It's just a quick jog around the block, up and over the flyover across the busy city highway, and down the other side to catch the 408. The bus arrives and it's more than packed. We push on anyway, understanding that any bus in this city at this time of day will be equally packed. There's no waiting for one more empty because there won't be one.
Our multi-pass cards are in our wallets and we simply touch the keypad at the front of the bus to register our fare. All of 11 cents for two of us to ride five miles. We're stuck on the steps of the bus, right up by the driver, with about ten other people. The bus keeps stopping and more people push on. Not for the intrepid, these busses. Some people pass their card in for a swipe and then trot back to the middle to push on there. We keep getting hit in the shoulders every time they open and close.
Finally one of the little men beside us motions toward the back and we see that a miniscule amount of space has opened up. He leads the way and we get almost to the middle of the bus. By the time we reach our stop, some of the congestion has cleared, but there still are no seats available on the bus.
Coming home two hours later, we both get seats for the whole ride. Time makes a difference.
Why bother with a crowded bus? It's the sense of freedom that comes from having a multi-pass and a basic knowledge of public transportation. Free from the need to tell a taxi driver, in fractured Chinese, where we want to go. Free from the nightmare of driving ourselves, or the hassle that would come from trying to find a parking spot in a city where they come dear.
True, there are times when a car would be nice, such as when one has large packages, but that's rare. More times than not one is simply going from point A to point B with a small backpack or purse and umbrella.
Before long we'll leave the city of mass transit and head back to Motor City. There will be two cars in the drive and gasoline to purchase. We'll miss the life of ease in motion. No busses, no trams, no subways.
And of course, no where nearly the volume of people who make it possible to offer a ride across the city in busses back to back for a mere 11 cents.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Funny-silly uncles
The evening sunshine in the back yard dances across a gray haired man playing with two little blond girls -- suddenly I drop more than 30 years and see a yard hundreds of miles away. The little girls look much the same, but the man is far younger with thick black hair. The antics, the jokes, the fun. It's silly-funny uncle fun, but now he's the great-uncle and the little girls are the next generation of the original children.
I used to love watching the three originals back those more than 30 years. Sometimes they were on their feet with games and "pony rides" and other times they were flat on their bellies, all three of them, heads close together as they explored worms and bugs deep in the grass. Thanks to the silly-funny uncle, the little girls moved to Asia with absolutely NO fear of insects.
When the uncle married and had his own children, there was a slight hiccup of fear that maybe, just maybe, nieces wouldn't be important anymore. But that fear was never realized. The silly-funny uncle remained just as much of a treasure and the nieces happily took care of their little cousins. Their younger sister, the age of the cousins, took them on as brothers for life. Eventually she moved north to work for the silly-funny uncle and enjoyed adult conversation.
It's time to eat and the Bear announces that SHE will sit by HIM. Throughout dinner there are comparisons of menu choices, amounts of food in the mouth, and who's got the cleanest plate. Bear banters with this man she hardly knew an hour ago as if he was all hers, and so he is. At one point she scolds him for calling her grandfather his brother.
"He's not your brother," she says with certainty. "He's my Poppa."
"But your Poppa is my brother," says funny uncle, "My much older brother!"
Bear ponders this relationship. Can gray haired men be brothers?
When it's time for dessert funny uncle makes a big scene of eating the salad in front of him. "This is dessert," he tells Bear. Bear protests loudly. "No," he continues, "We're having salad for dessert. Don't you like salad." Well, yes, but not for dessert.
I'm making coffee inside the house when Bear comes and tugs at my back pockets. "Grammy, I want a different dessert."
"A different dessert?" I'm puzzled. "We're having brownies and ice cream. Oh wait, did you think your funny uncle was serious when he said we were having salad for dessert?"
There's a moment of hesitation as the child-who-trusts-her-adults wrestles with the child-who-loves-pretend, a final hard look, and then a low chuckle from the Bear.
"Naaah, he's just being silly....isn't he?"
I used to love watching the three originals back those more than 30 years. Sometimes they were on their feet with games and "pony rides" and other times they were flat on their bellies, all three of them, heads close together as they explored worms and bugs deep in the grass. Thanks to the silly-funny uncle, the little girls moved to Asia with absolutely NO fear of insects.
When the uncle married and had his own children, there was a slight hiccup of fear that maybe, just maybe, nieces wouldn't be important anymore. But that fear was never realized. The silly-funny uncle remained just as much of a treasure and the nieces happily took care of their little cousins. Their younger sister, the age of the cousins, took them on as brothers for life. Eventually she moved north to work for the silly-funny uncle and enjoyed adult conversation.
