Ann Carol Goldberg

Dateline Rochester, NY; 10/10/10;

Autumn in our town holds many surprises. That October Sunday offered just that, perfect weather, leaves in burning color and some time on our hands. Both of us had just celebrated our 50th High School reunion within two weeks time including concurrent visits from college friends woven into those eventful weekends. A hike in the woods was in order and I had clipped an article describing several area hikes with waterfalls that were new to us.

Throwing a proverbial thumb tack at the clipping, we selected a location near Phelps, NY called Ontario Pathways. The parking lot was empty upon our arrival. Finishing our picnic of cheese, crackers, hummus and apples we looked up to see another 3-4 cars pull into the lot. A good sign in my mind, that the hike held some promise.

We donned our hiking boots but chose to leave our hiking sticks behind, learning that the trail was level and straight, built on an old Railroad line. Another couple had just started to hike, also finding the newspaper article of interest. Putting our heads together, we discerned that we were following Fulton Creek and anticipated the 2 waterfalls as promised, more rough water rapids perhaps, but treacherous in a kayak as described in the article.

The rapids were indeed .03 miles down the trail according to the carved sign hanging on a tree near a side trail leading us directly along the shore of the creek. We took our time on the trail, enjoying the warm sun, the luscious sound of the water lapping over the rapids, the sweet-smelling air, blessed with time on our hands.

Satiated with our visit to the rough water, we returned to the main trail not expecting more adventure. There was movement in the distance. We both realized simultaneously what it was approaching, making our noses twitch and the adrenaline run. A full-grown skunk loped with a limp and a swagger toward us. We had no place to go accept to stay on the path. The skunk showed a bit of interest in us and gave us some definite pause.

We feared the eau de skunk, but in keeping with the animal’s difficulty with locomotion, we worried more about the possibility of having encountered a Rabid creature. Our responses stood divided between staying frozen in place and shooting photos. We survived but had conjured up images of gallons of tomato juice, the alleged antidote to skunk stink.

The critter continued its way along the path continuing away from us. We continued in the opposite direction, taking in more sights and sounds, crossing old bridges and traversing an island. We approached Griffith Road and chose it as our turning point, joking about seeing our little critter once again on the return trip.

As if on cue, once again, there was movement in the distance. Our black and white loping interloper headed our way. We did the same dance, maintained the same head images eliciting a flow of adrenaline and took more photos. The critter sniffed and hauntingly continued on its way, perhaps in pain but clearly in charge of its territory, the trail, just the same.

The parking lot was full of cars as we approached, but there was no one around to share the tale of the critter encounter or revel in the beauty of the sights and the day. We drove home into the coming sunset, happy, at peace and hoping that our little creature was not in pain and would survive to continue to keep watch on the Ontario Pathway and the splendor of the autumn array.

Ann Carol Goldberg

I walked in the sunshine into the garden. The day was warm and sunny, a rare kind of spring day in upstate New York. Even in the sunshine, my spirits were low, a usual state after listening to the day’s news filled with trouble and turmoil in this crazy world of ours. My spirits lifted immediately upon hearing the birdsong conversations and watching butterflies waft in and out of the butterfly bush. While swatting away tiny bugs in the air I stepped carefully to avoid crushing ants on the walkway. I breathed deeply while sniffing the strong scent of the periwinkle colored Rhododendrons blooming after the long winter months.

Is it folklore or reality that achieving purple and blue toned blossoms on Rhododendron plants is a matter of loving attention and care, along with fertilizing the soil with coffee grounds and lots of water. A former neighbor used to perform these rites, but she moved away several years ago and I doubt anyone else has followed suit (adding coffee grounds to the soil). Perhaps it is some quirk of nature that the current blossoms still retain this color. I will not complain, they are beautiful.

Periwinkle is an illusive shade. It crosses from blue-tones to purple tones and may be deemed an indecisive or nondescript color by some critics I suppose. I first remember learning the name periwinkle as a child. My beloved Grandmother Rose Caplan loved to sew. How delighted she was to have her granddaughter wear her creations. How delighted my mother was to have a mother who would sew beautiful garments.

