Paterson Great Falls

For proof that snow and ice can make anything anywhere pretty, one needs to travel no further than Paterson, New Jersey. Paterson is not pretty. In fact, it is rather dreary. Paterson is a crowded dingy city with traffic – even on a weekend – that is far worse than any traffic you’d find in Manhattan. In fact, on Saturday it took us five minutes to travel one block and we sat through each traffic light no less than three turns to green. It was awful.

Running through Paterson is the Passaic River, dirty and polluted, not exactly the placed you’d dare to go fishing if you were looking to bring home dinner.  Even in the summer when it is hot and sticky and you’d give just about anything to be able to cool off, the Passaic River is anything but inviting. 

However, part of this river and tucked into the heart of this city, which you would be wise to avoid for most other occasions, is the Paterson Great Falls National Historical Park. Now, I’ve been to Niagara Falls and Iguaçu Falls and by comparison there isn’t anything terribly great about the Paterson Falls. But let us remember, they are in New Jersey and since the other miraculous falls are so far away, there is something exciting about these falls that do indeed breathe some much needed life into the Passaic River. 

We had seen pictures of frozen Niagara Falls on the internet and thought they would be gorgeous to see in person. But since we unfortunately can’t afford a spontaneous trip up north, we decided to see what effect this frigid February had on our local falls.  The effect was marvelous. They too are frozen.  And not only are the falls frozen but parts of the river are frozen as well and large rocks jutting out of the water are blanketed in snow. Even though it did not rise above freezing on Saturday, the bright sun glinted off the ice and snow providing the illusion of warmth. After ten years in this state, the filthy river that never lured my interest in any previous drive by suddenly caught my attention and demanded that I stop to take pictures. 

Despite the fact that the bridge over the gorge, which is supposed to provide the best views of the falls, was closed due to all the snow and ice, the trip up to Paterson was enjoyable and the snow and ice, as always, was beautiful. 

Howell Farm

We spent Valentine’s Day at Howell Farm. 

The farm was having sleigh rides.  Since my son had never been on one we thought it might be a fun experience for him. The rides were free which meant they were short. We barely clamored onto the sleigh and got comfortable before the horses were finishing their tight little loop. Despite the length, we still enjoyed ourselves. 

After the ride, we stopped to watch the blacksmith work.  The forge was blazing and the tip of the steel was a fiery bright orange as the blacksmith molded it. I thought my son would take a quick look, see what he was doing then drag us up to the house for hot chocolate. Five years olds aren’t usually prone to long attention spans, but my son’s attention was riveted on the blacksmith as he hammered and shaped the steel. He watched transfixed as the blacksmith took an ordinary bland strip of steel and meticulously formed it into a heart hook in honor of the day. When he finished, cooled it off and passed the finished product around, my son held it in his hands and stared at it reverently. Later, he would not let us leave until he purchased one to hang in his room.

My son loves animals, so when the blacksmith finished we walked around the farm so he could see the chickens and sheep. He got very excited when a duck and then geese scampered across our paths.  After seeing the animals, our fingers – in spite of the warm gloves on our hands – were practically frozen, so we went inside and warmed up with a hot chocolate.

On our way home, we stopped in Lambertville to walk through the town.  Snow had started to fall and it blanket the ground, trees and shrubs with light fluffy whiteness. The world always seems prettier bathed in snow.

 My son wanted to walk across the bridge into Pennsylvania. As we walked, we battled strong gusts of wind that caused us to sway with each step. It has been so cold that there are chunks of ice in the Delaware River.  Looking down at the water, my son announced, “It looks the way it did when George Washington crossed.” Then, spotting pair of ducks in the distance slipping between sheets of ice, he laughed, “I think those ducks are pretending to be George Washington.”

