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.
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.
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.
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.
The lower Manhattan skyline seen from Liberty State Park, NJ on August 19, 1991.
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.
One of the greens, empty in the early morning, but soon to fill with friends.
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.
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.
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.
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.
A view across the bay at low tide.
D and her friends congregate on the last remaining island as the tide rushes in.
In the warmth of the late afternoon sun, the green beckons to villagers of all ages.
A reed city in the sand, one of D’s ephemeral beach creations.
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.
Still checking on the tummy, which is looking good.
This first morning of school, which marks the start of my daughter’s eighth grade year, was a low-stress event. By now, D is an old pro in the art of back-to-school. But of course this wasn’t always the case. Each September, I think back on some of the first of these first days. The photos that follow were taken after D returned home from school each time.
D was less than lighthearted on the morning she began preschool at our church. She was not quite three years old, and she would have much rather stayed home with me. I, however, very seriously needed some time apart from my darling child. It was just three mornings a week, the perfect break, I was sure. D was hesitant and apprehensive when I dropped her off. But she was stoic enough not to cry.Three hours later, when I returned to pick her up, she was a different kid altogether: cool and confident to the point of cocky. My parents, who were visiting, found it hard to believe the change. It was difficult to say which child we preferred, the meek or the bold, as both were extremes. Fortunately, she eased into a middle ground after a few weeks of the routine.
The first day of Kindergarten followed a similar script. D did not like the thought of going to school EVERY SINGLE DAY, even though it was still only a few hours; all-day Kindergarten is a recent development in our area. H and I hadn’t gotten used to the idea of daily school for our daughter, either. This was the morning we both cried as we waved to our brave but butterfly-filled baby on that big yellow bus. (See my earlier post, Moving Up to Middle School, October 2011.)
The daughter that hopped off the bus, just before noon, was, once again, boldly self-assured.
On the first morning of first grade, it was the longer hours that had us all somewhat concerned. How would D cope with nearly a full day away from her Mama, away from home? She would eat lunch in that loud and crowded cafeteria, and she was so little! How would I manage with her being gone?
Turns out, we were both OK. D was more tired, and therefore not quite as full of herself as she had been on those earlier first days. But she had learned that this school stuff wouldn’t be all that bad. She could take it in stride, the ups and the downs. I would usually manage to do so, as well.
It’s reassuring to reflect on these early firsts, to remember how our family adjusted to the new school year’s changing circumstances.
But the look back also reminds me that the future is unpredictable and unknowable. The day that followed D’s first day of preschool was September 11, 2001.
One of the nicest things about returning to the same place year after year is having the time to take note of the small details, those that change, and those that stay the same. My favorite early-morning activity is a breezy walk along Shore Road. It hugs a narrow strip of land, bordered on one side by the bay, and on the other, by marshy ponds, dunes, and the Atlantic Ocean. After years of making this walk, I have committed most of its imagery to memory.
Quaint, lovingly maintained cottages, surrounded by lush flowers and foliage, abound on Shore Road. Scrubby, tenacious Cape Cod roses (Rosa rugosa), thrive in the sandy soil and salt air.
This iconic Cape Cod cottage is as forthright as a child’s drawing, surrounded by hydrangeas and set on a neat green lawn.
Not everything on Shore Road is postcard-perfect, I’m happy to say. The picturesquely scruffy makes a showing, as well. This small dilapidated motel property is perpetually for sale. I photograph it every year, and its changes are minimal. One or two decaying beach chairs always keep watch on the bay. The above photo dates from August 2012.
My photo of the same spot, from August 2010.
I document Door #19 of the old motel every year. It varies only in the amount and configuration of its greenery. Above is this year’s photo.
Last year’s photo, with a greater abundance of vines.
Sunflowers and Queen Anne’s Lace stake their claim to this forgotten fragment of a wooden porch.
Two crows pose next to a cross-like clothesline support.
This vacant lot is home to a community of birdhouses, including a central caboose.
Last year’s Birdland centerpiece was a lighthouse.
The neat white and green boxes of Days’ Cottages, set in a line against the bay, date from 1931. Each structure bears the name of a flower, such as Freesia, Dahlia and Petunia. This long-lived and virtually unchanged cottage colony has a loyal clientele. It is a popular subject for local artists.
Last year I spotted this red fox enjoying the quiet of an enclosed yard. He kept a keen eye on me as he scratched repeatedly, shook, and then trotted off unhurriedly toward the sand. Of course he
reminded me of Kiko. On every walk along Shore Road, I somehow end up thinking about Kiko, and I wish he were walking with me.
Our family vacation to Cape Cod, immediately followed by Vacation Bible School at our church, has kept me away from Wild Trumpet Vine for three weeks. I’m reorganizing and restructuring, picking through the accumulation.
