The Maries

Almost-All Family Reunion 2009

2010-03-13T14:56:00.004-05:00

Ruminations on being 70

2010-03-13T14:28:00.002-05:00

OK, so about a year ago I vented about computers. I'll never be a geek, although I did manage to get around that particular problem.

Now, from the ridiculous to the sublime. This time, two days after my 60th birthday -- which means I'm 70, I realized with a shock) -- I'm posting some of the Big Thoughts/Questions I've been having. Some have rattled my fevered brain for a very long time and likely will never be answered. But I'm posting them to invite comment because I am always enriched by others' perspective! (Well, almost always; I'm not always the most receptive listener.)

I first wrote this (and some more) to Barbara Crafton, an Episcopal priests whose "Almost Daily eMos" I signed up for. They're wonderful -- she's a talented writer with a perceptive eye/mind and that rarest (I think, anyway) of gifts -- the ability to pragmatically discuss the concepts of "religion." The most recent email discussed time - wow, what timing, for me! - and prompted me to send off a long, rambling response to her. I hope she doesn't drop me from the eMo list!

But, here's the gist of the message. All input welcome!

--
In the innocence of my childhood and beyond, I have experienced the malleability of time. The first was a dream I had one night about a girl I didn't know, but then saw the next day at the local pool. When I told my mom about it, she said not a word, which surprised me; a devout Catholic, I expected her to warn me it was the devil -- but it was so extraordinary that I couldn't let it pass unmentioned. It was only later that I found out her mother was the Tarot reader for the Swiss village in which she grew up and mom, in her own Catholic way, likely had and ignored that talent herself. So, I accepted that time is a human invention and never paid much attention to it (often to my rue, when it came to my career.)

Similarly, coming to the conclusion as a recovering Catholic that I rather agreed with Marx's opinion of "religion" as an opiate and method of control, I concluded instead that we are all bits of an incomprehensible energy stream that we call "God." That allowed me to be spiritually attuned without being continuously enraged by the sheer stupidity of institutional "religions." It also married well with the logic of reincarnation -- and made me feel less guilty about not living up to my karmic potential when I recalled the alleged calculation by the Buddha that he had 1500 more lifetimes to go. (Might be a myth, but I've clung to it!)

But when our two daughters arrived, I again became confused about the relative benefits and drawbacks of churches. While on the one hand, I acknowledged the benefits, including: 1) a feeling of connectedness and community; 2) 'religion' is just about the only way the right side of the brain gets any attention at all in our society, except perhaps for the arts; and somehow, miraculously, it does open the door to those occasional marvelous mystical moments you mentioned, and 3) it provides the social authority to support the ethical lessons taught children. On the other hand, institutionalized religion involves so much political junk, so insulting to the brain we were born with that gives us the conscious glimpse of those mystical moments -- that I/we just could never find a sufficiently balanced church.

So, like Tevya, we concluded there was no other hand, and no church for our girls. But then again, they are growing up to be wonderful human beings with really good hearts, so I am satisfied, if a little sad that they likely have not yet been helped to have that glimpse of eternity that I don't know how to guide them to.

So -- eternity, bringing me to my point (about which by now I'm guessing you've been wondering). It's only been now, realizing I'm in "my last third," that my teenaged questions of "why am I here?" have returned -- along with chagrin that it's taken me this long to seriously pose the question. It's so easy to just drift through life. I'm unsure of the answer. It involves responsibility to myself (my therapist wished me a happy 60th and told me it was about time to have the childhood I never really had); to "God," to develop the talents I was ''given" (think I've done that to a respectable degree) and to use them to benefit the world (well, maybe some of that); to my very nontraditional family members, all of whom we all share lessons; and then, to those I'll never meet but whose spheres the ripples of my existence reach.

So, it's taken me this long of chewing on my thoughts to guess I don't have a point. Rather, I have more questions. Dang!