Warwick Castle and Shakespeare

I had the day off from school today so with only one full day to be a tourist I decided to make the most of it. When I get back home, I fully expect Gary to ask me if I had seen a real castle. I didn't want to disappoint him with a no, so I set out bright an early this morning - skipping breakfast so as to catch a  train before 9:00 - to Warwick Castle. The castle spent last year celebrating its 1100 birthday and it is one of the best preserved castles in England.  I arrived in Warwick an hour before the castle opened which enabled me to wander around and get acquainted with the town. I stopped into a coffee shop for a pastry and my daily dose of caffeine - why does coffee taste better in Europe?  I stopped in to a post office buy stamps so that I could sent Gary a couple of postcards.  And many of you know how much Gary loves his postcards.  By the time I circled down to the castle the ticket window was opening. The beautiful thing about being a tourist in the winter is that you get to avoid the crushing and suffocating crowds that swarm places like castles all through the warmer months. The bonus today was that it was pleasantly warm and felt more like early spring than mid-winter. Alone - I had the place to myself for at least fifteen minutes - I entered the castle grounds. The stone towers rose up into the rising sun and passing through the gate I felt like I stumbled back in time.  I strolled around the grounds, thrilled to be taking pictures in a foreign city. I wandered out to the Avon river and up to the conservatory where I saw lots of peacocks.  At 11:00 I joined a tour of the castle and twenty minutes into the tour my peace was shattered when about four dozen school children - ages seven or eight - invaded the castle screaming at each other and their teachers.  The tour guide, obviously used to the distraction simply raised her voice to compete with the miniature army. After the tour, I wandered up one of the towers and got stuck in the middle of a class.  The teachers were even louder than the kids but the kids were much more steady on the windy, narrow stairs which nearly caused one teacher to plummet to her death.

By the time I had walked and viewed every inch of the castle my stomach was rumbling. Since I'm in England, I felt compelled to get some fish and chips. Normally, my body rebels against fried food but I'm not in England long enough to worry about it. I washed down the food with  ginger beer and then rounded off my extremely healthy meal with a Cadbury bar. In one meal I easily consumed more calories and fat than I generally do on a daily basis but before the day ended I would walk at least ten kilometres so I'm fairly certain my output was greater than my input.

From Warwick, I caught a train to Stratford-Upon-Avon. I am here in England for a writing course, and since Stratford is so close I felt it would be sinful not to pay homage to one of the great English language literary gods.  I could have spent an entire day happily wandering aimlessly around the Stratford.  A half a day wasn't nearly enough, but it was better than not getting there at all.  I sprinted off the train and down to the house in which Shakespeare was born - or so they tell the tourists. There is no historical evidence that the house I went to was the house in which William drew his first breath.  The wonderful thing about England is that there are student discounts everywhere. I purchased a discounted ticket that would allow me access to three historical houses. I didn't have much time until they closed, but there was no way I was paying for something and not using it. Luckily all the houses were close enough that I was able to quickly move from one to the other, shooting entirely too many photos as I went.  Even if Shakespeare wasn't born there, I still enjoyed walking through the old houses.

After the houses, I drifted down to Holy Trinity Church which is on the banks of the Avon River. The church is surrounded by an old cemetery with headstones in serious disrepair. As I walked through it the sun started to set which lent the cemetery and eerie feel. I kept expecting the ghost of Shakespeare or someone else to tap me on the shoulder.  I ended my day with a walk along the river before turning back into town and doing a bit of souvenir shopping.

The day flew by entirely too quickly but I enjoyed every moment of it.  Now, I need to find a job so I don't have to wait another five and a half years before I can set off and explore another foreign city.

The Me Size Tree

The scent of pine permeated the air.  Passed the wide gateway, tall trees lined the makeshift wooden walls, columns of green categorized according to species – Douglas, Frasier, and Balsam.  Beyond the clutter of classic Christmas trees were a row of tiny trees no taller than three feet. Their trunks were wedged and bolted into a red metal stand which someone had recently filled with a splash of water.  Listening, one could almost hear the chatter of the tiny trees. One sharp shrill voice echoed slightly louder than the others, an enthusiastic pitch saturated with optimism and hope.  ‘Oh, won’t it be wonderful if a little boy or girl wished to take me home.  I so long to be decorated and loved,’ this tree announced to her companions.  ‘Someone will certainly want me, my needles are so perfectly green and my shape is terrifically triangular.’

                Yes, this little tree was certain that she was irresistible, that someone would wish to bring her home.  But as the season wore on and she watched her friends chosen instead of her, she began to lose hope and to despair.  Cars continuously pulled up to the gate. Men tied big trees to the ski racks. Women opened doors and ushered the smaller trees into to the back beside the children. And during it all, the one little optimistic tree eagerly scanned the endless crowd in search of that one special child who would love her.  Time and again she was overlooked. When the weekend before Christmas arrived tears glistened on the tips of her needles.  Would no one love her for the holidays?

                Standing sullenly, hope draining out of her, she suddenly heard short rapid steps, the pitter-patter of toddler feet tumbling towards her. A tiny hand clothed in a light grey mitten reached out and tapped her top.

                ‘Mommy, Mama,’ a little boy’s voice pierced the air. ‘A me size tree.’ His smiled filled his face and spilled into his eyes.

                ‘Yes Little Man, you and the tree are the same height.’ His mother answered cautiously, already sensing the plea presented by his smile.

                ‘Home! My tree!’ His arms encircled it, his cheek pressed against the semi-frozen branches.

