I Saw a Man Walk on the Moon

I was fortunate to have had two sets of wonderful parents each of whom contributed to my education and instilled within me an appreciation of history.

In my posting about poetry, there was a passage concerning Apollo XI and my father's reaction to this momentous event. At the time of the first moonwalk, I was visiting with my father's family at my Great Aunt Hopie's cottage in Gloucester Banks, Virginia.

But it was my stepfather's reaction that truly put this into perspective for me.

My stepfather was born in New York City on July 2, 1902. He was the first of three children born to Russian Jewish immigrants, and before they prospered and moved uptown to fashionable Harlem, he lived in a six story walk-up on the Lower East Side of Manhattan.

He was older than my grandfather!

When I returned home to New York from Virginia, we sat down for our first supper together after two weeks of separation. I enjoyed our suppers because it was the time I could talk about the day's events with my parents. My stepfather tended to sit quietly and listen to me ramble on; he made Calvin Coolidge seem talkative! However, when he did say something, it was usually well-considered and sometimes hysterically funny; there was a great deal of wisdom connected with his observations, Yiddish anecdotes, and biographical sketches. It's a Jewish tradition to teach with parables and jokes.

I spoke of my father and his family, the places we visited, and my first 'boyfriend'.

Before my mother could get in a word, he asked me, "Is that all you remember from your visit? Isn't there something you've forgotten?"

"No. I don't think so."

"What were you doing on July 20th and 21st?"

"I think we were in Gloucester."

"I saw a man walk on the moon."

"Oh, that! So did I!"

"But it wasn't important enough to you to mention it. You didn't remember the date. You took it for granted."

And I think he was right. Being one of the later Baby Boomers, I was born into the Space Age and it was a part of my early education. I knew the names of the original seven astronauts and the ill-fated Gus Grissom was one of my favorites. In fact, my mother allowed me to stay home the day before my birthday (her personal present to me) in order to watch the first American astronaut, Alan Shepard, launched into space. In retrospect, my mother displayed her wisdom in that she thought I would learn more by watching the launch than being in the classroom. I do recall vividly snuggling up with her in bed and listening to Walter Cronkite describe every detail. The stakes were high and there was a great deal of drama. Years later, my cousin Wilbur Bailey, who had taught Tom Wolfe, lent me his autographed copy of, The Right Stuff', and it brought back the memories from my perspective. The movie from that book is one of my favorites. But in reality, on July 20th and 21st and all during the week, my father, stepmother, brother, and sister were glued to the TV set watching the Eagle land; Neil Armstrong's first step; Buzz Aldrin following him; Collins orbiting; and finally, the safe landing and recovery back on earth. I simply neglected to tell him in my initial outburst concerning the events of past few weeks.

I was taken aback; he had never admonished me like that before. He looked at me intently as he had never looked at me before and very slowly and deliberately repeated, "I saw a man walk on the moon!". It was time for me to be quiet and pay attention.

He proceeded to explain, "You don't understand. When I was born, I lived in a tenement without running water or electricity. It was a year before the Wright brothers' flight. A telephone was a novelty; there was one at the corner candy store and they would send someone to yell up at your apartment when you got a call; it was an event and the neighbors would crowd around! Cars? Cars! Only rich people had cars. Trucks? My father had two horse-drawn wagons and a few pushcarts. And New York was was the height of civilization in respect to where most of the neighborhood came from. My own parents came from a farm five miles from the nearest shtetl."

"I was too young for World War I, but I remember being fascinated by airplanes and reading all about them. You couldn't imagine how thrilled I was to see my first plane flying over me. It was not a usual sight when I was a boy. Lindbergh. Now that was a hero! From New York to Paris in a little over a day! Alone! New York went wild. I was one of the thousands who saw him ride down Broadway during the ticker-tape parade. And then I remember seeing the film, Hell's Angels; I must have seen it twenty times. Jules Verne, Buck Rogers, that was fantasy; so who knew it would be reality within thirty years!"

He paused and shook his head. "I saw a man walk on the moon!"

He continued. "Silent movies were just beginning. Then there was radio, talkies, television. Television! What a miracle! In the past few years they have even invented big machines that can think, and now transistors. Jets and rockets! And we can even see these astronauts in space on the television, and they can talk to us!"