The jumper she made for me was of periwinkle dyed cotton. It was a cotton verging on linen, both coarse and with a bit of softness at the same time. The top, being a jumper, had no sleeves and tapered to a fitted waist and a flared skirt. The front near the neckline was laced together with a shoelace of the same color and ended in two small spools of thread, one sunny yellow and the other Japanese red. I still remember how sad I was when I outgrew the jumper and it became a “hand me down” to Mary Jane, a younger friend, always the next in line for my outgrown clothing.

I sat down on the wooden bench in the center of the garden, somehow transported back to reality from my reverie into my childhood. I breathed deeply, saddened by the news reports from Iran and more specifically the absurd January arrest of Roxana Saberi, the 32 year old journalist jailed on charges of espionage. My thoughts were with her wondering how one can survive in such a harsh land, the homeland of her father.

There is a beautiful photo of Roxana, her head wrapped in a Muslim woman’s headscarf or hijab, the color so close to the periwinkle jumper of my childhood and to the flowers in the garden. Paralleling my freedom to walk into my garden, this vignette popped into my head of Roxana’s “walk” to her cell with an 8 year sentence weighing on her shoulders;

Hardly aware of the perpetrator(s) I was pushed harshly into a cell, the door clanged shut behind me. I lay stunned where I fell on the bare, gruff, cold and broken cement floor trying to gather the strength to look up or even to stand up and assess my surroundings. The scent of filth, urine, vomit, the dankness and slightly damp warmth of electric heat from the bare bulb of despair surrounded me. I finally found the strength to pull myself up to sit on the edge of the iron cot. I finally found the strength to open my eyes and assess my surroundings. I found the strength to take a deep breath. I will fight this, I will have faith, I will begin a hunger strike, I will take action and believe that people out there care.

In my cell, I heard no birdsong, I felt no sun, no butterflies wafted about, no tiny bugs teased my head, no ants crawled on the ground, only a few beetles and other crawling things hid among the dust and dirt. I believe I sat in a reverie for hours, for days. I must have had some sustenance, some contact with my jailers, but I could not relate any stories of this to anyone who may have asked. I long to walk in the sunshine.

I awoke from this reverie in the garden, feeling the pleasant warmth of the sun and smelling the sweet floral fragrances. I returned to my townhouse , free and with the glow of the sunshine warming my hair.

I continued to dwell on Roxana’s fate hoping that the international effort to help her, her parents presence in Iran and the grace of all of the gods prayed to would help her become free. We did, after all, have a bond in the beautiful periwinkle color that sways indecisively between blues and purples, the pleasant shades of hope.

As we were soon to learn, diligence paid off. Roxana’s sentence was commuted to 2 years and then to freedom. She has returned to the US after living in Iran for 6 years. She is speaking to groups and has defied the will of the superpowers of Iran; a woman, a professional, and one who was such a powerful threat to the will of the demigods of that nation.

After some months, I would soon learn on NPR that Roxana would be free. My spirits soared.

Postscript; Roxana Saberi has written of her experiences in a book entitled Between Two Worlds, My Life and Captivity in Iran.

Ann Carol Goldberg

Rochester’s music scene looms large, diverse, active, exciting, something for everyone.  The month of July offers Tuesday night Eastman Summer Sing-at Kilbourn Hall.  With full 4-voice scores in hand, the singers rehearse fabulous Cantatas,  masses, Requiems; all of the favorites for large choir and at the hands of fabulous Eastman school faculty to conduct and students and local singers to perform solo parts.

The first offering of the season was two-fold. Mozart’s Vesperae solennes de confessore and Coronation Mass dating from 1779 and 1780.  The music is sophisticated, rhythmic, fast paced, melding from solo to chorus swinging back to solo and chorus again sometimes, without even an eighth-note’s break in between.  It offers a sight-reader’s fantasy or folly, depending on your prowess.

The works display Mozart’s early “mastery” of all of the established forms of church music stemming from his century; traditional Psalms and Magnificats of the Vespers service and familiar Kyrie, Gloria, Credo and more of the Catholic Mass.

Within the two hour time frame, Maestro/Master conductor William Weinert and pianist Paul Frolick (an amazing one-man piano-orchestra) led us through the rehearsal and “performance” of both pieces.

