JAMES GREER
writer-reviewer
Saturday Morning "GRACE NOTES"
Per James Greer
The Piano Between the elegant main waiting room and the teaming concourses promising far flung destinations, there sits a simple piano tucked into a tiled corner and flanked by a placard that reads, ‘Step Up and Show us What You’ve Got - All Players Welcome’. Inasmuch as I was early and didn’t need to mosey on immediately, I leaned against a nearby pillar and served as initial audience for those who would charm that noisy, congested and rushing mass. It didn’t take long and of note, our buskers that Saturday morning were all teenagers. I suppose grown folks would think it foolishness, an apprehension less well known to adolescents. None of the young people were excellent in skill or knowledge of their selection, but all had the magic of the Pied Piper, gathering from the busyness about them, small crowds to hear the sweetness of their tune. I lingered for a while and was moved again by the power of a few notes to draw us to its source and to lure away the tensions of our hustle. Panache |
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Cyrano of the long nose reminds us near the end of his life and with the certainty of final judgement that he must maintain his personal panache to the last. And so he would have been pleased to read of his countrymen, as I did, on the WSJ’s front page, that Bastille Day Saturday morning. Then on the eve of their World Cup championship game, the French, it seemed, were more concerned about the unstylish nature of the team’s play thus far rather than their winning record. After all, as the sage reminds us, ‘. . . it’s how the game is played that matters most’. Writing now, we know the final outcome - the French were victorious, but were they happy? Can victory be celebrated if it’s gained at the price of uninspired execution? Cy would probably think not. For him, a white feather in his hat gave evidence of his panache, of his cool - and so long as he could wear it, even to the grave, he would likely have echoed the ancient phrase, ‘death, were is thy sting?’ Of course he, the French and the rest of us know that style, panache - cool is never about just one thing. It’s the measure of the total person, the way s/he plays the game of life. Hmmm, I better check to see if my summer Seersucker is pressed sufficiently for this evening’s event.
Breakfast
Breakfast
There are two kinds of people in the world - those who love breakfast and those who other than their morning caffeine jolt, look to later eating pleasures. For the former a special treat is breaking the fast on a slow moving Saturday morning in a hotel dining room. I don’t mean the ‘Breakfast Included,’ nearly inedible buffets served in a meeting room, kind of a meal. I’m talking about settling into a comfortable and handsomely designed chair in a room planned to please the senses - ordering from a menu with selections you would rarely get at home and served by liveried staff. It’s a civilized way to begin this most leisurely of all days – dining rather than feeding. And so on a recent Saturday I had the occasion of doing just that. Oh yes, it’s too expensive, far too much food and altogether more self-indulgent than a Christian gentleman should allow himself. For what it’s worth, I do feel guilty .,.. at least some guilty. Still, in a hard world with only incidental pleasures, I confess this is one I allow myself. And, did I mention it often comes with delightful people watching, and frequently a window table or terrace overlooking something lovely. If such a dalliance doesn’t beguile your soul then grace notes may simply be beyond you.
Grace Notes: an extra note added as embellishment ... but not essential to the composition
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Jim Greer's entries - on a visit to Pittsburgh, June 2018
A VISIT TO THE "BURG"
Per James Greer
Changing planes in O’Hare - how many times has it been since I first landed here 54 years ago? I confess it’s a bit of a twilight zone experience. I know where I am in space, but not in time. The geography is the same but not the narrative. . .
Greeting and spending time with an old friend now in sight of his centennial celebration, while still topping the speed limit driving the parkways (but only in daytime, he says in his defense), is ahead for the year in his weekly poker winnings - and even in his bridge game and has no appetite problem, is a refresher course in La Dolce Vita and exhausting. I’ve know the man for more than half his life, and until her passing a few years back, his elegant and yet down home wife. He’s been my mentor, older brother and friend, and even now I marvel at his continuing capacity for the constant challenges in every family, friendship and community connection. How does one value such a relationship? As one would his greatest possession. He likes to say, ‘it won’t be long now’ - but such a friendship is not constrained by earthly measurements. As long as either of us live, we’ll remember and we’ll tell the stories of the other - and thereby we both live on. . .
Changing planes in O’Hare - how many times has it been since I first landed here 54 years ago? I confess it’s a bit of a twilight zone experience. I know where I am in space, but not in time. The geography is the same but not the narrative. . .
