Friendship Stories

This is another story about one of the four road trips I've made in the past six weeks to see friends and family. The most recent, this past weekend, to Western Pennsylvania to see a dear friend, who has been absent from my life for about twelve-fifteen years. Many years ago, we were musicians who practiced and performed together. Or rather, he was the musician and I, the wanna-be rock singer. Life took us down different paths and these days, he's a celebrity in a circuit of excellent musicians in a small mountainous village in western Pennsylvania. I'm an English teacher.

Actually, the trip took me back to an old dream that I never pursued, one that haunts me. But, aren't all unfulfilled promises and dreams haunting? Like the old barn in the picture that persists in standing at the side of the paved highway, beneath power lines held taut by the poles, this dream has wrapped itself tightly around my heart. It may deteriorate, even though, like the old barn, it's cast against the promise of an afternoon summer sky and surrounded by lush greenery and wildflowers. It may dry up and blow away, like a fragile leaf unable to cling to the branch of a birch tree. But, I don't think it will.

In a similar way, friendships stand up under all sorts of conditions--rain, sun, changes in seasons. At least most of mine have. I tend to choose friends who are stable, down-to-earth, unaltering souls who don't surprise me much. Sure, I like the spontaneous, fun-loving, changable folk as well, but my favorite friends allow themselves to be predictable in my eyes. I'm often the daredevil, the strong outgoing person of the pair. This is the dynamic I prefer in a friendship because it grounds me, the way a storm restores energy to the earth.

Another close friend--not so close in proximity--he lives in Sweden these days, has re-appeared and brought with him the comfort of his friendship with my late husband. Don is one of those unrockable people I love to surround myself with. A loyal friend to the end.

His memories of my husband, Mike, remind me of the fun we all shared. We also shared some of the bad times with Don, the difficult times he had and...well, the kinds of things we all endure as human beings.

Two more friends have recently come back into my life--Dan and Jen, a young couple who shared a very difficult time with me, after my husband's death. About two days after I arrived back in Pennsylvania, the two of them (and their three little ones) drove in from Utah. It has been a wonderful reunion, full of fun and celebrations.

Those who know me, know about Dan, the student in my English class who, after being told that I wouldn't be returning to teach the last half of the semester because of Mike's death, sent gorgeous white lillies. Within weeks, Dan, Jen and church missionaries were at my front door to help me through the long period of grief. Dan and Jen reflect the kinds of friends who defy boundaries, dare to cross lines to reach out during times of need. These friends are irreplaceable.

I was raised traveling the world and taught that, in spite of so-called wrong turns, we are never really lost. So, I learned to read signs, to know when a sign is really a symbol, a metaphor for what life means (whatever that means!). So far, every path I've taken has revealed a sign, something concrete to help me make sense of my life experiences. I look for these things--signs that we are meant to be here, on this planet doing exactly what we are doing. And, these friends tell me so.

Fish Story

About two weeks ago, I spent the weekend with my brother and sister-in-law in San Antonio, where my brother Jack, production manager for the local PBS station, is working on a documentary about the Riverwalk extension. Between he and my sister-in-law, a local library administrator, I got an insider's tour, full of history and some facts that only local residents would be aware of.


It was dusk in the King William District when walked down to the dark- green river. I made several pictures of bridges and sent them to my cell phone buddies. The humidity-haze that nearly kissed the banks of the river, broken by low ground lights, created a romantic setting, like one might see in a Hollywood version of a Jayne Eyre movie. Except this was Texas.

After walking through lovely old neighborhoods, filled with gated and walled Victorian homes, into a part of the downtown hotel district, we drove to a recently installed art exhibit, comprised of seven-foot long fish, hanging under the I-35 bridge. The fish are suspended a few feet below the bridge, in such a way that they move back and forth as the bridge sways, at once responding to the movement of overhead traffic, and fish in the river below. Here's a picture my brother took at night, when the fish were illuminated.

Now that we're talking about fish, here's my favorite Marianne Moore poem.

The Fish

wade

through black jade
the crow-blue muscle-shells, one keeps
adjusting the ash-heaps;
opening and shutting itself like

an

injured fan.
The barnacles which encrust the side
of the wave, cannot hide
there, for submerged shafts of the

sun,
split like spun
glass, move themselves with spotlight swiftness
into the crevices------
in and out, illuminating

the
turquoise sea
of bodies. The water drives a wedge
of iron through the iron edge
of the cliff; whereupon the stars,

pink
rice-grains, ink . . .
bespattered jellyfish, crabs like green
lillies and submarine
toadstools, slide each on the other.

All
external
marks of abuse are present on this
defiant edifice-------
all the physical features of

ac-
cident, lack
of cornice, dynamite grooves, burns, and
hatchet strokes, these things stand
out on it; the chasm-side is

Dead,
Repeated
Evidence has proved that it can live
on what cannot revive
its youth.
The sea grows old in it.

Sorry for the bad formatting--anyone who's read this work knows the lines should be staggered. Anyway, along with its spot-on imagery (Moore was a biologist), reading the poem aloud should give you the experience of movement. I like it paired with the photograph.

