Category Archives: Community

Community, Faith and Spirituality, Family, Friendship

The Light Shines in the Darkness, No Matter What Happens

December 24, 2012 Wildtrumpetvine

The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.

–Luke 1: 5

As I contemplated a post for Christmas Eve, I realized that the one I wrote last year still expresses my thoughts for the day. I modified the end somewhat, in response to recent tragedies, including that in Newtown, Connecticut.

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Our church’s candlelight Christmas Eve service is one of the highlights of the year. Each person receives a small white candle upon entering. Toward the end of the service, the sanctuary goes dark. The acolytes assist the congregation with the lighting of the individual, hand-held candles. Gradually, while we sing Silent Night, the light grows. By the final verse, the sanctuary is brightly glowing, as each member of the congregation holds high a lighted candle.

The process is a beautiful expression of God’s love. Into the darkness of the world, God sent a light. It appeared dim and insignificant at first. But soon it grew brighter and kindled countless other lights. When we allow the light of God’s gift to come alive within us, we glow. And we, in turn, have the power to spread the light. Our combined light is a mighty force. The darkness will not overcome it.

The source of the light is one baby, born to an unknown young woman and witnessed only by her trusting husband and perhaps the animals of a stable. In an unlikely juxtaposition, a multitude of angels announces the birth not to the ruling elite, but to shepherds in the fields outside of town. (This is nevertheless appropriate, because the baby’s great ancestor David was a shepherd boy when he was hand-picked to be king.) Before long, the birth of the child has attracted the attention of wise men from distant Eastern lands. Led by a singular star, they embark on a long journey to find the humble family. They bow down in awe before the baby and present him with rare and costly gifts.

God’s great gift turns the world upside down, upsets its expected order. There is no room in the comfort of any inn for God’s only son. Angels appear to lowly shepherds, and kings worship a baby. Allowing God’s light to shine within us may lead us to unexpected places. The tidiness of our lives is likely to be overturned. This is the difficulty in letting our inner light shine. Its power may summon us to go where we would rather not venture. It may be more convenient to quench that light, to hide it under a bushel. But knowing that the flame that dwells within us is from God, the light of salvation, ever-present, we can have the courage to go where it wills us.

The darkness of our world may seem impenetrable at times. When innocent children and their caring leaders are massacred on a crisp Friday morning two weeks before Christmas, our world appears almost unimaginably dark. It would seem that God turned his back that day in Newtown, Connecticut. What about the angels some say he sends? Where were they that day? No one, not the most learned theologian or the holiest, most enlightened human, can adequately explain why such terrible things happen. Certainly I can’t. But it helps me to realize that we lack God’s all-seeing perspective. We see through the glass dimly; we can’t grasp the big picture. Maybe God did send angels that day, but they didn’t work as we might expect. Maybe those who died in Newtown were needed elsewhere; maybe they were promoted early to a place of honor and privilege somewhere we might call heaven.

Despite the evil that is abroad in the world, God’s love is stronger. We are never alone; he is with us even in the worst of times. He is there to lead us to the light, out of the depths of despair. On this Christmas Eve, I pray for the light to be kindled and nourished in hearts throughout the world. And I pray that we will have the strength to let the light be our guide.

Do not be afraid; for see—I bring you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord.

–Luke 2: 10b-11

Art and Architecture, Community, Friendship, Memorials

Remembering Gudmund Vigtel of the High Museum of Art

November 14, 2012 Wildtrumpetvine 2 Comments

001 — The High Museum of Art, August 1985.

My friend and former boss Gudmund Vigtel died last month at the age of 87. For nearly thirty years, Vig, as he was generally known, was the face and guiding force of Atlanta’s High Museum of Art. He became the museum’s director in 1963, when it was a fledgling institution in a provincial backwater, housed in a nondescript building adjacent to its first home, the Peachtree Street mansion of the High family.

Vig led the High through two pivotal periods of extraordinary growth. In June of 1962, 106 of Atlanta’s most prominent arts patrons, returning from a museum-sponsored trip to Europe, were killed when their plane crashed on take-off at Orly Airport in Paris. Since Atlanta’s founding in 1836 as Terminus, the end point of a railway hub, its citizens have tended to value business over culture. But they are a resilient lot, determined not to be bested. The Orly tragedy, like General Sherman’s burning of the city during the Civil War, inspired a deeply felt resolve to regroup and rebuild, bigger and better. Gudmund Vigtel, then assistant director at the Corcoran Gallery in D.C., was hired to head up the new, expanded arts facility to be known as the Atlanta Memorial Arts Center.