                ‘Don’t you want a big tree?’ His other mother asked.

                He shook his head, ‘No, me size tree.’

                A brief consultation between his mothers yielded a compromise – a smaller big tree for the house and a me size tree for the Little Man.  Neither one wanted to disappoint the boy. Excitedly, he followed his moms to the man in the orange apron. Money changed hands and the little boy climbed into his car seat while his mom tucked the tree in beside him. During the twenty minute drive home, the boy’s pink fingers caressed the tender braches that spilled onto his lap.

                At home, as his mothers scrambled to take the larger tree off the car and into the house. The little boy scurried to drag his tree inside.  His mothers gently scolded him. They told him to wait just a moment then they would help him but excitement displaced reason.  He tugged. He pulled. He left behind him a trail of water. But proudly, he propped the tree up in the centre of the already cramped living room.  While his moms set the bigger tree up in the stand, he waited restlessly beside the bin of Christmas tree ornament s.  A subtle nod from his moms and he tore off the lid. Carelessly eager hands rummaged through the bin, fingers tossing aside tissue paper. Searching for his favourite decorations, he hung them on his me size tree, dressing her up with bright reds and yellows, ornaments collected and cherished over his two, almost three years of existence.  Brushing aside help from both of his mothers, he decorated – rather unsymmetrically - his entire tree.  He saved a yellow star, which he had made for last, and he placed it on her crown. Then he leaned into her and gave her a big hug as if she were a good friend, a confident who would hold secret all of his stories.

                The little tree was happy. The love she felt was fierce and the warmth that filtered through her branches made her needles shine more brightly than they ever had in the store. The little boy was happy, also.  And in the remaining days leading up to Christmas he lavished her with his attention.  Removing ornaments, he shuffled them around and refreshed her appearance daily. He remembered to water her each evening.  And on Christmas morning, even Santa paid homage to the tree, leaving beside her one small present for the little man. 

                Yes, the tree was happy and the boy loved her. But Christmas trees are only for Christmas. In late January, long after the bigger tree had been taken down, the little boy spent a weekend with his grandparents. While he was gone, his mother took down his me size tree and set it out back with the trash. The me size tree stood outside alone in the cold and cried for she loved the little boy and would certainly miss him.  Days later, when the little boy returned, he immediately noticed the empty space where his friend had stood. His eyes filled with tears, his tiny hands balled into fists and he struck the air.  His mother pulled him into her arms and tried to kiss away his tears but the sadness was heavy. It broke the little boy’s heart.  

Wroxton

Leaving Gary, even though it is only for ten days, was the hardest thing I ever did. Yesterday, when Cyndy came to pick me up to drive me to the airport, Gary clung to my neck and would not let go. 'Take me with you!' he begged. 'Don't leave without me,' he pleaded. I fought to hold back the tears that were threatening to spill out of my eyes. I didn't want to tear myself away. I didn't want him to think I was being mean or cruel. A part of me just wanted to stay home but I knew that would not really be good for either of us. 'I'm going to miss you,' I told him. 'I'm going to think of you all day every day,' I promised.  And when he still wouldn't let go, 'It is only for ten days.' But ten days at that moment felt like an eternity to me, how could it possibly seem better to him. I resorted to bribery. 'If you let me go, Mommy will let you watch a movie,' I offered. 'No, I want you to stay with me,' he insisted, squeezing me tighter. 'If you let me go, Mommy will let you have a big piece of birthday cake, right now before dinner.'  My son loves me, but he loves treats more. He released his choke hold, smiled broadly and said 'Yum.' In that moment, I slipped out the door, pulled it behind me and the damn broke as tears poured out of my eyes.

My flight was delayed three hours which gave me way too much time to sit - and you all know how much I enjoy being sedentary to begin with. Despite being sick and very tired, I could not fall asleep. Usually, I do not sleep well on planes, but I can generally catch a short nap - at least an hour or two. Last night, sleep failed me. I turned to Steinbeck for comfort and read until my eyes became to heavy and refused to stay open. Closing the book I could feel myself falling into oblivion, but just as I reached the edge I sprung back wide awake. Opening East of Eden, I began the cycle again, all night for nearly six hours.

Alas, when I arrived I was exhausted. However, I grabbed my bag, sprinted through the airport, raced through security, exchanged some money and located the FDU meeting point.  There already were some friends I had made over the summer, so with speech slurred by sleeplessness and eyes barely hanging open we caught up with each other while waiting for the bus that would carry us to the college.

