Irene Destroys Vermont Covered Bridges

Hurricane Irene dumped 11 or more inches of rain as it traveled through Vermont on Sunday, leaving severe flooding in it's wake. Already called the worst storm in the past 70 years in Vermont, it took away a part of Vermont that I love--covered bridges.
Here is a video of the Bartonsville Covered Bridge being destroyed:
http://youtu.be/dVJ1kbaXiGE
The Bartonsville Covered Bridge was a wooden covered bridge in the village of Bartonsville, in Rockingham, Vermont, United States. It was built in 1870 by Sanford Granger. The bridge was a lattice truss style with a 151 foot span across the Williams River and was listed on the National Register of Historic Places. And now it is gone.
But what is the most important thing to remember about this? I think my friend Jeff Joslin is right--the most important thing is that we as a people kept this bridge as long as we could. It was preserved as a part of our history until Mother Nature (probably assisted by the hand of man as the globe warms and our weather becomes more unpredictable as a result) took it away.
So what should we do? What can we learn? Preserve what we have as long as we can, so that our shared past can be seen and appreciated. Learn about our architectural past. How were these bridges built? What was innovative about their engineering and design? I love these bridges and now there are significantly fewer of them, but let's keep the ones that Irene left intact. These are not just picturesque, they are a part of our national heritage, to be treasured and understood.
I am acutely aware of this as I live on an historic property that has been extremely poorly cared for over the past several decades. May I heed my own words...

Goodnight Irene

The motto of this hurricane was "Prepare for the Worst". Storm tracking has gotten much more predictable, and so when the projected pathway of Hurricane Irene included major Atlantic seaboard cities, those cities responded. They closed airports and public transportation early. Newark airport was closed before even the edge of the storm reached it. It was not even raining. The call for taking cover was heeded well in advance.
I had planned to be on the East coast, but when United who hadn't initiated travel offered to let people rebook for another time, I took it--I couldn't afford to be stuck in New Jersey.
My family members, on the other hand, were more adventurous. They left on Friday knowing that they were headed into the eye of the storm, and they went anyway. And their flight home was canceled. As expected. Not as hoped for, but as expected. Not a huge problem--they were all prepared with a plan B--they had a car rental reservation for both Saturday and for Sunday (always cover your back in a natural disaster). My husband, a life-long lover of severe weather, was disappointed not to be able to experience a hurricane--we do not live in hurricane country so this was his opportunity to be in one. Category 1 was right where he wanted to be. But he chose the more conservative choice--to get back to work on Monday. The best part was that no one was even a little bit surprised or upset to have to drive 18 hours to get home. When I asked my youngest son about it, he noted that he spent his entire childhood on long car rides in the summer, to places he can't even remember, so this really seemed like no big deal. I thought we were showing them the great National Parks of the west, but apparently we were giving them the life skill to sit still in a small space for long hours and not be miserable. Maybe that was the better experience.

Rango (2011)

I really loved this smart, funny, animated, yet otherwise classic Western movie. Two things are evident immediately.The script is smartly written and the drawing is phenomenal. But it gets even better from there.
The overall story is immediately recognizable (young naive outsider enters a town owned by one man who is used to getting his way, and the newcomer inspires hope, rises above himself for the greater good, and triumphs). So it is not great because it tells us something new--it is great because the telling of an old story is so deftly done that we are happy throughout the movie. It is entertaining. Johnny Depp's voicing of Rango is spectacular, but all the characters have wonderful personalities that shine through. It is not 'G' rated, and that is deserved. People get sassy in this movie--it is gritty by animated standards, but not mean. The violence is plot driven, and classic Western fare, with exceptional characters (I especially loved the bat-riding moles as bad guys). A perfect family movie.

The Little Stranger by Sarah Waters

This is a masterfully told tale that is all the more notable because it is also an oft told tale. The setting is immediately after WWII in a battered and beaten England. Rationing is worse than during the war. Medical care comes out of your pocket and the grand old estates of England are in the hands of their ancestral families and most are well on the road to decay.
Dr. Faraday is our eyes on this scene. He is the country GP and Hundreds Hall is the grand old estate of his area. His mother worked as a servant there when he was a child and he fell in love with it's grandeur. As a result, he has a romanticized view of the place and the people who live in it--unfortunately, this seriously clouds his judgment, a mistake that repeatedly comes back to haunt him. Oh, and by the way, the house is also haunted.
One of the great pleasures of the book is the way the author combines spookiness with sharp social observation. She is at home in a convincing postwar setting; however much we pity the family at Hundreds Hall, as their ancestral pile and their sanity collapse about them, Waters never lets us lose sight of their repulsive social attitudes--they feel they are better than others, and take advantage of Dr. Faraday's acceptance of this inequality at every turn. It does seem, at one point, as if it is the spirit of snobbery that may be haunting them.
The doctor himself and the tone of the book overall is slightly morose, tinged with a mixture of hope and regret. He is blinded to the situation he is in, so as the plot reveals itself and the family unravels, he is taken unawares but we are not. It is an outstanding book.