Vig must have stood out as a cosmopolitan, dashing European figure in the Atlanta of the early 60s. Born in Jerusalem to Lutheran missionaries from Norway, he had lived in Vienna and Oslo before his family fled (on skis, as I’ve always heard) from Nazi-occupied Norway into Sweden. But Vig had Georgia ties as well. Having studied art in Sweden, he received a Rotary Scholarship that first took him to a small college in north Georgia. It was not a good fit. He recounted how he spent lonely afternoons sitting on a big rock, asking himself, Why am I here? Before long, he managed to transfer to the Atlanta College of Art, where the more urban environment suited him better.

I met Vig during the second pivotal period of his tenure at the High. During the 1970s he became increasingly convinced that his museum was still too small. When, in 1977, the blockbuster King Tut show bypassed Atlanta for New Orleans because the High lacked sufficient exhibition space, it was clear that Vig was right. He launched an impassioned campaign for a considerably larger and more striking building. Despite the board’s initial preference for a local architect, he managed to persuade them to choose the as yet unproven Richard Meier of New York. Meier would go on to to design the Getty Museum in Los Angeles and to win the Pritzker Prize for architecture.

I had the good fortune to work for Vig as Secretary to the Director during the High’s first two years in the new Meier facility. (There are, of course no secretaries at the museum now, or perhaps anywhere; they have been promoted to other titles, if not in salary.) Thanks to my dentist, a family friend, avid art collector and museum patron, I learned about the job opening. It was the summer of 1983, and I had just graduated from UGA with a degree in Art History. I was coming to terms with the realization that this was, as I had suspected, hardly a golden key to a lucrative or, perhaps, any career. Luckily, I could type. I applied at the High. I wasn’t hired; there was a better, faster typist. About three weeks later, I got a call from the museum. The other applicant hadn’t worked out, for various reasons. When Vig had referred, for example, to the artist Botticelli in his dictated letters, this secretary had repeatedly transcribed Buddy Chelly. Was I still interested?

The postmodern Meier building, its undulating facade clad in white enamel tile, was due to open that October when I began work in July. The offices had just moved into the new quarters, but the galleries and atrium remained unfinished. Heavy plastic sheeting kept some of the dust out but did nothing to diminish the loudness of the construction noise. The pace of construction was quick and constant, and it only added to the excitement of working at the museum. I loved my front-row seat in the living theatre that was staging the airy new building’s completion. And I soon became fond of my boss and the rest of the museum staff.

Many of us spend our lives knowing and regretting that we have not yet hit upon the perfect career fit. Vig found his, it would certainly seem. He had a broad knowledge and true devotion to art of various genres and styles. But he lacked any trace of pretense or conceit; he bore no resemblance to the stereotypical artsy intellectual. Not a single aspect of the life of the museum was beneath him, and he was apparently tireless. What’s more, Vig had a real gift for the human connection; he was thoughtful, warm, empathetic, funny and charming. He inspired the best in every staff member, and we held him in high regard.

As Vig’s dramatic vision for the new building was nearing completion, it was a heady time to be part of the HMA team. The museum opened on schedule in October, with a dizzying flurry of celebratory events held in the soaring central atrium. Vig treated his staff with the same respect and courtesy as the most generous or sought-after patrons. HMA parties were equal-opportunity events. Security guards danced with curators; art handlers and secretaries rubbed elbows with Atlanta’s civic leaders and the occasional celebrity. Vig was always there at the heart of the party, like a joyful father of the bride, surrounded, in his elegant home, by those he loved best.

Vig’s oddly spelled Norwegian name confounded most homegrown Southerners. Yet its pronounciation was straightforward: Good mund Vig tel, with the accent on each first syllable. I was amazed by the vast volume of unsolicited letters (many of them very strange, to say the least) that the museum received. The majority of these erred comically in the spelling of Vig’s name. They variously addressed him as Gudmund Viglet, Gudmund Vigtoe, Goodmood Vigel, Goodood Wigtel and even, somehow, Tubmund Eigtel. Vig never took himself too seriously, and he found these permutations as amusing as I did. He also laughed and reassured me when I realized, too late, that one of the letters I typed had gone out to Ms. Roberta Goizueta instead of Mr. Roberto Goizueta, then the Chairman of Coca-Cola.

