Still Here

It is late August, and in the evenings, I smile to hear the summer serenade of cicadas, crickets, and a lonely owl. In 2025, few are given the blessing of Nature’s nighttime songs; they have been beeped, revved, yelled, and motored into silence… but blessedly, not so in Easton. 

In the ‘70’s, a time of honor-the Earth and do-it-yourself living, author and artist Eric Sloane was already wistful about what had been lost, what he felt made America great. In I Remember America, Sloane reminisces about the back roads, barns, swamps, fields, and farms where he had worked and painted since the ‘20’s. He tells of a developer gesturing toward a stretch of asphalt parking lot and remarking with satisfaction, “To think that was once just a marsh!” Sloane well remembered the place, alive with birds, fish, and “the guttural guitar responses of green frogs.” When he said he liked it better the way it was, the developer scoffed, “You… are old-fashioned.” (pg. 31)

I am too. I love my 18^th century house with its lingering scent of wood smoke, wide plank floors, massive beams, and soot-blackened fireplaces. There is a cozy warmth to old wood touched by generations of hands and by the aura of the lives of those generations. Once, behind a wall taken down to do some repair work on our fireplace, we discovered the imprint of fabric in the horsehair plaster. I could imagine a weary worker taking a break and leaning back, leaving the mark of his shirt there for over two centuries.  

Sloane is particularly nostalgic about old barns and noted that many portrayed in his paintings had been, by 1971, demolished. He depicts the beauty of decay in missing panels, gaping windows, and iron hinges black against red barn doors now faded and scratched.

... Like the barn across from our house. Moss and lichens creep across the roof, and the shingles, exhausted after centuries of resisting rain and snow, are caving in. The planks of the doors are gap-toothed and rotted where they meet the ground, and no doubt many creatures seek shelter there at night.

In the morning, inspired by Sloane’s paintings, and the shadows, angles, and crevices that attracted him, I grab my phone and wander about the barn knowing the neighbors won’t mind. I am newly fascinated by the muscular roots that snake through the soil to the stonework of the attached garage. I love the shaft of sunlight on the dirt floor glimpsed through a crack where wood meets stone. I kneel on the earth to click a white aster blooming against the faded red stain of the barn door.  

And I am grateful that this barn still stands, as does our ancient house when so many like it have been torn down by those who value the new over the old. I am grateful for the swamp that abuts our property, where the frogs bellow in the spring, and the raccoons go hunting. And I am grateful that we live in Easton.

Eric Sloane was heartsick over the triumph of development, cars, and cash over landscapes he’d held dear. He mourned the passing of America’s agrarian past, the demolition of its remnants, and the destruction of natural ecosystems.   

Yet… we have them still in Easton. 

Thousands of acres of forest, swamps, meadows, and fields preserved. Historic homes. Farms and barns passed down through generations of Easton families.

For all of this, I thank our Commissions and Boards, Citizens for Easton, and the Aspetuck Land Trust for upholding our zoning and their vigilant stewardship. And many thanks to our farmers, for the work they do, the food and Christmas trees they provide, and the agricultural heritage they have upheld. 

Eric Sloane would be proud.  

 

 

Sloane, Eric, I Remember America, Ballantine Books, New York, 1975             

  

A Quiet Morning - or not - in Rhode Island

Garlic mustard is an invasive plant, and it is best to root it out. In its defense, in early spring it puts forth a cluster of delicate blossoms, and its edible leaves can be crushed into pesto. 

Similarly, the multi-flora rose is a murderous siren as the vine entwines trees and shrubs in a choking embrace. But, it emits a perfume so heavenly that I still my pen, sit back, close my eyes, and breathe deep. 

For a few moments, I remain so, enjoying quiet interrupted only by the chatter of a chipping sparrow and the distant chirp of a robin. That peace is short-lived however, for we humans are an invasive species ourselves, and once the growing season begins, we are loud.

So loud. On this day in late June, the landscapers are out in force, heavily armed to control and contain humans' preferred non-native: grass.

