Evolution of a Leader... and a Republic: Mount Vernon Part II

Gracious mansions, handsome youths in uniform, flirtatious belles in lavish dresses, and devoted servants: Gone with the Wind’s portrayal of 19^th century plantation life seemed romantic when I was 16. A spring vacation trip to South Carolina with Andy to visit my grandmother added to the mystique. The heady scent of gardenias, trees shrouded with gray-green Spanish moss, and tales of destruction during Sherman’s March to the Sea cemented my teenage southern sympathies. 

How had I missed the stain of slavery permeating those impressions? How could a country touting equal rights and liberty condone it for over 200 years? How could George Washington, a man idolized for his virtue, have been a slave owner? 

In my 1960’s American History classes in Pennsylvania, we were taught that the roots of the Civil War were largely economic, a collision between the industrialized North and the agrarian South. Beyond that, we were told, pointedly, that slavery was not the cause: the war was fought over states’ rights. True enough, but, as Confederacy vice president Alexander Stephens proclaimed in his Cornerstone Speech, the right so fiercely pursued by Confederate states was the right to own humans. 

Why did my teachers hedge?

Our decade is not the first to dodge “discomfort” while teaching the young. Was it deemed too discordant for a country founded on equality and liberty to delve into the brutality and hypocrisy of slavery when televisions were broadcasting into American living rooms scenes of violence against peaceful civil rights protesters? Were those images already tarnishing, to a distressing degree, the heroic post-WW II image of the United States? Could be. From the country’s founding, denial has continued to prove dangerous in masking past shame, allowing the resulting wounds to linger, and impeding the attainment of democratic ideals.  

President Washington was born into a world where denial thrived as fortunes flourished due to enslaved labor. While field hands were kept cowed and at a distance, the intelligence, talents and humanity of house servants, skilled seamstresses, weavers, carpenters, cooks, and farmers would have been evident. One must imagine, for those of heart and integrity such as Washington, a constant struggle of conscience. 

Washington’s thinking, and, equally important, his willingness to voice it, evolved during the Revolutionary War. In the courage of Black soldiers, in his bond with his valet William Lee, and in meeting accomplished Black – female! - poet Phylis Wheatley, it would have been ever harder to deny what was apparent. In 1786, he said, “There is not a man living who wishes more sincerely than I do, to see a plan adopted for this abolition of [slavery] but there is only one proper and effectual mode by which it can be accomplished, & that is by legislative authority.” 

In his will, finally, he made peace with his conscience and freed his slaves. 

                                                *

On Saturday, as predicted, my friends and I woke to a light drizzle. In raincoats and sensible shoes, we left the Quarters, enjoying the scent of wood smoke wafting from the re-enactors’ encampment. George Washington as farmer and gardener was our focus, and Dean Norton, Director of Horticulture, was our guide. 

With eyes bright and every gesture conveying his knowledge and love of the glorious gardens and plants surrounding us, Dean was a font of anecdotes and information acquired during his fifty years at Mount Vernon. He led the way beneath towering trees planted by the first president and, as we strolled the brick path bordering thriving lettuces and prickly artichokes in the vegetable garden, pointed to the spot where he, Dean, had proposed to his wife. 

George Washington loved his home and grounds and was meticulous about documenting everything, including the timing and success of different plantings. He was fascinated by innovation and science, and when wrenched from home and family by duty to this new country, he wrote constantly to his farm managers with questions, instructions, and adaptions. Every change in approach brought new burdens for the enslaved, some of whom, one must note, also knew the agony of being wrenched from home and family. But Washington drove himself hard in all he undertook and demanded from his laborers the same devotion to work. 

One of our pilgrimages was to the memorials dedicated to Mount Vernon’s enslaved individuals. Some are buried in unmarked graves on a wooded rise not so far from George and Martha Washington’s tomb.  

                                                   *

For over three centuries, presidents of these United States have commissioned or been honored with presidential libraries. The country’s first president - he who accepted the challenge of a radically new democracy and set the precedent honored until 2020 of a peaceful transfer of power - had none. The Mount Vernon Ladies Association (MVLA) wished to remedy that, and in 2010 launched a fundraising campaign to construct a library. They raised $106.4 million, all from private donors, and broke ground in 2011. The library opened in September of 2013, and in 2024, with Andy and archivist Rebecca Baird, we were invited into the inner sanctum.