Is the point to live consciously, all the time (is that possible?); or is it to just notice the lessons as they come along (from where and why?) and try to respond well to them -- i.e., being more God-like, more in tune with that cosmic current? Is the single benefit of "time" to remind us that there's a perceived limit to that concept and nudge us along? Is our brain really a tool to detect one part of that incredible (truest sense of the word) stream, or is it more of a limiting factor (the Catholic church's traditional premise before Bibles were printed and, I suspect, still current.) Are we are better off to disengage it to "feel the spirit" -- i.e., charismaticism and fundamentalism? (Oh, dear, don't get me started on the "f" word!) I just can't/never have been able to accept that. Is there any way to really use our corpus callosum to link our emotional and intellectual aspects, and isn't that really the wholeness and power that our limited perception envisions as "God?" Isn't that ... uh, evolution? ... and is "heaven" getting past Buddha's 1500, and to what?

Do you believe that, reader? And if so, why do Christians keep talking about Jesus so much instead of what he represented/conveyed? I have to admit, it’s just a struggle for me to resist eye rolls when I hear someone talk about “my Savior.” A young California ‘guru’ named Patricia Sun once said, it's like having a profound mystical experience while sitting on a rock in the woods and being asked upon return "What rock? By what tree?" Why do churches still focus more on the (Single, One, True, but different people) Messenger than the message?

(In our search for churches I once found a gay/lesbian church with two women ministers. Bonanza! I should've felt so comfortable, but complained when I got home about how they just kept talking about Jesus this and Jesus that. My partner just stared at me before commenting, "Uh, honey, it is a Christian church." Guess I should've gotten the message from their name, "Christ Covenant," huh?)

Have to admit, there are times I'm not the sharpest tack in the box.

Still a typewriter, after all these years.

2009-02-28T16:24:00.002-05:00

OK, OK, I've thrown myself into the techno whirled and I try to keep up as possible. But despite an incredibly red cardinal outside urging me to "cheer, cheer" I admit to being a bit churlish at the moment. It appears the two photo albums I posted at the link below have ... well, vanished. I mean, first the page said I had to ask myself permission to get it. I did (thankfully I was in a good mood and granted me permission) but that went downhill when I got there to find ... nothing.

Nada.

Rien.

Aaarrrrrggghhh!

Plus the desktop downstairs (the girls') needed new antivirus software, so I spent $100 to reload Norton, which promptly screwed up everything. Everything on the desktop and page is HUGE and I can't get it back to size no matter what I tinker with under Control Panel. Even after replacing Norton with another program. And forget Restore -- it's forgotten everything, apparently, prior to this event.

And the new plug-in modem for my laptop blazes away, but the computer still can't find the network that's right next to it.

Long lament -- sorry, reader -- to let you know I'll try to find the pix and upon my (dubious) success, will post the new link. Or gee, maybe I could post 'em all here. Wow, what a concept!

Where's my typewriter??

Xmas pix ... more to come ... New Year's

2009-01-02T00:59:00.004-05:00

Some of our pix (taken by Marie J) of our NJ/NYC adventures are posted now at http://johansonmurray.spaces.live.com/. Hopefully we'll get some from Unkie (aka Santa Larry) to add. Now, if I could just figure out how to get all the ones off my phone ....

Happy New Year, everybody! We spent it at home, quietly, with friend Glenda taking a break from nursing duties at her virally-challenged-but-recovering home. Spent hours warmed by the fire (not that it was that cold) taking a fun trip down 30 years of memory lane, then went outside to holler my greetings to the world and lucked out on some neighbors' really terrific fireworks.

Previously, driving to the store to get a baguette to go with our crab cake salad dinner (with one at home unbeknownst to vertically-challenged me, of course, on top of the fridge -- where I'd put it the day before), I spotted another friend on the road, absorbed in her own thoughts. Made me wonder how many times people glanced over at me behind the wheel and wondered at my own cranky middle aged face?

Interesting to think of how other people see me in my unguarded moments. Shucks, I'm still getting used to my face, too, still expecting a 30- or 40-year old babe to gaze back from the mirror!

But I really do need to project a little less cantankerousness, eh? Perhaps I'll just practice my new meditation OM behind the wheel: O[ba]MMMMMMMMM[aaaaaa]. Ah, that's the ticket. Who'd'a thunk politics could be peaceful?

As Tiny Tim said, "God bless us all, every one." All the best for 2009. It promises to be a rough ride, but we can do it. Yes, we can!

An Extra Special Christmas

2008-12-24T20:45:00.005-05:00

So, here it is, Christmas Eve, the night before what's supposed to be la piece de resistance, the Big Day. But we've already had a succession of Big Days!