Across the way, a truck towing a trailer bearing a commercial mower parks on a swath of grass that borders the road. It is not the lawn to be mowed as it turns out, but that of a neighbor. That neighbor is not pleased to see the truck and trailer on her grass. She storms from the house shrieking her fury at a burly worker in a neon-yellow tee-shirt. “Get your truck off my lawn!” She howls. I reflect that the town owns land 25’ from the center of the road, but do not wade into the discussion across the street with that tidbit.  

The burly man had already started his mower and does not move his truck. Meanwhile, his associate has fired up a gas-powered leaf blower which roars its disdain of the petals and leaves that have had the temerity to besmirch the green of the grass. Neither man turns off the machines to better hear or address the neighbor’s concerns. Instead, the burly man bellows that he’d move the truck once he finished mowing the roadside strip, thank you very much. 

The woman, hoarse, by now, I have to think, marches to her house and re-emerges with her phone. She stomps to the front of the truck and takes a picture then turns and shoots the burly man a major stink eye. A stink eye that says, “Move the truck, or I’ll call the police.” In truth, I’m surprised she hasn’t done so given the ferocity of her ire. 

Once the strip of lawn is the required ½ inch shorter, the burly guy moves the truck to the strip he has just mowed. He then takes his own picture of his prior parking spot and yells to the leaf blower, “That’s for my protection.” Apparently, he, too, thinks the police might pull up.   

At that point, there is a final exchange between the homeowner and burly guy about which of them had been more rude. 

“You were rude to me!” 

“Well, you were rude FIRST!”

“No! You were!”

Sigh. Grown-ups.  

The lightest of breezes cools my face and sets the pink petunias Dave planted yesterday to bobbing. During a pause in the action across the street, I hear a cardinal call from the wetlands. An airplane whines overhead, and a truck rumbles past drowning out the bird’s call. Nature’s gentle songs and creatures cannot compete with humanity’s invasion. 

 

Revolutionary Rivalries

The measured clip clop of horse hooves on pavement was not the rhythm history and Longfellow’s poem had led us to expect. Dave and I had been chest-to-barricade for over an hour along with thousands of others awaiting Paul Revere’s warning to Samuel Adams and John Hancock, whose 2025 counterparts had recently retired to bed in the Hancock-Clarke house just down the road.

For some time, a young blond woman in jeans and a tee-shirt had been walking the horse up and down in front of us to “acclimate him to the road and the crowd.” Occasionally, Mr. Revere, 2025, took a spin on the horse himself – not his horse, apparently, and again, “acclimating” before the big ride. 

But it was surprising when that moment came, and the acclimated horse and rider rode past the cheering multitudes. This was a re-enactment of the events of 1775, mind you, but still, their pace was relaxed, and Revere’s bearing and announcement rather sedate given the context. Where was the urgency? For, as had happened 250 years ago, a well-armed, highly disciplined brigade of British soldiers was on the march seeking to arrest Adams and Hancock and confiscate whatever weapons they could find. 

Soon after Revere trotted by, William Dawes - to whom history has given only muted credit – thundered past, bellowing “The Regulars are out!” The message was the same but delivered with the fervency the situation required. Dawes’s body was pressed to the neck of his horse, his face whipped by the streaming mane of his sweaty mount. This was the scene we were waiting for. And now that it was past, I needed to sit down.  

Dave and I had been fighting colds for over a week, but blessedly, felt well enough to go on this trip that had been two years in the planning. Earlier in the day as we cruised the Mass Pike on our way north, Dave spotted a bird soaring overhead.

“Check out that bird! Wait… I think it’s an eagle!”

 I craned to follow the bird’s flight path and could see its distinctive white head.

“Omigod! It’s a bald eagle! Surely, a sign!” 

A sign, I hoped, that this celebration of the sparks that enflamed the revolutionary fervor of 1775 in America’s fight for independence, equality, and individual rights would shake people from Trump-hypnosis. I also wondered who might show up. 

In 2023, we’d made reservations at The Wayside Inn for this weekend, the 250^th anniversary of the Battles of Lexington and Concord. Little did we know then how much we’d need a dose of patriotic spirit come 2025. At that time, the turbulence of today’s America and the 2024 election were just a nagging worry. 