Vig’s impact on the arts of Atlanta was profound. Like so many others whose lives he touched, I will think of him often, and with affection. In my mind I see him now, and it’s 1985. He’s coming back from checking a new painting in the galleries, crossing the wide atrium. He’s walking his characteristically jaunty walk, grey curls bouncing a bit, suit slightly rumpled. As he approaches, I hear him speak my name in the Norwegian accent he never lost, and I see the customary twinkle in his eye. Gudmund Vigtel will be greatly missed, but lovingly and gladly remembered.

On this T-shirt, made c. 1985 by the HMA staff to celebrate Vig’s birthday, he is surrounded by some of the more egregiously erroneous misspellings of his name, collected from letters. Vig’s uncharacteristically gruff expression was intended for comic purposes. I wish I hadn’t worn the shirt for painting; the splotch on Vig’s jacket is a later, accidental addition.

Community, Family

On This Election Day, Go Vote!

November 6, 2012 Wildtrumpetvine

My maternal grandmother Nora was born in 1894. In 1920, when the 19th Amendment, the Susan B. Anthony Amendment, was passed, she was twenty-six. She had been married to my grandfather for five years, and they were the parents of a two-year old son, my mother’s oldest brother. Having lived through a time when women could not vote, my grandmother took that newly granted right very seriously. She never missed an election, either national or local, and she was quite vocal in encouraging other women to get out and vote. Not voting was a sure sign of laziness, ignorance, or just “being plain sorry,” according to Nora.

I wish I had thought to ask her, before her death at age 94, about the presidential election of 1920. I would like to have discussed the details, such as where she voted and how. Were there long lines, and did the women turn out enthusiastically? Like most rural Kentuckians and Southerners of her generation, my grandmother was an ardent, lifelong Democrat. I assume she cast her first vote for James M. Cox, the Democratic candidate, newspaperman and Governor of Ohio. Cox, by nearly all hindsight accounts the better man, lost to Warren G. Harding, now remembered primarily for the rampant corruption of his administration. Twelve years would pass before my grandmother chose the winning ticket, when she, no doubt, voted for Franklin Delano Roosevelt in 1932. Interestingly, a young FDR had been James Cox’s Vice Presidential running mate.

Today on election day, I’m especially grateful to the generations of determined women who fought for nearly a hundred years for the precious right to vote. Because of their efforts, my grandmother voted in 1920, I will vote today, and my daughter will vote before long. In years past, I may have supported candidates that probably would not have won my grandmother’s vote. But this year, I feel confident that she would strongly agree with my choice.

On this election day and always, may God bless the United States of America!

Community, Family, Nature, Parenthood, Travel

Rochester, Down by the Tracks

October 16, 2012 Wildtrumpetvine

When I was young, I spent my summer days
Playing on the track.
The sound of the wheels rollin’ on the steel
Took me out, took me back.

Big train, from Memphis.
Big train, from Memphis.
Now it’s gone, gone, gone, gone, gone, gone.

–John Fogerty, Big Train from Memphis

For many of those who grew up hearing the whistle and roar of passing trains in the night, the sounds evoke home, family and childhood. My husband and I each became accustomed to the music of the trains, and we miss it here in Virginia. When we return to Rochester or Atlanta to visit his parents or mine, we savor the familiar, comforting sounds of the train.

H and his childhood friends really did spend their summer days playing on the tracks and beneath the adjacent highway overpasses, at least when they were not deep in the neighborhood woods. The tracks are easily accessible from his sister’s house in Rochester. If we have time, we head over to see what’s new and what’s as it always was. It’s a particular joy for H to explore the area again with his daughter by his side. She appreciates his tales of boyhood adventure as well as the desolate beauty of the landscape along the tracks.

D was delighted to find this sturdy rope well-anchored to the underside of the bridge.

The unruly landscape bordering the tracks gets a beauty treatment of fall colors.

A mingling of the seasons: touches of gold and green among the fallen brown leaves.

D negotiates the tangle of weeds as she emerges from down under and years gone by.

