Near Joyce Kilmer Memorial Forest and National Recreation Trail
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Explaining
The post, Mom Held My Hand (first version done for a class), took: a video revision, cuts and pastes, trial and error, color and code, stop and go (an electrical storm, in the middle of it all.)
Crazy fun and where's the sun? We're in the digital playground.
Mom Held My Hand
Directly across the street from the Masonic Temple is the Kenmore Village Library. It sits on a mound of green grass in the spring and summer, and a marshmallow of snow in winter. Two tall pillars guard the glass double door entrance. You look up to the doors from the sidewalk. At the sidewalk there are bike racks to each side of concrete stairs, ten steps, plateau, ten steps, and you’re at the door. I used to enter the Library in the same way I enter the Atlantic in winter, running and plunging. But not today.
Today was a slushy day in the winter of 1961. I was in the third grade, and I was walking up the first set of stairs, holding on to my Mom’s hand. Willy Lick patrolled the area for two decades, 3640 days a decade, Down syndrome his badge of authority.
“Errrr Reeee!” Willy sped by as my Mom and I started up the stairs.
“Mrs. Hillman says we should visit the library Mark. We’ll get a card, check out a book …”
My Mom and I were very close, but there was a black hole in our relationship. She had a son that was cute and sweet and as agile as a superball. He had no idea of what books were for. I couldn’t catch on to reading. She couldn’t figure out why. We weren’t going to tear up the universe because of it. Yet, it was a mystery. It led us to the library.
“Watch your step Mark.” Awe-struck and amazed, I was slowing it all down to examine. I knew the trip was for me. My mind was trying to organize. “What’s this guy doing on a bike? It’s cold,” I thought. I tripped over a few steps.
“Mom? Hold my hand.” She did. “Thanks Mom. Is this for me Mom?”
“Yes Mark.”
As we went up the stairs I felt myself getting lighter. By the time we topped the second set of stairs and were at the door, I felt like a balloon in my Mom’s hand. She pulled me down and we entered, whoow…
“Take off your coat Mark.”
My Mom was stalling. She took off my coat. I stared about.
A big desk with a business-like woman was to the wall on the right. The desk faced me. The woman faced down at work. On the wall to the left were posters and fliers tacked, messages of white letters on black, behind glass. I stood alone as my Mom walked over to the woman at the desk.
Strange, but true, we were between floors. Staircases ran up the walls on the right and left. In the middle, front and center was a staircase going down. Books and people reading were above and below me. My Mom was heading back.
“Let’s go downstairs Mark.”
She guided me down the half dozen steps. I remember the room we entered had a green floor, like indoor/outdoor carpet. It was a big room. Monoliths, tall shelves of books stood randomly about. Colorful furniture was arranged in one corner. I don’t remember noise, but there were children. I was holding my Mom’s hand, floating, bobbing. When I looked up, I saw kids my own age reading and looking at books. When I looked down, I saw my feet moving across the green floor.
Whisper, “What’s going on Mom?” I looked at my Mom’s face. We loved each other. We were still holding hands, but the time had come.
“What does that say Mark?”
Above me, on the end of one of the monoliths were letters, peach centered with black borders. The shelves’ ends were smooth rounded metal painted grayish-brown. I looked at the seam between the shelves placed back to back. I didn’t want to see the letters. This was the moment. I remember the feeling, falling, pins and needles over my body.
It said nothing to me. I had no idea. I was cute and sweet. I could move with grace and speed, appear and disappear.
“I don’t know.” I was honest and innocent.
“Let’s go home Mark.”
She wasn’t angry or even disappointed. We had fallen into the black hole for a moment. Back toward the steps, up and out we walked together. We stopped to put on our coats in purgatory, then out the doors and down to the sidewalk. I felt like I was riding a slide into heaven. For now it was over, but I knew something happened down there on that green carpet. I had gotten a little closer to reading. I found out it meant something to my Mom, those letters. I knew that some day it would mean something to me. Thanks Mom.
In my dreams I’ve seen those peach and black letters again and again.
EASY
BOOKS
I began to read three years later because of my Mom, a teacher named Miss Stein and that Kenmore Village Library.
Today was a slushy day in the winter of 1961. I was in the third grade, and I was walking up the first set of stairs, holding on to my Mom’s hand. Willy Lick patrolled the area for two decades, 3640 days a decade, Down syndrome his badge of authority.
“Errrr Reeee!” Willy sped by as my Mom and I started up the stairs.
“Mrs. Hillman says we should visit the library Mark. We’ll get a card, check out a book …”
My Mom and I were very close, but there was a black hole in our relationship. She had a son that was cute and sweet and as agile as a superball. He had no idea of what books were for. I couldn’t catch on to reading. She couldn’t figure out why. We weren’t going to tear up the universe because of it. Yet, it was a mystery. It led us to the library.
“Watch your step Mark.” Awe-struck and amazed, I was slowing it all down to examine. I knew the trip was for me. My mind was trying to organize. “What’s this guy doing on a bike? It’s cold,” I thought. I tripped over a few steps.
“Mom? Hold my hand.” She did. “Thanks Mom. Is this for me Mom?”
“Yes Mark.”
As we went up the stairs I felt myself getting lighter. By the time we topped the second set of stairs and were at the door, I felt like a balloon in my Mom’s hand. She pulled me down and we entered, whoow…
“Take off your coat Mark.”
My Mom was stalling. She took off my coat. I stared about.
A big desk with a business-like woman was to the wall on the right. The desk faced me. The woman faced down at work. On the wall to the left were posters and fliers tacked, messages of white letters on black, behind glass. I stood alone as my Mom walked over to the woman at the desk.
Strange, but true, we were between floors. Staircases ran up the walls on the right and left. In the middle, front and center was a staircase going down. Books and people reading were above and below me. My Mom was heading back.
“Let’s go downstairs Mark.”
She guided me down the half dozen steps. I remember the room we entered had a green floor, like indoor/outdoor carpet. It was a big room. Monoliths, tall shelves of books stood randomly about. Colorful furniture was arranged in one corner. I don’t remember noise, but there were children. I was holding my Mom’s hand, floating, bobbing. When I looked up, I saw kids my own age reading and looking at books. When I looked down, I saw my feet moving across the green floor.
Whisper, “What’s going on Mom?” I looked at my Mom’s face. We loved each other. We were still holding hands, but the time had come.
“What does that say Mark?”
Above me, on the end of one of the monoliths were letters, peach centered with black borders. The shelves’ ends were smooth rounded metal painted grayish-brown. I looked at the seam between the shelves placed back to back. I didn’t want to see the letters. This was the moment. I remember the feeling, falling, pins and needles over my body.
It said nothing to me. I had no idea. I was cute and sweet. I could move with grace and speed, appear and disappear.
“I don’t know.” I was honest and innocent.
“Let’s go home Mark.”
She wasn’t angry or even disappointed. We had fallen into the black hole for a moment. Back toward the steps, up and out we walked together. We stopped to put on our coats in purgatory, then out the doors and down to the sidewalk. I felt like I was riding a slide into heaven. For now it was over, but I knew something happened down there on that green carpet. I had gotten a little closer to reading. I found out it meant something to my Mom, those letters. I knew that some day it would mean something to me. Thanks Mom.
In my dreams I’ve seen those peach and black letters again and again.
EASY
BOOKS
I began to read three years later because of my Mom, a teacher named Miss Stein and that Kenmore Village Library.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
05/23/MMIX
How I became a blogger.
1. My digital daughter has a blog.
2. It’s time I take the plunge.
3. I went to the website.
4. I took the tour.
5. I've completed my first picture post.
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