It's time to eat and the Bear announces that SHE will sit by HIM. Throughout dinner there are comparisons of menu choices, amounts of food in the mouth, and who's got the cleanest plate. Bear banters with this man she hardly knew an hour ago as if he was all hers, and so he is. At one point she scolds him for calling her grandfather his brother.
"He's not your brother," she says with certainty. "He's my Poppa."
"But your Poppa is my brother," says funny uncle, "My much older brother!"
Bear ponders this relationship. Can gray haired men be brothers?
When it's time for dessert funny uncle makes a big scene of eating the salad in front of him. "This is dessert," he tells Bear. Bear protests loudly. "No," he continues, "We're having salad for dessert. Don't you like salad." Well, yes, but not for dessert.
I'm making coffee inside the house when Bear comes and tugs at my back pockets. "Grammy, I want a different dessert."
"A different dessert?" I'm puzzled. "We're having brownies and ice cream. Oh wait, did you think your funny uncle was serious when he said we were having salad for dessert?"
There's a moment of hesitation as the child-who-trusts-her-adults wrestles with the child-who-loves-pretend, a final hard look, and then a low chuckle from the Bear.
"Naaah, he's just being silly....isn't he?"
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Joy and sorrow shared
I was doing all right till I picked up the birthday balloon -- red and blue and yellow -- blazoned with Birthday Boy! A very much loved balloon that has been dragged all over the house, bounced and tossed, a bit of a Pooh balloon on the way to Eeyore.
In my mind I see a little towheaded boy with big blue eyes and a huge grin thumping his way across the floor to greet me. Or coming down the stairs in the morning with his mom, ready for breakfast, all smiles. Or holding fast to my finger, trudging across the thick green of the backyard.
What was never meant to be became a comfortable way of life. Boomerang, Shared space. Intergenerational living.
A year ago we descended into a large flat in Asia for a brief visit. Unexpectedly we fell in love with the neighborhood and the city, and the little boy blue, only to find at the end that we'd likely never return. The job that kept his dad there was gone, the expectations moved on.
Two months after that the little boy, with parents in tow, descended on my house. For a brief visit. Unexpectedly the visit turned into weeks, months, almost a year. The space stretched, the walls expanded, the noise level rose. And a rhythm and camraderie developed that was satisfying and rewarding. Everyone had roles, places, jobs, spaces. The machine ran smoothly.
And in the middle of the tornado was a little boy with huge blue eyes, growing daily.
Life happened in these months. Death came and visited and we mourned together. Held each other and handed out tissues. Worked through grief and loss and pain. Winter was long and bitterly cold. But birthdays came too and parties. Family time in huge heaps. Children in every corner. Sticky fingers, sticky cupboard knobs, and stickier floors.
I walk through the house and feel the silence.
There's a little green Fischer Price man on the bedroom floor, well chewed. A few toys scatter across the family room. Several wayward blueberries are hiding under the booster chair. How did the little fingers ever let those precious blueberries escape?
Tomorrow I'll wake and go on. Life is very full and I have promises to keep. People to see, work to accomplish, places to go. But now, before I sleep, I'll sit and count the losses and let the tears run down my cheeks.
Life is to be shared and that sharing is rich. Separation is painful and that pain runs deep. Both are there, two sides of the same coin, inextricably linked. Yet somehow the interchange is richer because we know separation will come, know we'll survive, and know we'll come together again. Another time, another city, another life.
Miles to go before we sleep.
In my mind I see a little towheaded boy with big blue eyes and a huge grin thumping his way across the floor to greet me. Or coming down the stairs in the morning with his mom, ready for breakfast, all smiles. Or holding fast to my finger, trudging across the thick green of the backyard.
What was never meant to be became a comfortable way of life. Boomerang, Shared space. Intergenerational living.
A year ago we descended into a large flat in Asia for a brief visit. Unexpectedly we fell in love with the neighborhood and the city, and the little boy blue, only to find at the end that we'd likely never return. The job that kept his dad there was gone, the expectations moved on.
Two months after that the little boy, with parents in tow, descended on my house. For a brief visit. Unexpectedly the visit turned into weeks, months, almost a year. The space stretched, the walls expanded, the noise level rose. And a rhythm and camraderie developed that was satisfying and rewarding. Everyone had roles, places, jobs, spaces. The machine ran smoothly.