Greeting and spending time with an old friend now in sight of his centennial celebration, while still topping the speed limit driving the parkways (but only in daytime, he says in his defense), is ahead for the year in his weekly poker winnings - and even in his bridge game and has no appetite problem, is a refresher course in La Dolce Vita and exhausting. I’ve know the man for more than half his life, and until her passing a few years back, his elegant and yet down home wife. He’s been my mentor, older brother and friend, and even now I marvel at his continuing capacity for the constant challenges in every family, friendship and community connection. How does one value such a relationship? As one would his greatest possession. He likes to say, ‘it won’t be long now’ - but such a friendship is not constrained by earthly measurements. As long as either of us live, we’ll remember and we’ll tell the stories of the other - and thereby we both live on. . .
Waking to a soft summer rain, a largely unknown experience to San Diego folk, makes a visit elsewhere memorable from the start. Mind you, it alters the patterns of the early day. My host insisted I defer my usual walk (rain’s a slippery hazard at an age when falls are a principal enemy), and so I was reduced to indoor squats, mat exercises (on the carpet), and walking up 10 flights of internal stairs. While I felt as though I had earned my breakfast and could face my trainer on my return, I missed the cool morning air and would have even attempted, at least in my mind, a verse of ‘Singing in the Rain’. Oh well, no doubt the neighborhood was better off for my host’s curfew. . .
The "Burg" at night ...
Walking through the Pittsburgh pocket known as ‘Oakland’ and along 5th Avenue, one is always amazed at the stately architecture of the great medical centers, the classic lines of war memorials, the elegant appeal of grand houses of worship, and the iconic towering University of Pittsburgh’s Cathedral of Learning. Never mind that the irreverent nearby students at Carnegie Mellon University, refer to the shrine as the ... ‘Height of Ignorance’.
And then comes the second sight, and the amusement of seeing this grand boulevard as a students’ path as well. They and their teachers from both Pitt and CMU dash along to classes, labs and associated rendezvouses. The collage of constructed urban grandeur anchored to the landscape, and the motion of the young in pursuit of tomorrow’s promises is worth a pause to take it in ... and so I did.
And then comes the second sight, and the amusement of seeing this grand boulevard as a students’ path as well. They and their teachers from both Pitt and CMU dash along to classes, labs and associated rendezvouses. The collage of constructed urban grandeur anchored to the landscape, and the motion of the young in pursuit of tomorrow’s promises is worth a pause to take it in ... and so I did.
Regular classes are out by now and the thinner population, staying on for summer session and special projects, is clearly more tech oriented than liberal arts. The difference is obvious. While both prize the most casual of attire, the LA crowd finds a way of adding a bit of statement to their resistance: an imprinted slogan, a cross cultural item of cloth or ornamentation, a margin celebrating coif, or a certain carnal invitational appeal to the edges of their apparel. The tech folks, on the other hand, are content with function - any available item that will cover as much of their body as outside temperature suggests. Our future rocket scientists, may find fashion an observable study, but not one that lends itself to measurable results. In other words, what’s the point? Even so, cast either against any one of the great edifices along their way - and they make a shoot worthy of Vogue. . .
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Dinner with another old friend from a time when we were much younger, though different in age even then, is a sentimental journey to a land that never was and will always be. As men of some worldliness now, we surely could never have been so callow and yet so certain of our navigational skills. And yet, our perceptional mistrust of that earlier day is reduced to ashes when in our greeting and later again in our parting, our hands slip so easily and without forethought, into a grip first learned in our youths and in an initiation. For me over 50 years ago and for the other ... 30 plus. The talk is largely light and full of self-deprecating humor, and the time runs too fast and once again we close the joint. We say goodbye with longer and deeper looks than if we met frequently, and wonder if the vagaries of life will allow another meeting. . .
The merging of Carnegie Tech with the Mellon millions, produced one of our premier engineering and technical academies known today as Carnegie Mellon University. The campus is wedged between and shares with other public and private complexes a bit of the City’s intellectual center. It’s a holding belying the institution’s sizable global reputation. Adding to the school’s creative, if ironic kaleidoscope of largely scientific instruction is a celebrated college of Dramatic Arts. Go figure???
In any event, it was the path, still lightly taken at an early hour that drew me to its walks and ways. After topping the summit of the CMU campus, I selected the way home that brings the morning stroller down past old classrooms and utility buildings on the back of the grounds, and eventually to the edge of the storied Schenley Park. From there, it’s a turn onto the 1897 bridge over Boundary Street below, and then to the porches of the magnificent classical structure known as The Carnegie Public Library. Its chiseled invitation remains on the entrance ... ‘Free to the People’.
