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Coordinated by Joyce Dowling
July 23, 2000
READING:
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'
Gleams that untravell'd world, whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
by Alfred Lord Tennyson
This service topic was taken from the idea in the book by Dr. Seuss,
"Oh, The Places You'll Go!" These are the places that some of our
members went.:
CUMA, ITALY by Sheri Byrd
Corey and I have lived many wonderful places since we’ve been
married. As the saying goes, “Home is where the Air Force sends
you.” We met in college in Flagstaff, Arizona and happily explored
the many wonders of that state in our dating years. Our first home
was in beautiful Sacramento, California, followed by three
fantastical years of exploring the palaces, ruins and forests of
central Germany. We spent a couple of years in the cornfields of
Missouri, before taking a dream assignment for Corey to attend
full-time graduate school in Monterey, California for two years.
Most recently, we moved to Waldorf from three wonderful years back
in the central Germany area, but between Monterey and Germany, from
1995 to 1997, we experienced by far the most wonderful, most
terrible, most unforgettable place we have every been -- Naples,
Italy -- specifically, the Pozzuoli and Cuma areas, where we lived
for 18 months, on the north side of Naples.
Modern Naples is an endless warren of high-rises and centuries-old
apartment buildings all ready to crumble on each other the next time
Vesuvius decides to blow his top. The food, coffee and wine are
sumptuous, and the locals are friendly, even as they’re robbing you
blind. To drive anywhere is to, honestly, take life and limb in
hand. The land, sea and air are polluted to a degree nearly
unimaginable to Americans.
But historically speaking, the richness of this area is almost
beyond compare. Pompeii, the isle of Capri, and the Amalfi coast
greet tens of thousands of visitors each year on Naples’ south side.
On the less-visited north side, Pozzuoli, called Puteoli in Roman
times, was the main port for Rome for centuries. Goods and
passengers traveled by land from there to Rome, along first the Via
Appia (Appian Way), and later the Via Domitiana. Just about anyone
in the Who’s Who of Roman History traveled through that port,
walking the same paths I and all the other modern shoppers used
every day. The Pozzuoli arena, built to hold 40,000 spectators and
having three subterranean levels of storage rooms, still sits in the
middle of the town. Corey, driving on the Via Domitiana each day to
work, would drive around this 4th largest ancient Roman stadium.
EVERYWHERE, Roman walls remained standing. New homes, stores and the
Olivetti computer plant were built next to them, as their strength
against the elements often stood more firm that modern construction.
Corey’s 9 mile drive to the office also took him directly by the
ruins of baths of Diana and Jove, and the temple of Venus.
Volcanoes, active and dormant, dominate the landscape. The US Navy
base where I often shopped would spout hot springs in the parking
lots after a hard rain. Beneath the harbor in Pozzouli, bubbles
constantly rise where the magma is said to be only 150 meters below
the surface.
About 1 mile or so from our house was a pretty little lake in an
ancient volcano crater called Lago D’Averno. Avernus, in Roman
times, said to the mouth of the River Styx itself. Walls of Roman
villas line its shores, along with the modern restaurants and
hotels. On one bank of Averno is a large gaping hole, over 30 feet
in diameter. This is the mouth of a tunnel engineered by a Roman
general, which connects the lake, at one time connected to the sea,
to Cuma, about a mile away.
An article in National Geographic magazine once said that if ancient
Greece was the cradle of western civilization, Cuma was its first
step. At first a village of the indigenous southern Italians, it
became the first major Greek colony in the 7th century BCE. The
acropolis, a rocky hill towering a hundred feet or so above the town
site, housed two major temples: one to Hera and the other to Zeus.
Later, after the Romanization of the area, the temples were to the
gods Apollo and Jove (or Jupiter).
Beneath the lower temple, that of Apollo, there is a most amazing
site. A cave, carved directly into the rock, extends 427 feet into
the hillside. The tunnel is shaped in a nearly trapezoidal pattern,
with windows cut out every 30 feet or so out the western side,
creating a eery light-dark-light-dark concentric pattern through
which one must traverse to reach the end of the tunnel. At the end
of the tunnel lies the chamber that was the seat of the Cumaean
Sybil herself. A continuing line of priestesses of Apollo, the
sybils were to the emperors of Rome what the Oracle of Delphi was to
the Greeks. In fact, she is one of 12 prophets displayed on the
ceiling of Michelangelo’s famous Sistene Chapel.
It was in this cave, with the Sybil, that in Virgil’s Aenead, Aeneas
takes refuge after the fall of Troy.
After you leave the cave of the Sybil, you travel to the crest of
the acropolis on a stone road, the Sacra Via, the Sacred Way, to the
temple of Jove, now ruins grown over in laurel trees, called of
course, the Grove of Jove. This temple was converted to a Christian
basilica in the 5th century AD, and the baptismal is rumored locally
to have been used by Paul during his visit to Pozzuoli on his way to
Rome, as mentioned in the book of Acts in the New Testament.