And in the middle of the tornado was a little boy with huge blue eyes, growing daily.
Life happened in these months. Death came and visited and we mourned together. Held each other and handed out tissues. Worked through grief and loss and pain. Winter was long and bitterly cold. But birthdays came too and parties. Family time in huge heaps. Children in every corner. Sticky fingers, sticky cupboard knobs, and stickier floors.
I walk through the house and feel the silence.
There's a little green Fischer Price man on the bedroom floor, well chewed. A few toys scatter across the family room. Several wayward blueberries are hiding under the booster chair. How did the little fingers ever let those precious blueberries escape?
Tomorrow I'll wake and go on. Life is very full and I have promises to keep. People to see, work to accomplish, places to go. But now, before I sleep, I'll sit and count the losses and let the tears run down my cheeks.
Life is to be shared and that sharing is rich. Separation is painful and that pain runs deep. Both are there, two sides of the same coin, inextricably linked. Yet somehow the interchange is richer because we know separation will come, know we'll survive, and know we'll come together again. Another time, another city, another life.
Miles to go before we sleep.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Little Boy Blue
Happy birthday, Little Boy Blue. Twelve months ago you entered the world amid the smells and noise and bustle and heat of Hong Kong. In your first week you got a passport, rode taxis, trains, and vans, and then took a ferry across the bay to your home. Now you've traded my favorite 31st window seat for the green grass of an American backyard.
It's been a year of hard losses. First your dad lost his job. Then you lost your adopted country. When you boarded a plane and moved halfway around the world, you lost the wonderful international family that welcomed you into the world. With your parents, you lost a culture and a precious way of life.
In the winter you lost your oldest cousin. You won't have any recollection of her, but she will temper your family and your life. You lost your dad, too, in a sense, when he had to leave to take a job in another state.
Sometimes I wish we could roll back the calendar. We'd sneak away and catch a plane to Lantau, then get the ferry across the bay. Your dad would go find ice cream at McDonalds and your mom would find Mabel and Lynn and catch up on the news. Your poppa would shoot pictures till his heart was satisfied. You and I would walk the streets, and eat ginger candy, and listen to the babble of languages. We'd go find Mr. Wong and he'd stretch his arms wide at how big you are. We'd be home, Little Boy Blue.
But it would be a dream -- because life doesn't work that way -- and it shouldn't. Life moves forward, not backwards. Your roots will influence you forever, but each year will add new dimensions. Take it all and make it yours. Stand proud when someone snickers at where you were born, or asks why you use chopsticks to eat your rice. Call your cats mau mau, and wave tai jien when you go out the door. Don't live in the past, but don't forget it either.
You've lost much, but you've gained more. Two sets of grandparents, aunts and uncles and cousins, and bundles of extended family and friends. You've charmed the ladies on this side of the ocean just as you did on the other side. You've found that dads can climb into computer screens and have dinner with you, even from another state.
Soon you and your mom will join your dad and build a new life in DC. The mau mau will dash up and down the four flights of the townhouse, and you'll be close behind. There will be neighbors and friends because your mom and dad always find neighbors and friends. You'll visit the capitol and the memorials, the museums and the zoo. You'll learn to eat crabcakes and grits and put honey on your biscuits. I'm sure you'll find the best Chinese restaurants, and Indian, and Lebanese and all the other ethnic wonders of a big city.
In God's timing, you'll see your birthplace again. Meanwhile, dig your little toes into the thick grass and chase the cottonwood puffs across the yard. It's your birthday, little guy, so celebrate all you have. For all you've lost, the priceless things are what remain.
It's been a year of hard losses. First your dad lost his job. Then you lost your adopted country. When you boarded a plane and moved halfway around the world, you lost the wonderful international family that welcomed you into the world. With your parents, you lost a culture and a precious way of life.
In the winter you lost your oldest cousin. You won't have any recollection of her, but she will temper your family and your life. You lost your dad, too, in a sense, when he had to leave to take a job in another state.
Sometimes I wish we could roll back the calendar. We'd sneak away and catch a plane to Lantau, then get the ferry across the bay. Your dad would go find ice cream at McDonalds and your mom would find Mabel and Lynn and catch up on the news. Your poppa would shoot pictures till his heart was satisfied. You and I would walk the streets, and eat ginger candy, and listen to the babble of languages. We'd go find Mr. Wong and he'd stretch his arms wide at how big you are. We'd be home, Little Boy Blue.