Shelves of 18^th and 19^th century books lined the room, some formerly owned by the Washington family, others, actually the President’s. In one, held open by a looping “book snake,” Washington had written his name in the upper right corner of the title page, just as I have done in my books any number of times. Another volume, a replica of an original owned and acquired by the MVLA through heated bidding at a Sotheby’s auction, was Washington’s personal copy of the Constitution. Did I imagine the glow that seemed to surround it?     

And how to explain the aura in the conference room. Was it the lighting? The warmth of burnished sycamore paneling from a single three-hundred-year-old tree? Or was it the busts of the Founders, elevated on high, Washington presiding as Jefferson and Hamilton eyed each other warily from their plinths across the room? 

Encircled by images of those whose vision shaped our government, I sensed something beyond solemnity. Given today’s divisiveness and threat to Democracy, I was reminded of Benjamin Franklin’s charge in response to Elizabeth Willing Powel’s question in 1787: “Well Doctor, what have we got? A republic or a monarchy?”   

“A Republic, if you can keep it,” he replied.

Can we? Are we, the voters, going to honor that charge and prevent a Project 2025 styled dictatorship? 

If the Men Won't, "The Ladies" Will: Mount Vernon, Part I

What were her thoughts the day Louisa Cunningham spotted the derelict mansion on the grassy rise above the Potomac? She’d been visiting her daughter in Philadelphia and was probably preoccupied, worried about Ann Pamela’s declining health. Ever since a riding accident caused a spinal injury when she was 17, Miss Cunningham’s symptoms had worsened, and in 1853, in her mid-thirties, she was an invalid, tormented by chronic pain. While discomfort, mercury-laden purgatives, and laudanum would have agitated humans of any gender, her physician, a specialist in women’s “nervous diseases” recommended she rest and avoid mental stimulation. For an intelligent, once active young woman, those instructions must have been a stultifying sentence. 

As was tradition, at a certain point, when the steamboat bearing Ann Pamela’s mother chugged by on the river - the wind luffing her long skirts, gulls crying, water slapping the hull – the captain clanged the ship’s bell in tribute. One can imagine Mrs. Cunningham’s smile of anticipation fading as she turned her head and gazed at the peeling paint and rotted fences of George and Martha Washington’s former home, Mount Vernon. 

But her dismay led to inspiration: a way to engage her daughter while serving the country. Miss Cunningham had long been fascinated by George Washington, and despite the doctor’s orders, it was precisely mental stimulation, a mission, that might intrigue and uplift her.   

Unlike his famous great granduncle, John Augustine Washington III, the current owner of Mount Vernon, had been unable to manage the estate. Even though enslaved people continued to provide the labor, this particular Washington was unequal to the challenges posed by crop failure, erosion, and lawn-trampling, souvenir-stealing tourists. He wanted to sell but recognized the property’s symbolic importance to America’s foundation and wished to preserve it. Surely the Commonwealth of Virginia or federal government would be willing to invest the $200,000 Mr. Washington had decided to ask?

No. Both declined.   

The pain-plagued Miss Cunningham, however, embraced the cause, saying, “If the men of America are allowing the home of its most respected hero to go to ruin, then why can’t the women of America band together to save it.” She solicited women of means, contacts, and determination and formed the Mount Vernon Ladies Association (MVLA) to raise the money required for the purchase.

When Miss Cunningham and her committee launched their initiative, women could not vote, and married women could neither buy nor own property. Female intellect, desires, and efforts were generally dismissed or patronized. Despite the legal limitations on all but white, land-owning men, The Ladies persevered… and succeeded. The MVLA raised the money and bought the property. They have preserved, maintained, and owned it ever since. 

                                                                        

I’d never been to Washington’s home nor heard of the MVLA, and when my high school roommate, Andy, mentioned that she was on the board of Mount Vernon, I asked if I could hitch a ride during one of her trips down. Graciously, she agreed and extended an invitation to several other former classmates. Six of us were able to go, and we settled on dates in early May that coincided with a Revolutionary War Weekend at the estate.

Andy and I drove south together, and as we neared our destination, we swung past the Mount Vernon Inn, the walkway to the visitors’ center, and a series of parking lots. I saw no glimpse of the mansion itself as we pulled up to a locked security gate. Andy spoke into an intercom and was greeted by a disembodied male voice. The gate swung wide to admit us, and I surmised that this was not the usual entrance for most visitors. 