It’s slow going. As everyone lucky enough to enjoy an actual vacation knows, the aftermath can be a struggle. I’m not complaining, simply stating the facts. There is, of course, the unloading of the jampacked car, after which the house becomes a confused muddle of disparate, sometimes nearly unrecognizable objects. Our vacation gear included bulky black plastic bags filled with slightly soured swimsuits and mounds of beach towels, still-sandy aqua-socks, a million pairs of other assorted footwear, enough damp rain jackets for a family of twelve, my Truro Vineyards wine, piles of sticky Penney Patch candy, the shells we foraged from the bay, the salt we boiled out of the sea, containers of half-eaten car snacks, and bundles of dog-eared magazines.
All this settled in uncomfortably with odd Vacation Bible School props such as Christmas lights, Bible-era robes, a blue wig, a garden trellis and a homemade catapult. Fortunately, H and D put most of the beach paraphernalia–the sand chairs and umbrellas, boogie boards, the thousand and one toys for throwing and digging, and H’s windsurfing board and sails–straight into the basement. An enormous tower of mail soon arrived, nearly all of it unwelcome. Kiko, back from the kennel, had begun to shed in dramatic earnest. A single pat of his skinny back sent clouds of fur whirling through the air, the final seasoning to the late-summer stew we were simmering. The clean-up is ongoing.
The lighthouse at Provincetown’s Wood End, seen from near the jetty.
Provincetown Harbour, showing the Pilgrim Monument and the towers of the Unitarian Church and and Town Hall.
The Wood End Light, seen from our stomping grounds in Truro.
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.
One of Morningside’s former 1960s ranches, enlarged and popped up.
This Morningside home, refreshingly, looks almost exactly the same as it always has.
There were several large sections of Morningside and Virginia-Highland where multiple homes were demolished in anticipation of I-485. Some of these have been transformed into popular community parks. Exploring the inventive playscapes in these parks was, for my daughter, one of the highlights of every visit to Atlanta when she was growing up.
The most extensive of these once-vacant areas is on Virginia Avenue, across from Inman School (formerly Elementary, now Middle), where eleven houses were torn down to make way for a highway interchange. The land remained scrubby and untended for many years. In 1988 it became John Howell Memorial Park, named for a Virginia-Highland resident who helped lead the fight against I-485 and who died from complications of HIV. Along the Virginia Avenue entrance stand eleven granite piers (modeled on those on St. Louis Place and elsewhere in the neighborhood), each bearing a plaque with an address of one of the lost homes. Appealing landscaping, a children’s playground and a sandy area for volleyball guarantee that the park is always lively.
One section of John Howell Park has become the Cunard Memorial Playground. In the summer of 2003, a sudden blinding thunderstorm stopped evening rush hour traffic throughout the city. A huge oak tree, its roots weakened, fell across North Highland diagonally onto the SUV of a young family, killing Lisa Cunard and her two sons, Max, age three and Owen, just six months old. Her husband, Brad, who had been driving, survived physically unharmed. The parents had just picked up Max from preschool, and Lisa was riding in the back seat, as she usually did, to be closer to her boys. Firefighters from that old Virginia-Highland station rushed across the street, ready to extricate victims and perform CPR, but it was too late.
My daughter and I were in Atlanta during the tragedy. When the storm hit, with violent force, we were stuck in the car with my parents along another tree-lined road not far away. Atlanta’s trees are majestic and many, but they can also be a threat. Our vulnerability, as lightning struck all around us, was imminently clear. The ride home was slow-going and nerve-wracking, but we were lucky; we made it. That night we heard the news about the Cunard family, who had been so terribly, horribly, heart-breakingly unlucky.
D has a particular fondness for the Cunard Playground. Like many Atlantans, we both feel a connection to the family, because we remember that hideous night so well. I knew the tree that fell; I knew the house in front of which it had stood. We had been in that exact spot many times.
The playscapes at the Cunard include easy-going toddler attractions and some especially ingenious contraptions for older kids. I don’t have the words to describe these latter creations; I’ve never encountered such things before. As if to emphasize the need to live this short life to the fullest, they are apparently intended for determined daredevils. D has always referred to this park as the “spinny” park because it’s possible there to spin round and round, at varying speeds, in a crazy variety of ways. When she urges me to have a go on one of these whirling oddities, I know I’m a real grown-up, because I’m sure that immediate nausea would follow. I also know I would have loved all these inventively twirling things, just as D does, when I was a kid. My husband has tried them, and even he must admit that he also is an adult.
The Cunard Playground was, like the defeat of I-485, a remarkable community effort. The grieving friends, family and neighbors of the Cunard family joined together to ensure that this loving mother and her two boys, so very young, will be remembered in a vital and meaningful way. The playground is a unique and fitting memorial, an exultant space that Max and Owen would, no doubt, have cherished.
D and her friend who introduced us to the Cunard Memorial Playground.
A quiet, briefly non-spinning moment.I used to enjoy cutting and pasting so my one daughter would become two. Every day when she was young, though, I was thankful that she was not twins. Here, she attempts the spinning circle, twice.
Our most recent Atlanta visit, of course, included a visit to the spinny park.
This thing is one of D’s favorites. I don’t really get it.
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.
