At about 3:00 p.m., on June 5, 2010, I found Gettysburg Pennsylvania exactly where I had left it.
Now, I am here at the corner of Steinwehr & Baltimore, the same street that Abraham Lincoln took as he approached what is now the Gettysburg National Cemetery. The Irish Brigade shop stands in front of me as do all the other little touristy shops. Downtown Gettysburg lies straight ahead about half a mile. Behind me is Cemetery Hill and the two cemeteries, Evergreen, which is private and the National Cemetery.
It is almost impossible to ignore the sound of the continual traffic. Occasionally, the traffic lights bring the steady stream of cars to a stop. The cars comply, but for a few moments only. That is when, if you listen carefully, you can hear the intermittent sounds of birds chirping in the distance.
I listen, and they tell me that all is well.
As I look up and down the streets I see tourists, but certainly not as many as I usually do when I compare them with sunny Saturday afternoons in June from years gone by.
Yet another unfortunate sign of the hard times that we are living in.
After a few minutes walk, I find myself at my second favorite bench in Gettysburg.
It sits adjacent to the Jenny Wade House. The significance of this house is that during those awful days of battle during July 1863, only one single civilian was tragically killed and that was Jenny Wade.
The story goes that Jenny was baking bread in the kitchen when a sniper’s bullet pierced the side door hitting Jenny in the back and killing her instantly.
Sitting down on the bench, I survey the gardens which I have not seen for three years. The flowers are still as lovely as I remember them. The decorative trees have of course, grown larger and this is the only noticeable change that I can see here.
The Jenny Wade house itself looks well taken care of which pleases me. The white sheers still hang in all the windows.
I can easily discern that the ghosts behind those sheers are still intent on ignoring me just as they always do. This is in spite of all my brash attempts at daring them to show themselves. It’s just as well. They know where my room is, and will no doubt be paying me a visit sometime during my stay, but on their terms of course.
As alway, there are the tourists which amuse me as they walk by the Jenny Wade house. You know, the ones who try to see Gettysburg in two hours or less. I cannot help but sense that they see this house more as a tourist trap, an oddity, rather than for the treasure that it really is.
All of a sudden, there is a very pleasant breeze, which invites me to stay in this place a little while longer. It breathes an invitation asking for me to stay just a little bit longer. It whispers “See, it isn’t so hot here after all now, is it.”
Within a few minutes comes the familiar roar of the Harley Bikes going by which was inevitable. Gettysburg is, after all a Harley town.
Dinner tonight takes place at O’Rorkes, named after an Irish commander who was killed during the assault on the Round Tops. It’s an Irish Pub well known in this area for good food and good times. The most memorable song of the night is “I Get Knocked Down” by Chumba Wumba.
And so ends day one, and pleasantly so.
The agenda for tomorrow is dependent on the weather gods and believe me it’s all good. Some of my best photos of Gettysburg were taken in both rain and snow. It’s really amazing how the atmosphere changes with the seasons.
However, the sun seems to set all to early around here. It’s almost as if someone or something is telling us that....
... tomorrow is another day.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Sunday, December 27, 2009
WHAT THE BLOG?
I don't know whether to be embarrassed or relieved.
Until now, I have been able to veer away unimpeded from having my own blog.
Not that I have anything against them, but it was an ongoing enigma to me as to why bother investing any precious time on a questionable venture.
"I'll never have a blog," I kept telling myself. But that mantra didn't work any more.
Why?
Because I once said the same thing about joining Twitter.
So, six months after being an avid and happy twitterer, I decided to break another personal barrier, and have my own blog.
This blog would not exist if not for @Jennyablue and @JeffMeyerson .
I watched in amazement, as @Jennyablue jumped head first into the icy cold blog waters. I held my breath as she was submurged into it's undertow.
She did not sputter, cough, or even turn blue.
Instead, she emerged smiling, and her blue eyes were shinier than ever.
Wow.
For years, I held this guilty obsession with words. Into my ever present journal, I captured words and phrases which to me were precious pearls. And if not quickly written down, they would be forever lost to me. Indeed, far too many have fallen through the wooden, creaky, floorboard in my mind.