While planning the excursion, Andy had said we’d be staying on the property. 

“On the property?! At Mount Vernon?!” I could barely contain my glee.

“Yes, in the Quarters. It’s nice. Plenty of room.” 

In the days ahead, there would be much to learn about the enslaved who’d worked for our first president, but despite the name, our accommodations had not once been theirs. If only it had, for the Quarters were lovely, with comfy bedrooms, a living room, and a well-stocked kitchen. This was the residence of the regent and vice regents, “The Ladies” of the MVLA, when they came to meet and work. At that time, I didn’t know their story nor the critical role they continue to play… much less that Andy was the vice regent for Massachusetts.  

The afternoon was warm and sunny, but the forecast for the rest of the weekend was grim, so once everyone in our group had arrived, we headed out for a stroll around the mansion grounds and gardens. 

It has been over fifty years since the six of us were at school together. A host of movements – anti-war, feminism, civil rights, environmental activism – colored those times, and as girls, we were buoyed by the conviction that our generation would get it all right. For a while, it seemed we were making headway, and then… Well, it has not gone as we believed it would. So much has changed, yet, as I looked into the dear faces around me, I still saw the girls they had been. And on that day, reflected in each, was the same euphoria and near disbelief I was feeling, that we were together … at Mount Vernon.   

We strode briskly along in our vests, sweaters, and slacks: weather-appropriate, twenty-first century garb; not the norm, it turned out, during a “Rev War Weekend.” Outnumbered we were by those in capes, breeches, tri-corn hats, and sweeping skirts as hundreds of re-enactors bustled about pitching tents and arranging displays of antiques and colonial reproductions. We were excited about the tours Andy had lined up for the following day… as well as a chance to visit those vendors.  

Spring... and a Baby - reprise

A wrought iron mother wren with a baby at her feet perches on graceful vines encircling a fluted glass vessel. The little vase struck a chord with my mother, and she gave it to me when Tucker was born. Mom loves lilies of the valley, and it was early May, so she filled the vase with a few sprigs from her garden before coming to help out with my new baby. 

 

It was springtime, and the earth had prepared for Tucker’s arrival. In the fuzzy greening of trees, the sunshine glow of forsythia, and the pink clouds of magnolia emerging from gray wood seemingly dead only last week, God was saying – as surely as if He’d hugged me – “Be happy.” And I was. 

 

Lavender lilacs lent their fragrance to the warm, gentle breeze. Tiny sparrows that had passed March in mute pecking swung proudly on twigs and composed melodies. Brown-headed cowbirds chortled bubbling liquid songs, and mourning doves cooed like a mother’s soft soothing. Warblers called from the treetops with trills, chirps, and cheeps. Brother Wind, the woods’ winter alto voice, harmonized with the soprano songbird chorus. Mates were sought.  Nests were readied. My baby was on the way too.  

 

I’d been a poster child for pregnancy, and perhaps, a vexation to my fellow students in Lamaze class. Where Tucker curled tight in the womb, front and center, other mothers waddled cumbersome, expanding on all sides. I felt great, gained little weight, and was eager for birth-day to come.

 

Labor, for me, was a glorious crusade – a good one, without prisoners or weapons. There was blood and pain, but the prize was a baby, and I was well trained for the fight. With the current preference for epidurals, Lamaze has lost favor, but in the early eighties, it was the way to go. It was an invaluable education, and when the contractions began, the pain held no fear. I knew the significance of the sensations at each stage and was ready with a corresponding strategy. As the contractions grew stronger, I pictured my little one, struggling along with me.  Soon we would meet, face to face. 

 

I’d not been aware that I had expectations as far as the sex of the child. Yet, as a girl from a family of girls, I must have felt that this little traveler, so familiar, yet not, would be female. When Doctor Hoffman, the welcoming committee, caught the baby and announced, “He’s a boy, and he’s perfect!” I was surprised.  I was also surprised that this son of a WASP mother was so definitively Italian. I didn’t recognize him as my under-the-heart-in-my-heart companion right away. 