But, we're neither fishing for poetry here nor swimming, so let's move along. The next day, my sister-in-law, Natalie, and I went on an eleven kilometer Volksmarch that circled the Riverwalk, and I can't imagine we missed any section. Descending the stone-covered stairs, we entered an engineered, walled, bejeweled community below-street-level. At the bottom of the stairs, I felt like I was crossing a line in time and space, entering a place which was very different from the world overhead. Of course it's intended to evoke that feeling, so tourists will relax, have fun and spend money. Although a little contrived, it was stunningly pretty, with flower-filled alcoves, hand-carved benches, rock covered stairs leading to imagined locations, lovely hotels with balconies, vine-covered edifices, statues, arts malls, and restaurants with margarita-sipping customers, who glowed as they sat mist sprayers. Then, there was a lovely outdoor theater, with a grass-covered seating area.

But, it was hot. Very hot. Humid and hot.
I wanted to throw myself into the river and swim back to the finish line. Would I be able to make it without taking the plunge?

Natalie and I carried bottles of water and, at one point, I resorted to pouring mine down my back, just to get a little cooler. (And, to get wet!) Finally, we stopped to sit on a tiled concrete bench that seemed to grow out of the sidewalk. I took this picture of Natalie--doesn't she have an aqualine look about her?


Guess I'm writing (or swimming) in circles here, so will end this story by invoking the philosophical (rhetorical) point: A fish doesn't know it lives in water until it's thrown onto the beach.

Back stroke.

Another Hero Story

Tom Nellen's Drawing of the Attack on the

Twin Towers on September 11

This fourth of July holiday, our nation is engaged in war. War has been a troublesome story in my life as my dad is a retired Air Force officer and pilot, who flew in three wars (WWII, Korean and Vietnam). As the teenage daughter of a colonel (and a member of the peace, not war movement), I took it as my personal mission to make his life miserable (he was my step-dad and I didn't need much reason to torture him), by questioning everything he believed to be true about the threat of Communism, the Cold War, and his need to protect our country.

But, forty years later, my views of war aren't so rigid--I worry about the civilians on both sides of every conflict. I worry, war is a gesture at the world that engages us with other human beings in a horribly sad and negative way. But, I no longer hate those who declare and participate in it.

Following the attack on the World Trade Towers on September 11, 2001, our nation declared war. Mostly, I don't know how to think about that and tend to respond with mixed feelings of nationalism and fear. Fear that we've thrown down a gauntlet, crossed a line in the sand from which we might never return. It troubles me deeply, but I have no particular insight nor wisdom to pass along about it, so will, instead, share a hero story about a young boy who found himself in a very dangerous position on that morning.

Tom Nellen, the son of a good friend, was seven years old and in the second grade at PS 234 in NYC when two airplanes flew into the towers. His father, Ted Nellen, had just dropped him off and was heading uptown, by train, to teach his own class when he was notified of the attack.

(Read Ted's story here http://www.tnellen.org/wtc/911.html )

Just after the first plane hit the tower, Ted's cell phone rang and he got the message. He writes, "I turned around and saw an image I didn't believe. Then the second plane hit. I was in shock and was panicked that my son was down there and I was uptown." So, he turned back toward Toms' school, which, he later learned, had been evacuated. After a few hours, Ted found his son, and brought him to safety.

The crux on this hero story is what happened during the evacuation, as Tom, his classmates and teachers fled the blast. The words of Tom's teacher, Mary Jacob, speak of the horror, as they ran away from the blast. She told "Newsweek" reporters she was frightened that they might not be able to escape, and "didn't think she could outrun the thick cloud of blackness roiling toward them; when her legs gave out, she let go of his [Tom's] little hand and told him to run.
'God forbid something was to happen, I didn't want it to happen to him she recalls.

"So I was like, 'Go, you'll be OK'. Then [Mary] Jacob realized the black smoke had stopped its inexorable rush forward-and it was her turn to be saved. The little boy came back for her and said, 'C'mon. Let's go.'"

Read the entire story in the Commemorative issue of "Newsweek." http://www.tnellen.org/wtc/

Tom turned back to help his teacher, probably not fully realizing the danger they both faced. As a seven year old, he wasn't able to calculate the time he had to turn around for her, before the debris hit them. But, isn't that the definition of a real hero: one who takes action without fully comprehending or thinking about the outcome. He knew in his heart that this was the right thing to do and he did it.

It was days before Ted was told about his son's actions. On the morning of the attacks, he knew (only) that his son had escaped injury. Ted became aware of Tom's heroism after he had come to Pennsylvania, a week later, to conduct a technology workshop for teachers in a writing project I directed. We had made the arrangements over the summer and, in spite of the attack on NYC, Ted insisted on leaving the city and coming to PSU to honor his obligation (I offered to re-schedule, but he wouldn't hear of it).

Actually, I was surprised when Ted told me he needed to get away from the devastation (he lived just a few blocks from ground zero and lived with the horrible smoke and soot and destruction for weeks. See Ted's photos of the area here http://www.tnellen.org/wtc/wtc.html).

A couple of days after arriving at the campus, Ted got a call from home telling him what Tom had done. When he told me, "I've got to go home and be with my son," I understood. It was Ted's turn to be the hero. The story of a father honoring his son's needs (those of a young hero) is one of my favorite hero stories.