  There are still those who will make harmful decisions.  I can't do anything to prevent this, but I can do something to help counteract those decisions, even the score.  3.  No kindness, however small is useless or ineffective.  All kindness creates an effect somewhere, somehow.  4. It isn't so important the kind of world I live in as the kind of person I choose to be in that world.
Two of my favorite poems are by Rudyard Kipling and Emily Dickinson.  I've had to go back and read them this week to remind myself of the things I learned from reading them. 

IF-Rudyard Kipling
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies.  
Or being hated don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;


If you can dream-and not make dreams your master,
If you can think-and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools;


If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"


If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings-nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And-which is more-you'll be a man, my son!


VI-Emily Dickinson
If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.


With all of these discussions about the Holocaust, the last thing I thought of was a documentary many of you have probably seen entitled "Paperclips."  It was the story of a group of students from a very rural school who participated in a very interesting project which eventually became a national project which then spanned the Atlantic Ocean, reaching to Germany.  In a way, these children completed a circle that was begun by the grand-, or even great-grandparents.  During the second world war, some of those who protested the actions of the Nazis did so by wearing paper-clips on their lapels in imitation of the Star of David which the Jews were forced to wear.  The school-children decided to begin collecting on paper clip for each of the eleven million victims of the Holocaust.  It was a moving sight to see how the lives of so many were changed by the experience.  After the paper-clips were collected, the next step was to devise a way to display them.  Amazingly, they were given an item which suited the purposes and had a profound meaning.  It was a cattle-car, shipped from Germany, which had conveyed victims to the concentration camps.  The clip is from the journey and arrival of the car to the small school; maybe I'm just being a sentimental history wimp, but this part always makes me tear up.  I love what is said about symbols. The fact that something which was used for such a horrendous purpose could now be a symbol of humanity, kindness, forgiveness, even, gives one hope that even in a world where heroes are left to bleed to death on sidewalks, there are still those who give humanity its compassion and decency.  The song is absolutely beautiful to me, as well.  I'm sorry to have put everyone through this, but hopefully now, by putting it in writing, my brain can rest from it a bit.  I promise I'll try to have something funny to write about next time. 

Spring!  Is there anything more wonderful (as long as you ignore the fact that sweltering humidity is beginning its seasonal slow, menacing weather coup), I ask?  If I were Mr. Rogers I would answer myself by saying, no, indeed there is not, it's a beautiful day in the neighborhood; now would you be my neighbor?  It makes me think of Emerson's essay Nature, "To the attentive eye, each moment of the year has its own beauty, and in the same field, it beholds, every hour, a picture which was never seen before, and which shall never be seen again."  The weather has been particularly beautiful these past couple of days.  "Balmy" is the word that comes to mind, "...Beautiful.  Gorgeous.  Wish you were here."  Which would have been perfect to put on a postcard from Williamsburg, Virginia, from where I just returned.  Every spring (and fall, winter, and ocassionally summer) I come down with a rather severe case of wanderlust.  The siren call of the open road begins to sound as good as Benny Goodman or Louis Armstrong.  Which is why last Wednesday I made the spontaneous (well, spontaneous for me) decision to take a little jaunt up to Virginia for the weekend.  Never having been to Williamsburg and remembering very little from my last Jamestown visit, it seemed the ideal place.  So, 3:30 a.m. Friday morning I packed my travel-size contact solution and camera bag and by the time the sun arose had passed the Virginia state line.  My dad was kind/crazy enough to agree to join me, so we spent a few hours blasting "House of the Rising Sun," some James Taylor, Gordon Lightfoot, and the Boxtops.  The first stop was Williamsburg, which was very charming in its spring pastels.  Next was Jamestown. It was incredibly interesting; we spent quite a bit of time wandering around on the ships in the harbor.  At first I thought maybe I could understand why young boys would run away to sea in the old days.  Ships are extremely beautiful things.  The neatness and compactness has a certain charm.  It made me think of Walt Whitman's poem In Cabin'd Ships at Sea: "Here our thoughts, voyagers' thoughts./Here not the land, firm land, alone appears, may then by them be said,/The sky o'earches here, we feel the undulating deck beneath our feet,/We feel the long pulsation, ebb and flow of endless motion,/ The tones of unseen mystery, the vague and vast suggestions of the briny world, the liquid-flowing syllables,/The perfume, the faint creaking of the cordage, the melancholy rhythm,/The boundleess vista and the horizon far and dim are all here,/And this is ocean's poem."  It was all very intoxicating, I'll admit.  I can see how people were drawn in by the sense of adventure and excitement, the promise of something new and wonderful, barring death at sea, sinking ships, various illnesses, starvation, dehydration and mutiny.  I was converted....and then I went belowdeck.  Being crammed into a four foot square space with nearly fifty other Nike-promoting tourists I went from "Captain Ron" to "Mutiny on the Bounty" in about four seconds flat.  That's got to be some kind of record.  However, ships do seem to be very photogenic little things, so here are a few from Jamestown and Williamsburg. Beautiful. Gorgeous. Wish you were there. 

This is what happens when a) things get slow at the library b) Tim Burton makes a rather different version of "Alice in Wonderland" c) the librarians look for any opportunity to have a party.  Running the risk of looking 'mad as a hatter,' we appropriated the children's story hour room for our own celebratory purposes yesterday.  Our resident artist supplied the magnificent plethora of table decorations. 

(Incidentally, we also did a bit of research and discovered to what the phrase 'mad as a hatter' refers.  Apparently in the early days, the outer pieces of felt on men's hats were treated with mercury, a highly toxic substance which poisons slowly in increasingly mad stages.  Those who wore the hats were generally (comparatively) safe, but those who made the hats, the hatters, handled the treated fabric day in and day out, absorbing the mercury through their skin.  Therefore, most hatters went mad, hence the Mad Hatter.) Anyway, here are a few (or rather many) pictures of the decorations. We never figured out if the fish was 'One Fish' or 'Two Fish,' he's clearly not 'Red Fish' or 'Blue Fish.' The debate is still open.