 

He resembled his father, Dave, so thoroughly. Thick black hair was slicked back from his face. His battle down the birth canal showed in in puffy cheeks and pouches under his eyes, like Dave after a long commute. And like Dave, Aunty Cam, Colombo, and his great-grandfather Michael, the baby’s nose was pure Sylvestro, rounded and substantial. 

 

The name “Tucker” is not as unique in this new millennium, but in 1980, it was.  It was round on my tongue, soft as a baby’s kissable cheeks, and the “r” at the end was a cozy burr. There was pride and love in the very utterance of the name, bound as it was to this little boy. 

 

But oh, the fatigue following the eighteen-hour delivery! I had eaten only tea and toast since the contractions began, and after all that hard work – triumphant work! – I was beat. So after snuggles with Tucker, and stitches for me, the nurses spirited him away, and I fell asleep.  

 

At 4:00 AM, I woke in the dark, achingly lonely for my other part, the other heart that had beaten under mine for nine months. The yearning I felt for him was a new kind of pain, and I was keenly aware of the void in my body where once he had been. 

 

Now, he is forty-four, married with two children and living in Switzerland. On this day, the day of his birth, he seems terribly far away as I reminisce about our first meeting so many years ago.

 

When spring comes around with its fuzzy leaves and lilac scents, I can conjure up the feeling of that day when we awaited his birth. As the lilies of the valley push up through the soil, I bury my nose in the clusters of white bells. God is proclaiming, “Be happy,” and I am… but I wish I could hold that little bundle again. 

 

 

   

  

A Veteran's Take

The bumper stickers on the car in front of mine in the Shop Rite parking lot stoked an uneasy feeling that no amount of broccoli, lemons, and pistachio ice cream could assuage. A drooping American flag was affixed to the car’s roof above a collage of angry messages: “Bidenflation – the price of your vote,” “Go Brandon,” and “Dumb and Dumber” next to pictures of the President and Vice President. There was no way the puny flag atop the car could put a patriotic spin on that vitriol. As the Republican party moves closer to crowning a candidate with authoritarian designs, I can almost hear Colombo’s shocked intake of breath.  

As a sophomore at Joel Barlow High School in the fall of 2000, our daughter’s history assignment was to interview a veteran and invite him or her to a breakfast panel at school later in the year. Very few students were able to find World War II vets to interview; even then, there weren’t many left. Casey was fortunate her grandfather, Colombo, was alive and eager to tell his stories.   

In the war against Fascism under dictators Hitler, Mussolini, and Hirohito, Colombo had been aboard a B-24 Liberator that bombed the Brenner Pass through the Alps between Italy and Austria. When Dave and I backpacked through Europe in the ‘70’s, Colombo directed us, “Check out the pass; I expect it’s still smoldering.” But, beyond that, his war stories had been tucked away - linen-wrapped in the bundle of letters in his sister’s closet, packed with his flight jacket and mementos in storage. 

            

As a first generation Italian born of immigrant parents who’d arrived only two decades before, Colombo and his three siblings were staunchly American. They wanted little to do with the country their parents had left behind, although Nanny’s homemade pasta and fresh garden vegetables always lured them home for meals. Like so many young men of the time, the three boys responded to the Nazi threat and enlisted as soon as they were old enough: Phil shipped out to the Pacific, Jack to North Africa, and Colombo to Italy.What must the crawl of days and nights have been like for the parents, worrying about all three of their sons?  

 

When Casey and Colombo settled into wicker chairs on the porch in Rhode Island for the interview, the soothing calls of gulls on salt-scented air were a far cry from the echoes of war. Yet, those years reeled closer as Colombo sifted through memories, and his granddaughter jotted notes.

 

With practised precision, Colombo recited his rank, base, duties and missions: “Army Aircorp Staff Sargeant, Cheringnol, Italy.” He recalled an ill-fated flight from Bangor, Maine to the continent, with Louie Prima, barely audible over the plane’s rumble, crooning “That Old Black Magic” on the radio. Engine troubles plagued the journey, necessitating layovers in Iceland and England. Snorting in disgust, Colombo shook his head, “That plane was a brand new B-24 Liberator. Turned out it was a lemon, scrapped once we reached Italy. Never even saw duty.”

  

And in 1945, he was with the crew that flew into Rome with the “Stars and Stripes” newspaper staff that covered Mussolini’s death and the fury of the mob that strung him up. 