We knew parking and road closures would be an issue, so we drove straight to Concord’s Visitor Center in search of event schedules and maps. The lot was already closed, so Dave dropped me off and went in search of a spot. 

To this day, there’s a rivalry between Lexington and Concord as to which battle triggered the Revolution, and both towns had separate plans for April 19^th, the date of the battle on Lexington green and the exchange of shots at the Old North Bridge in Concord a few hours later. 

I’d hoped for enthusiastic docents with a copious supply of pamphlets to help us navigate the shuttles and events planned in the two towns, so we could coordinate our attendance at both battles, both parades, and both concerts. Instead, a nice lady handed me a map of Concord’s parade route and pointed out the QR code that would take me to the Concord250 website. 

Sigh. QR codes and apps. How they plague me. 

Never mind, we’d figure it out. I met up with Dave at our favorite shop, The Nesting, and we set out to explore. 

A crowd had gathered at Wright’s Tavern. This, like the many taverns throughout the colonies, was where the Sons of Liberty stirred opposition to Britain, King George, tyranny, and taxes in 1775. Might a protest against authoritarianism be brewing there today?

No. The bustle was over the re-opening of the newly restored 18^th century tavern and enthusiastic patronage of the adjacent beer garden. A woman wearing a pleated white mob cap, shawl, long skirt, and green apron greeted us and directed us to the entrance.

In the first room, a docent in britches, stockings, and buckle-toed shoes pointed out the window to the road down the center of town. “The British marched right past the tavern on their way to the Old North Bridge," he said. And on this day in 2025, with democracy in danger and the spirit of 1775 on display, I could envision the scarlet uniforms, the glint of sunlight off bayonets, and sense the thud of a thousand footfalls. 

We strolled the tavern, admiring the massive beams, the burnished wood of the fireplace mantel, and the hollow worn into the floorboards behind the bar by the pivot of long-ago barkeeps serving customers and turning to the shelf of beverages behind. 

As we departed the tavern on our way to the beer garden, I ran into the friendly woman who’d first welcomed us. With lowered voices, we chatted about the parallels between 1775 and the present, and even in that, in the hush of caution in our conversation, I felt a shiver of connection with the past. 

“I heard the Proud Boys applied for a permit to march in the parade, “ she said. “I don’t know how that ended. Or what will happen if they come.” Unsettled as I am about the Constitution under siege, I want something to happen, something to jolt every American to attention. So, in a way, I hoped there’d be drama beyond the re-enactment. Although, as it turned out, I would not be in attendance myself.

Dave had found a table in the beer garden and had already made a friend. We bought drinks and a cup of New England clam chowder and chatted with several locals. Current events were as much a topic as those of 1775, and most people were on the same page. 

From a vendor selling souvenirs, we bought a magazine, Discover the Battle Road, with a comprehensive outline of the weekend’s events. The list of road closures was long, so we decided to head to Lexington for dinner and to await Paul Revere. I was dragging, and the thought of waking at 3:30 am in order to nab a good spot for the 5:15 battle re-enactment was rapidly losing appeal. 

Cautioned by some policemen that all in-town parking lots would close at 8:00, we parked a mile away at a church listed online as a satellite lot. Dave was starving, so he enjoyed a generous bowl of pasta and a salad while I nibbled at a mushroom pizza at a restaurant in the center of town. Even after dinner, it was only 8:00, and Revere wasn’t due until 10:00. I was tired, but having decided to skip the 5:15 battle, we definitely wanted to see Revere’s ride. 

We tapped the address of the Hancock-Clarke house into GPS and started off. The walk felt long, but lovely colonial homes lined the route, and many yards held signs saying, “No Kings! No Tyranny!” and “Muskets Against Musk.” Not so different, the trials of 1775 and 2025.  

Once we drew near, Dave opted to stand close to the house but three deep in the crowd. I chose the front line a bit further away. He listened to a learned re-enactor expound on the Declaration of Independence. I chatted with a high school girl and her brother who grew up here in town. At one point, upon receiving a text, the girl looked at me, shook her head, and snorted.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“Honestly. My boyfriend. He asked what I was doing, and I said, “waiting for Paul Revere.’ He said, ‘Who’s that’” 

“He was kidding, right?” 