"In my 67 years, we have gone from gaslight to space. My generation was born in the Dark Ages and within this one generation, we have gone further faster than all other preceding generations. It's like going from the Stone Age right into the 1700's, in just 67 years! From now on, it is not, 'if', it is, 'when'. " He pointed his finger at me. "Never forget the date. Never forget the names of these men. These are true heroes who made history. Better than Columbus."

Neil Armstrong's, "One small leap for a man, one giant leap for mankind ", was indeed personally meaningful to this once reticent man. Up until that point, I had no idea how deeply passionate he was.

He stopped short. "Of course, there was Hitler and the atomic bomb. Maybe we're going too fast." He brightened, "On the other hand, I feel privileged to have been born in this century and in this country."

"I saw a man walk on the moon." He lit his cigar, and sat back self-satisfied.

There was nothing else to say and I proceeded to help my mother clear the dishes.

This was to be our second most important dinner together* because it was the start of a much closer, adult relationship. My stepfather and I would spend a great deal of time talking about his life, all the events he had witnessed, as well as the people he had seen or met. He had a lived a full and exciting life that witnessed so much history and American popular culture.

As a treat, the two of us went together to the ticker-tape parade in New York that August, in honor of the Apollo XI astronauts.

He died in 1972.

Dad, I haven't forgotten.


* The first dinner was when he asked a six year-old girl for permission to marry her mother.

Daisies to Brighten my Day

It was a tough trip.

The weather was raw, rainy, and snowy until the last day.

Trying to deal with two buses on the same itinerary is something I have never advocated, but I was obliged to do so, juggling it as best as I could. Tour Bob was a great help.

Roads were slippery and sometimes flooded, which slowed our progress.

My driver was ill.

While the hospitality was wonderful at each place, there were some disappointments with step-on guides. (I don't normally engage step-on guides, but these were supposed to be specialists on the Underground Railroad and the Civil War in New York State.)

The kids were terrific, real troopers! I couldn't have imagined a better group to travel with. They were having fun and had even enjoyed a good old-fashioned snowball fight in front of the Baseball Home of Fame. ( It was a first for them as many had never seen snow before!)

Then we were all affected by the shootings at Virginia Tech. We didn't say much about it, but it became the elephant in the parlor.

It's not just that I had over 70 eighth-graders who are impressionable, half of them were either Korean or first generation Koreans who took it personally. And then the guide on the first bus (me) lived in Virginia with some connections to VT through friends and a few relatives who had been teachers. Visions of September 11th, 2001 filled my thoughts.

The Statue of Liberty was closed, making the line to get on the ferry to Ellis Island longer because of heightened security. We didn't go to the top of any buildings because of security concerns. CBS canceled our appearance since they thought the outside activities would be disrespectful. (We hadn't received word of this decision and the lot of us were waiting in the cold and drizzle for the CBS Fun Bus, which like Godot, never came.) Tour Bob and I had to scurry to find a place to feed 84 STAT! (Which we did!)

The bright spot on the last day was a walk and shopping opportunity along Fifth Avenue. For expediency, I suggested that everyone meet and eat at the underground concourse at Rockefeller Center. (Mendy's is my favorite place to get kosher sandwiches!) I was working on auto pilot and did not realize that the annual orchid show was there. Mrs. C-C had a severe allergic reaction to the orchids and had to seek medical help.

After getting her stabilized, Tour Bob, Mrs. C-C and I had lunch at Dean and Delucca right across from the NBC studios - well away from those poisonous orchids!

I then went down to retrieve the entire group and encountered what can only be described as a bee hive of activity surrounded by orchids. While it was a stunning sight, it was difficult to gather the kids. (Actually, it was the adults we were having trouble with!)

After getting the correct count, I was about to board the bus when one young lady, smiling, presented me with a bunch of daisies!

How did she know?

She chose a bunch of the happiest and most resilient flowers; they put the high maintenance orchids to shame and reflected the mood of the group.

I nearly cried!

They're on my table and are a reaffirmation of my career choice.