 

In December of 2000, Colombo came to Easton to participate in the veterans panel at Barlow. Of those WW II vets attending, Colombo was the hardy exception: strong, healthy, and in great spirits. Beyond sharing his experiences, he brought a satchel of fishing line, morphine and a reflecting mirror: the emergency survival kit he’d been issued for use had that lemon of a Liberator gone down.  

            

On the morning of the panel discussion, Colombo left an inscription in our guest book:  “12/7/2000 – Pearl Harbor Day – How well I remember it! I was sixteen years old and had just finished a sand-lot football game in the snow at Lake Park, Worcester. We won the Park’s league. Little did I know that two years later I’d be in the Air Corps, finishing off the Nazis in May of 1945. On this day, my granddaughter and her class of the year 2000 will be commemorating the fifty-ninth year of Pearl Harbor. I am happy to share this day with her and her classmates.”  

 

So much has changed since that day. 

 

What would those who fought Fascism in the ‘40’s have thought of the bumper sticker bile on that car in the parking lot in 2024? Of the American flag wielded as a weapon in an assault on the Capitol to prevent the peaceful transfer of power? Of the virulence that divides America, and the forces that support an aspiring authoritarian?     

                                                

While interviewing Colombo, Casey had asked what he fought for. His response was immediate, “For the freedom of the United States and all the countries involved.” 

 

To her final question, “What message would you pass on to the people of today?” Colombo said, “Have respect for the soldiers and servicemen, and respect for the American flag.”

Colombo, center

 

 

 

What Lies Ahead?

The weekend was coming up, and I should have been excited. Normally at age nine, the prospect of a birthday party in the city with a movie and lunch at a fancy restaurant would have had me dancing. Instead, I was afraid. 

What if a bomb fell on my parents while I was at the party? Who would take care of me? What would I do? 

Mom and Dad tried to shield me and my sisters from world events. In their bathrobes and slippers after breakfast, they’d peruse sections of the Inquirer and Sunday Bulletin, strewing spent pages on the floor of the den. We girls would shuffle through them to find the Funnies, interested only in Blondie, Peanuts, and Beetle Bailey. If the news was troubling, we might detect some tension, but nothing was said.

Still, it was October of 1962, and at school, Duck-and-Cover drills sent us scurrying under desks, and some of our parents’ friends had excavated fallout shelters in their yards. Well-stocked with supplies, they were cool and cave-like to visit, but the thought of living there? Crazy claustrophobic, but for kids, the stuff of fantasy, as imaginable as life in a fort or submarine. 

Children with less protective parents spoke ominously about our enemy, the U.S.S.R, so we weren’t oblivious. The bomb scare clues were glaring, though not the specifics: that Soviet missiles with nuclear capabilities were being installed in Cuba and aimed at American cities. For me, lying rigid with fear in bed at night, every plane passing overhead held potential threat. Was that whining sound a bomb hurtling toward us?  

Now, I am the parent concerned for children and grandkids of my own. Although I try to resist, I scroll through my newsfeed every day striving to quell panic. Bad idea. On Sundays, the sections of the Boston Globe are strewn about our floor, and I still turn to the Funnies -  Pickles, Doonsbury, Foxtrot, and Family Circus – seeking a lift. 

I am reading Bobby Kennedy’s 1967 memoir of the Cuban Missile Crisis, Thirteen Days. He describes President John Kennedy’s calm in the face of the nuclear threat, and his belief in the necessity for debate and consideration of opposing opinions among Cabinet members and military advisors in deciding a course of action. Despite pressure from the Joint Chiefs of Staff to invade, the President chose prudence, a blockade as an initial step. Further, in recognizing the importance of allowing the Soviet leader to save face, he exchanged respectful letters with Premier Khrushchev urging a peaceful resolution. 

At 7:00 PM, Tuesday, October 22, the president appeared on television to inform his fellow Americans of the crisis. He told those watching that all branches of the military were in position and ready should the blockade be ineffective. Our NATO allies had been alerted and were ready to support us. 

In his book, Attorney General Kennedy reflected,  “We went to bed that night filled with concern and trepidation, but also with a sense of pride in the strength, the purposefulness, and the courage of the President of the United States. No one could predict what was in store in the days ahead, but we all felt that the President, because of his own wisdom and personal dignity, would have the support of a unified country.” (1.)

