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The lady
Going to see a lady.
You take a boat over to visit Lady Liberty. If it’s a hot July morning the boat will be filled with hundreds of people, all herded on board like steerage. Which seems appropriate when you think about it. But no one minds too much.
All eyes are on her.
Hey Lady!
You pay an extra five dollars to go up inside the pedestal and enjoy the view. It’s worth the money and the 200 or so stairs to enjoy the view and the breeze. Yes, you could use the elevator, but why, when there are stairs to climb just for the taking? Once out on the pedestal walk you have an up close and personal view of Ms. Liberty.
She’s huge!
Or, if you have a zoom lens you can get even closer.
She’s ready for her closeup.
Once you go back down the stairs, don’t skip the museum. It’s not large, but it has some interesting details. Like how they built her.
Not an easy task.
And full size features of her face and her toes.
Beautiful detail.
Afterward, tour the grounds a bit. Take some more pictures. It’s not an easy angle to get your family member and the Lady in the same shot.
Perfect angle.
But it can be done.
Enjoy your Statue of Liberty! She’s there for you.
Paying our respects at the Freedom Tower
Pools and names.
There are no words adequate to describe the sheer size while looking up at the tower gleaming against the bright blue sky. No words to describe the deep emotion running through a crowd that stands mostly silent around the perimeter of the two pools ringed with names of the nearly three thousand that died.
Reflecting somber thoughts.
No words.
Each day memorial staff place white roses in the names of those victims who would have been celebrating birthdays. Their lives are remembered by their families still and now complete strangers linger to gently touch the letters of the names cut into the smooth stone. Showing respect. Honoring.
Inside the museum our tour guide provides detailed history. She is careful of our feelings, telling us it’s a difficult story to hear, to have experienced, to remember.
Fire truck. Cab is destroyed. All died.
She reminds us that there are those among us that were not yet alive on that day and that it is important to tell the story. To not forget. To pass the lessons on.
Part of the antenna from atop one of the towers.
In the great hall there stands the last piece of formative steel to be removed from the site. Taped to it are pictures of some of those that died, put there by the construction crews and city employees working on the cleanup. A makeshift memorial captured and preserved forever.
Back wall is the original footings of the tower. Last formative steel removed covered in heartfelt graffiti.
A long wall is covered in tiles, each of the 2,996 a different shade of blue, no two alike, because each of the 2,996 victims was unique. Blue, because the sky on September 11, 2001 was the wonderful clear blue of a perfect autumn day.
“No day shall erase you from the memory of time.” -Virgil
There are things inside the museum that are hard to see but important to remember. There is a room with photos of each of the victims. Photos lined up, from floor to ceiling, row after row of faces smiling, eyes looking back, stories to be told, memories captured.
Hard.
But our guide reminds us that this memorial wasn’t built with hate. It was built with love. And that coming to visit is an act of love and respect and honor.
Old and new can exist together in harmony.
So we swallow our tears and we promise to pass the story on to the next generation in hope and peace.
Wings of hope.
And then we move out of the museum and back onto the streets of New York City under a brilliant blue sky.
Never forget.
Cee’s Black & White Photo Challenge: Locks and Clocks
Brooklyn!
I’ve seen first hand that more than one tree grows in Brooklyn. We’re here visiting friends and taking in a bit of city life.
Brooklyn after a storm.
During our first day we visited The New York City Transportation Museum here in Brooklyn. It has old buses and subway cars that kids can climb around and sit in.
Watch out world! I’m driving the bus!
Oh yea. Adults can too.
We saw subway cars from as far back as 1912…
The seats had more padding in 1612!
..up through 1961…
Mid-century modern.
…and today. The today picture I took while riding on the actual subway out to Coney Island and back.
2016…last night. But the museum had one from 2010 that looked just like this one.
After the museum we went for a walk along pretty tree lined streets, admiring the brownstones.
Beautiful old homes.
It’s fun to imagine what it’s like to live in one. But our friend made a good point. She said it was romantic to think about living in a house that old…but if she was going to spend that much money she’d want her new home to be brand new. These houses sell for millions each. Hard to fathom.
Someone suggested we see Coney Island. So that evening we hopped on a subway and went out to explore. Can’t beat a boardwalk along the Atlantic Ocean in July.
Fun stuff.
And the amusement park had some really cool rides. Oh, you ask…which ones did we ride?
Tempting…but crazy.
Well..none actually. I’m pretty sure I’m at the age where anything remotely like this is going to make my sick. Well, not entirely sure, but sure enough to not want to risk it.
We walked out on the pier instead, watched people crabbing and fishing. And then we walked along the boardwalk for a long way.
Reflecting.
It seemed like a perfect end to a very nice day. But boy did all that walking wear us out! Especially when we had to climb all these stairs at the Barkley Center to exit the subway on our way home!
Gotta get my flights of stairs in every day. Sigh.
We were pretty tired. And sore. But will we take it easy tomorrow?
What do you think?
Peaceful evening along the Atlantic.
Wordless Wednesday
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WordPress Photo Challenge: Look Up
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That’s one tall building!
Other interpretations can be found in the comments original WordPress post.