Art and Architecture, Community, Family, Friendship, Nature, Travel

In Provincetown: Serenity on Commercial Street

September 28, 2012 Wildtrumpetvine

Commercial Street begins in Provincetown’s quiet East End, just across the line from quiet Truro. The street name appears misleading at first, in this almost exclusively residential stretch, a mix of cottages, grand homes, and historic guesthouses. The crowds of tourists are absent for the first mile or so. My daughter and I especially enjoy exploring this serene section of the street, where lush gardens flourish and the waters of the bay provide a bright, sparkling backdrop.

A favorite subject of local artists, this white Dutch colonial, with its pristine lawn overlooking the bay, is the first home on Commercial Street’s East End.

Pigeons keep watch over Commercial Street from the dormer of the sturdy brick house where Norman Mailer lived and wrote for 25 years. After the author’s death, the home became the Norman Mailer Writers Colony.

An eighteenth-century Cape Cod cottage, glimpsed through the garden gate.

The gardens of Provincetown, though typcially small, are vigorously hardy, dramatic and colorful.

This spacious expanse of lawn, with its rugged old schoolyard swing set, is an odd, unexpected luxury in Provincetown, where bay-side land is at a great premium.

An artfully styled P-town compound, with a patriotic tableau of American flag and exuberant red and blue flowers in white window boxes.

At the Sea Urchin cottage, a profusion of wild roses and a sandy path to the water.

Tranquil spaces may be found even in the busiest section of Commercial Street, as here on the shady porch of Shor, a home furnishings showroom. Next door is the Unitarian Universalist Meeting House, built in 1847. The church’s front lawn, when not hosting an open-air market, offers an inviting escape from the crowds, as does its gracious interior, notable for the trompe l’oeil sculptural paintings in the sanctuary.

The beautifully detailed tower of the Meeting House.

This charming book store, located in a little house behind and surrounded by art galleries in the midst of Commercial Street, is reached by a tree-shaded pathway. D and I stop in at Tim’s to browse the shelves for interesting bargains and to enjoy the quiet.

Artists began to discover the small fishing village of Provincetown in the last decades of the nineteenth century. It quickly became established as an artist’s colony after Charles Hawthorne opened his Cape Cod School of Art in 1899. Now, over 40 galleries display a wide range of styles. In the hands of local artists, the regional tradition of atmospheric, Impressionistic landscapes, still lifes and figurative work remains vital and fresh. The gallery above specializes in bold contemporary Asian art. Many of the galleries are staffed by the artists themselves, who tend to be friendly and unpretentious.

The 200-year old Red Inn, which hosts one of the town’s most acclaimed restaurants, is in Commercial Street’s far West End, past the reach of the heaviest crowds. The deck, with its view of the harbor, is a spectacular spot for a sunset drink. Here, in the repose of early morning, neat white chairs welcome the promise of another beautiful day.

Art and Architecture, Community, Family, Friendship, Travel

In Provincetown: The Heart of Commercial Street

September 20, 2012 Wildtrumpetvine

Even though I’m glad to feel the September chill in the air, I find myself looking back fondly on August, to our time at the Cape. Perhaps because the school year has begun, bringing its steady stream of routine duties and a deluge of paperwork, the echoes of those last lazy days of summer are especially sweet right now.

The appeal of our quiet little cottage complex in Truro is heightened by its location next door to bustling Provincetown, shoehorned into the narrow tip of the outer Cape. It’s a tiny town with an expansive, generous spirit, urban flair, and an edgy sense of humor. Eccentrics of all stripes, as well as tourists from the heartland, find a warm welcome in P-Town, where ecumenical diversity flourishes.

The central section of Commercial Street, the narrow main artery, is one long party during beach season, when it’s crowded with pedestrians and vehicles. In Provincetown, the architecture is historic and charming, the street musicians are inventive and mostly talented, the food is excellent, offerings of art, musical theatre and comedy are vast and easily accessible, the drag queens are witty, the world’s most expressive T-shirts are available, and bay breezes blow. It truly has something for everyone.

Above, the busy heart of Commercial Street, catching the ever-present Cape Cab in transit. Its sister vehicles include two wildly painted mini-limos known as the Funk Buses, which offer on-the-road karaoke. Provincetown is no place for a sensible Lincoln Town Car.