A unified country: a wistful dream in this time of partisan division. There are currently no missiles on our doorstep aimed our way, but leadership – the leadership that would determine our course in such a crisis – is up to the voters. Incredibly, millions of my fellow Americans support an erratic man who has invited aggression on our NATO allies – those who stood with us in 1962 and after 9/11 – if they don’t “pay up;” a man whose influence on Congress has successfully blocked essential aide to Ukraine despite the importance to our national security; a man convicted of fraud and sexual assault; a man charged with insurrection.    

In 1962, my parents, the country, and the world waited, terrified, to see what the U.S.S.R would do. And because the President was cautious, well-informed, mindful of ramifications, and respectful in negotiating with Khrushchev, an agreement was reached. The missiles in Cuba were dismantled. 

In November of 2024, I will wait, terrified, to see what future my fellow Americans envision for our children and grandchildren: Democracy; rational, experienced leadership; and the NATO alliance preserved … or chaos under Trump. 

 

1.        Robert F. Kennedy, Thirteen Days,  A Memoir of the Cuban Missile Crisis, 

W.W. Norton & Co., New York, pg. 43-44.

 

 

Hurry!

The morning was a flurry of packing, rounding up snow pants, and snipping tags off new mittens and helmets as we prepared for an overnight in Flumersberg. After a week of Connecticut-comparable weather in Zurich, we were heading to snowy mountains, fir trees, and alpine chalets to experience calendar-Switzerland. 

This trip required strategy as Lisa had enrolled Paul and Lexi in a weekly Sunday ski school, so we had the kids’ skis, poles, boots, and helmets to tote as well as our overnight bags. “And,” Lisa warned, her tone ominous, “we have to make several connections to get there.” 

Once all was ready, we waddled - fat in winter coats, dragging rolling bags, bristling with ski poles, and burdened with backpacks -  to the tram stop. As usual, Dave and I were grateful and apologetic for our duckling status, dependent as we were on Tucker and Lisa for directions and tickets. When the tram rounded the curve, Paul and Lexi took their positions at the exact spot where the back doors opened, scrambled inside, and nabbed their favorite seats by the back window. We were off!   

We arrived at the train station with enough time to buy lunch. The kids bee-lined for a booth selling warm, salty pretzel buns with a hole down the middle, just the right fit for a sausage or a generous portion of melted cheese. Delicious. We then located the correct track and sauntered its length before climbing on board. 

Swiss trains heading to Flumersberg expect skiers among their passengers and provide stands near the doors to store equipment. Having discovered how tricky it was to pry loose a ski pole that slid and stuck behind the overhead rack when initially placed with our bags on the shelf, we moved the kids’ gear to those stands. 

After we’d settled into our seats, Lisa commanded our attention. Like a general preparing her troops, she said, “When we arrive at our stop, we have to be ready. We have one minute to catch the bus.”

I know myself, and when making a connection, I want to avoid the wild-eyed anxiety of missing the next leg of my trip. I don’t mind an hour’s wait with plenty of time to read my book, stroll, or buy a snack. Naturally, I assumed one minute was an exaggeration.

Paul and Lexi bent their heads close over a video game while I gazed out at the landscape flying by. Rain streaked the window, artfully distorting glimpses of lakes, villages, and churches. Even so, I took pictures, hoping my iPhone would surprise me in freezing a few recognizable images. 

As we neared the station, Lisa gave the word, and we began to load up. ‘We have to move quickly,” she said. “I’m serious. We have one minute.” 

We shrugged on our coats and grabbed our bags from the racks and the ski equipment from the receptacles. The moment the train stopped and the doors slid open, we bolted. 

The bus was there, waiting on the far side of the tracks. “Hurry!” 

We ran! Grandparents and small children clumsy in boots and heavy coats, hurtling along the platform, backpacks bouncing, rolling bags clattering, skis and poles clanking! Down the stairs! Under the tracks! Up more stairs! “Hurry! Hurry!”

Everyone clambered onto the bus, the doors closed, and the bus took off. There was not a moment of grace, not a glance from the driver to check for people on the platform or passengers safely in seats. No! Time to go! Schedules to keep! Good heavens!  

