"Eight Minutes of Selfishness"

This past Sunday, I had the opportunity to bring the sermon at the 8:30 and 11:00 services at Sydenstricker UMC, and someone was foolish enough to record them.  Here's the file of how it came across at the 8:30 service; after the scripture, I sound a little faint for a couple of minutes because I'm walking around the congregation with a bent and twisted little brass plate to show them, but the bulk of it is loud enough. Let me know what you think.

Childhood Sites Revisited, Part II

Last week, on business, I found myself in El Paso, Texas, for the first time in 36 years, since we left it in a dusty June heading back to Vermont the long way (via NM, AZ, CA, OR, WA, ID, MT, WY, SD, etc...) at the end of third grade.  I surveyed the city on the approach to the airport, not recognizing it at all--appropriate, I suppose, for the intervening three-plus decades had to have some beneficial effect.

After business was done for the day, I headed out of the hotel and drove east on Montana several blocks until I came to Yarbrough Drive, and turned right.  The strip malls and gas stations of Montana gradually gave way to more residential neighborhoods, with the occasional mini-mart on the corner, until I got to the 2800 block and the Camino Real apartments.

Turning in, I recognized immediately the pool and community center in the middle of the complex; I remember many days spent there.  Clockwise around that structure, I passed a set of apartments before spying my old building in the corner.

I could still make out the last bedroom at the far end of the first floor, which had been mine; however, what stuck me the most was the fact that trees had gotten in the way in the meantime.  I remember a lighter-colored place; I remember the grass being continually brown, and certainly no trees.  And perhaps it was the late afternoon sun playing tricks, but I thought I remembered it a much more light tan exterior.

Not having a lot of time, I didn't get out to walk around, but instead proceeded to the rest of the complex, and then drove to East Point Elementary, where I had spent third grade with Miss Escobar's class 3-4 so long ago.  Coming upon it two blocks away from the apartments, I was struck by how close it was; 36 years ago the walk seemed so much longer.  However, much looked familiar: the curved outside of the building facing the playground, and the baseball diamond in the far corner were both familiar.  I stood at the corner that once had been the gate I walked out each afternoon (now it's closed off) and where Jacqueline Glass' maid used to wait to walk her home.  I wonder whatever happened to Jacqueline....  I did notice that the playground and the swing set where we used to play at recess had been moved; also that the playground now had an extensive canopy over it to protect from the harsh Texas sun.  No such canopy when I was there, I can tell you that.

The final stop was the East Point Park nearby, which in the mid-70s featured a playground with a jungle gym shaped like a rocket ship.  I loved that jungle gym and would play at it any time I had a chance.  However, the intervening years have done much to the park, which is now headed by a large rec center and covered in Little League and soccer fields.  The only playground I saw was far too new to have what doubtless was a rusty old jungle gym on it anymore.

While certain vistas brought back memories (the playgrounds at school, the pool, and the exterior of the apartment), so much time had passed that much of it had lost its immediacy and the strength of memory had gone.  Additionally, I was somewhat surprised by another thing missing: I had expected to have felt strong emotions about my Dad at these sites, especially the apartments, but that was not the case.  While the whole purpose of our being in El Paso those many years ago was for his assignment, somehow it didn't bring to mind the swell of Dad memories I had expected.  It's said that "you can't go home again," and at least in this instance I would agree, since these old sites didn't have the pull of "home" to me anymore.  I'm glad to have had the chance to see them again, but I'm also glad I didn't invest in a plane ticket there myself, as I think it would have been a waste.  Instead, I turned the car back north on Yabrough, and west on Montana, and finished out my business in El Paso without scarcely thinking of it again.

Childhood Sites Revisited, Part I

While in Easton for my great-aunt’s funeral in late May, I took advantage of the visit to go around to see old haunts.  It confirmed my view of Easton as a slightly desperate place that’s still not yet recovered from the 1980s, with signs of some life and hope.

On driving into Wilson Boro on Northampton Street, I was surprised to see the bank at 22d Street, long a fixture of this main street through town, had been shuttered; its sign broken out, and its yard littered with weeds.  The Shell station across the street likewise was shuttered, and many of the other homes and businesses along Northampton seemed untouched, unimproved, in the last thirty years.

Driving up the hill of 18^th Street, which seemed so much less steep than it did when I was younger, I was pleased to see the hair salon and the Broken Spoke bike shop were still there.  Parking at the corner of 18th and Fairview, I regretted that the Howard-Verna store, where I had snuck down to buy so many Tastykake blueberry pies as a boy, had closed, its blue sign pole barren and the building forlorn.

However, I was cheered to see 1825 Fairview, my grandparents Smith’s place; the new owners had installed a bright garden in front of the porch, and a lantern light on a pole at the end of their sidewalk; next door, at Mary Walters’ old home, a young child’s plastic play-house sat on the front yard.  These signs of new life and renewal were welcomed and warming on a difficult day.