About a mile to the east of Cuma is a high ridge, sweeping up from
nearly sea level about 600 feet and running about 2 miles north to
south. As the sun rises over this ridge, its rays touch the top of
the Cumaean acropolis before lighting the lower-lying town area. In
ancient times, the villagers would have seen it each morning
brilliantly illuminating the white, columned, temple before lighting
anything else. It was near the top of this ridge we were
unbelievably blessed to have lived for 18 months, and this view of
the sunlight on Cuma was ours every morning. At night, the sun set
over the Mediterranean, during the summer behind the island of
Ischia, yet another volcano, rising over 1500 feet straight out of
the sea. The drive to the acropolis was less than 10 minutes from
our house, and we explored its magical ruins on many a happy weekend
afternoon.
I have only touched on the history and magic which bubbles up
throughout this area, but something of its essence soaked into our
souls and changed us permanently, I think, for the better. Ciao.
A Change of Plans by Nancy Frumen
I just love to travel. The happiest times that I can recall have
been when I am traveling. I love the freedom of it, being able to go
anywhere I want to go when I want to. I love seeing new places. I
love seeing beautiful scenery -- mountains, forests, lakes, the
ocean.
One summer Den and I set out on a trip in August. Our plans were
that we would go somewhere in New England and that we would camp
out. We started out (later than I would have liked to, but that’s
another story). We did not have the radio on. On the way up, we were
listening to cassettes and talking. Somewhere in Connecticut, we had
to make a decision whether go North to the mountains or East to the
beach areas. We decided to go to Cape Cod. Den had never been there
and I wanted to go back, because I thought it was so picturesque.
When we got there we were able to find a Camp Ground. We found a
really beautiful campsite with fir trees above. The next day we
decided that we would stay there for a couple of days. It would give
us a chance to go to the beach and see the towns on the Cape. While
I was fixing breakfast, Den went up to the office to extend our
reservation. He was gone quite a long while. When he came back he
said, “Start packing up.” I asked if they didn’t have any more
campsites. He said, “No, a storm is coming.” And they have suggested
we go to a shelter that is in a school in the nearby town. Hurricane
Bob was due to hit in a few hours and we wouldn’t be able to get off
the island.
We set out for the school, found a place to “camp out” and waited
for the storm. Most of the people there were from our camp ground.
We were well protected inside the school. Hurricane Bob hit about
1:30 P. M. The wind howled and the air turned pea green outside.
When the storm had passed, we checked to see if our car was all
right, which it was. However, two very large trees outside the
school had been up-rooted. The authorities in charge called us
together and said that we would have to remain in the school over
night, because the roads were littered with tree limbs and debris
and had to be cleared. Also, there was no hope of going back to the
camp site because there was too much damage and in fact, they said
it was so bad that the camp would remain closed the rest of the
season.
So we spent the night in the school. The Red Cross fed us a cold
meal of sandwiches, chips, and soda.. It was a good thing we had
decided to go camping because that gave us an air mattress to sleep
on and some extra goodies to snack on.
We made friends with a couple near us. They were from the Boston
area and the storm had ruined their weekend. They would have to go
home the next day. They had a mini television with them and invited
us to watch it. The only problem was it could only get one station.
We watched the Miss Universe contest. Under normal conditions that
would be the last show I would watch. I did select the winner,
however.
Now what do we do? The storm had gone up the coast of New England
and it would be highly likely that Camp Sites along the coast would
be damaged. We were feeling low. One whole day of our vacation had
been ruined. We decided to drive up to Plymouth. We stopped at
Tourist Information. During that stop our attitude changed and so
did our plans. We bought Whale Watch tickets and signed up to go to
Boston for three days and stay at a downtown hotel at a very good
rate. The special included tickets to the play “Nunsense”, something
I was very interested in seeing. We spent the night in Plymouth at a
very nice Bed and Breakfast. The couple who were are hosts had
renovated this turn-of-the century house and it was beautiful. The
only problem was she had little whatnots everywhere and I was
certain I would break one of them.
Unlike the campground where the car was parked a few feet away from
our accommodations. In Boston we had to use a parking lot several
blocks away from our hotel. We didn’t want to leave our belongings
in the car, so we lugged it to the hotel. We look like a couple of
gypsies, checking into the hotel with a tent, camping gear, boxes of
food and various paraphernalia.
Needless to say our trip to Boston was a treat. We walked all over
the historic district, went to the Boston Museum of Fine Arts,
Christian Scientist Publishing Society, where we walked inside a
gigantic globe of the world. We also saw one of the first
Unititarian Churches founded in this country. We had a beautiful
time.