Next, to the cable car. So many literally moving parts to this adventure, but this stretch, given all, was leisurely. The cable car was continually revolving for the next few hours, so we slipped into a general store to purchase a variety of chocolate snacks, then lugged our load up yet another flight of stairs. 

The cars swung around on a track, never stopping. The six of us gathered into a knot, tight as possible, so we could hustle onto the car as it slowed. Hurry! Skis and poles into the external holders! Shift over! Shift over! Everybody in! Is everybody in? Got the bags? Yes! Whew!

Relieved to have successfully reached the final leg of the trip, we slumped onto the hard bench seats as the car slid out of the station and rose over houses and expanses of green. Rain and fog enveloped us as we climbed. Gradually, up and ahead, we could see a distinct line where the temperature dropped and the rain… turned to snow. 

  

 

 

Shoeless in Lucerne

With full hearts, apps, and online planners, Lisa and Tucker strove to convince us that their move to Switzerland really does have a silver lining. Perhaps an overnight stay in a palace in Lucerne would be persuasive? Worth a try. 

After an easy one-hour train ride, we stowed our bags in a locker at the station and hopped a tram to the Museum of Transportation. Paul is a train enthusiast, and after two prior visits, this museum had become his favorite: a must-go, first-stop in Lucerne. For a time, Dave and I joined the kids in wandering among vintage steam engines and passenger cars, admiring massive cogs, beautiful wood paneling, and gleaming brass fittings. My father would have loved this place, but when Tucker said Paul and Lexi could spend hours there, I silently reflected that I, on the other hand, might prefer to do something else. My mind-reader of a son suggested that Dave and I take off and explore the historic sections of the city on our own for a few hours. Brilliant.

Absent apps and lacking comfort with public transportation, we opted to stroll the sidewalk that skirted Vierwaldstättersee, or Lake Lucerne.  Heavy gray skies stained the water pewter, and low-slung clouds swathed the snow-capped mountains on the far side of the lake. As we passed beneath the gnarled limbs of ink-black trees, I became aware of a strange scratching sound that seemed to follow us. 

I turned to survey the scene behind me. Swans sailing along or butt up in the water. Boats shrouded and anchored for winter.  Skeletal branches clawing the sky. Nothing to explain the odd noise. We continued on… and so did the sound, only it had morphed into a thwapping drumbeat.  

What the…?   

At some point, I thought to check my boot  –  formerly, Mom’s boot. 

Packing for the trip to Zurich had required strategy. We needed to bring warm clothes, Christmas presents, and twelve boxes of Annie’s Mac N’ Cheese, beloved by the grandkids and unavailable in Switzerland. Shoes had presented a particular challenge. We knew one of the activities Tucker and Lisa had envisioned entailed an afternoon of sledding during an overnight in the mountains, so winter boots were a must. Given their bulk, they wouldn’t fit in our suitcases, so we’d be wearing those boots on the plane. I love my Lands End snow boots, but not on my feet while wedged in economy seating for eight hours.

Mom passed in 2018, and I had inherited her tall, black, fleece-lined, water-resistant boots. They were good-looking enough for evenings in Zurich, would suffice in snow, and were slim and comfortable enough for the plane ride. Thank you, Mom.

Who knows how old they were, or how often Mom had worn them? They looked to be in perfect condition, but, on this day, with hours of walking ahead, the sole of one boot had detached from the heel.  Earlier, Lisa had mentioned that she thought stores were closed today due to the holidays. Great.

As I clopped along, I wondered if we might find an open hardware store where we could buy twine to bind the sole to the shoe? Or maybe, the front desk of one of these grand, lakeside hotels would have some Gorilla Glue?

Eventually, the sole fell off, the clopping sound now replaced by a satisfying metallic click, like that of a tap shoe. So, we sang “Singin’ in the Rain” as I added a few jaunty dance moves to my lop-sided gait.

Seriously though, what to do? These were the only shoes I ‘d brought to Lucerne, and we were having a special dinner at Château Gütsch, the palace, that night. Already I felt self-conscious and literally out of step as passersby swept along in their chic overcoats and snappy, intact shoes. 

Ultimately, we crossed a bridge and entered an alley we hoped would take us to the historic center of the city, the covered pedestrian bridge, the lion monument… and glue, twine, or shoes.   