Bringing Cemeteries To Life

Bringing Cemeteries

to Life

Lt. John Rogers Meigs

PROLOGUE:

One wouldn’t normally pass the bronze effigy that marks the final resting place of Lt. John Rogers Meigs* on the Arlington Cemetery tram tour. It's across from where one would deboard the tram at Arlington House, tucked away in the midst of section 1, close to Gen. Abner Doubleday and other Civil War luminaries.

No, a proper visit of Arlington National Cemetery should require a comfortable pair of walking shoes, a knowledgeable and informative tour guide, and at least three hours.

There are so many stories, and the dead demand proper respect and recognition; one shouldn't glide through it.

BACKGROUND:

New York City

My introduction to cemeteries was a frightening one, from the vantage point of a five-year-old passenger in the backseat of my future step-father’s car. I think the fifth year of life is the age when children truly start to comprehend the concept of death and their own mortality. I was no exception.

There are several great necropolises along and beneath the Long Island Expressway (LIE) and Brooklyn Queens Expressway (BQE) that mirror the sooty congestion of city dwellings. The ornate monuments actually compete with the skyline of Manhattan (see photo below). I used to ponder about the people and families connected to these markers, memorials, and mausoleums. Who were they and did anyone remember or visit them in these forbidding places? There was a sense of cruel exile and abandonment.

These implanted, permanent New Yorkers also remain eternally segregated according to religion and race; to each, his own; Jewish cemeteries on one side, and Protestant and Catholic on the other. Christian cemeteries further sectioned off remote areas for African Americans, and even maintained separate sets of interment records. These vast tracts are divided from one another by thick stone walls and rusted iron fences.

On the BQE, one reaches the pinnacle of the highway, the Kosciuszko** Bridge, which allows a panoramic view to survey the bleak and almost endless landscape of the dead interspersed amongst dilapidated factory buildings and smokestacks. Such a sight! It’s hard to imagine that this area was once lushly forested and these cemeteries were considered an improvement over the ones in Manhattan!

One passes through and over these cemeteries before stopping to pay the entrance toll for the Queens Midtown Tunnel, which later on in life reminded me of paying Charon to cross the Styx. Heaven was the light emerging from Manhattan at the end of the tunnel. Immediately thereafter, there was life and a sigh of relief. I hated going back in the opposite direction, even if it was to return home.

But the alternate route back home was the Queensborough/59^th Street Bridge (of Simon and Garfunkel fame) and Queens Boulevard which took us beside the Calvary Catholic Cemeteries, rising above the cars, with cobblestone retaining walls supporting green mounds topped by angels and crucifixes. One could literally be buried in traffic!

Virginia

It wasn’t until I first stayed with my father’s family in Virginia, that I discovered what a lovely and illuminating place a cemetery could be. Considerate relatives who acted as guides and teachers helped me to realize that a cemetery was a tangible family tree, a time capsule, and a history book in marble, granite, slate, and sandstone; each marker became a chapter and perhaps a piece of a puzzle. They brought the cemeteries to life!

My fears concerning death subsided.

Perhaps it’s a Southern thing, bringing children to cemeteries to discover and explore one’s roots. It’s looked upon as a pleasant outing for a fine day!

My first outing was an intergenerational affair with venerable and affable cousins relating stories peppered with humorous anecdotes about family members who had ‘passed’. My parents were divorced and it was deemed the responsibility of my father’s family to fully bring me into the fold and get me up to speed with their side of the family. Virginians are passionate genealogists and take pride that they can rattle-off the precise connections between family members. (I know what a double first cousin is and am able to explain, once-removed!) Relationships amongst family members became clearer. The deeply personal ways my cousins described their loved ones, our shared ancestors, family contributions to this nation, and the many expressive gravestones, was not only was enlightening, but it served to crystallize my place and purpose in the context of the family.

Considering that several of these cousins were over eighty and ninety years old in the early 1960’s, it is not inconceivable that first hand stories could span over 150 years. Indeed many of my raconteurs were Spanish American War and WWI veterans; their own fathers were Mexican War and Civil War veterans! One cousin had escorted Teddy Roosevelt to the podium for the President’s address to his West Point graduating class!