Then came a decision time; My good friend in the tenor section invited me to join him after the sing-along for something a little different.  The heavy rock group FUEL will be playing tonight at the water Street Performance Hall as part of their Born Again tour 2010.  Indeed I have heard of FUEL, having teenagers in my life.  He wanted company to go and hear his nephew who happens to be the lead singer for the group.  

A motto I savor; “You only live once,”

so live it up, try it all.

I have done my share of trying it all; hanging by cables over deep gorges, climbing impossible slip-rock trails, doing outward-bound style tricks flying through the air into trusted colleagues arms and on and on.  The idea is to collect adventures, savor life and remain grateful for good health.  Of course I would join him for the rock concert and invite my husband Paul as well, who joined us at Kilbourn to hear the Coronation Mass and then move on to the rock hall.

It was loud but not piercing, the words were indecipherable, but then again I had just sung in Latin, struggling toward proper pronunciation and not understanding those words as well.  The guitar and bass players danced all over the stage throwing their long hair with thrusts of their young and strong neck muscles, the drummer relentlessly hammered on the drums and the singer/nephew strained vocal cords with eyes closed and enthusiasm eking out of every pour.

So what if we were the oldest folks there by decades, so what if we received strange looks.  We stood and bounced to the beat for the 20 minutes that we stayed to listen.  The young people sat (still) at tables with their beer or stood down front in the Mosh pit ;

Moshing or slamming refers to the activity in which audience members at live music performances aggressively push and/or slam into each other. Moshing is frequently accompanied by stage diving, crowd surfing, mic swinging, instrument smashing, and headbanging. …

cheering FUEL on. 

A photo of FUEL from the web

My brush with life as a time-traveler:  Perhaps I did transcend time.  When I recall the incident on a fine June evening, 2010, I became for a few moments, Ann Carol Rudin, 8 years old, walking on the street where I lived in June ca. 1950.

Our cousin Lee was in town for a visit. My husband and I grabbed some time with him and took a walk to see our favorite places, show him where we both had grown up and then enjoy dinner at a Park Ave cafe.   I pointed out my house on Edgerton Street.  Somehow, we elected to walk up the next street, Barrington and approached the house behind my childhood home.  It is an imposing white “mansion,” always a mystery house to me, full of fantasy and harboring great secrets.  I don’t remember ever meeting the people living there or seeing them out in the yard.

That is when I escaped the present.  I was the pudgy little girl with long hair and pinchable cheeks (it hurt when people did that), caressed by my custom-designed , bark covered elbow-perch in the big oak behind our house. The branches reached over into the mystery-mansion’s yard.  How many Nancy Drew books did I read in that tree?  How often I just sat there daydreaming, sometimes transcending the walls of the white house, solving the mysteries lurking inside.

From that leafy perch, I could reign over my mother’s beautiful rock garden and the peony-rose-mint-strawberry garden planted along the driveway, believing I was well hidden from view.  At that moment, I was there, climbing down from my nook, picking strawberries in my PJ’s for breakfast, pouring milk on my cereal with the cream on top, pushing the little black button on the wall to turn on the water heater for a bath, attaching my roller skates onto my shoes with the special key to skate on the new asphalt surface the city had just laid down, scouting in the food pantry near the kitchen with the musty smell of tin cans and well loved linoleum floors.  (they were tinted maroon and yellow–so 50’s.  Indeed, my mother was trendy.)

Truly, I took my companions right along with me into the past.  I recall being animated, gesturing and describing memories that flowed from my mind.  We passed the white mansion and continued on our way, my head now back to the present. Lee saw the grade school we had attended, the baseball field (now a parking lot), friends houses and heard about our being in Mrs. Hanson’s kindergarten class together.  Yes, we did eventually find a place for dinner.

The very next evening, we were invited to a dear friends home, which happens to be right next door to the “white mansion.”  Robert greeted us with what seemed to be a strange twinkle in his eyes.  Apparently, he had greeted us the night before as we floated past his front yard.  None of us heard his voice.  I had taken everyone with me on my foray back in time.  I repeatedly apologized to our friend.  I had receded into the past, my attention not to be breached and affecting my audience to boot.  I apologize again—how unbelievably strong our minds can be. How powerful the past. 

Have you ever been whisked back in time?  Please tell me about it.