Oh, and how I dread being caught out of syntax.
Yes, my name is Doris Koren, and I am a suffering syntaxaholic. I can fuss over the arrangement of words until their true meaning has been fretted and boiled clean out of existance.
The more I read and learned about @JeffMeyerson , the more at ease I felt with the handling of my own words. Words are free for all and not meant to be encased in everlasting crystal or fearfully hoarded away.
Also, you'll notice that the furniture around here is standard and quite ordinary. Not wanting to waste any more time, I decided to pick a basic blog program instead of holding out for the deluxe version at the end of the proverbial blogging rainbow.
I don't have time for that right now. I have better things to be doing.
After all... my Twitter friends are waiting for me to come out and play.
Thank you Jeff.
Thank you Jen.
I am greatful.
Until now, I have been able to veer away unimpeded from having my own blog.
Not that I have anything against them, but it was an ongoing enigma to me as to why bother investing any precious time on a questionable venture.
"I'll never have a blog," I kept telling myself. But that mantra didn't work any more.
Why?
Because I once said the same thing about joining Twitter.
So, six months after being an avid and happy twitterer, I decided to break another personal barrier, and have my own blog.
This blog would not exist if not for @Jennyablue and @JeffMeyerson .
I watched in amazement, as @Jennyablue jumped head first into the icy cold blog waters. I held my breath as she was submurged into it's undertow.
She did not sputter, cough, or even turn blue.
Instead, she emerged smiling, and her blue eyes were shinier than ever.
Wow.
For years, I held this guilty obsession with words. Into my ever present journal, I captured words and phrases which to me were precious pearls. And if not quickly written down, they would be forever lost to me. Indeed, far too many have fallen through the wooden, creaky, floorboard in my mind.
Oh, and how I dread being caught out of syntax.
Yes, my name is Doris Koren, and I am a suffering syntaxaholic. I can fuss over the arrangement of words until their true meaning has been fretted and boiled clean out of existance.
The more I read and learned about @JeffMeyerson , the more at ease I felt with the handling of my own words. Words are free for all and not meant to be encased in everlasting crystal or fearfully hoarded away.
Also, you'll notice that the furniture around here is standard and quite ordinary. Not wanting to waste any more time, I decided to pick a basic blog program instead of holding out for the deluxe version at the end of the proverbial blogging rainbow.
I don't have time for that right now. I have better things to be doing.
After all... my Twitter friends are waiting for me to come out and play.
Thank you Jeff.
Thank you Jen.
I am greatful.
Old Candles
I love candles.
Throughout my house, there are candles large and small that I have collected over the decades. My Christmas candles are particularly prized because all have come as gifts from departed loved ones.
What saddens me is that over the years, the older candles have lost a portion of their colourful charm. Their smooth texture has taken on a dusty grain.
Each year, as I place them about the house I question myself as to why they remain unused. Perhaps it would have been better if they had been put to use while they were still vibrant and new.
Maybe so.
However, what sets my heart aglow is the fact, that the moment I decide to take a match to it's waiting wick it will burn brightly, no matter how old, faded or dusty it may be.
Like these candles, I too grow older. And as oncoming years fade and dust my exterior, I have one resolute hope. May my family and loved ones always know without a doubt, that like these old candles, when lit, I will always have the potential to burn brightly into the night.
Throughout my house, there are candles large and small that I have collected over the decades. My Christmas candles are particularly prized because all have come as gifts from departed loved ones.
What saddens me is that over the years, the older candles have lost a portion of their colourful charm. Their smooth texture has taken on a dusty grain.
Each year, as I place them about the house I question myself as to why they remain unused. Perhaps it would have been better if they had been put to use while they were still vibrant and new.
Maybe so.
However, what sets my heart aglow is the fact, that the moment I decide to take a match to it's waiting wick it will burn brightly, no matter how old, faded or dusty it may be.
Like these candles, I too grow older. And as oncoming years fade and dust my exterior, I have one resolute hope. May my family and loved ones always know without a doubt, that like these old candles, when lit, I will always have the potential to burn brightly into the night.
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