I will speak first of our ancestors, for it is right and seemly that now, when we are lamenting the dead, a tribute should be paid to their memory. There has never been a time when they did not inhabit this land, which by their valor they will have handed down from generation to generation, and we have received from them a free state. Pericles: Funeral Oration

As a result, this native-born Yankee expects to be permanently transplanted near my father in one of our family cemeteries near Hague, Virginia. I’ll be in the shadow of an obelisk marking a Confederate General who also served in the U.S. Congress both before and after, 'The Wahr’. There is something comforting about knowing where one’s final resting place will be. This may be apocryphal, but it has been said that several Southern marriage proposals begin with, “Would you like to be buried with my people?” I'm apt to believe that.

Two of our three local family cemeteries are beautifully maintained and would be attractive to a prospective spouse, but regrettably, the third is ignominiously overrun by a jungle of locust trees, poison ivy, honeysuckle, and kudzu; its monuments are broken, sunken, askew, or lost. The cemetery itself is half buried, and the inhabitants practically forgotten. This is a shameful state of affairs but I don’t have the power to correct this. Unfortunately, as our family members dwindle, so do the memories of these neglected antecedents and the exact location of each plot. However, even in our well-maintained and documented cemeteries, there are sections where the markers (many them were temporary to begin with) are lost, so we have no idea who is buried there or even where they are within the boundaries of the cemetery. It has been impossible to consult any records, since there are none extant; so many were lost was a result of war and fire.

THE CIVIL WAR AND ARLINGTON NATIONAL CEMETERY:

I’m sure President Lincoln was also aware of the decay of cemeteries during his lifetime. Those whose families could not afford expensive stones risked having the wooden markers rot and disappear. As people moved westward they abandoned their cemeteries, and many of the trails they traversed still contain numerous unmarked graves. Churches and churchyards were engulfed and devoured by the encroachment of the growing towns and cities. Some were vandalized.

The horrific number of dead soldiers, many of them unknown, required vast amounts of land to be acquired in order to accommodate them. Interring the remains honorably and marking the graves permanently, as well as accurately as possible, was a priority for the President during the War Between the States. After all, these soldiers had died in defense of the Union and should be treated accordingly. Notice, I said, 'Union'.

This passage of the President’s brief remarks at the dedication of the National Cemetery at Gettysburg sums up his view:

But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate—we cannot consecrate—we cannot hallow—this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our power to add or detract.

Yes, a cemetery is a holy place.

President Lincoln relied upon his Quartermaster, General Montgomery C. Meigs, for a solution.

General Meigs and his son, John

General Meig’s deliberate decision to confiscate the property of the 'rebellious' Lee family at Arlington plantation directly across the Potomac River from the White House has been attributed to revenge. Col. R.E. Lee USA, was seen as a traitor to the Union, and despite the fact that Lee himself, did not own the property, it was punishment for his entire family’s primary loyalty to Virginia and the Confederate cause. Ostensibly, the subsequent justification of the confiscation of the property by the government was unpaid property taxes, which the family had endeavored to pay before the Lee women were compelled to move, but their efforts were repeatedly rejected by the respective government agents.

Meigs was a Son of the South but viewed the conflict differently from Lee; he was a fervent Unionist who detested the Confederacy and held General Lee in contempt.

As a result of General Meigs’ recommendation, Arlington National Cemetery was created in 1864 as a cemetery, military post. and freedmen’s village. By his direction, the first twenty-six graves were placed around the perimeter of Mrs. Lee’s prized rose garden, a direct insult, so the Lee family would never return.

Later that year, the war became more personal to him; his son, John Rogers Meigs was killed at Swift Run Gap, VA (near Harrison in the Shenandoah) under disputed circumstances. Lt. Meigs had graduated from West Point, first in his class, less than two years before; he was twenty-three years old

He was found lying in the road, service revolver at his side, and surrounded by the imprints of horses' hooves, indicating that he had been trampled after death. Gen. Meigs was not only heartbroken, but was incensed that his son, who was an officer, was so abused; it was intolerable. Unable to reconcile his son’s death to the context of a casualty of war, he hired private investigators to hunt down the murderers. In reality, there were over 12,000 Union lieutenants amongst the over 600.000 who lost their lives, in one way or another, during the course of the Civil War; Gen. Meigs would not have been the only parent who had lost a child to war.