Ann Carol Goldberg

Liberal Kansas is not a political statement.  it is a town, full of surprises, well-worth a visit.  Located in the very south west of Kansas on the state line with Oklahoma.  On our paper map  we could see an attraction in Liberal labeled “Coronado/Dorothy’s House.” What an intriguing but mysterious label.  Who could resist, being aficionados of the Land of OZ and indeed in Kansas?  We quickly plugged it into our GPS. By  luck, it was directly on our chosen route northeasterly through the panhandles of Texas and Oklahoma.  How could we pass this opportunity by and in a town named Liberal to boot. 

Little did we guess what a find this town could be.  We arrived, passing vast stock yards, beef packing houses, acres of farm land waiting for spring planting, railroad yards and grain elevators, making up the beating heart that keeps this town alive.  We arrived at Dorothy’s House at 4:00 after some trouble finding the true location on our GPS.  (a common happening according to the docent that greeted us.)   I quickly visited the visitors bureau across the way for some local information and then Paul and I entered the museum. 

Half of the museum is devoted to Coronado and his troops who passed through the area on their trek through the southeast.  Due to the late hour, we chose to spend our time with Dorothy, Frank Baum and the wonders of OZ.  Raised on Oz, we related with glee to the story of Oz, Dorothy’s house, Toto, and all of the characters that streamed from Frank Baum’s mind.  We learned that Max Zimmerman, a life insurance agent in the 70’s was the catalyst that gave Dorothy a place. 

The story goes that Zimmerman attended a convention and asked a waiter reacting to his name tag showing Liberal, Kansas. Max asked the waiter, “what would you expect to see in Kansas?”  The waiter replied, “Dorothy’s house,” leading the businessman to search for Dorothy’s “home town.”  He quickly learned (pre-Google) that no other city had claimed the right to say “This is Dorothy’s home town.” 

An equally intrigued resident of Liberal offered to donate a house much like the famous house described in the story.  The house has been furnished according to the tale and the museum continues into a barn with full stage sets that bring to life the story of the Wizard of Oz.  We followed the docent through the house and of course, over the (updated) yellow brick road into the barn.  You meet every character; bird or monkey, tree or witch and Dorothy’s companions and Toto are there with sounds and visuals  convincing you that the story is rolling before your eyes.   The docent plays Dorothy, a convincing and talented actress. 

The docents (in high season) are young twenty-something apprentices, playing the role of Dorothy in full costume. There is a wall engraved with the names of all the Dorothy actresses from the beginning.  We were amused, amazed and entertained.  Dorothy, the TIn Man, the Scarecrow and the Cowardly Lion all live on.  That is part of the story of Liberal, Kansas. There is much more to discover there, but that is for another time, another entry. 

The best bet would be for you to find a way to pass through this town yourself delving into Dorothy’s world, Coronado’s exploits, the history of flight, a town devoted to the perfect pancake, corn and agriculture, railroads, grain elevators and a town flaunting its rich heritage.  They deserve a larger spot on the map than the small red letters reading Coronado’Dorothy’s House.

Ann Carol Goldberg

Spring is cooperating this year.  Paul and I are wending our way easterly from deep in the southwest.  For the 9th year, we are following spring’s pathway home.  This year is exquisite.  In my opinion, the red buds win this year followed by the brilliant white dogwoods, rich azaleas, blue and purple wildflowers and once in awhile we spot magnificent Magnolias.  Rochester’s Oxford Street is famous for it’s Magnolia row.  We hope to return in time for this splendorific array of blossoms. 

Taking stock of all of the places we visit on our journey gives us goose-bumps, they are so numerous, so varied and unexpected.  Two days ago, we finished our tour of Berea, KY a pretty college town just south of Lexington, known for it’s nurturing of artisans and the arts and crafts that they create.  Finishing the tour of the artisan heritage trail in the mid afternoon, we chose, spontaneously, to drive to a remote area to hike our way up a rocky trail to Anglin Falls     

The trailhead lies at the end of a half mile drive up a dirt road to a parking lot.  Much to our surprise, the lot was full at 4:45 PM but lucky us, we didn’t have to wait long for a parking place.  The park is dedicated to a former president of Berea college and what a tribute it is indeed.  The trail ascends steeply up a rocky trail.  The reward is a cliff seemingly suspended in the air.  From the cliff, fine streams of water pour into the glen below.  There are plenty of rocks to climb filling a rock climbers every desire to hop from one view to another of the falls.  The wildflowers are at their peak here, the biggest treat being several Jack in the Pulpit plants just showing their “hoods” still green, before they turn a beautiful purple of the mature plant.