It began 12/12, when we flew to NJ to attend sister-in-law Eleanor's (Sister Eleanor Francis) ordination as an Episcopalian priest. The ordination in the convent chapel, attended by >100 friends, family, sisters and fellow prelates, was simply wonderful -- warm, affirming (how my eyebrows did raise when the Bishop invoked the matriarchs and patriarchs), with beautiful music, vocal and instrumental. The exquisite Kyrie simply made me cry.

Second to that was the opportunity to spend some time in the convent with the sisters, getting to know a whole passel of new sisters! What an interesting, engaging lot they are, and they made us all feel so welcome. (I should explain "we" -- us'n's, plus Mom Martha and sister Bonnie from California.)

Next, we trained down to NYC for a family sojourn in Manhattan. We (this time, the nuclear "we") rented an apartment in the upper 90's, just off Park Avenue. It was warm, cozy, and quiet, being off the busy streets, with the wonderful copper cupolas of a Russian Orthodox cathedral as its view (along with a few penthouse gardens). Wonder of wonders, the weather -- sweater fine the first day -- blessed us with a snow flurry the next, and then two days later, enough for snowball fights and a winter wonderland walk in Central Park.

What a wonderful time! With my brother Larry (aka "Santa") in full host-mode, we saw Radio City's holiday show, complete with high-kicking Rockettes (and a Santa, whose bad joke sophisticated 13 year-old Remy just had to comment on a bit too loudly; i.e., "You suck!" -- Let me just die and ooze away under the rows of seats, please .... ). Sadly, Mommy Marie was felled by the flu that very day, missing the show -- but there was the DVD to compensate.

The next day, we visited the United Nations -- wonderful! -- and that night, Santa Larry scored four fabulous tickets to "Wicked." Poor Marie - again, too low to go after a day out, so he saw it (for the third time) with us. I went back the following day and got two more primo seats, and Marie and I went together that night (while Santa and girls saw "Bolt").

Of course, we had to visit Chinatown (twice) and venture just far enough into little Italy for a cannoli. Chinatown's fish market lured me with beautiful, perfectly fresh sea scallops for only $7/lb -- half of Atlanta's price -- so we feasted on that our last night in NYC with Santa Larry, celebrating his 37th wedding anniversary at the same time. Sadly, his bride was still in the Philippines, reclaiming her family's lands. We were a poor substitute, but hey! A party is a party! I will post some of the pix we took in NY on johansonmurray.spaces.live.com.

Back home to warm temperatures and our most majestic tree ever, looking forward to celebrating the season with our friends.

May you and yours be as blessed as we are in this season.

Our Greece pictures link

2008-12-23T15:10:00.002-05:00

.. and maybe other pix in future? Who knows -- I just finally figured out that I had to assign a Web address in order to make them accessible so, given my clearly advanced degree of technocratic talent ....

Anyway, enjoy! You'll want to go too!

http://johansonmurray.spaces.live.com/default.aspx

How time do fly.

2008-12-06T12:18:00.010-05:00

Good lord, hard to believe it's been almost a year. Maybe I'll eventually get into this blogging thing -- especially if I can ever get photos downloaded from my digital camera. (Pathetic, I know.)

And whadda year.

The last year, praise the lord, of the proof of HL Mencken's 1920 prediction: "On some great and glorious day the plain folks of the land will reach their heart's desire at last, and the White House will be adorned by a downright moron."

The year my impeccably badly-timed decision to flip investment houses in '06-'07 came home to roost financially. But also the year my wise and accomplished darling accepted an invitation to speak at a conference in Athens, Greece and took me along (pix at MSN PhotoShare but my links aren't working -- will insert later).

The year of our girls blossoming into adolescence while retaining such girlhood habits as, as Leonard Pitts put it so aptly,"that landfill down the hall you call a bedroom." Wow, what a trip to see their adult-ish selves peeking out now and then. Can't imagine life without the fun and fatigue of their outrageous presence.

The year of Obama. Yes, I did support Hillary. I thought Obama should take a term or two as VP learning on the job exactly what he would face to "change" the system. Then I thought Hillary should be VP because she'd be a good Prez and because I fear so desperately for his safety. (I want him in the White House or in a Prezmobile, permanently, for the next 8 years.)