Another view of Commercial Street, above. The umbrella-shaded outdoor dining area at Patio is an ideal spot for people and dog watching. Provincetown is an enthusiastically pet-friendly town, despite the notable absence of any dogs in this photo. I counted thirty dogs in one hour last year during dinner at Patio. Most were on leashes, others were pushed in strollers or carried in handbags. There was even one puppy in some sort of dog-Snugli. Because our place in Truro doesn’t allow pets, we can’t bring Kiko, but we almost always see at least one Shiba Inu. My hope is that someday, somehow, he’ll be able to accompany us. I like to think he has an artistic sensibility and would feel completely at home here.

Provincetown, fiercely protective of its unique quirkiness, is resistant to national chains. You won’t find a McDonald’s, a Rite Aid, or a CVS. No Starbucks, no T.G.I. Friday’s, no Applebee’s. No Burger King, although, there is, appropriately, a Burger Queen. The Little Red, above, is a friendly, well-stocked convenience store, housed in what appears to be a brightly painted Victorian playhouse.

Like many buildings in densely populated Provincetown, this gray turreted house, which could easily feature in an Addams Family film, has commercial space below and living space above. The towers of the Pilgrim Monument and the Unitarian Church peek out from behind.

A living statue often occupies a prime spot in front of the Town Hall. Above, during the summer of 2010, Cady Vishniac posed regularly as a bronze figure of a Depression-era hobo. Richard Mason, inspired by Provincetown’s World War I Memorial statue nearby, occupied the corner in 2011, in the guise of a WWI soldier.

Above, the sun sets on the Lobster Pot and the Governor Bradford bar and restaurant across the street. I’ve tasted nothing better, ever, I believe, than the pan-roasted lobster at the Lobster Pot. If you think lobster is lobster, and cannot be improved upon, this will change your mind. The Pot is always packed, but it’s worth the wait. Get your lobster buzzer and wander through the nearby shops.

The yellow banner for Mary Poppers prompts me to note that this year, at last, we had a John Waters sighting. The director and author makes his summer residence in P-Town. I’ve never seen him riding his bike down Commercial Street, as many have, but we spotted him, unmistakable in his pencil-thin moustache, walking with friends on Bradford Street. They were heading toward the Provincetown Theatre to see the popular Mary Poppins parody.

The haunting neon glow of The Lobster Pot, a beacon for hungry tourists and locals.

Look for another P-Town post to follow soon: Serenity on Commercial Street.

Community, Family, Friendship

A Happy First Birthday to Wild Trumpet Vine

September 15, 2012 Wildtrumpetvine

Just about a year ago, Wild Trumpet Vine was launched. My husband helped me set up the domain and get started. Without my Chief Technology Officer, I could not have entered the blogosphere, and I owe him thanks.

That first night, in a fit of inspiration, I composed the following two elegant sentences:

Welcome to my blog. Please check back soon for new entries.

Since I was a kid, I’ve dabbled at writing, in fits and starts, rarely to satisfactory completion. As I’ve said before, I’m a saver, an archivist of minutiae. Boxes of messy, scribbled-over, food-stained pages document countless abandoned writing projects. These fall into several phases, including the Smith-Corona period from high school and college, the IBM Selectric era (when my mother’s office upgraded, we purchased her old typewriter), and the Mac Plus/dot matrix printer years during grad school. (When I bought my first PC, which had a screen somewhat smaller than the original Kindle, the Internet was hardly more than a vague, crackpot notion.)

Most of my writing, in addition to being fragmentary and unfinished, remains unread, except very briefly, by me. There is the exception, I hope, of the many letters to friends and family. I turned these out at a particularly quick pace during my first job at the High Museum of Art. I was a fast typist (this was my only real marketable skill), and after transcribing my boss’s letters, there was usually time to pursue my own voluminous correspondence. I was in my twenties, my social life was active, and dear friends were newly scattered across the country. Those were the days when I had much of consequence to report, and much on which to comment. My letters were a substitute for the immediacy and intimacy of college life, together with friends, face-to-face, every day.

I almost forgot: there is one real writing project I did complete: my Ph.D. dissertation in art history, which is 345 pages long, accompanied by 150 pages of appendices and 289 photographs. It includes every obscure scintilla of information anyone could ever care to learn about a group of 14th-century English Apocalypse manuscripts. Most people, of course, are perfectly happy knowing absolutely nothing about these books. My tour de force was read by at least five people, my advisers. I’m sure of this because they scrutinized and questioned nearly every word during the four long years it took me to write it. My mother claims that she also read it. Now, impressively bound, the three volumes lead a life of quiet retirement on the bookshelves of our family room.