“No. That’s so him.”

What? All these kids live in Lexington. Surely, the boy was joking? 

Throughout the evening, people in colonial dress wandered the line answering questions and talking about the events of April 19, 1775. I asked one gentleman, a re-enactor who would participate in the morning’s battle, if, while in character, he felt nervous about the approach of the British. 

“Absolutely,” he said. “Having heard they were coming, you wait. Then you hear them, the sound of their feet on the march. Getting closer.” He placed the fingers and thumb of one hand to his sternum. “I feel it. The nerves. Right here. And then they come into view. Hundreds of them. The officers on horseback. The bayonets. What would it have been like for the Colonials? Farmers mostly who’d been doing drills on the green? Yes. I feel the fear. I feel their fear.” 

Once Revere and Dawes completed their mission, and Adams and Hancock had fled, I had to sit down. I had to find Dave and sit down. I scanned the crowd hoping to spot his Einstein mop of hair, but it was dark, I was tired and starting to feel teary. Briefly, I sat under a tree, but thought I’d get trampled as people headed home. Fortunately, Dave and I soon found each other and trudged the mile back to the car. 

Once at the hotel and in bed, Dave fell asleep, and I coughed all night. 3:30 and 5:15 passed, and still I coughed. Lord, I was happy not to be at the green watching the Minutemen fall. I was feverish and too sick to go home despite Dave’s care, cool cloths, Tussin DM, and soup warmed in the hotel microwave. Battles, parades, and concerts preceded as planned without us, and I didn't care. 

On Easter Sunday, Dave helped me to the car, and we drove to Fairfield, straight to Urgent Care and an X-Ray. I was relieved when the doctor ruled out Covid and any guilt over being a super-spreader, but double pneumonia? That was a surprise. 

Blame Paul Revere.

    

                                      Photo from: Discover the Battle Road

  

 

Wet, Cold, and Exhilarated

Before we left for Europe, I’d checked the weather in England and was dismayed to see reports of rain for pretty much every day we’d be there. Sigh. Dave and I both needed new raincoats. I have my mother-in-law’s old yellow slicker, but I wanted something vaguely chic, and Dave turned to Amazon to purchase a padded black jacket that would serve for rain as well as cold. A practical choice since Lisa had told us to pack hats, gloves, and warm coats for our excursion up to the Jungfrau where it would be bitter cold. Continuing my tradition of wearing inherited clothes, I was content to bring my mother’s long, black parka for that jaunt.  

Truth is, in the flurry of last-minute preparations and election activities and worries, I was content to hand over all Swiss plans to Lisa and Tucker. I wasn’t even sure what the Jungfrau was, and never got around to Googling it. So, we’d done as Lisa asked, but from the warm days of September to the mild weather we encountered throughout our trip, it was hard to imagine needing the winter clothes tucked in the bottom of our suitcases. 

Our lovely trail walk of paragliders and rainbows ended at the bus stop for the Trummelbachfalle, a series of waterfalls inside the mountain open to visitors by way of an elevator, tunnels, and stairs. We couldn’t miss that, but it would have to wait; hunger and the allure of creamy cheese fondue and crusty bread demanded return to the village. 

The next day was overcast and drizzly, the perfect maiden voyage for our new raincoats. We took a local bus back to the Trummelbachfalle, bought tickets, and opted for the elevator for the first leg of the climb. 

Raincoats. It was a good thing we’d worn them. Ten waterfalls draining from the glaciers of the Eiger thundered past us, over 5,000 gallons per second, in a wild rush to the river below, dousing us as we clung to iron railings and navigated the steep, wet stairs cut into the rock. 

In Europe, I am ever amazed by the trust placed in travelers. Yes, there are signs urging caution and consideration of others. And yes, there was that iron railing to keep us from plummeting into the falls, but basically, our safety was left to our good judgment. 

Tucker, Lisa, Lexi, and Paul wore yellow, magenta, pink and royal blue raincoats, vivid in the dim light of the tunnels or while snaking between the cliff and surging water. They were game for the adventure, but it tested my heart to watch those butterfly-bright colors inching between unyielding rock and the water’s force. 