But I am absolutely awed at the immense tide of populism (its grass-roots meaning) that swept him into office. I was stunned at the world-wide outpouring of joy at his election. Never seen anything like it; don't think anything like it ever happened. It makes me happy to have a leader in place with such intelligence, let alone such trans-national appeal. He literally is the physical embodiment of the American ideal, a biracial Horatio Alger (boy, doesn't that reference date me).

And that's what worries me, aside from his safety from crazies. So much is riding on his success, so many people world-wide have a stake in it. As Barbara Crofton wisely said one of her "Almost Daily eMo" emails(http://www.geraniumfarm.org/):

"Calm down. The New Testament figure of the bridegroom is Christ. It's not our president-elect.

"Still, even those who did not support Barack Obama recognize what this week's election says about how far our society has come, and the people who supported him are giddy with happiness. Everything is possible now, it seems. Change has come.

"But change doesn't really come overnight. The first-century world was not visibly different the day after the resurrection from what it had been the day before. It was the same hard place it had always been. The Way opened gradually, as way always opens: one person at a time. One heart at a time. A series of small decisions for the good, made by many people many times over. They add up."

The difference now is, having a leader to actually encourage that kind of transformation.

So, we live in hope -- hope that landfills will become neat rooms; hope that our daughters' good hearts and good minds will support them through a life full of challenges; hope that, one step at a time (and please God, a quantum leap or two) the world really will become a better place ... just in the nick of time.

A happy holiday season and wonderful New Year to you all.

Our Nirvanas

2007-12-15T12:43:00.014-05:00

12/18/07

Home in Candler Park

Mid-December, and I am sitting in my loft office, looking out at the bare wysteria vines draping the scavenged bamboo "beams" over our back deck. (That's it in spring bloom up there.)

Miracle of miracles, it's raining! Hallelujah! Our state is in a terrible drought, and rain is pure pleasure to see. Even moreso is looking out at a pair of thrashers (the state bird), flashing vivid black and white wings as they fluff and bathe in this unaccustomed shower. A cardinal hen preceded them, possibly the one who's been fighting with herself in the old cracked mirror, painted "Welcome" by the girls, hanging on the back fence. And what a holiday tableau, two vividly crimson males, similarly washing against the green backdrop of the 15' tall anise bush in the side yard! Smart birds they are, joined by the thrashers, rustling the leaves to get yet more water on their feathers.

I recall my parents' delight in birds as they aged, particularly one's little call that sounded like someone's shy whistle: tweeeet, tweet-tweet-tweet, tweet-tweet-tweet. I don't know what bird it is, but I hear it also now, and am similarly charmed by its small, sweet refrain. I've come to appreciate the rough cawing of crows, since learning that they were the first brought low by the avian virus in the U.S. I missed hearing them, and welcome it now. The evening chirp of the robin, the strident call of the bluejay, the sunset flight of flocks of birds, the aerial acrobatics of chimney swifts and those lovely bats eating those mosquitoes -- all these link my present life to my past. I like it. I wish we as a species were more tied into the natural cycle of life and less into our own navel-gazing. Just seems like that would greatly clarify what is real, important, in life.

I also recall my mother growing ever more quiet with age, and notice the same happening with me. The restless young love action and noise; the elders, peace. Good God, I'm an elder now.

I remember particularly wishing to know, as Mom was dieing, what was going through her mind. I never asked, a missed opportunity; but I guess we all find that out eventually for ourselves.

In a way, I can't wait to see what's beyond. I imagine it will be a merging of me, one little radio wave, into an incomprehensible stream of energy, which is reflected in microcosm on this earth and this life. Wow! On the other hand, I recall visiting a dying friend who was on a ventilator, and being shocked at my first consciousness of breath. Of course we breathe, the heart beats, the whole autonomic system does its thing with us totally unaware. I can also imagine that feeling this slow down to stopping will make me feel pretty panicky. It's hard to let go of the only thing you know, even if you're pretty sure there's something better beyond.

Rumination. Maybe all of this comes with age. Knew there had to be something good about it, to balance the aches and pains!

And --- uh, would this ramble qualify as navel-gazing?? ;<)

Home at the Lake

Yep, that's the view from the dock above. Definition of our nirvanas is incomplete without mentioning our teeny-tiny 700 S.F. cabin on Lake Burton. It sits on a steep, largely unusable lot bordered by a (small, TG) power line, but it has a big mama deck, vaulted ceilings and a ceiling-to-floor stone fireplace you could roast a pig in. And most important, it as ~21' of waterfront and a swim dock, more valuable by far than the cabin and its lot.