Other than my foray into medieval manuscript illumination, what I’ve always written about is daily life, and Wild Trumpet Vine continues along this course. I learned decades ago that I have neither the imagination nor the inclination to write fiction. Even today, in sedate suburban middle age, I am impressed by the richness that day-to-day living throws my way. I marvel at life’s quirks, its absurd, unexpected turns, its unbelievable coincidences, its oddities and its unpredictable moments of intense sweetness, when meaning is glimpsed in the midst of nonsense, and love triumphs over cruelty.

Wild Trumpet Vine is, in some sense, a more efficient version of my letter-writing. It refreshes existing links of friendship and family. Because I have many more years under my belt, my friends are more numerous, and far more scattered, than ever. With marriage, my family network has expanded considerably. I used to be an only child, now I have multiple brothers, sisters, nieces and nephews. The blog has worked to strengthen long-standing family ties, as well. Growing up, I knew many cousins only in name. Now, building on the bonds of kinship and the power of shared memories, we’re enjoying the blessing of friendship.

My little blog has a further advantage over letter writing: it encourages a wider, stronger web of connectedness. When new acquaintances, or friends of friends, are moved to comment, it is typically to say I know what you mean! I feel the same way! Their feedback emphasizes the depths of our common experience. Differences of culture and background–the details that may separate us–tend to fade away as the light of our humanity shines through.

To all those who join me, either regularly or occasionally, at Wild Trumpet Vine, I thank you. Your comments are always welcome–you needn’t agree with me to respond. Stick with me as we continue the journey.

Community, Faith and Spirituality, Family, Friendship, Memorials

Out of the Blue: A Prayer for 9/11

September 11, 2012 Wildtrumpetvine

The weather is beautiful today here in northern Virginia. The sky is clear and blue, the sun is bright, and the crisp, fresh promise of fall is in the air. Eleven years ago, September 11 began just as gloriously. We had no idea what was coming.

This morning, as I typically do on every September 11 since 2002, I find myself keeping an eye on the clock as 8:46 approaches. Anything I might say about my memory of that day runs the risk of sounding trite or self-important, so I won’t attempt it. All I can do is offer my prayer, in hopes that its power will be magnified as it joins and rises with the great cloud of kindred prayers around it.

On this September 11, I ask for God’s blessings on all those whose lives were irrevocably and tragically altered on that terrible day. For the thousands who died, and for the many more loved ones who grieve for them. For the children who grew up without a parent, for the spouses whose partners never returned, for the grandparents who became parents to their lost children’s children. For those whose pain still pierces, and for those who suffer guilt because some healing has taken place, because cherished memories have dimmed.

I give thanks for the many heroes who sacrificed their lives or endangered their health on that day to save strangers. For the firefighters, police and rescue workers who bravely answered the call to duty. For unlikely individuals, like the passengers of United Airlines Flight 93, who rose to the daunting challenge.

I give thanks for the unity we feel as a nation each year on September 11. I pray that it might outlast this one day. In the poisonous political atmosphere of this election year, may it inspire us to set aside our bitterness, for a while, at least, so that we might work together.

And, most of all, I thank God for the good that always comes from bad, even if, in our sorrow and anger, we may not see it until months or years later.

May we be especially receptive to the vitality of God’s blessings on this September 11. I pray that we will feel God’s mercy and love descending on us all, from out of the blue.

00128 — The lower Manhattan skyline seen from Liberty State Park, NJ on August 19, 1991.

Community, Family, Friendship, Nature, Parenthood, Travel

Our Summer Village on the Cape

September 7, 2012 Wildtrumpetvine

This year, H’s sister and her husband brought their three-month old baby to Cape Cod. We were not so brave. We waited until our daughter was two and a half. The year before, we had attempted our first family beach trip, to the Outer Banks, just the three of us. While it was a joy to experience the sun and sand from D’s fresh perspective, it was not a vacation. The demands of our beautiful child, limitless as always in those early years, were more difficult to satisfy, being away from home. We were simply caregivers in an alien setting, and there was minimal opportunity for relaxation or enjoyment. When D was awake in the hotel, which was most of the time, H worried she would awaken or annoy our neighbors. On the rare occasions when she finally succumbed to sleep, these same neighbors typically awakened her and annoyed me. There was great collective frustration all around.