                                                            *  

What’s with these birds? We are atop the Jungfrau, at 13,642 feet, the highest train station in Europe.  It is frostbite-cold, and we are buffeted by wind, slipping on icy snow, and surrounded by gleeful tourists throwing snowballs. There’s not a tree to harbor grubs, shrubs to shelter creatures, nor carcasses to scavenge. What do these birds eat? Where do they sleep? What draws them to this freezing, barren height? 

We are drawn by stunning views, the prospect of visiting an ice palace, and the joy of accompanying our kids on another adventure.  

First surmounted in 1811 and now accessible by a delightful ride on a train the color of Christmas, “Jungfrau” means  young woman or virgin.

I don’t get the connection. There is no blush of the rose, no wisp of springtime green up here, that’s for sure. All is glacial white, or that icy blue that colors the river and waterfalls below. In fact, beyond the crags, glaciers, and this snowy plateau, I glimpse a distant blue sea. Or is it sky?

While I am mincing about like the ancient being I am to make sure I don’t fall, Paul and Lexi are enjoying the ice, sliding and skidding for fun. And that is the vibe. Bundled against the cold but giddy, people are posing, flinging loose snow, packing it into projectiles, and laughing aloud.

Our stay outside is not long, however; the cold is cruel, and there are only so many times I can whip off my gloves to snap pictures of the scene, the kids, and those birds before the ache in my fingers begs me leave.   

We head inside the Jungfraujoch complex to  zip down the corridors and past the ice sculptures of the Ice Palace, take a just-in-case trip to the restroom, and board the train for the two-hour ride back to Lauterbrunnen. We have a dinner reservation at 6:00 and cheese fondue awaits. 

Throughout our trip, from the Churchill War Rooms, to the many-times conquered village of Rothenberg ob der Tauber, to the icy reaches of the Jungfrau, I have pondered the forces of man and nature, and the changes they have wrought. Sometimes over eons, as water erodes valleys and cuts through rock, or, over a matter of a few generations as brutal lessons are forgotten and once again, human animosity, conquest, and power-hunger have felled civilizations. With the upheaval that undoubtedly lies ahead for America after this election, it has been a blessing to immerse ourselves in these glorious settings, the lives of our children, and the still-innocent world of our grandkids.   

 

 

  

Turning Six

“It’s so beautiful, it looks fake,” my daughter Casey texts back every time I send her pictures. Harsh as that sounds, it’s true. I’m here, walking in a valley through green meadows bordered by mountains  beribboned with tumbling waterfalls, and it’s hard to believe it’s real.

Dave and I are in Switzerland visiting my son Tucker, his wife, Lisa, and our grandkids, Paul and Lexi. Lexi is tireless, and she scampers down the trail ahead of me and Lisa, the bell on her purple backpack jingling in concert with the hollow toll of the bells slung round the necks of the cows and goats grazing in the grass as we stroll by. Propelled by the glaciers melting milky blue ice into its waters, the river rushes alongside.  

Lexi races back to us, her eyes wide behind her pink glasses. She dances with excitement and points skyward. “Look! Look up!

A paraglider has taken off from the cliff above and sails ever lower, a white vision dipping and angling across the trail before us and then dropping neatly into the field to our left. I have snapped, snapped, snapped a series of pictures of his descent, yet another “whoa!” moment in this setting that is magical even without the appearance of a winged human landing nearby. 

But where are the boys? We turn and shield our eyes against the sun hoping to spot them, but Dave, Tucker, and eight-year-old Paul have lingered behind and are still out of sight. What could they possibly be doing?

When we visited the kids in Zurich last January, we were surprised to find the weather so much like Connecticut. It was gray, drizzly, and mild, not calendar Switzerland in the least. “I told you to come in October,” Tucker had groused. He wanted so much for us to see why they loved their new home, but “We are here to be with you,” I would say. “I don’t care about the weather.”