What a memory.

What if you drove through a small town in Missouri in a big rig motor home, through the narrow streets with one lane for driving and the curb lane for parking, speed limit 25, the bank, real estate office, hardware store, local haberdashery, pharmacy and corner grocery store housed in buildings some probably dating from the 1930’s and 40’s.  What if you continued through this town boasting ties to Abe Lincoln as do so many towns in Missouri and Illinois.  What if, while approaching the Springfield, MO town hall you observe a crowd on the lawn in front of the building and see a chorus of men standing on the steps of the town hall.  What if the chorus (of 50 men I was to learn later) are all Abe Lincoln look-alikes in black top hats and tails.  What if, because you had no warning or expectations, you did not have your camera ready to catch this scene and there was no place to stop in a big rig to snap a shot of this phenomenon. 

That happened to me, on a sunny Sunday in April.  A photo op missed, it just exists in my head.  I searched on the Springfield Sun web site, the newspaper in Springfield.  There were no photos showing the chorus of 50, only a photo of one of the Lincoln impersonator and his wife, playing Mary Todd Lincoln, the first lady.  It was a moment of humor, frustration and acceptance of circumstance. What a memory!

If you’d like to learn more, check out this URL http://www.lcni5.com/cgi-bin/c2.cgi?023+article+News+20100402165330023023001

You could say I get jealous of all you folks who are prolific at putting out numerous blogs with what seems like an effort-free manner while I publish my Message in a Minute after intense editing, re-writing and heavy sweat.  I do the same with my images, intense care and editing.  I intend to still do that obsessive thing when I get that creative bug bite, but  I now intend to send spontaneous pieces that I will call Memory in a Minute, to highlight some wonderful little happening to share. How I cherish your feedback and responses to my Message in a Minute and I repeat, these are sent with the understanding that all of you are busy and that you will read them only if you are truly interested.

Memory #1;  Paul and I had set up in a US Army Core of Engineer RV Park on Rend Lake, Illinois.  What a treat this place is, in the woods, large sites, miles of hiking and biking trails, large dam projects and plenty to see.

The weather was beautiful–sunny and hot.  The day’s drive had been long, we were hot and ready to slow down for a minute or two, something we don’t do easily.  In fact, we had something to celebrate. The entry door of our rig sports a map of the USA and Canada, with plastic patches for each state or province.  Unbelievably, we had not fulfilled our self-inflicted directive to only fill in a state if we have camped overnight in this rig, something we had not done in Illinois.  it seems we have driven through this state several times without stopping to camp. 

Here we are, finally camping in Illinois.  We dug out the map set, selected the green patch for Illinois and ceremoniously rubbed it into place on the door map.  Our neighbor’s adorable little boy, 13 month old Brody started wandering in our direction.  Being typical grandparent types, we started talking to Brody and to his parents as they came out to intercept his wanderings.  With Brody happily in his dad’s arms, we talked as dusk descended.  I saw Paul’s gaze lift from Brody’s dad to the trees in the nearby forest, and then I saw what had caught his eye; a large wise Owl, perhaps of the screech variety.  It had taken flight from a low tree branch to the ground and then up to another tree branch, finally disappearing into the forest.  What a treat that was, what a memory. 

The winds had been wicked for four or five days in a row, gusts to 50 or 60 MPH.  Our heading via motor home is easterly towards Rochester by early May.  We have been driving long distances each day, the high winds tiring us out with the effort of staying centered in the lane.  Our location, Interstate 40 through Flagstaff, Arizona heading east scheduled to reach the Flying J gas station in Winslow, AZ with an assumed 1/4 tank of gas upon arrival. 

The winds continued with  such vengeance, whipping at our awnings, rocking us almost boat fashion, blowing sand in swirls and sweeps,  tumbling tumbleweed brushing across the highway in our path.  We were 21 minutes from Winslow, mid afternoon and Paul had just taken the wheel.  In the distance the sky was filled with sand, reducing the sunshine to a misty light.  The traffic ahead was congealing, red brake lights flashing.  We came to a full stop.  We could see flashing emergency lights ahead of us and the signs for the coming rest area, now closed in Arizona’s desperate response to the economic downturn.   