The bus ride was just under two hours and the Abbey is beautiful.  My room is bigger than my condo and it has a beautiful view.  Sadly, between eating, socializing and getting acquainted with the rules of the residency, I have not yet had time to explore the grounds. Weather permitting, that is on my agenda for tomorrow.

As for now, I must be getting to bed.  I have been up for over 30 hours and I just can't keep my eyes open any longer. I apologize for any grammatical or spelling errors but in all honesty I'm too tired to even proof read. Hopefully tomorrow, after some sleep, I will be slightly more coherent.

Fun facts for Gary:

1- There is a knight's armor here at the college that dates back to the 1400s.
2- Even though Beowulf was a viking and his story took place in Scandinavia, the story was written here in England.

Religion: Through the Eyes of a Child

            What does a four year old really comprehend about religion? God is abstract, an unseen being to whom our elders encourage us to pray. Faith, they inform us, means trusting in his existence without proof. But four year olds need things to be concrete – they need to see, touch and feel for something to be real. In my son’s room, statues of Buddha, Ganesh and Jesus stand guard beside his bed. When his friends visit, he explains, “They protect me when I sleep.” He speaks to each of the deities, carrying on conversations with them before bed. He is familiar with their histories and has brought each statue into school for show and tell. Enthusiastically, he spoke about how Ganesh’s father, in fit of passion, chopped his head off; how to appease his brokenhearted consort, he resurrected Ganesh with an elephant’s head. Studiously, my son informed his class that Buddha spent his life fasting and meditating; he preached compassion and non-violence as the cornerstones to one’s life. And finally, he explained to his class that Jesus was born in manger and that he had two fathers – Joseph and God; when he grew up he would die, but not really, because he is alive in heaven. Innocently, my son confuses theologies and asks if Jesus and Ganesh are friends in heaven. He thinks Jesus is real, he knows Buddha existed and he loves that Ganesh looks more like an animal than a human, but this doesn’t mean that he has internalized any of it or that he honestly believes in God the same way an adult might. 

            Eleven months out of the year he is Buddhist because I’m teaching him to meditate, Hindu because we attended a religious festival and Christian because he goes to church. But come December, he emphatically declares himself to be a Christian. His reasons some might condemn or label as being less than pure, but remember he is only four. In December, for many Christian children, being Christian means believing in Santa. And unlike God, or the statues in his room, Santa is real. Go to any mall in America and children can see, feel, touch and speak with Santa. There are apps for phones so that Santa can speak directly to children. And best of all, Santa’s existence is confirmed annually by the pile of presents he places under the Christmas tree.  Though children never catch a of glimpse of him coming down their chimneys, the gifts are distinct proof that the man in the red suit exists.

            As adults, we are wiser. We know that Santa doesn’t exist, that he is just a myth meant to entertain children. But if you think about it, one could argue that he is a metaphor for God, a stepping stone for children to comprehend or even forge a more personal relationship with God. Many Christmas traditions have counterparts in religious worship. Prayers, for many people, are synonymous with petitions to God to have their dreams and desires fulfilled. Dear God, please let my grandmother live, please let me pass this test so I can earn my degree, please let me have the child I so desperately want, please let me find a job, any job. This form of prayer is strikingly similar to letters that children address to the North Pole, requests for toys and games that will make them happy. Dear Santa, please bring me Star Wars Legos, please bring me the book about Beowulf, please bring me a toy gun, please bring me a stuffed animal.  If you are good, if you do as you are asked, if you live a good moral life God will reward you by granting your wishes and permitting you to spend an eternity with him in heaven. Children who behave get presents from Santa. Adults who sin or lead reprehensible lives are condemned to hell. Children who cry, pout and misbehave find coal in their stockings. In sort, be a good adult and God will reward you; be a good child and Santa will reward you. Be bad and you will be punished. 

            But for now, Christmas is over and my son has moved on to obsessing about his birthday. He no longer asks me daily – and I Christian?  For the immediate reward of believing in Christ has been removed. But his interest in religion - thanks to his uncle – hasn’t dwindled. His uncle, knowing of his interest in deities gave him a statue of Hanuman – the Hindu Monkey God - for Christmas along with a children’s version of the Ramayana – one of the two great Hindu Epics. The story tells of Rama’s journey of which Hanuman is a central character. Before bed, I have been reading him the story, a few pages at a time. Tonight, when we encountered Lord Shiva in the story, my son’s eyes grew wide as he excitedly interrupted my reading. “That’s Ganesh’s father,” he exclaimed. 

            “Yes, he is.” I answered, and watched as his face suddenly became pensive.

            “Is Ganesh real?” He asked. “Does he really exist?”