Our Last New Driver

My youngest son got his driver's license. There are many stops along the highway of parenthood that clue you in that time marches forward, often at a pace that you are not comfortable with. The first day of kindergarten is one. When my eldest went I cried--he seemed so serious and grown up, yet not many months before he was still in diapers and not walking. When my youngest went to kindergarten I cried. It was the last time we would have a child at home full time. Our years of changing the aforementioned diapers were officially over. We were parenting children that others would now teach. It also makes me realize why middle children feel persistently left out--I had no emotional denouements associated with their kindergarten days--they just happened. Maybe that shelters you from a lot of emotional baggage, and maybe it creates it--or maybe we all feel a little bit put out by our birth order and there is no escape.

In any case, the route to being a driver was more complicated for my youngest son. The last child to be able to drive is probably always momentous--it gives everyone a little more freedom, and is therefore much anticipated (and perhaps more than a little feared--with good reason. We have only had to purchase one vehicle as a result of a teen-aged driving mishap, but one is enough. Parenting is not for wimps). But for Ethan it is more of an accomplishment than that. He had a brain tumor at age 5, and that leaves a mark on you. Everything is more complicated as a result, and driving is no exception. He approached driving as he approaches many tasks he has to face-with confidence, persistence and no sign of disappointment when it is harder than anticipated. He is remarkably patient with himself (not so with others, I might add). And he succeeded. So it is with great joy, a touch of trepidation, and a bit of sadness that I welcome him to the road as an independent driver.

Afternoon Tea

We went to afternoon tea at the JW Marriot at Grovesnor Square in London--it was elegant, expensive, and very atmoshpheric. Also ridiculously expensive--$60 for some tea and sandwiches? Really? Well we did it to do it, and for the clotted cream that came with the scones (while I am sure this is somehow worse for you than butter and cream put together, it is so sinfully delicious that I suspended any qualms one might have and piles it on). We also had gorgeous desserts, but the tea sandwiches were really quite divine.

2 cooked whole chicken breasts*
1/2 cup halved seedless red grapes
1/4 cup finely-chopped pecans
1/2 cup finely-diced celery
1/4 cup dried cranberries
Salt and pepper to taste
Mayonnaise (just enough to moisten)
16 slices best-quality white bread**
1/2 cup unsalted butter, room temperature
* Poached, baked, steamed, or barbecued until the center of the chicken is no longer pink and reaches a temperature of 165 degrees F. on your meat thermometer. You could even use canned chicken, if desired.
** Choose the best-quality white or wheat bread as possible. Never serve end slices. Freezing the bread before cutting and then spreading makes for easier handling.
Preparation:
Place cooked chicken in the food processor and process just until very small, but not a paste (watch carefully).
In a large bowl, combine chicken, grapes, pecans, celery, and cranberries. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Add mayonnaise, a little at a time, to your taste. Note: All the ingredients can be added this way so you get the amount that you prefer.
Spread one side of each piece of bread very lightly with butter. Top the buttered side of 8 slices of bread with some of the chicken salad mixture and top with the remaining bread slices, buttered side down.
Carefully cut the crusts from each sandwich with a long, sharp knife. Cut the sandwiches in half diagonally and then cut in half again.
Yields 8 whole sandwiches or 16 halves or 32 fourths.

The Hobart Shakespeareans (2005)