That trip made me reassess the Cape Cod complex that H’s family has visited for over thirty years. Some cottages are covered in white clapboard, others in weathered cedar shakes. All are small but charming. They cluster, like the homes of a compact village, around two spacious central greens and a pool. It’s timeless, quintessential Old Cape Cod, exactly the picture conjured by that 1950s Patti Page song of the same name. An immensely wide beach, unusual for Truro, provides a buffer zone from the water. Rather than the pounding surf of the Atlantic, there is the relative tranquility of the bay. It suddenly hit me that this was a decidedly welcoming environment for small children and their parents.

CapeCod2010037 — One of the greens, empty in the early morning, but soon to fill with friends.

CapeCod2011252 — Before the narrow boardwalk was built, about ten years ago, the trek to the bay was rather daunting.

I realized that at the Cape there would be willing, helping hands, certainly those of Grandma and Grandpa, perhaps those of H’s sister and her husband. I wasn’t hoping to hand my child over completely, only grateful for any assistance that might be offered. I also knew by this time that our daughter tended to behave better when she knew there were other eyes on her besides those of Mama and Daddy.

0035 — D, at two and a half, happily at work on her sand-pouring skills.

H’s family’s adopted Cape Cod village opened its arms to welcome our daughter, and for her it was love at first sight. As children sometimes do, she appreciated the simplest things. She found it supremely entertaining to sit outside our cottage, pouring sand into a cup; she didn’t even need a pail or shovel. We would send her over to her grandparents’ cottage for cooking oil or butter, and she relished the responsibility. H would use the walkie-talkie to tell his parents D was on her way, and we’d keep her in our sights during her short journey. (There are no phones in the cottages, and before we were all so fiercely entangled in the web of technology, this meant an actual break from the typical work-a-day world.) Grandpa would signal D’s return, and she would arrive flushed and happy, more mature than when she had left.

00127 — D returns triumphantly from an errand.

There is a real sense of community in our vacation village, because families tend to return for the same week every year, and friendships are nourished. Most of the parents who are now H’s and my age grew up vacationing here with their families. Two sweet and thoughtful sisters, four and five years older than D, took her under their wings on our first visit. Through these girls, D became acquainted with kids of all ages. Even now, with one sister in college and the other a senior in high school, they remain close. All the kids look forward to their annual reunion. Friendships pick up seamlessly, as though no time has passed.

0053 — D with her best Cape friends. All teenagers now, the girls are still close.

Above, D and her friends float in the calm shallows of the bay, a pastime that never gets old. Sometimes the waves kick up and boogie boards come in handy, but the water is never as rough as the ocean. Having grown up with the Cape’s prodigious seaweed, none of the girls finds it objectionable (as I did, at first). Neither are they squeamish about the amazing variety of life in the water, which includes tiny shrimp, eels, sea worms, insects we refer to as potato bugs, and a vast number of unidentifiable, speedily swimming slimy things. Some years there are hosts of jelly fish, but typically these are the small non-stinging kind, drifting in the water like blobs of translucent white paste. D and her friends have always collected these in buckets, examined them, and returned them to the water. The blue crabs that lurk in the sand are ready to rumble, pincers poised for an unsuspecting, intrusive toe. Occasionally we see multitudes of horseshoe crabs, the dinosaurs of the crustacean world. And there are the furry-looking spider crabs, of which D is inexplicably fond, despite her distaste for true arachnids.

At low tide, the water of the bay empties out nearly completely, so it’s almost possible to walk across to Provincetown. Starfish, sand dollars and scallop shells are revealed among the reeds. It’s time for D and her friends to build expansive sand compounds, which they populate with feisty hermit crabs and slow-moving moon snails. Before long, the tide turns and begins to inch back in. Islands of sand appear and gradually diminish. Soon the bountiful and diverse life of the bay is submerged once again.

CapeCod2012111 — A view across the bay at low tide.

D and her friends congregate on the last remaining island as the tide rushes in.

KikoCCFriendsDC094 — In the warmth of the late afternoon sun, the green beckons to villagers of all ages.

KikoCCFriendsDC132 — A reed city in the sand, one of D’s ephemeral beach creations.