A winding cobblestone street led past an ornately painted building, its fairytale façade aswirl in golden vines, urns, and a faux balcony from which gazed portraits of a young family. Across the alley, an elaborate sign in forest green and gold depicted a rampant lion and the dates 1334-1937. Mere steps from these ancient beauties, we spotted a shop window announcing a “Schuhmacher.” We don’t speak German, but there was no mistaking the meaning, the array of soles so cruelly within reach… nor the dark interior of a store clearly closed. 

Discouraged, we tapped on, but were soon enchanted by fountains and squares encircled by gabled buildings magical in color and design, all telling stories if we’d known how to read them. Still distracted by my Cinderella-esque, missing-shoe situation, I wondered what the denouement of my tale would be. 

As the afternoon wore on, lights shown amber from restaurants and cafès and - behold! – in rounding a corner, we spotted a department store. And it was open! 

I tap-limped inside and located the shoe department only to find rack upon rack of sneakers. I found a salesperson, gestured toward my foot, and sheepishly waved the orphan sole. She smiled encouragement and directed us to a store a block away. “Easy! And they’re having a sale!” she said. 

Now, with a springy step to my tapping, I strode ahead of Dave to Dosenbach with its bountiful selection of shoes. In noticing my plight, another customer laughed and said, “The same thing happened to me in New York!” And there it is: while world events would have us think otherwise, kindness and common experience grace so many chance encounters.

Once I’d settled on not one, but two new pairs, a saleswoman scooped up Mom’s boots and said, “Should I dispose of them?” 

Why would I lug those traitors around?  I was done with them and waved them away without a thought.

Until later. That night as I lay awake, I thought about the ease of repair and the connection to Mom, and wished I’d not been so hasty. 

                       *                                 *                                 *

Comfortably shod and gleeful having successfully navigated our way back to the station after our solo excursion, Dave and I met up with the kids and retrieved our bags from the locker. We boarded a tram, and Lisa checked her phone for the location of the cable car up to our palace.

Lisa’s parents have lived in Germany for years and with that, and a number of trips to Switzerland prior to their move, Paul and Lexi have evolved from the screaming babies on the plane that everyone dreads to the seasoned travelers they are now. When we descended from the tram and ran to the cable car, the kids cheerfully trotted to keep up, the backpacks carrying stuffed animals, pillows, and books bobbing on their backs.

We squeezed into the tiny cable car and ascended via an ever-so-steep track to the gleaming white turrets and spires of Château Gütsch. Enthroned high above Lucerne, the hotel welcomed us with heraldic lions, winged angels, and banners flying. 

What would be the décor of a 19^th century palace? I had pictured ponderous rough-hewn doors and wrought-iron torches, and there were a few, tokens perhaps from the earliest structure, but overall, the interior was bright, sleek, and elegant.  As we waited to check in at the reception desk, Lexi twirled with the excitement we all felt, and I wondered who had thought it wise to place a large porcelain vase on a delicate pedestal table so close by. Blessedly, there were no mishaps before we received our keys and headed through a ballroom, outside along a balcony overlooking a courtyard and the city below, back inside, down a hall, and into our rooms. 

Paul would be sleeping with Dave and me, and his cot was made up at the bottom of a twisting wooden stairway to our bedroom loft. After he freed Winnie the Pooh from his backpack and set him on his pillow, he scampered up to check things out and noted, as the stairs creaked with every step, “It sounds like your house!”   

After we settled in, it was time to dress for dinner. New shoes or not, I was pretty sure my black sweater and herringbone slacks would be inadequate in such a setting. But so it would be. As it happened, there was only one other party in the spacious dining room when we were seated, and they did not seem bothered by what I was wearing. 

With an eye to creating a garden ambience, the room was pale green, rose, and white lighted by ornate chandeliers - bouquets, really -  of crystal flowers in pastel hues. Airy as it was, the room might have seemed cold but for a blazing fire in the massive fireplace. That proved irresistible, and Dave took the kids over to snuggle in front of that warmth for some stories while we waited for dinner to be served.

In the interim, a large group entered the dining room. They were in great spirits, happy to be together and relishing, as we were, the treat of staying at Château Gütsch. And they were comfortably at ease in their well-worn sweatshirts, jeans, and sneakers. 

Why had I worried? Times have changed. Mom is no longer looking me over and asking, “are you really going to wear that?” but old lessons die hard.  

And I wish I’d not discarded her boots.