            “Ganesh is a myth,” I tried to explain. “But Hindu people believe he is real, just like Christians believe that Jesus is their savior.”

            “And he lives in heaven.”

            “Yes, but it’s a different heaven.”

            “No, there is only one heaven,” he announced definitively. “And I believe he is real, so I’m Hindu.”

            “I thought you were Christian.” After all Christmas only just ended.

            “I am Christian, but I’m Hindu too. I like all the gods so I’m Christian and Hindu and what is Buddha?”

            “Buddhist.”

            “Yes, Buddhist. I’m Buddhist too.”

            And all I could do was smile. Yes, he is only four, but what, I wondered, would the world be like if we all embraced religion in a similar fashion?

            

Christmas in Manhattan

            Four years ago, when my son was eleven months old, my parents proposed taking him into Manhattan to see the big tree at Rockefeller Center. Over the years, it has become a family tradition. That first December, getting ready to celebrate his first Christmas, my son did not understand the hustle and bustle, all the excitement that enveloped us as we walked through the big city. Eyes opened wide, his mind spun in overdrive trying to process the experience. He had just started to walk, but his steps were unsteady, not yet ready to compete with the racing crushing crowds that descend upon the city during the holidays.  Mom pushed him through the streets in his stroller. When we reached our destinations, I lifted him up, carrying him in my arms so that he could more easily see and explore the sights.  He stared at the tree, looked in awe at the statues in St. Patrick’s Cathedral and when stopped for lunch he drank his bottle, ate some pureed fruit and nibbled on some bread.  Exhausted, after a long exhilarating day, the subway rocked him to sleep in a matter of minutes and he looked like a little angel lying sweetly in his stroller.

            Every year the core of our adventure remains the same. We rise up out of the subway to encounter the tree looming largely over the ice skating rink and then we head over to St. Pat’s where my son spends a small fortune lighting candles to nearly every saint in the church. My mother, prepared for his endless requests, brings a wad of singles – two dollars per candle – so that he will not be disappointed. This year, he especially had to light a candle to every member of the Holy Family – Jesus, Mary and Joseph. He also wanted to light one for the Christmas angel who brings him a piece of chocolate every night during Advent – a small thank you for the sugary treat. My mother ensured that he lit a candle to St. Anthony, the patron saint of finding things, and she instructed me to offer up a prayer that he would help me find a job. After five years, the plea growing more desperate each time, the job still eludes me. As we were exiting the cathedral this time, my mom reached into her pocketbook for two final dollars, guiding my son over to St. Jude, the patron saint of lost causes. Yes, it seems I, or rather my inability to find employment has been categorized as a lost cause. My son lit the candle, and I wondered if would help – was St. Jude really listening.

            One year, when my son was old enough for us to ditch the stroller, but still light enough for me to carry a mile or more, my parents took us to the Central Park Zoo. We walked uptown from Rockefeller Center, my son clinging to my neck the entire way.  He loves animals, so seeing where we ended up zapped him with a jolt of energy. He dove out of my arms and eagerly bounced around the zoo to see all the animals.  We made a special stop at the penguin house to visit Tango, the baby penguin in one of his then favorite bedtime stories – And Tango Makes Three.

            This year, Legos are my son’s favorite toy. He has specifically asked Santa for Star Wars Legos and Superhero Legos. In prior years we always popped into the Lego Store at Rockefeller Center for something to do, a brief respite from the cold. Last weekend, however, it was a near religious experience for my son. The moment we stepped through the door, his eyes gleamed with pleasure, his face radiant with excitement. With awe he studied the Lego version of Atlas hold up the world, and immediately wanted to possess everything in the store. In earlier years, my parents bought him a duplo set to place under the Christmas tree on Christmas Eve – a gift from Santa to remind them all of their trip into the city. This year, they maintained the tradition, asking my son to pick out the Lego set he wanted most. He didn’t hesitate, heading straight to the Star Wars section. While my dad distracted him, my mom went to pay. This year, however, they veered from tradition. Knowing how much pleasure he gets out of putting the Lego sets together, how much he enjoys playing with them afterwards, they bought him a second set, one he could take home as a souvenir, a memento of the afternoon

            Even though my son gave up napping a year and a half ago, the rhythmic rocking of the subway, coupled with the afternoon’s excitement, lulled him to sleep as it did nearly every other year. Groggy, he cuddled up on my lap and snuggled his head against my shoulder. When we got to the car, Dad announced a detour. Instead of going home, he took us to Eddie’s Sweet Shoppe to cap off the day with ice cream. Hearing that magical word, all sleepiness drained away from my little man.  Legos and a chocolate sundae – what more could a little guy want?