But another word about that bridge, tucked as it is between the lecture halls and laboratories of CMU, and the mother of a vast American network of public libraries. In and of itself, it’s an important community infrastructure and seemingly little else. Except, of course, for the hundreds of ‘lovers locks’ secured along its fences. Some of the locks are key operated - keys now mostly long lost, and others are of the combination variety with their open sesame formulas, more likely remembered for their romantic numerology.
In any event, it was the path, still lightly taken at an early hour that drew me to its walks and ways. After topping the summit of the CMU campus, I selected the way home that brings the morning stroller down past old classrooms and utility buildings on the back of the grounds, and eventually to the edge of the storied Schenley Park. From there, it’s a turn onto the 1897 bridge over Boundary Street below, and then to the porches of the magnificent classical structure known as The Carnegie Public Library. Its chiseled invitation remains on the entrance ... ‘Free to the People’.
But another word about that bridge, tucked as it is between the lecture halls and laboratories of CMU, and the mother of a vast American network of public libraries. In and of itself, it’s an important community infrastructure and seemingly little else. Except, of course, for the hundreds of ‘lovers locks’ secured along its fences. Some of the locks are key operated - keys now mostly long lost, and others are of the combination variety with their open sesame formulas, more likely remembered for their romantic numerology.
The heart is always lightened, and the face involuntarily grinning when one sees basic, heat infused human emotions informing great depositories of cool rational wisdom. It’s not a checkmating, one of the other, but rather a reminder of the timeless dance between young love and ancient learning. One see the other with awesome regard and the latter yearns for the uncomplicated ‘truth’ ... on the earlier side of life.
As I moved along to the finishing of my morning outing, I found myself once again mumbling my gratitude for landscapes transversed and lessons remembered. . .
On the Road Again, and this time turning west and heading home. As I leave the early summer’s deep and healthy green of our eastern regions, I marvel, as I have for long years past, at its garden beauty and promise of a bountiful inheritance, if we have the good sense to care for it. Even so, as a son of the west, I also feel the tug of the land more beige and first glimpsed, as we fly over the continental divide heading into the setting sun and towards the great Pacific sea.
God willing, I’ll come back again and again to see the country, its cities and dear friends,
and will as I do now, count my blessings for their presence in my life. . .
God willing, I’ll come back again and again to see the country, its cities and dear friends,
and will as I do now, count my blessings for their presence in my life. . .
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POSTCARD From NYC & New Orleans:
In The Spotlight !
Per James Greer
POSTCARD FROM NEW YORK
Gotham’s overture, were songs of a Central Park ‘busker’ on a near perfect Saturday morning, my first … back in the City. As I strolled off the Mall, and down the steps to the Bethesda Fountain, I alternated, as I usually do, my wide-angle and close-up glances, and inclined my ear to hear the different languages and accents of the people passing by. Not to do so, miss the texture of the city, and the reminder that its wonders are only animated by the people who dwell and pilgrimage within. The Fountain (above), named of course, for the famed healing Bethesda pool of ancient Jerusalem, is beloved of New Yorkers, and despite its heavy traffic is a popular spot for lingering and reflection. As I approached, our street entertainer was in full sync with the mood of the day and mid-way through …
“On the Sunny Side of the Street"
POSTCARD FROM NEW YORK
Gotham’s overture, were songs of a Central Park ‘busker’ on a near perfect Saturday morning, my first … back in the City. As I strolled off the Mall, and down the steps to the Bethesda Fountain, I alternated, as I usually do, my wide-angle and close-up glances, and inclined my ear to hear the different languages and accents of the people passing by. Not to do so, miss the texture of the city, and the reminder that its wonders are only animated by the people who dwell and pilgrimage within. The Fountain (above), named of course, for the famed healing Bethesda pool of ancient Jerusalem, is beloved of New Yorkers, and despite its heavy traffic is a popular spot for lingering and reflection. As I approached, our street entertainer was in full sync with the mood of the day and mid-way through …
“On the Sunny Side of the Street"
But, it all began several days earlier, as I boarded my Amtrak train in Emeryville, a separate tax haven municipality, tucked between Oakland and Berkeley, and the location of Amtrak’s Bay Area Terminus. There, I hitched my ride on a leisurely Zephyr (left), the mid-country route to Chicago, with connections on to New York. The thing about a long train trip, is that it massages-out all the stress and kinks of life, and prepares one for the adventures to follow. It’s slow, frequently beautiful, and filled with opportunity to meet new people or ... just read a book.