This documentary, just under an hour in length, is inspirational. It is both hopeful and frank. But most of all it sticks with you.
It tells the tale of a teacher in a fifth-grade classroom in a poor ethnic Los Angeles neighborhood. Hobart Boulevard Elementary School pupils (mostly Latino and Asian) are doing "Hamlet." And they are doing it well.
In Mel Stuart's fine and passionate documentary several things are clear. The 49-year-old teacher, Rafe Esquith, is a genius and a saint. The American education system would do well to imitate him. These children's lives have been changed by their year with this man. And it is not all about Elizabethan drama.
They are learning in every modality--verbal, kinesthetic, visual. Their classroom is incentivized with money. They get rewarded for their work, and they get penalized for not doing it. But it is the yearlong study of a single Shakespearean play that symbolizes Mr. Esquith's methods and his success. It is thrilling to hear a student read a speech of Ophelia's beautifully, to watch one express Gertrude's pain and to see yet another tackle the title role of the melancholy Danish prince. At the outset, Mr. Esquith does not cany coat Hamlet--he explains what "Hamlet" is about death. But more importantly, he links what is happening in the play to things that they can understand, so when these pint-sized actors read their lines, they actually know what they are talking about.
The children in the play come in every day to work on it, regardless of vacations. Mr. Esquith tells the camera that this is teaching them discipline, teamwork and sacrifice--he does not say it is easy, and he is clear that they do not all buy into it, but he is relentless and optimistic and resourceful. He gets well known actors to come to his classroom, and he raises money to take his class on trips, so they can see a world beyond their own. If they are going to get out of there, they need to see what they are aiming for.
Esquith is a man fond of mottoes: "Be nice and work hard." "There are no shortcuts." As Hamlet says: "Words. Words. Words." But words have impact. When he takes them to a college campus he tells the children: "This is the life you're working for. You can do this." He has former students that he has inspired who have made it contributing money to his current students' educations. Great to see.

Not Untrue and Not Unkind by Ed O'Loughlin

This is a book about what makes photojournalists who report from the front lines tick. No surprise, it is adrenaline, and a bottomless ability to see themselves as the truth-tellers, and everyone else as being unable to measure up. They require few entanglements, boundless courage, and a little bit of denial that things ae as bad as they seem. This is a quick read that takes one trough all these emotions and out at the end of the book we are a bit thrilled and a bit jaded.
The author knows what he is talking about--he has reported from Africa for the Irish Times and from the Middle East for the Sydney Morning Herald and the Age, so we can be fairly certain that many of the events and some of the characters are based on reality. Which won't exactly make them feel flattered. O'Loughlin is most scathing about the "bigfoots" - those high-profile senior broadcasters and journalists who arrive at trouble spots in their neatly pressed safari jackets and casually bounce the local correspondent out of the frame before zooming off home again.
It is a book that provokes, but it also makes one pause and reflect. At one point, back in Dublin, Simmons remarks to a colleague that "most people who live vicariously do it through other people, but what if you tried to live vicariously through yourself?" His colleague wonders what he means by that and so does Simmons, although he thinks it sounds quite clever. Perhaps it is. Perhaps Simmons has captured, in that thought, the seductive essence of being a foreign correspondent. Wonderful read.

Train, Train

The majority of time that I have spent on trains in my life has been on the Atlantic seaboard, which is not a very nice place to ride the train--it is a very utilitarian way to get from one urban center to another, and it is often very economical to do so (for instance, the Mark train between Washingron DC and Baltimore is just $6), but it is not an experience that moves many to wax elloquently about the experience. It is just not very nice as vacations go.

The train from London to Glasgow is a different story. Soon after pulling out of Euston Station one is in rural England, where the sheep outnumber the people in terms of the view. The train itself is civilized--in addition to the tables and the drinks cart and the food trolley, all providing far more service than anyone has seen on an airplane in more than a decade, they have modern conveniences as well. Wireless throughout the train, and plugs at your seat so that you can recharge while you travel. I loved the 4 hours spent in this way--being able to see the countryside at an affordable price that did not include having to drive was such a luxury in all ways except for the price.

West of Here by Jonathan Evison

This book is an adventure--capturing some of the energy that it took to settle the west. It is set in the Pacific Northwest in a fictional town of Port Bonita on the Olympic Peninsula in Washington state. The story jumps back and forth between centuries, from the end of the 19th century, when the town swaggers with a "crude and youthful vigor" and a "laughing, belching, bawdy can-do spirit," to the early years of the 21st century, when Port Bonita is more of a shadow of it's former self rather than on the brink of breaking loose.

The story has subplots as well as a main point, and it reminded me of Louise Eldrich's 'Plague of Doves' (easier to follow than that, but equally well written, and with the inter-relatedness of the people in different time periods)--the stories are also linked by a sense of place and rugged terrain that looms over everything. It's populated by a crowded cast of characters from then and now. Most are misfits, inventing and reinventing themselves--much as you would suspect from the settling generation, but the characteristics persist into the present.
In 1890, Ethan Thornburgh, a self-styled "idea man" and failed accountant from Chicago, dreams of damming the mighty Elwha River and building an empire in the middle of nowhere.
By 2006, his great-grandson, Jules Thornburgh, is the sad-sack manager of the town's last fish processing plant. The town's big festival is still Dam Days, "proudly presented in part by your neighbors at Wal-Mart." But the days of Thornburgh Dam are numbered. It's being demolished as part of a river restoration project. We get to know the two men well by book's end, and it is a very pleasant journey.