The highlight of the trip was the Whale Watch. We went on a boat out
to their feeding ground. What a sight! It will be something I will
never forget, those huge mammals breaching the water, what a truly
beautiful experience.
So we had a change of plans. But, it turned out to be the one of our
best trips, because we didn’t let it get us down and took positive
steps forward. I am more of a pessimist than an optimist. But, this
trip taught me that no matter how bad things get there is a way to
rise above it.
I am reminded of a quote by Reginald B. Mansell,
“A pessimist is one who makes difficulties of his opportunities,
An optimist is one who makes opportunities of his difficulties.”
Reginald B. Mansell
We were thinking about becoming professional Hurricane chasers, but
decided that takes to much careful planning. Better to drop in on
one now and then.
IN MY OWN BACKYARD by Den Frumen
As a child, I dreamed of traveling to lots of exotic places. As an
adult, I’ve partly fulfilled that dream, having seen many
interesting and beautiful sites in the U.S., Canada, Europe and
Latin America. Often, however, I find the most inspiration right in
my own backyard.
When I was a child in Western Pennsylvania, my backyard was our five
acres plus Mr. Lipinski’s 100-acre dairy farm to which our acreage
originally belonged. In my mind, all this land was divided into
sections, according to landscape or habitat.
The stream, or ‘crick’ as we called it, with its frogs and minnows,
was really Wallace Run for which our road was named. You had to duck
under the barbed-wire fence to get there since the ‘crick’ meandered
beneath the willow trees on one side of the cow pasture.
The open pasture was a separate zone. I tended to avoid it, due to
all the cow pies, not to mention the bull. I was convinced the bull
would chase me if he saw me, just like bulls did on TV. From our
screened-in side porch, we could see most of the pasture, with the
barn and farmhouse on the horizon.
‘Salamander Valley,’ as I think of it now, was one of the most
remote parts of my ‘backyard.’ It lay beyond the hillside apple
orchard, too far away to hear my mother call me for lunch or dinner.
This little valley contained a stand of tall trees and a small
stream, a tributary of Wallace Run, with lots of rocks and leaves
where salamanders and crayfish liked to hide. Up the hill on one
side was where my grandfather and I used to gather walnuts. In the
Fall, the steep hill, covered with several inches of dry leaves, was
better than any man-made slide.
All of these areas were on Mr. Lipinski’s land. Our house sat near
the edge of our property on that side. I guess the idea was that we
would eventually buy the field between us and the cow pasture. On
the other side of the house, our property extended about 100 yards.
This zone was less interesting to me. It was mostly grassy, with a
few small trees we had planted. The gravel driveway wound up the
hill on that side of the house. Above the driveway stood a wood pile
and a stack of bricks and concrete blocks, left over from the house,
I suppose.
The back and one side of the house were at the bottom of a little
hill, created when the house was built. There was a shallow drainage
ditch a few yards from the house. This was where I often did a
little re-landscaping and played with my miniature cowboys and
Indians. The flat area, with ascending hill behind, was also the
scene of many a one-man baseball game, using a hard rubber baseball
and the roof and brick wall of the house. I only broke two windows,
which wasn’t bad, considering the thousands of throws I made. Years
later, as an adult, I would relive those days, in a different
backyard, with a dog who became very skilled at catching tennis
balls off the brick wall and roof.
At the top of the hill, beyond my homemade ballpark, my two sisters
and I had our swing set. The doghouse was in that area, too. Here
the ground sloped slightly upward. There was another larger drainage
ditch, then a field that my father cut only a couple of times a
year. When the grass was real high, we used to make elaborate paths,
like we did in Winter when there was deep snow.
Beyond and to the right of that field was the garden. In Summer, my
grandfather and I (mostly Grandpa) tended to as many as 100 tomato
plants, several rows of corn, plus pumpkins, peas, beans, cucumbers,
cabbage, etc. In Winter and Spring, the garden was often a mud zone.
The only permanent parts were the berry patch in front and the two
rows of fruit trees that marked the back boundary of our five acres.
There were no large trees or fences on our property. The panorama
included fields and forests, but only three houses, plus the barn.
From the back porch, the hay field above the garden formed an
ocean-like horizon.
When I was thirteen, we moved into town, to my grandparents’ house.
The backyard was a tiny square. Thank goodness for plastic whiffle
balls which I could safely hit over the garage roof into the alley
behind.
My backyard now is just a fraction of an acre, but fairly large by
suburban standards. I’ve planted lots of trees and shrubs, flowers
and herbs. Many more have planted themselves. I have a small
vegetable garden. All of this makes the yard seem bigger. Rabbits
and squirrels, birds and insects and the occasional reptile or
amphibian make it their home. My dogs explore their jagged
perimeter. In my mind, I divide the backyard into sections. Each
contains a little different slice of the miracle of life. I savor
each one.
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