It's got a great story, too. We bought the cabin from a widow, Mrs. T, whose husband was friends with a neighbor with a considerable lake frontage. One day, Mr. H declared to Mr. T, "I sure do wish I had a swing down by the water there," upon which Mr. T offered not only to build it, but to maintain it and care for the waterfront area in perpetuity ... in exchange for a small piece for a dock. The deal was struck and the land conveyed in fee-simple ownership, for $1, and he did keep it up until he died. You wouldn't believe what that ~20' rectangle is worth today.

But turns out, that wasn't the end of it; that deal led to the Hex.

Mr. W, Mr. T's neighbor, had proposed jointly building a boat house at the end of the cove on what was (at the time) common waterfront access for the planned but never-built subdivision. "Next thing I know," he said to me in fresh outrage a couple of years before his own death, "W's building a dock on his own that he got from H!" Mr. W never gave up hope for access, without which his cabin was worth far less... and he had an ace in the hole. T's driveway was on W's lot, but the cabin occupants were always allowed to use it. When we bought it from Mrs. T, Mr. W offered to sell the driveway to us ... but when his (wicked) children heard about it, they prevailed on him to hold out for a trade of partial dock title for the drive. We wouldn't budge; neither did he. Someone else bought his old place ... someone I had told the story to, blabbermouth that I am, bewailing that I could no longer find Mr. W to re-negotiate a sale. Hence, the Hex. Guess who's holding out for a dock share now?

Ah, live and learn. We're just not meant to have perfection in this life!

9/11 Remembrance - for us all and one in particular

2007-09-11T13:54:00.001-04:00

Today, a national day of remembrance, is also of particular meaning to me. Today I also mourn the death of a significant friend, Joan Morrissey, last night to inflammatory breast cancer (IBC). I feel the same physical sensation of numbing sadness as I did after the attacks of 9/11, even without the shock. Knowing someone I care about is going to pass on, transition to whatever the next stage is, does not seem to lessen the impact of that loss for me. But I have felt it to this depth only a few times in my life, and knowing that I will feel it more frequently as I look ahead is not comforting.

Being a person disbelieving in coincidence and often vaguely aware of the web of life in which I am, I find myself pondering the juxtaposition of our national tragedy and this small, personal tragedy to one family in Amherst, NY. The loss of thousands of lives on a glorious early fall morning; the loss of a nation's complacent innocence. The terrible loss to a husband of his life companion; that to two small girls, of a mother; and to an astonishly many others, the loss of a friend. Ineffable sadness, in all cases.

I didn't know Joan as well as some others. We worked briefly together, but in that short time we shared an amazing car ride through a driving rainstorm from Savannah to Atlanta. As she drove, white-knuckled on the steering wheel, Joan and I were suspended in time and place, sharing our experiences and ourselves. It was the kind of intense attention and communication that seems to happen so rarely in a life, and I never forgot it -- or her. So, when the notice came from caringbridge.org that Joan had a blog, I followed up on every announcement that she had posted, and posted back. Caringbridge is a website on which ill patients, their families and friends can post to allow 24/7 communication back and forth. It's a great organization.

It was typical of Joan, amazing woman that she was, that she posted it all, including pictures. I've had friends who died in hospital who stopped receiving visitors because they no longer looked healthy. Not Joan! She not only allowed her army of friends to learn about the realities of IBC and cancer on a very individual level, she posted it on the Web!, no matter how unflatteringly it was reflected on her self. She let us support her, even from a distance. The lessons we all learned from her about courage against all odds, and her persistence in staying for her family until they told her she could go, are indelible. From my mother's death, the first to sucker-punch me with grief, I learned how to die with sheer dignity. From Joan, I learned how to fight it both voraciously and with humor.

In the web of life, Joan made an indelible impression. She was a woman of power, actually, cloaked in a quiet intelligence, passion, and wonderful wit. I hope I am remembered and mourned by even a fraction of those now mourning Joan's passage. She was one of a kind.

JOHANSON-MURRAY

2007-08-23T22:39:00.000-04:00

Hello, y'all and greetings from Atlanta, Georgia, USA.