But it would be a dream -- because life doesn't work that way -- and it shouldn't. Life moves forward, not backwards. Your roots will influence you forever, but each year will add new dimensions. Take it all and make it yours. Stand proud when someone snickers at where you were born, or asks why you use chopsticks to eat your rice. Call your cats mau mau, and wave tai jien when you go out the door. Don't live in the past, but don't forget it either.
You've lost much, but you've gained more. Two sets of grandparents, aunts and uncles and cousins, and bundles of extended family and friends. You've charmed the ladies on this side of the ocean just as you did on the other side. You've found that dads can climb into computer screens and have dinner with you, even from another state.
Soon you and your mom will join your dad and build a new life in DC. The mau mau will dash up and down the four flights of the townhouse, and you'll be close behind. There will be neighbors and friends because your mom and dad always find neighbors and friends. You'll visit the capitol and the memorials, the museums and the zoo. You'll learn to eat crabcakes and grits and put honey on your biscuits. I'm sure you'll find the best Chinese restaurants, and Indian, and Lebanese and all the other ethnic wonders of a big city.
In God's timing, you'll see your birthplace again. Meanwhile, dig your little toes into the thick grass and chase the cottonwood puffs across the yard. It's your birthday, little guy, so celebrate all you have. For all you've lost, the priceless things are what remain.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
United nations
The chill wind tugs at my fleece but the sun is still shining brightly at 8 PM. Poppies fly a brave orange over in one yard; bright red geraniums and petunia line a driveway. But it's the people that fascinate me when I ride. A bike trip through the neighborhoods is like a trip around the world.
a all orange turbaned Sikh walks with calm dignity down the sidewalk like a tall ship sailing into harbor. His wife saried in bright blue is a bobbing dinghy about eight steps behind him. Perhaps they've been to the Indian restaurant up the street, or maybe they are just out strolling. Two teen girls pass them, dark haired, chatting in Spanish.
We round a corner and an Indonesian man, white Muslim cap firm on his head, is playing tag with his little sons and a golden cocker. They laugh and wave us by, grabbing the little dog so she doesn't chase the bikes.
Another Indian woman is kneeling in her hard planting flowers. A Middle Eastern woman, head firmly covered, ambles down the sidewalk talking in Arabic on her cell phone. A Chinese couple are sitting on their deck.
The neighborhoods are looking settled these days. The trees have almost 30 years of growth behind them and they shade most of the yards. When we first came here the cornfields were still edging the western end of the subdivisions and our yards were only a few years out of those same fields. Trees were rare. Squirrels and birds didn't come for some time. Now the rabbits are rampant, nibbling the edges of well trimmed yards, and the birds and squirrels rule. Possums, coons, and the occasional deer or coyote still range the further neighborhoods and wooded areas.
So very Midwest, and yet so international. A contrast one every corner, in every block. I watch my international neighbors, knowing full well how different this is from their countries of origin. Yet here they are, settling into a new world as I often do in theirs.
We round the corner toward home and come up our circle. Our Hindu neighbor is bringing out his trash cans, baggy pajama bottoms flapping in the rising breeze. Our kids have gone through school together. He liked our kitchen remodel and improved the design into his house. We stop and chat for a few minutes.
India, China, Lebanon, Pakistan, and other peoples, all in one small block of the Midwest. Almost need a passport to go out on a bike. Little wonder that the local school field is busy every weekend night with scores of young men and a game of ... cricket!
a all orange turbaned Sikh walks with calm dignity down the sidewalk like a tall ship sailing into harbor. His wife saried in bright blue is a bobbing dinghy about eight steps behind him. Perhaps they've been to the Indian restaurant up the street, or maybe they are just out strolling. Two teen girls pass them, dark haired, chatting in Spanish.
We round a corner and an Indonesian man, white Muslim cap firm on his head, is playing tag with his little sons and a golden cocker. They laugh and wave us by, grabbing the little dog so she doesn't chase the bikes.
Another Indian woman is kneeling in her hard planting flowers. A Middle Eastern woman, head firmly covered, ambles down the sidewalk talking in Arabic on her cell phone. A Chinese couple are sitting on their deck.