Or, if you’re short of time, here are a few I found that I enjoyed.
Monday
Happy flowering clematis.
Now that I’m retired I’ve noticed that my spirit picks up on Monday mornings. Early morning I settle into my chair to check the news and the weather, to contemplate life or to do nothing at all. Perhaps to fall back asleep. My choice.
Cheerful mikweed.
The dog asks to go out, and I stand with her in my front yard and listen to the roar of the freeway a mile away. All those people headed back to work. It makes me smile.
I know that sounds smug. Possibly even evil. But with everyone back at work grocery shopping gets easier. Driving into town is less insane. Going to the park is more peaceful.
Joyful zinnia.
It seems like the sky is blue just for me. I notice the roses glowing, the birds singing. I have time to watch the light move across my back yard.
Mondays are special because they remind me again, every week, how lucky I am that I’m not jumping in the shower and then into the car, heading back into the fray.
Roses smell sweeter.
Monday is my favorite day though the rest of the workweek isn’t bad either. And I’ve learned to tolerate all of you crowding up my weekend. I’ve learned to just hang on because Monday will roll around again soon.
Monday. It’s my favorite day.
What’s yours?
Makes me smile.
My hands smell like garlic
I’m still exploring the vegan lifestyle. Slowly.
So many recipes seem complicated. I’ll be reading along, nodding my head, yes, yes, those are all good ingredients, and then there will be something that I don’t recognize. A single ingredient or a sauce that would have been made days ahead. I sigh and close the cookbook.
Cooking seems to take a lot longer, and I feel clumsy, rereading the recipe over and over as I work. I need to be more organized, no waiting till the last minute and throwing something together.
So far I’ve had some successes and some failures. I guess that’s natural. But there’s so much chopping invested in most of these recipes, so much work, forethought, planning. When something fails I’m very disappointed. Especially when the ingredients seemed like a good fit for us.
I worked most of an afternoon on this vegetable stew.
I like all the stuff in this bowl.
It had fresh corn, cut from the cob, pinto beans, butternut squash peeled and cubed, garlic, and was topped with fresh basil. That all sounded good.
But after figuring out how to peel and cut up a butternut squash (you can find anything on YouTube), after cutting corn off six cobs, kernels flying everywhere (Katie loved that part), after watching it simmer for a good long time, it turns out I don’t like the combination of basil and butternut squash. I liked the basil with the corn and beans, but not with the squash.
Looks promising.
The recipe made a huge lot and I tossed most of it.
On the success side, today I made a side dish – Moroccan spiced couscous. I’ve tasted it, but am letting it sit overnight in the fridge. It looks and tastes promising.
Looks like modern art.
Just couscous, paprika, cumin, cinnamon, salt, with strips of spinach and chopped up orange folded in at the end. It’s supposed to be served at room temperature or cold. I think cold might be the way to go.
I used twice as many oranges. Because why not?
And tonight I made a summer pasta, whole wheat rigatoni with tomatoes, zucchini, red bell pepper, garlic and onions. I thought it was pretty good.
Lots of chopping.
It was filling too. I cheated just a bit and put a tiny bit of fresh Parmesan cheese on top. Guess that made it no longer vegan.
Pretty yummy.
Baby steps here. Baby steps.
Pretty veggies.
What has happened to us?
Confusion. Guilt. Grief. Embarrassment. Hopelessness. Sad.
All these feelings swirled around inside my head last night as I watched the news. And they are somewhat subdued but still hovering in my mind this morning as I watch the analysis unfolding.
Many people, much more eloquent than I, will write about the incidents in Louisiana and Minnesota that apparently led to last night’s multiple killings in Texas. Me, I’m wondering if these latest incidents will wake us all up. Because maybe our country never made the progress with race relations that we middle class, middle aged, white people liked to believe . Maybe social media and a continuous news loop have made that painfully obvious. It’s more difficult to ignore, erasing our excuses that we didn’t know.
Last night I watched black male adults relate conversations they’d had with their own parents about being safe out in public. Conversations they’ve had to have with their own children. Conversations I never had growing up, never considered. In my white bread life we were taught to be respectful to police officers, but the men killed in Louisiana and Minnesota didn’t seem disrespectful. Just black.
Of course there may be more to these stories. But neither event is an excuse for what occurred in Dallas. Ever.
So as we all wake up this morning it’s hard not to contemplate that seven men are not waking up. That their families must be feeling as though they are living a nightmare that will never end.
And so I am feeling confused about my version of history that is now challenged. I’m feeling guilty about my sheltered life. I am feeling grief for the loss of good people. All seven of them. I’m feeling embarrassed that I didn’t understand, even after seeing this sort of thing on the news over and over, the reality of life outside my own existence. I’m feeling hopeless faced with the enormity of the problem.
And I’m feeling sad.
Race. It’s like the gun issue and the truck issue. Only bigger. It’s an overarching social issue that changes the trajectory of our country. We can choose to go down the spiral of hate and revenge. Or we can use this time to sit together at the table and talk. And then follow up with the hard work that is required.
Let’s not fool ourselves any longer. Change is hard.
Change Is Hard 