But, it all began several days earlier, as I boarded my Amtrak train in Emeryville, a separate tax haven municipality, tucked between Oakland and Berkeley, and the location of Amtrak’s Bay Area Terminus. There, I hitched my ride on a leisurely Zephyr (left), the mid-country route to Chicago, with connections on to New York. The thing about a long train trip, is that it massages-out all the stress and kinks of life, and prepares one for the adventures to follow. It’s slow, frequently beautiful, and filled with opportunity to meet new people or ... just read a book.
This, is the original transcontinental railway that Lincoln paid for, in outrageous deals with men who became immorally rich for making it happen. But Lincoln’s visionary gift, could see that even at the price paid, this finishing piece in a national linkage from sea to sea, would usher in unparalleled prosperity for the country as a whole. If the great explorers gave us the coastal outlines of our land, the transcontinental railroad bound us together and completed President James Monroe’s doctrine of Manifest Destiny.
The Zephyr, begins to climb just east of Sacramento, and by lunch time, we were cresting the Sierra Nevada’s near Tahoe and the fabled Donner Pass. From there, it’s down to Reno and over to Winnemucca, where the Chamber of Commerce will tell you the town’s importance, comes from its freight rail connections – but, most sporting folks know it’s on account of some very famous nearby ‘ranches’.
The first night out, is over northern Nevada’s moonscape and the salt flats of Utah, swinging through Salt Lake City before dawn. Brigham Young was right to settle the Mormons here, noting that they would be undisturbed because no one else would want the place.
Normally, we would have then climbed again, this time through the Colorado Rockies, including the glorious Glenwood Canyon and down the Front Range into Denver. But track work, Amtrak’s catch all explanation, detoured-us through Wyoming’s Green River Valley, and endless miles of antelope, buffalo and cattle. Still, the detour was not without profit – I learned that like ships, trains also have pilots, that guide them over routes unfamiliar to the regular crews. They can tell you, said the Observation Car bartender, the mile maker just by looking out the window.
The second night, we worked our way through Nebraska, and by breakfast we were traveling through the tidy farms of Iowa. As lunch drew near, we forded the Mississippi River. It’s never pretty, the Big Muddy’, just flat and broad like its shoulders. Because, the land it waters, is virtually without ripple - it lacks the charm of the castle-dotted hills along the Rhine – or, the deep majestic canyon walls of the Colorado. Even so, every American knows it as our great internal road, the pathway that feeds the world and teases our imagination in song and story.
By mid-afternoon, we arrived in Chicago’s Union Station, and a five hour layover in the Windy City. It gave me time to shake out the stiffness of three days on the road, with a brisk walk circumnavigating the City’s famous Loop. From the canal to the Lake Michigan, to the Chicago River and back down State Street, that great street . . . and on to the storied German restaurant, Berghoff’s (right), for a drink and a schnitzel. Chicago’s corners, may be rounded since its early days, but it remains a good naturedly noisy and aggressive place – and, I have found over the years that like Texans, the Chicago natives, however far-flung from the old town, will fight you for the honor of their berg … and even the casserole they call … pizza.
If open to it, one meets many interesting people on a train, and I did again this trip. I’ll share a bit of one encounter, because it also has a Chicago slant. I dined the first evening, with a young Dutch couple seeing America for first time. They were both in their mid-twenties, well-educated, professional people, and their English was near perfect, save for some accent. They were also a good looking, physically fit pair - and so, while they were sweet to each other, I suspected there was ample savory in their relationship as well. But, what made our quick connection possible, was their open, unguarded character - so that in no time, and despite the huge difference in age, our conversation turned casual and even familiar. They were interested in whatever I could share with them, about the landscape we were passing through, and I kept probing for how their perceptions of this country differed from their expectations, and how it compared with life back home. We were soon kidding each other, and laughing about how the manners of Americans and Europeans can seem so strange to the other.
The first night out, is over northern Nevada’s moonscape and the salt flats of Utah, swinging through Salt Lake City before dawn. Brigham Young was right to settle the Mormons here, noting that they would be undisturbed because no one else would want the place.
Normally, we would have then climbed again, this time through the Colorado Rockies, including the glorious Glenwood Canyon and down the Front Range into Denver. But track work, Amtrak’s catch all explanation, detoured-us through Wyoming’s Green River Valley, and endless miles of antelope, buffalo and cattle. Still, the detour was not without profit – I learned that like ships, trains also have pilots, that guide them over routes unfamiliar to the regular crews. They can tell you, said the Observation Car bartender, the mile maker just by looking out the window.