The neighborhoods are looking settled these days. The trees have almost 30 years of growth behind them and they shade most of the yards. When we first came here the cornfields were still edging the western end of the subdivisions and our yards were only a few years out of those same fields. Trees were rare. Squirrels and birds didn't come for some time. Now the rabbits are rampant, nibbling the edges of well trimmed yards, and the birds and squirrels rule. Possums, coons, and the occasional deer or coyote still range the further neighborhoods and wooded areas.
So very Midwest, and yet so international. A contrast one every corner, in every block. I watch my international neighbors, knowing full well how different this is from their countries of origin. Yet here they are, settling into a new world as I often do in theirs.
We round the corner toward home and come up our circle. Our Hindu neighbor is bringing out his trash cans, baggy pajama bottoms flapping in the rising breeze. Our kids have gone through school together. He liked our kitchen remodel and improved the design into his house. We stop and chat for a few minutes.
India, China, Lebanon, Pakistan, and other peoples, all in one small block of the Midwest. Almost need a passport to go out on a bike. Little wonder that the local school field is busy every weekend night with scores of young men and a game of ... cricket!
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Memorial stones
We begin the service with a loud gong. Then, a trumpet in the balcony pierces the silence and a flugelhorn answers from the platform. The guitars kick in with the drums and we’re off and running.
One song down, the organist picks up America the Beautiful and the old vets come in from the back, carrying flags. Year by year they come on Memorial Sunday, each year a few less than the year before. One woman is in a wheel chair this time. I note that Brad is shepherding them in, still young and erect in his Navy dress uniform. They march forward and slowly place flags on the platform. Brad steps up and leads the pledge.
Later, the familiar bars of “Eternal Father, Strong to Save” lift from the organ and we repeat a tradition. Each verse is designated for a different branch of the military and those who have served in the past are invited to come forward.
The navy leads out on “whose arm doth still the restless wave.” Men begin to move down the aisles, some with vigor, and others moving very slowly. I see old Jack off to the left, cautiously making his way, hand over pew, hand over pew.
Next the Army and Marines come forward on “hill and plain.” There’s Roger coming from the back. His dad was an WWII army man who left his heart in Japan. After college in the US, he packed his wife and kids back to Japan for several decades where he helped rebuild the youth of a broken country. Roger, an army cook, also cooks a mean Japanese dinner.
When the air force hear “the eagles flight” several women join the group up front. Don and Dottie, who met in the air force, come in from the far right. Debbie slips out of the seat next to us, trim and young in her crisp uniform. Unlike most of the vets, she and Brad still fit in theirs.
On “danger’s hour” the police, firefighters, EMT and other local services are honored. By this time there are probably 50 men and women stretched across the front. The standing ovation lasts several minutes.
As they break ranks to head back, I see Brad take his father’s arm. Chet is 91 now, and Brad gently guides him back to his pew and delivers him to Irene. Brad slips into his space across the aisle where his kids greet him with glowing faces. Local hero, at least in pew 27.
John takes the platform and speaks of memorial stones from Joshua 4. “Why do we put up stones for memorials? Why do we bother to remember? Why do we need to look back as we move forward?”
He reminds us that the people in Joshua 4 who cross the Jordan and place stones for their children, are the children who crossed the Red Sea before they were twenty. Their parents forgot the significance of their past and didn’t get to move forward. They get another chance to choose for themselves. It is a choice to let the significant sacrifice of the past mold our future. We can chose to remember and set up stones.
Or we can let it go. Our choice. Our consequence.
One song down, the organist picks up America the Beautiful and the old vets come in from the back, carrying flags. Year by year they come on Memorial Sunday, each year a few less than the year before. One woman is in a wheel chair this time. I note that Brad is shepherding them in, still young and erect in his Navy dress uniform. They march forward and slowly place flags on the platform. Brad steps up and leads the pledge.
Later, the familiar bars of “Eternal Father, Strong to Save” lift from the organ and we repeat a tradition. Each verse is designated for a different branch of the military and those who have served in the past are invited to come forward.
The navy leads out on “whose arm doth still the restless wave.” Men begin to move down the aisles, some with vigor, and others moving very slowly. I see old Jack off to the left, cautiously making his way, hand over pew, hand over pew.
Next the Army and Marines come forward on “hill and plain.” There’s Roger coming from the back. His dad was an WWII army man who left his heart in Japan. After college in the US, he packed his wife and kids back to Japan for several decades where he helped rebuild the youth of a broken country. Roger, an army cook, also cooks a mean Japanese dinner.