Time passed, we tried to shelter ourselves along side large trucks in the right lane, but our awnings continued their threat to come undone in the high winds and we rocked and swayed, as one trucker on the CB declared, he was “going to be seasick.”  An official in a truck drove down the left side of the highway updating everyone that there was indeed a multi car/truck accident and that the road was closed due to the accumulation of sand.  It could mean many hours of waiting.

NPR  reported the forecast  that the winds were due to cease in a couple of  hours, that officials had been escorting travelers through the sandstorm, but they ceased that operation and completely closed the  sand-filled road.  17 miles of Interstate 40 were closed from Winslow westward and traffic was being diverted from the highway.  Some 4 wheelers drove over the median heading westerly, but we are indeed in the “boondocks” near Meteor Crater and Two Guns, locations without services available.  Rumors passed up and down that we’d be here until 8:00PM, 10:00PM, Midnight. 

Ironically, in the sky ahead were two contrails “marking” an X over the rest area, the trouble spot ahead.  

Stuck on the road in a motor home offers many advantages, a rest room, kitchen and room to get up and stretch the legs.  Many 4 wheeler drivers risked the winds to stretch or walk or walk into the desert to “pee.”  3 hours after stopping, I made a simple dinner—the end of Pesach, matzah and omelets, not the planned finishing meal.  More waiting, more rumors.  At 8:15, red tail lights were lighting.  We were being escorted down the road, picking up speed, the winds still blowing, but at a lesser speed. 

Traffic moved on its own after a few miles and we arrived in the Flying J.  We filled the gas tank, not desperate for gas but happy to be here and then parked for the night.  We shared stories with other travelers, heard the tale of ripped awnings and other adventures and settled down for the night.  We were packed tight together, but the swaying in the wind had stopped.  The blizzard of sand provided yet another adventure to impact our dreams.

What happened shocked us all, including the guide, Bob, with his many years of experience at the San Diego Wild Animal Park.  The tram hauled us through the African Safari area of the park attracting  the attention of our two grandsons focusing on the white rhinos, oryx, gazelles, giraffes, red deer and other wildebeests.  The day was partly sunny and the animals were active and the tram ride line had been long.

The guide with the gravely voice and hint of joy in his job stopped the tram providing a distant but broad view of a hillside inhabited mostly by giraffes and oryx, a small sleek animal with long, sticklike horns. Our attention was drawn to a baby oryx walking as Bob had noted on still wobbly legs.  The baby must be a newborn or perhaps a day old.  This was the guide’s first sighting. We watched for awhile as the mom oryx watched her baby’s tentative march toward her.

Enter a straight and tall adult giraffe advancing seemingly without purpose toward the teetering baby oryx.  The giraffe’s advance threatened the baby and raised the ire of the mother.  She expectantly stood in a defensive pose near the giraffe.  The unexpected happened, the giraffe kicked the baby who fell to the ground and remained still.  There was a loud gasp among the tram riders and Bob expressed his disbelief at such a happening .

He managed to say that he would report the incident and the tram continued down the way.  Needless to say, the mood on the tram had changed.  We were all saddened and curious about the incident but tried to pay attention to the remainder of the sights in this part of the park.
(NOTE; thanks to our daughter in law, Miriam’s persistence, we learned a few weeks later that the baby oryx was doing well).  

Our two grandsons were aware of the seriousness of the incident and later in the day, quizzed a staff member about the event.  He had not heard any news but assured the boys that the welfare of the baby oryx would have been observed by the surveillance devices in the park.  Decisions are constantly made when to interfere or when it is wise to avoid human intervention and let nature take is course. 

Such strange encounters, probably common in nature, are beyond our comprehension.  It seems so unlikely that such dissimilar creatures, a giraffe and an oryx would be inclined to clash.  Perhaps this is a simile for all life on this planet, spontaneous cruelties and attacks, planned battles and war being as incomprehensible as the incident seen from the tram.  Can we define the boundaries of what is natural?  Human intervention on all accounts remains a fragile course.    The  staff member acknowledged that the outcome of the incident would not be public knowledge.

Ann Carol Goldberg