Eventually, General Meigs had his son’s remains transferred to Arlington and ordered a bronze effigy to remind people of his son’s inglorious end at the hand of the rebels. Even the hoof prints can be seen beside the lifeless body. The continued hatred he harbored for Robert E. Lee was unbounded

Lt. Meigs, on the other hand, continues to rest in the shadow of his parent's sarcophagus along with his illustrious Rogers ancestors, in a peaceful, grassy, and wooded area.

EPILOGUE:

Because I have never forgotten my initial fear of cemeteries, I endeavor to make my students’ first experience, a pleasant and meaningful one. There is beauty, history, and great humanity to be found in all of them.

But Lt. Meigs' effigy has become the most important teaching moment for me while I am conducting student groups through Arlington National Cemetery. The poignant nature of the circumstances surrounding his death, and his father’s connection to Arlington and Robert E. Lee brings a very human element to the cemetery. The thousands of uniform white stones in endless rows, the impressive monuments, the imposing historic mansion, the dignified Changing of the Guard at the Tomb of the Unknowns, and the simplicity of the Kennedy graves cannot match the impact of this tribute to a beloved, fallen son. Young Lt. Meigs helps to put everything into perspective for students. It is where I am part of the most profound discussions of the entire educational program.

As a result, I start my tour of Arlington counter-clockwise, crossing in front of the Women in Military Service Memorial, so we can visit Arlington House and Lt. Meigs first. It is my prelude to the rest of the cemetery, although I also pass Medgar Evers, Gen. Omar Bradley, President Taft, and Robert Todd Lincoln to get there.

The addition of poetry (Bivouac of the Dead, In Flanders Field, and High Flight, as well as stories of heroism i.e. John Lincoln Clem and Audie Murphy, the examination of virtues such as service and sacrifice, round out the program, bringing this cemetery to life.

And rather than as casual visitors or tourists, we bond and become members of a greater, national family, to pay our respects.

No, you can’t get that from a tram tour.

POSTCRIPTS:

Because national cemeteries were created for the Union dead, countless Southern widows and mothers. realizing that their cemeteries would neither be maintained nor respected by the victors, introduced a movement to honor the fallen Confederates by annually refreshing cemeteries and placing flowers on the each grave of their glorious dead. Originally referred to as, Decoration Day, we now observe it as, Memorial Day, extending it to all our war dead. It is a time when Americans are invited into cemeteries to acknowledge the sacrifices made on our behalf.

Arlington National Cemetery is also our fourth family cemetery; my grandfather, who died nearly twenty years before I was born, is buried in the Spanish American War section. Since I do not have my own children, I have continued the family tradition by relating stories to my nephew of relatives whom I knew, and whom have since. ‘passed’. Memorial Day has become the time for our yearly pilgrimage. (It should be pointed out that my brother did not have children either, so our family name dies with us.)

Recently, I have come to terms with those vast necropolises of Brooklyn and Queens; after my first visit to them, I became addicted. They contain not only American history, but social, art history, and in some cases, even humor. But there they are, stark and solid against the sky.

And these sepulchral stones, so old and brown,

That pave with level flags their burial-place,

Seem like the tablets of the Law, thrown down

And broken by Moses at the mountain’s base

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: Jewish Cemetery at Newport

One day I hope to find a tour guide who knows Hebrew to decipher the headstones and monuments of the great Jewish ghettos of the dead. I will bring as many of my own stones as I can carry to mark these forlorn places as having been visited by the living, according to Jewish tradition. This would bring me closer to my mother's side; most of her cousins and ancestors were victims of various pogroms and the Holocaust; there are no cemeteries for them.

This past April, 72 eighth graders from Rosemont Middle School of La Crescenta, CA, visited Mount Hope Cemetery in Rochester to pay tribute to two great Americans by laying wreaths at the graves of Susan B. Anthony and Frederick Douglass. While it was extremely cold and started to sleet, the students stood respectfully while they listened to the stories told by Dr. David Anderson, an expert on Frederick Douglas, and Mrs. Joan Hunt, President of the Friends of Mount Hope Cemetery. It was pointed out that we were the first student group from the West Coast to make this pilgrimage, and perhaps the first to lay wreaths.