When the air force hear “the eagles flight” several women join the group up front. Don and Dottie, who met in the air force, come in from the far right. Debbie slips out of the seat next to us, trim and young in her crisp uniform. Unlike most of the vets, she and Brad still fit in theirs.
On “danger’s hour” the police, firefighters, EMT and other local services are honored. By this time there are probably 50 men and women stretched across the front. The standing ovation lasts several minutes.
As they break ranks to head back, I see Brad take his father’s arm. Chet is 91 now, and Brad gently guides him back to his pew and delivers him to Irene. Brad slips into his space across the aisle where his kids greet him with glowing faces. Local hero, at least in pew 27.
John takes the platform and speaks of memorial stones from Joshua 4. “Why do we put up stones for memorials? Why do we bother to remember? Why do we need to look back as we move forward?”
He reminds us that the people in Joshua 4 who cross the Jordan and place stones for their children, are the children who crossed the Red Sea before they were twenty. Their parents forgot the significance of their past and didn’t get to move forward. They get another chance to choose for themselves. It is a choice to let the significant sacrifice of the past mold our future. We can chose to remember and set up stones.
Or we can let it go. Our choice. Our consequence.
Friday, May 8, 2009
The Dragon and the Castle
Sunlight is picking out the gray stone on the face of the castle when we pull into the entrance drive. Through the years this castle has held a fascination. A childhood playground for me, a wedding venue for friends, a classroom for my mother and aunt picking up summer education credits.
Tonight it’s the Dragon’s turn to storm the castle.
This was the university she chose two years ago to pursue a Masters in English, and it has, for her, been an excellent choice. The gathering is the English grad students, each presenting a précis of their thesis. There’s much bustle as students and faculty, family and friends arrive and file into the ostentatiously ornate Rose Room off the main entrance.
Entering the castle for the first time is a step back into time. A huge staircase rises center stage to a second mezzanine, with yet another lofting above that. Deep mahogany paneling punctuates the vaulted ceiling high overhead and leaded glass windows glitter above the stairs out onto the back lawns.
Our guests are entranced. The older ladies have known this campus for decades, but also have not visited in many years. The young friend with us has never seen the campus, and particularly, never seen the castle. She’s ready to enroll -- except that she graduates next week with her own Masters so doesn’t need another degree right now.
The castle is the odd extravagance of a sugar baron plunked in suburban Philadelphia. Growing up down the street, I took the castle for granted. The legendary history was as common place as the red tiles of the carriage houses. Tonight I look at it anew and appreciate the beauty of the old building. Though the inside shows signs of the wear of academia, it still is a jewel.
The Dreamer, always building castles in her mind, would have loved to study here. The Driver might have found it a bit dramatic, but she too enjoys history. But to the Dragon, this was the place.
The Dragon’s thesis is stories from the past, history wound intricately with fiction, family legends laced with emotions that slowly catch your heart and take your breath away, ideas that are both a century old and somehow very much today. This is the right place for her to present her work.
Every castle needs a Dragon.
Tonight it’s the Dragon’s turn to storm the castle.
This was the university she chose two years ago to pursue a Masters in English, and it has, for her, been an excellent choice. The gathering is the English grad students, each presenting a précis of their thesis. There’s much bustle as students and faculty, family and friends arrive and file into the ostentatiously ornate Rose Room off the main entrance.
Entering the castle for the first time is a step back into time. A huge staircase rises center stage to a second mezzanine, with yet another lofting above that. Deep mahogany paneling punctuates the vaulted ceiling high overhead and leaded glass windows glitter above the stairs out onto the back lawns.
Our guests are entranced. The older ladies have known this campus for decades, but also have not visited in many years. The young friend with us has never seen the campus, and particularly, never seen the castle. She’s ready to enroll -- except that she graduates next week with her own Masters so doesn’t need another degree right now.
The castle is the odd extravagance of a sugar baron plunked in suburban Philadelphia. Growing up down the street, I took the castle for granted. The legendary history was as common place as the red tiles of the carriage houses. Tonight I look at it anew and appreciate the beauty of the old building. Though the inside shows signs of the wear of academia, it still is a jewel.
The Dreamer, always building castles in her mind, would have loved to study here. The Driver might have found it a bit dramatic, but she too enjoys history. But to the Dragon, this was the place.
The Dragon’s thesis is stories from the past, history wound intricately with fiction, family legends laced with emotions that slowly catch your heart and take your breath away, ideas that are both a century old and somehow very much today. This is the right place for her to present her work.
Every castle needs a Dragon.
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