CapeCod2012119 — Our little nephew examines his tummy in the shade of his peapod.

This year, it was a blessing to welcome the new baby on the beach. It was also a blessing, at this stage of my life, to be the baby’s aunt rather than mother. D’s newest cousin looked out on the summer landscape from the shade of his peapod tent. When it appeared that even from that sheltered vantage point, the bright light made him cranky, Grandma and Grandpa went on a mission to Provincetown. They returned with infant sunglasses that strapped around the head with an elastic ribbon. This made their grandson, and all of us, much happier.

I had almost forgotten that magical essence of Baby. What a gift is a baby’s smile! How rewarding it is to share in his squeals of delight! Our darling nephew was just discovering his unique voice, and his vocal experiments were enchanting and enthusiastic. I had nearly forgotten the incomparable warmth and sweetness of a baby in my arms.

D treasured the time she spent with her cousin. For one week a year at least, he was, and will be, a substitute for the brother she never had. And I like to think that next year, when he’s old enough to walk, he will follow in our girl’s sandy footprints. I can see the two of them now, wandering through the sea grass, making their way down to the bay.

CapeCod2012120 — Still checking on the tummy, which is looking good.

Community, Family, Friendship

What if We Hadn’t Stopped the Road?

July 27, 2012 Wildtrumpetvine

AtlantaJuly2011053 — A large new Morningside home in the Druid Hills tradition.

Today’s residents of Atlanta can be proud that their city didn’t give up on the possibility of safe and pleasant neighborhoods flourishing near the heart of the city. The old was not sacrificed for the new simply because it fell briefly on hard times. I hate to think of how very different Atlanta might have been if the protests had been less robust, if I-485 had been built. It was a close call; it had been a sure thing, a project supported by the State of Georgia and City of Atlanta officials. By everyone, essentially, except those who lived in Morningside and Virginia-Highland.

Had a freeway been allowed to snake its way through these two historic neighborhoods, so much character would have been lost. Neighbors would be physically separated by concrete and steel. Trees and green space would be considerably diminished. Had I-485 been realized, there were plans for further widening of many area roads, as well as the demolition of Morningside and Inman elementary schools, both dating from the 20s. Today, both schools have been enlarged and beautifully restored, their architectural style of a piece with that of their neighborhoods.

In all likelihood, the area would have faded into a state of actual urban decay. Decades later, it might have recovered, to some degree. There would be owners who, out of necessity, would find a way to reconcile living along a highway ramp, a river of cars speeding through their back yards. Those monstrous sound-blocking fences might inflict further ugliness.

After the defeat I-485, much of its funding was diverted to MARTA. The city’s rapid transit system would not be as extensive and effective as it is today. Atlanta’s suburbs, now vast, might be even more sprawling, and the city’s mind-numbing traffic probably far worse. Morningside and Virginia-Highland are two of the most sought-after neighborhoods precisely because they are close and easily accessible to the real and varied life of the city. Their residents may avoid Atlanta’s terrifying freeways if they choose. Their homes are nestled safely in the eye of the storm.

Without a doubt, Morningside and Virginia-Highland would not be the inviting neighborhoods they are today; people would not be flocking into the city to live there. Most of the older homes would not have been lovingly restored. The newer ones would not have been so thoughtfully and appropriately reconfigured to fit in with a unified vision for the neighborhoods. While there are large new houses being constructed, there is not a cookie-cutter McMansion in sight. The surrounding landscape is rolling and verdant, sheltered by forests of tall trees.

The successful fight against the highway resulted in Atlanta’s neighborhoods having a greater say in what is built in their back yards. The city now has a system of Neighborhood Planning Units to ensure that residents have a real voice in matters that affect their lives.

Having witnessed first-hand the battle of the old neighborhoods against I-485, I know how fortunate I am to have learned this very important lesson at a young age: if you love something, it’s worth fighting for. And when we join together with one powerful, clear voice, we can accomplish great things.

AtlantaJuly2011057 — One of Morningside’s former 1960s ranches, enlarged and popped up.

AtlantaJuly20110561 — This Morningside home, refreshingly, looks almost exactly the same as it always has.

A blog about motherhood, marriage and life: the joys and frustrations, beauty and absurdity, blessings and pain. It's about looking back, looking ahead, and walking the dog.