This is the site of the Maries, AKA Marie Josette and Marie Anne, more commonly known as the Maries.

In fact, this is the site of a minor miracle, the initiation of a mid-20th-century babe-uh to 21st century speed. I think I have whiplash already.

This is also the product of Josette's nephew's inspiration, that child of the Microsoft age, that person for whom, if she only knew him better, our daughter Remy would leave immediately to set up camp in Seattle with her 'way cooler kin.

I.e., Mike, and his similarly 'way cool spouse, Susan. And, I have little doubt, son Malcolm as well, whose 'pute skill are probably superior to mine.

Nonetheless! We soldier onward.

May I introduce our two girls?

This is Remy, age 12 on 6/4/07.

Oops, sorry, no -- that's more like her avatar ... and her main passion these days (drawing manga characters), a hobby only recently superceded by creating music videos on our computer. I'm sure there's a proper term for that, but.... I don't remember. Not my thing!

Here's the real girl. And yes, those are blood red streaks in her hair and yes, she's learning the electric guitar, and oh yes, she's really into tween vampire novels these days.

She's a passionate (even beyond being a tween), bright, funny, gal, entranced with all things anime and virtual world, a rapid and absorbed reader and a fearsome soccer player. Whatever she becomes in future, she'll be a force to be reckoned with.

And here's her sister Martika, AKA Tika, who was 10 on 4/15/07, with her friend Sarah. I'll post a clearer pic soon (pity the better one is of her back!). What's neat about these pix is when they were taken -- at summer's onset, just before Tika had about a foot of her looooooonnnng hair cut for the Locks of Love program, which makes wigs for kids with cancer.

Tika is an artist, already maker of many bead and crystal earrings and necklaces, and an animal lover. We used to call her our future GA Tech kid (she's always been able to figure out anything mechanical), but we also could see her as a terrific vet in future.

And of course, I must add our quadraped children, all "Society" dogs (as in, Humane):

First there came Jack, a flat-haired retriever/cocker All-American, weighing in at about 42 pounds. He's a big, thumping heart on four paws.

And in this corner!

Darla, our all-terrier-plus All American, weighing in at about 38 pounds of sheer bossiness.

And finally, our newest, Tika's own personal dog, Twinkie: Jack Russell/Chihuahua (JackChi, in the current abbreviatory parlance). Ten pounds soaking wet and well on his way after just 3 weeks here to being the world's most spoiled dog.

After a lifetime of trying to be a lap dog, one paw up at a time, poor Jack just cannot understand why this new little pipsqueak's paws barely ever touch the floor.

Please don't ask me about the fish, indoor and out-. But when I post again, I surely must add a photo of Siyhra, Remy's beloved (and surely the world's oldest) Chinese dwarf hamster.

"Home" is a vintage-1917 Craftsman with great character, but nary a right angle or level floor. However, it does have big windows and 10' ceilings, hardwood floors, two working fireplaces and two >100-year old white oaks shading the front door. It's sited in Candler Park, in intown Atlanta. For the uninitiated, I must explain: in Atlanta, the land of have-a-car or die (run over by one or from isolation and boredom), our 'hood is in walking distance of just about all you'd desire: post office, restaurants, theater, funky shops, park, tennis, public pool, and bike trails. And lately, even a shopping center with big box stores to complement the quirky little shops in our Little Five Points commercial district. This is the home of fluorescently dyed hair, piercing parlors, the Junkman's Daughter (a General Store that would surely make the Victorians blush -- and surreptitiously buy), a dozen small eateries of all kinds, several bars ... and destination of suburban kids to be cool for a day.

Perhaps best of all, Candler Park still has few McMansions. It still graced with old, well-kept or remodeled homes resting close by the street, most with porches or at least stoops to allow hospitable greetings from house to sidewalk. Behind the houses across the street from us, there's a field in the center of that block, still mowed by kind neighbors even though their kids have grown and moved on. (We really have to do something about changing the guard.) Surrounded by neighbors, it's a grassy expanse welcoming to dogs and kids, even to the rope swing hanging from a high branch. And, amazing to me in such an metropolitan setting, it meets a dirt road, which borders still a few more houses surrounding a sizable hand-dug pond. Originally built for food fish by the thrifty neighbors, it now hosts water plants, a few goldfish and gazillions of tadpoles. The latter are regularly carted off by kids to their undoubtedly appreciative parents, to be living science lessons as they shed their tails and sprout legs. The bullfrogs left behind bellow their presence on warm nights until they burrow in the mud for the winter... and their diaspora'd kin bellow singly or in pairs elsewhere in the area.