Next I drove past the old Dixie Cup plant, a continuing symbol both of the town and of the town’s neglect and inability to move forward.  The stories-tall cup on the roof—the sign of the town that my sister and I would always compete to see first when driving to Nana and Pappap’s—shows streaks of rust and is in sore need of a paint job.  The windows on the plant remain shattered, advertising its abandonment to the ages; my grandmother would be ashamed to see the state of the building in which she spent her career.

Off to find my other grandparents’ home at 2416 Sycamore Street.  I started by trying to come from behind it, up the old alley that I remember driving down with my Pappap Kleppinger in his tan Rambler, and turned up two wrong ones instead.  Giving up, I turned onto the next street—which I soon discovered was the old alley, apparently widened into a named street.  Suddenly I found myself at my grandparents’ old garage, with the same wooden doors and the same rough stone blocks, and a view into their old back yard.  My grandmother’s rose bushes, that she loved so much, are long gone, but she would perhaps be pleased to see the azalea bushes in full bloom there instead.

Driving around to the front, on Sycamore, I saw that new gardens are a theme for my grandparents’ old homes: the concrete walk out front had been chiseled out and a small garden, bright with spring flowers, adorned the front of the home.  The front of the home seemed much the same as always; however, I noticed the front door had been replaced over the past couple of years, as it was still fairly recently that the weathered bronze plaque on the door engraved “The Kleppingers” was still there.  No more; one more sign of how things have moved on.

Having seen the last of these touchstones of youth, I stopped for lunch at the Burger King on 25^th Street—the one we used to nag our parents to take us to at a time when there was none in South Burlington.  Sated and more than a little melancholy, I then pointed the Lexus westward on 22 to begin the trip home.  I wonder if I’ll ever see these sites again.  But certainly, they'll never be the same again.

Doris Raisbeck, RIP

Somewhere in the night of May 21-22, Doris Raisbeck passed away peacefully.  My great-aunt, who had lived to the age of 93, was my last link with previous generations; as of now, I’m the eldest Kleppinger I know.

She was a woman of many gifts and talents; most notably to those who visited her, was her great skill at needlework, most often crocheting.  Afghans, various doilies, and kitchenwear (hot-pot holders, tea cozies) abounded in her home.  She was also a gracious hostess who ensured we always left happier than we arrived.

Some years ago, after Uncle Albert had passed, I had sent a note saying that if it came to a point where she were willing to do so, I would be happy to take Albert’s handmade train layout and give it a home in our new rec room.  At the time, she demurred, but a couple of years later, I received word that she had reconsidered, that the time had come, and if I wanted it it was mine.

Adam, Mike and I made arrangements to be there over a weekend, to dismantle the layout and to bring it to its new home to Virginia.  On arriving, they were as awestruck as I had always been at being admitted to the holy-of-holies, the basement with the train set; it was a glimpse into a level of craftsmanship that no longer exists.  Aunt Doris was gracious as always, and we were careful to respect how difficult a decision it must have been.  We took her out to dinner the first evening to a nearby Chinese buffet she enjoyed.  It was there that her wit was on display: at one point Adam made some remark about whether this buffet was where all her gentleman callers brought her.  She chortled and said that at her age, “the men are all like spaces in a parking lot.  All the good ones are taken; all that’s left are the handicapped.”

I drove up to the funeral on Thursday, May 24, leaving the house at 5am and made it to the Ashton Funeral Home in Easton six minutes before the 10am service. The dark woodwork, the faded Pennsylvania Dutch designs in the ceiling—nothing had changed since the last time I was there, my grandfather’s funeral months before David’s birth.  It was one of the quickest services I had ever seen: perhaps thirty minutes, then filing past the casket to our cars for the drive to the cemetery.  Intriguingly, many references to the need of the living to forgive the departed; I clearly had no idea about the extent of the feelings between her and her son from her first marriage.

Aunt Doris was buried in the same cemetery as the rest of my relatives, the Northampton Shrine in Palmer, right next to Albert.  Again, a very rapid graveside service, after which I wandered around looking for relatives.  Easily did I find Elmer and Helen Kleppinger; with more difficulty the Harry and Agnes Smith gravesite, at the foot of William and Laura, Harry’s parents.  It’s a lovely space to spend and eternity. Before I left, though, I saw how quickly Aunt Doris’ funeral had truly been: the dump truck was already filling in the hole with dirt.  I had to chuckle as they tucked her in one last time.

The day left me once again acutely aware of mortality; both my own status as the eldest Kleppinger I know, and also since Mary and I have made no arrangements whatsoever for our own place to spend eternity together.  It was in a rather grey mood that I returned to Virginia that afternoon.