And that was totally true, but Tucker was also right. October in Lauterbrunnen is an artful symphony of spilling water, clanging bells, skipping lambs, and verdant green against the white of snowy mountains. Rustic sheds dot the hillsides, and red geraniums bloom brilliant against the wooden shutters of alpine homes. Months ago, I saw a picture of Tucker and family taken on a path above this village and told him, I want to go there! So, dear souls, they arranged this get-away during our visit. 

Lisa, Lexi, and I skirt the meadow where the paraglider landed and cross a wooden bridge, scanning the trail behind us for signs of the men. “Look!” Lisa says. “A rainbow!” 

Flying humans, contented cows, and now a rainbow? Seriously? Yes. Where the sun graces the mist of one of the waterfalls, a rainbow arches from cliffside to the trail. And there, running toward us, is Paul, with Tucker and Dave in his wake.

“Did you see…. (where to begin?) the paraglider! The rainbow! The cows! The goats!” We greet them with a barrage of all that has amazed us. Yes, they have, and like me, stopped to take innumerable pictures trying to freeze them. 

This has been my challenge since my kids were born. Trying to freeze their precious baby faces, their toddler missteps, their proud accomplishments. Trying to pay attention and take nothing for granted. Trying to do the impossible: slow time. So, I take many pictures, ironically sacrificing the moment in the very act of striving to preserve it. But with Tucker and family now living overseas, imprinting the time together is that much more important. 

When my grandkids were even younger, I’d wonder after a memorable day of picking apples at a local farm, hiking in our woods, or playing in a fort made of a blanket stretched over a quilt rack, Will they remember this? Probably not, but I hoped the feeling would stick. Maybe the feeling of fun and being so deeply loved by their grandparents would last. Shamelessly, I work to cement that. 

“Do you know you’re the best boy in the world?” I’ll say to Paul. 

“Yes!” he hoots.

“How do you know?” I ask.

“Because you’ve told me about a million times!” By then I have him in a smothering hug, so his words are a giggly growl. 

Back on the trail, Lexi dashes off to meet her brother and wraps him in her arms. Today is her 6^th birthday, and to Lexi, everything about this day – the rainbow, the paraglider, the music of the bells, our visit – is all for her.  And perhaps, it is. The Universe generous in celebrating this little girl.  

“Where have you been, Paul?” 

“We played ba-loop for a while, throwing rocks into the river. Stopped to see the cows. Did you see the cat at the house with the big garden out front?” 

Yes, we did. “And we got pear chips there!” crows Lexi, with just a hint of “and you didn’t!” in her tone. She is a good sharer, though, and offers Paul a piece. 

That had been yet another fascinating surprise, to come across a vending machine offering raclette cheese, bread, chocolate, and pear chips housed in a charming alpine hut adjacent to a house with an abundant garden. Pear chips can only go so far in staving off hunger and the grouchiness that can go with it, so we head back to the village for lunch and then to the gondola cableway for our afternoon trip to Murren.

                                                                   *

Once we clamber aboard, the gondola lifts us up the steep slope of the mountain. We climb past trees tinged orange and gold, up the white face of the cliff, up until the village is a storybook stage set far below. At Grutschalp, we transfer to a train for the final leg to Murren. Tucker hands Lexi his 360 camera mounted on a long pole. “You are six now, old enough to hold the camera.” Personally, I think he’s brave to hand it over, but Lexi’s proud smile is a gift as Tucker opens the window and extends the pole outside.

To begin with, I’m surprised that passengers are free to open the windows, but more surprising still is when I spot the train’s driver leaning back in his seat, arms stretched luxuriously behind his head. Yes, he is going “no hands” as our train carries us ever higher. He knows his vehicle, though, and we arrive unscathed in Murren. 

The summer tourists have largely departed, and the village is in the throes of build and repair. While there are few private cars, work crews are busy. Trucks shuttle loads of lumber; earth movers shovel dirt; and metal clangs against metal. Still, the town is a collage of color. Window boxes blaze with purple petunias and red geraniums, vibrant against shutters of natural wood or green. Clouds shift across the face of the mountains, and visible far below, we see the waterfalls, village, and snaking path of the river. 

The kids are troopers; scanning scenic vistas is not their favorite thing. But there are tree stumps to climb, a cat to coo over, a grandfather willing to give shoulder rides, and pear chips to nibble.