The second night, we worked our way through Nebraska, and by breakfast we were traveling through the tidy farms of Iowa. As lunch drew near, we forded the Mississippi River. It’s never pretty, the Big Muddy’, just flat and broad like its shoulders. Because, the land it waters, is virtually without ripple - it lacks the charm of the castle-dotted hills along the Rhine – or, the deep majestic canyon walls of the Colorado. Even so, every American knows it as our great internal road, the pathway that feeds the world and teases our imagination in song and story.
By mid-afternoon, we arrived in Chicago’s Union Station, and a five hour layover in the Windy City. It gave me time to shake out the stiffness of three days on the road, with a brisk walk circumnavigating the City’s famous Loop. From the canal to the Lake Michigan, to the Chicago River and back down State Street, that great street . . . and on to the storied German restaurant, Berghoff’s (right), for a drink and a schnitzel. Chicago’s corners, may be rounded since its early days, but it remains a good naturedly noisy and aggressive place – and, I have found over the years that like Texans, the Chicago natives, however far-flung from the old town, will fight you for the honor of their berg … and even the casserole they call … pizza.
If open to it, one meets many interesting people on a train, and I did again this trip. I’ll share a bit of one encounter, because it also has a Chicago slant. I dined the first evening, with a young Dutch couple seeing America for first time. They were both in their mid-twenties, well-educated, professional people, and their English was near perfect, save for some accent. They were also a good looking, physically fit pair - and so, while they were sweet to each other, I suspected there was ample savory in their relationship as well. But, what made our quick connection possible, was their open, unguarded character - so that in no time, and despite the huge difference in age, our conversation turned casual and even familiar. They were interested in whatever I could share with them, about the landscape we were passing through, and I kept probing for how their perceptions of this country differed from their expectations, and how it compared with life back home. We were soon kidding each other, and laughing about how the manners of Americans and Europeans can seem so strange to the other.
As we retired to the Observation Car, for after dinner digestives and more chatter, our tone turned somewhat more serious. Well, past it by then, one of them asked about the Donner Pass. I told them the story, of that fateful event in our westward expansion, which turned into a more general conversation of the building of the American nation with its starts and fits. At some point, I realized I was doing all the talking and stopped to say so. No, they replied, we want to hear more and then Hans said, tell us about Chicago, we plan to spend 3 days there. We talked an hour or so more, gradually sharing stretches of our personal stories with each other … and parted, with warm ‘good-nights’.
When we last met on the platform, as they were headed off to find their Airbus - and I, to reconfirm my NY connection, I handed them a slip of paper on which I had written ‘Chicago’ by Carl Sandburg, and said to them, every American boy and girl studies this poem in school, and it’s often our first impressions of this great city. Go now, I urged them, take good care of each other, and see if you can sense the town as Sandburg did. Their smiles and thanks (though brief), spoke much more than the gestures themselves, and Anna said, “we’ll always think of you Jim, when we remember our first trip to America”. We never exchanged contact information, and the vagaries of life are all but certain, to ensure we’ll never meet again. But we needn’t. Our time together, was a gift mutually given and received, and as Anna said, it will be remembered.
When we last met on the platform, as they were headed off to find their Airbus - and I, to reconfirm my NY connection, I handed them a slip of paper on which I had written ‘Chicago’ by Carl Sandburg, and said to them, every American boy and girl studies this poem in school, and it’s often our first impressions of this great city. Go now, I urged them, take good care of each other, and see if you can sense the town as Sandburg did. Their smiles and thanks (though brief), spoke much more than the gestures themselves, and Anna said, “we’ll always think of you Jim, when we remember our first trip to America”. We never exchanged contact information, and the vagaries of life are all but certain, to ensure we’ll never meet again. But we needn’t. Our time together, was a gift mutually given and received, and as Anna said, it will be remembered.
THE CITY, as is its fame, immediately adjusts your time and space zone to its own: of course you’ll taxi queue for a half hour, and, at that hour, and stand in line at your hotel registration desk. But even in those first few minutes, you’ve seen and heard, and smelled a siren song and dance, that calls you to its streets and dens, and promises to give you the worst or the best of times. It’s clear from the beginning, that the full range is at your call … and the choice is entirely yours.
I dropped my bags and washed my face, and headed back out and onto those stones, and found in only moments, an inviting stool to watch the players and the prologue of my stay. From first to last, I knew I was on the town, the once and always my town … I was home.