In California, cemeteries are streamlined lawns; stones above ground have been outlawed; the students were intrigued by the various sizes, shapes, and inscriptions of the grave markers. As they walked to and from the gravesites, many of them singled out particular stones, discussing them with their friends. I noticed a lot of finger-pointing and photos-taking.

When we were reboarding our bus, one student turned to me and said, “Whoa! This is so awesome! I wish we had more time to visit.”

So did I.

Notes:

*Lt. Meigs had been brevetted as a Major in the Corps of Engineers
**New Yorkers Pronounce the bridge's name:, koss-kee-Oss-koh

This posting was first published in the May 2007 issue of Lost Magazine, an online magazine.

The photo below shows the view from Calvary Catholic Cemetery looking west from Queens across to Manhattan.

FIGURE-IT-OUT FRIDAY # 1

What is the connection between these two?

And why is today's date, January 19, 2007,
significant for one of them?

Answer will appear next Friday!

Friday Postcard from New York # 1

Start Spreading the News!
New York City is my birthplace; I’m originally from Queens, one of the five boroughs, or counties, that make up New York City. So you can imagine how much I like to show off the city! New Yorkers have a great pride of place, and why not? (Someone once said that I was a provincial cosmopolite: I was provincial because I thought New York was the beginning and end of the world, and I was a cosmopolite because it was!)

Unfortunately, after years of guiding tours for tour operators and travel agents which included New York City, I was frustrated by the limited scope of the New York experience offered to both tourists and students. It was a , give 'em what they want or know, rather than presenting an accurate overview of the city, its history, and its people. New York visitation has been reduced to showing its surface rather than its soul. The lasting impression is an exciting, glitzy, and iconic blur; very much like the Las Vegas casino without the slots.

Perhaps its all the local history I retained from elementary school, my natural curiosity. and wanderlust as an adult resident (combing ethnic neighborhoods for new exotic restaurants) that gives me a unique perspective of the Greatest City in the World!.

Incredibly, it doesn’t register with educational tour operators to present the city it its historic or social context.

New York City: had a vibrant native American heritage; was colonized by the business-savvy, but heavy-handed, Dutch; was taken over by the British in a bloodless coup; saw a great deal of action during the American Revolution; became the first U.S. Capital; was a primary seaport with a significant maritime and mercantile heritage; played an important role in the War Between the States; still remains a clothing manufacturing and fashion center; was a battleground of social, political, labor, and civil rights causes; is considered the gateway to freedom and opportunity for millions of immigrants; reflects both the excesses and philanthropy of the robber barons; endures as a center for the arts and humanities; remains THE financial capital of the world; continues as an international capital by the United Nations; grew as a result of inspired city planning and breath-taking architecture; promotes ethnic diversity; is known for its fabulous food and restaurants; is the story of a city that recovered, and triumphed after the worst terrorist attack on American soil.

It is also the birthplace of Teddy Roosevelt, the home and parish of George Washington during his administration, and the final resting place of President U. S. Grant. (Who's buried in Grant's Tomb?) Although James Monroe died in New York and was initially buried here, his remains were removed to Hollywood, not California, but a venerable and famous cemetery in Richmond, Virginia. (There's a bizarre story about this removal, but perhaps that will be in another post!)

Why not mix in elements of the ‘wild side’ of New York City; the flora, fauna, and geology of Central Park, the wetlands of Jamaica Bay, the recovery of the Hudson River, the Bronx Zoo, and the Botanical Gardens?

And one can even take the subway to the beach!

Now you're getting the true spirit of this great metropolis!

In the following months I shall discuss some of the wonderful opportunities for your students in New York City - and I'm calling on all NYC teachers to contribute!

The Tour Marm

P.S. Just in case you were wondering...The building to the right of the New York City postcard is a very important site for me; it was Kew Gardens General Hospital where I was born. Unfortunately, it no longer exists, which really makes me feel old!