Across the valley, we see signs of a rockslide, and we’ve heard that the glaciers that feed the river and waterfalls are shrinking. I have allowed myself a respite from the news during our time here, and the affairs of humans seem small and distant in the face of the forces that, over eons, have shaped this expansive scene.

But more immediately, today is Lexi’s birthday, and for me, thoughts of forever hover. 

 “I will miss five-year-old Lexi, but I love six-year-old Lexi sooooooooooo much!” I tell her while enveloping her in a squeeze. 

“Like… for infinity?” she says.

“Yes. Infinity!”

“But what about when you die?” she asks, her expression becoming serious. 

My nose prickles and my voice is strained, although I hope she doesn’t notice. “Even then, Sweetie. I will always be there, watching over you.” 

I remember my sixth birthday; surely Lexi will remember hers?

 

 

 

 

 

  

Pixel Zoo Jungle

Given the fatigue of yesterday’s journey from Rothenberg ob der Tauber to Zurich, it was lovely to nestle in a bean bag chair with my grandchildren, son, and daughter-in-law snuggled nearby. Dave and Tucker dozed off, lulled by music and masked by the darkness, but Lisa, Lexi, Paul, and I were entranced by the swirling colors, verdant greens, lumbering elephants, loping leopards, and swinging apes projected on the walls encircling us. We had come to experience immersion in the Pixel Zoo Jungle at the Kirche auf der Egg, and, as the kids had promised, to do some coloring afterwards. Nice! Coloring can be soothing.

When the lights came on, we gathered up coats and slipped on our shoes. Tucker and Dave rubbed their eyes and tried to look like they’d not been sleeping. We left the womb of the church theater to enter a hall lined with tables and chairs stocked with crayons and colored pencils. 

Shelves nearby held copious sheets of paper, each with a line drawing of one of the animals portrayed in the show. Paul chose a leopard but colored him with the orange and black stripes of a tiger. Lexi’s butterfly was green and purple. I chose a poison frog and bejeweled him with blue, yellow, and green. Dave’s parrot was a stunning array of scarlet, blue, and yellow feathers. Fun!

Paul disappeared behind a curtain, but absorbed as I was in adorning my frog, I paid no attention. 

Suddenly, he thrust the curtains aside, and ran to us saying, “My tiger is REAL! Come see!”

What?

We followed him through the curtains and down a dark hall where the wall seemed alive with creatures roaming through dense foliage.

“Look! There he is! My tiger!” hooted Paul as a handsome beast, strong and fluid, sauntered before us, his markings exactly as Paul had colored them. 

How could that be?

“Over here!” said Paul as he led the way to a tall, white cubby with a shelf opening to the front. “Put your drawing on this square under the light.” 

 

As instructed, but expecting little, I placed my frog.

“Now, go look for him!” 

As Paul’s tiger continued to prowl, a golden sphere floated across the jungle scene. The sphere expanded, then evaporated… leaving my frog - in his blue, yellow, and green glory - squatting on a rock. 

No way!  

My frog stretched his leg. He did! You won’t believe this, but MY frog stretched his leg! AI or not, modern technology or not, this was magic – our creations come to life!

Next into the cubby and under the enchanted beam, Dave’s parrot and Lexi’s butterfly. And then, the miracle, as they hatched from golden spheres to flutter and fly through twisting vines and tropical palms.

Of course, we were not the only ones populating that jungle and had to take turns at the cubby. So, we hurried back to the tables to produce two anacondas, another butterfly, and a red, purple, and green jaguar, then proudly waited to witness their birth. 

Later that evening, back at the kids’ place, we clustered on the couch to watch a tape of the Space-X Starship launch and the extraordinary precision of the booster rocket’s re-capture when it returned to Earth. 

What a day of marvels! Drawings brought to life and starships guided home. If we humans choose potential over division, what will Paul, Lexi, and Eleanor live to see?  

Preserved by Poverty

 October 9, 2024

The Night Watchman brushes his long black cape aside as he gestures out over the ramparts. A constellation of encircling house lights crowns the wooded valley below, barely piercing the darkness that enfolds the countryside. 