Our trees are our greatest treasure, aged, seemingly skyscraper tall, graceful... and an absolute blessing in the summer heat. Atlanta is a heat island, sadly, due to all the clearing done for construction as the city sprawled outward (and now, due to traffic, moves back inward). But it's on the hot summer days that the trees' value beyond beauty is crystal clear -- by several very perceptible degrees from sun to shade. The merest sighing of the leaves lifts heads for the expected breeze, with gratitude even for the slightest zephyr. It's hard to imagine living here in the days of long gowns and tight cravats.

Finally, there's the Freedom Park Path bike and walk trail, which in this immediate area proceeds from the Carter Center (home office of our homegrown national treasure, Jimmy Carter) to Ponce de Leon Avenue. It is several hundred acres (I'd guess) of a beautiful swath of grass with a central path meandering through. The path is far enough from traffic for dogs to run free (absent animal control), open enough to allow for kite flying (a bonus in this cityin the trees), and obvious enough to be a marker for jets coming in to the airport. Its origin also is a classic Candler Park neighborhood story.

In the 1980s, the path acreage was a kudzu-covered wasteland, after the homes thereon were demolished to make way for an east-west expressway. The state DOT planners saw the writing on the wall as the population pushed outward from the city center. Traffic on the east-west Interstate 20 was multiplying, as was that on Ponce de Leon Avenue, a thoroughfare that headed northeast in the general direction of Stone Mountain. The DOT concluded that another highway was needed to relieve the impending traffic, and proceeded with the inexorable bureaucratic process to make that happen.

(Well, they were right in one regard. Ponce is a parking lot between red lights at some points of the rush hours, but still manages to pour vehicles and people into and out of the city without too much anguish..

But what DOT had not counted on was the ex-hippy (or not ex-) population of Candler Park, who strongly objected to having their neighborhood sliced in two, stranding them between two expressways. These renegades banded together in an ad-hoc group called Roadbusters, and set out to do battle with a well-funded and politically connected DOT unused to any opposition from any quarter.

The battle in the 1980s is the stuff of legends. People driving into town saw the Roadbusters demonstrators walking in the beautiful parkland parallel to the Ponce corridor, designed by Olmstead and flanked by old mansions. Even in pouring rain, there they were, carrying signs inviting supporters to honk. So successful were they, in fact, that even supportive neighbors begged them for another sign of support, after which the signs asked for waves. They got waves aplenty.

Undeterred by this motley brigade, DOT proceeded. They plowed up the kudzu and cleared the strip of land, leaving their tractors behind at night. Similarly undeterred, the Roadbusters went out at night with shovels and wheelbarrows and moved as much of the dirt back into the roadway as they could overnight, to the dismay of supervisors and workers arriving the next morning.

The DOT poured the concrete footings and began building an overpass above the park next to the neighborhood tennis courts. By this time, Roadbusters had assembled a pro bono legal team under the name of Citizens Against Unwanted Thoroughfares in Old Neighborhoods (CAUTION), to help them press their cause in the courts. As the story goes, the legal eagles uncovered an old city ordinance making it illegal to cut down or remove a dogwood tree. Overnight, the footings were surrounded by hundreds of dogwood seedlings, which could not be legally removed without official relief. That held up construction some more.

The guerilla war continued thusly for quite some time (as I recall, a few years). Every time it seemed that the 'hood would be defeated and paradise would be paved over, something fortuitous would happen to save the day. Ultimately, perhaps exhausted by the bad publicity, ruined schedules and likely, cost overruns, the DOT gave up. Along came a white knight, the nonprofit Path Foundation, which pledged to landscape and maintain the acreage ... and has to this day.

So, this is home. It's has been gentrified, to the dismay of some despite soaring property values (even in the current buyers market), but it's still a singular, quirky, hospitable-to-the-eccentric part of Atlanta -- our own little Berkeley or Soho, perhaps.

It's home. Ain't it grand!