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Choreographer - Justin Peck
“The Times Are Racing” The best of all was the new NY City Ballet’s dance, “The Times Are Racing”, by Justin Peck (right), an obscenely talented young choreographer (right). Performed by a cast of 20, all in unheard of sneakers (no toe work, but the most clever imitated tap dancing) - it was a high speed-athletic fest, moving from one velocity to the next. But, it’s piece de resistance, and the subject of a long featured item in the next day’s NYTimes, was the principal ... pax de deux.
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It was cast, perhaps for the first time in a classical ballet, with two men instead of the obligatory male and female. Now, every pax de deux is a mating dance - and so, this male pairing would seem all wrong for a 19th Century art form. But the times have changed, and while unexpected, the twist, caught the audience’s attention from the start. It was, as pure dance, a brilliant, show stopping experience for a crowd that’s tough to impress. And for those who didn’t know, the NYTimes revelation, that one of the dancers was Gay, and the other non-gay, triggered new reflection on the heat of their interplay, and the skill of the dancers … and, as actors too. If art, is not the repetition of old, even much loved formulas, but the creation of something new … then, this was art, as only a world class company can effectively produce!
M Butterfly, the much anticipate revival of a 1988 Broadway hit, and recently in previews, is based on a true story. It’s a complex tale of cultural clashing and idiosyncratic sexual engagement; ultimately unbelievable – unless, the players successfully convince you, that fantasy driven perception is indeed reality. Thirty years later, in this new production, they do it again. But there is more – the reality of fantasy perception, and the reality of sensory perception, both wanting to be loved by the other, is a bridge too far and ends in – well, I’ll leave it there. The talented Clive Owen plays the French diplomate, replacing the original and celebrated John Lithgrow, and a new comer, Jin Ha, now as Butterfly, reprises the role, created by the almost equally unknown at the time, B D Wong. It’s the kind of evening one expects in a NYC theater: world class actors, award winning material, inventive, and otherwise exceptional stage crafts. I left emotionally drained by the play itself, but also by the sheer greatness of the production!
For 16 years now, the most moving part of my NYC stays, has been my returns to what I’ll always remember as simply, the WTC, and what the planet once called the World Trade Center. Each visit, has been filled with both sadness at the enormity of 9/11, and wonder at the nation’s resolve and ability to quickly rebuild. There are so many stories to tell, but this time, let me just share with you, the remarkable story of the Survivor Tree (below).
For 16 years now, the most moving part of my NYC stays, has been my returns to what I’ll always remember as simply, the WTC, and what the planet once called the World Trade Center. Each visit, has been filled with both sadness at the enormity of 9/11, and wonder at the nation’s resolve and ability to quickly rebuild. There are so many stories to tell, but this time, let me just share with you, the remarkable story of the Survivor Tree (below).
After the dust began to settle on lower Manhattan, and rescue and recovery workers made their way through the rubble, they came upon a tree. Although this tree had snapped roots and burned branches, it was alive. Recovery workers, recognized the beauty of the tree’s fight for life, and it was transported to New York City’s Department of Parks and Recreation. After years of healing and rehabilitation, the tree – now known as the Survivor Tree – was returned to its original spot. Today, it stands on what has become the Memorial Plaza, as a symbol of hope and healing. The 9/11 Memorial Museum, has begun a tradition of sending seedlings from the Survivor Tree, to communities around the world that have endured violence and disaster, in hope of sharing with them the spirit of strength and resilience. And each time, there is a violent event in London, San Bernardino, Paris, Orlando, Brussels, Mumbai and elsewhere, ribbons, pictures, candles appear beneath the tree, placed spontaneously by various people in union, with those who suffer and yet hope. As great new edifices continue to be erected around it, this simple gift of nature, tells the story best, and in a way that even a child can understand … no wonder it attracts so many!
So, that’s enough for this entry. When I began to write, I thought a couple of pages would be enough for a brief overview of my trip. But as usual, I’ve run on too long. There will likely be other entries, down the line, of people, places and moments, but for now at least, it’s time to stop and give a good-night thought to those I remember from this …. and … every trip!
Jim Greer
10/24/17
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So, that’s enough for this entry. When I began to write, I thought a couple of pages would be enough for a brief overview of my trip. But as usual, I’ve run on too long. There will likely be other entries, down the line, of people, places and moments, but for now at least, it’s time to stop and give a good-night thought to those I remember from this …. and … every trip!
Jim Greer
10/24/17
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