“In the 1600’s, during the Thirty Years War, security was a priority,” he says. “Enemies were everywhere. So, we are high on a hill, surrounded by thick walls and guard towers. But the enemies breached the walls and brought the plague. They stayed in our homes and took our food and our women.” He looks around our circle of tourists with a rueful smile. “Don’t be fooled. There were no ‘good old days.’ 

It's a message I need to hear because nostalgia for other times is a refuge I often turn to. But for now, Dave and I are exactly where we want to be, in the dark of this historic German village, held in thrall by a master storyteller.   

“For 250 years, the town went silent. 250 years of nothing. There was no money to repair or modernize. Nothing changed. Rothenburg was preserved by poverty. Eventually, artists discovered us… and the tourists followed.  So, I thank you all for coming.”

Twenty years ago, in October, 2005, Casey, Dave and I arrived in this village in flip flops and summer garb after a month’s sabbatical in Italy. Casey was down-spirited and snuffly with a terrible cold, and we were ill-prepared for damp, chilly weather. Still, as we hunched our shoulders against a drizzling rain while trudging from the tiny train station, my daughter’s face lit up as the town came into view. 

For Rothenburg ob der Tauber is magical, a fortified Medieval village, near frozen in time. To wander its narrow cobblestone streets between pastel-hued homes with steep pitched, red-tiled rooves and exposed beams is to enter a fairytale.  

Once settled into our B & B, the 600-year-old home of our host, musician and inventor, Norry Raidel, shopping for shoes and cozier clothes was a priority. As promising as were several enticing window displays of comfortable shoes at reasonable prices, every shoe store we passed was closed for the day. Casey was drooping, discouraged, and needed a nap, but in the absence of warm shoes, sweaters were a necessity. 

We turned down a side street and stopped in a store tended by a lanky, long-haired proprietor and his wife. Casey tried on a soft zip-up of heather brown and loved it, while the sweater I tried was bulky and a bit itchy. “Looks good,” said the owner, but I shook my head and returned it to the shelf. For the time being, I’d wear layers.   

That evening, after a snooze and dinner, the three of us waited in the central square, the Marktplatz, for an 8:00 tour to help us learn some history and get our bearings. From a side alley, our guide swept toward us, his Medieval cloak swirling about his legs, his long hair flowing over his shoulders. With every stride, he rapped the cobblestones with an axe-headed staff. Once he reached our group, he held up his lantern to better see my face and said, “You should have bought the sweater.” 

Shop proprietor by day, Hans Georg Baumgartner has been conducting the Night Watchman Tour in Rothenburg ob der Tauber for decades. Like us, he is twenty years older, and but for his graying hair, looks much the same in his cape and wide-brimmed hat. The blade on his staff is curved, wicked, and deadly sharp – more so than I remember. He notes my gaze and explains, “Necessary for Night Watchmen. All of the good people were asleep in their beds, and those were superstitious times. Who knew what was out in the dark?”

As he had in 2005, the Night Watchman told us the trials of this small village did not end in the 17^th century. During World War II, Nazis held the town, and on March 31, 1945, U.S. bombers destroyed a third of the homes, walls, and municipal buildings. 36 people were killed. In mid-April, the Allies received an order to finish the job. But John J. McCloy, Assistant Secretary of War, was reluctant; throughout his childhood, he’d been captivated by a painting of Rothenburg purchased by his mother during her travels. Rather than proceed with the order to demolish, he persuaded his commanding officer to allow him to try to negotiate a surrender.  

In recent months, human events feel like a dominoes affair, a set-up where a flick on one tottering tile sends the rest in a serpentine tumble, changing all that was. I suppose the citizens living in 1940’s Rothenburg felt that way too, little knowing the conversations at play in the Allied encampment beyond their city's walls.    

During the ‘70’s, Dave and I were entranced by the charm of this place we’d discovered while backpacking through Europe. So, we bought a souvenir, an etching of Rothenburg that has hung in our bedroom ever since. It fills me with wonder to reflect on the ripples set in motion from the moment McCloy’s mother wandered into a gallery, browsed as we had, and selected a painting that, years later, succeeded in saving the town.