Walking In Their Footsteps

NO POLITICS ALLOWED...

I’m slogging through Dan Brown’s “The Lost Symbol; and, last evening, found some wonderfully descriptive passages (see below) relating that the Library of Congress in Washington, DC is the most beautiful building in the world.  While my experience of these things is severely limited, I agree.

 

The Library building is a such stunningly lovely place that one wishes to absorb its grace through one’s pores.  During my one excursion there, I found myself wishing to be surrounded by its elegance always.  That feeling hasn’t tarnished over the years since that brief visit in October 2000.

From it’s elegantly appointed halls to sweeping (marble) stairwells to the Reading Room chamber and an exterior appointed with fountains with representations of mythical figures this building is a tangible symbol of what we can achieve as Americans.

Musings of a Bookish Mind...

I am a reading slut!  Since the days of Nancy Drew and the Bobbsey Twins, books that lived on the shelves at 201 Green Street, I read everything that comes my way including the back of this morning’s cereal box or the small print on the ketchup label. 

Turning the page and falling asleep with book in hand have been part of a nightly ritual that started in childhood.  Some teens, my own included, sneaked out of the house at night to party.  I would sneak into the bathroom, pillow and book in hand, lie in the dry bathtub to read until the wee hours by a night light left on for my younger siblings.

I come by this fascination with the printed word honestly.  When Dad died there were stacks of books three feet high along the wall by his chair.

I like my electronic reader. That being said it isn’t anywhere near as satisfying as turning the page of a book. 

Hard cover, soft cover, large and small books are my friends.  They are an escape in times of trouble, an education in times of need, and old friends that I invite in for an intimate and solitary evening more often than not

What Would It Be Like...

What would it be like, I wonder, to walk through the winter miracle that is Yellowstone? To smell the snow in the air and feel the forest around one and rise early to absorb the winter light.

I yearn to know.

One Christmas in the mid-1950s, I received a Viewmaster for Christmas. The slides that accompanied this "toy" were of Yellowstone and its wonders. Steaming pools of brilliant color, Old Faithful reaching for the sky, bison and wolves.  I can still see in my mind's eye those small film images mounted on round stiff disks.  Yellowstone, Crater Lake and other National Parks.

It occurs to me that my passion for photography started there and with the Kodak brownie camera that came about the same time.

Musings

I don’t live in the place where I was born and, still, years later I miss the place where I grew up. I miss the seasons, extended family, and sites that trigger memories of my growing years.
I have no wish to return there to live; however as the holidays approach, I find myself yearning for the sight of vividly colored leaves and the sound of gently falling snow.
It’s just shy of 50 years that I’ve been away from the place that I was born, spent my childhood and grew to young adult. It lives within my heart as clear and alive as though it were 1964.

 

Rain in the Vineyard

Barn in Vines II
Originally uploaded by cheryldoran-girard

September 19, 2010 Schlusser Road Vineyard, Forestville

I woke this morning surprised--manageable pain in my knees!! Gathering rain and camera gear, I took a few ibuprofen (just in case), loaded the back of the Highlander and gave myself the gift of time and creativity. Days free or almost free from pain come seldom these days.
The occasional drone of motor traffic on River Road intrudes only slightly into the soft murmur of small birds and gentle sound of mist dripping from the vines. As often happens when I wander the backroads of Sonoma County, I become immersed in the silence, images in my viewfinder and solitude.
The dark outline of an old barn is silhouetted against a spreading oak tree and varied greens of the vines. Silvery strips above the vines flutter and glitter in the almost still air. The vines are heavy with fruit and foliage. Tendrils of vine curl up or downward--some with drops of moisture at their end points.
Common ravens perch among the vines and between the rows seeking breakfast and occasionally squabbling over some prime edible among the weeds. Their incessant cawing overshadows the soft chirrups of the smaller avians.
Dew laden webs adorn every available surface of the pipes adjacent to the vineyard. It's rusty surface shiny with water in the morning light.
A bee seeks shelter under the wider portion of the car wipers then flies on. According to "The Bee Movie," they aren't supposed to fly in the rain.
Continuing on Westside Road towards Healdsburg, I find the path that once so reminded me of the Frost poem "A Road Not Travelled" has given way to a fenced horse enclosure and steel building. The trees that overhung the entrance have been removed and further long the winding backroad, I find that old haunts like Westside Farms, where we used to come for pumpkins and mark the advent of the Halloween season are on the sales block. It stands obviously empty its fields seemingly abandoned to encroaching wildness with weeds and barns standing silent.
Sadly, this is just one of many signs of the recession along the backroads and throughout towns along the river.

Leaving A Trace

I am a storyteller who yearns for a connection to my family and misses my dear ones who have passed.  

Reminisence

On overload from a day spent re-living old memories and sorting through slides, I finally put the huge container of family memorabilia aside for another day. Images of old friends and family long passed away or moved on to different lives.

Faces in the slides warmed my heart. My dear Nana with a beautiful smile seated among her family at some backyard event on Green Street in North Andover. Rick Bryan, Carol Ota, Paul Smith and others from high school who have passed on. Myriad posed photos in Easter outfits, prom dresses, at graduations, weddings; and, best of all, my children and grandchildren with those young and loving faces that still melt my heart.

As one grows older the past becomes seductive. It was the time when all was possible, when bodies were invincible and those we loved would live forever.

The House at 43 Pleasant Street

From its attic with cubby-hole storage areas and oddly shaped rooms to the cellar’s uneven clay floor and musty atmosphere, the timbers and walls of the house at 43 Pleasant Street are a repository for the family stories and events of five generations of Doran-Brosnan family members.
Built by George A. Hunting, treasurer of the Lawrence Knitting Company, the large Victorian duplex fell victim to a decline in the Hunting family fortunes and went on the auction block in April 1931.
John W. Doran, Sr., postmaster of Methuen, Massachusetts, and his wife, Mary Brosnan Doran, purchased the house from the Methuen National Bank, the mortgage holder. They moved in with their children, Kathleen (21), John (17), and Betty (14). 
The births of grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and, more recently, great-great grandchildren have been celebrated here as well as the 50th and 60th wedding anniversaries of John and Mary; and, their son, John and his wife, Eileen Fitzpatrick Doran. There have been countless birthday parties and holiday celebrations in its dining room as well as Christmas trees and wakes in its living room. 
It is the small moments of life; however, that are most attached to a heart. Here my Nana sewed a delicate batiste dress exquisitely appliquéd with butterflies that I wore in a formal portrait to celebrate my first year. Here my Papa tended his mulch pile with massive sunflowers growing around its edges. Here Saturday morning in Nana’s kitchen meant fresh donut holes and Sunday afternoon meant a nap in Aunt Betty’s bed. Here the attics were mysterious and wonderful places and the cellar storage rooms contained the bounty of my grandmother’s canning skills. We came to stand on its wide staircase for dress and coat fittings, show off prom dresses and Easter bonnets. Here I watched the undisguised joy in my grandmother’s face when I brought her first great-grandchild, Christopher, to visit. Here I spent time with my aunts in their final days and saw in that time my own future-- growing older and frail. 
The rituals of daily living imbue a house with a presence over time and so it is was with the house at 43 Pleasant Street. Selling it this last year was heart wrenching. 
It will remain an icon for my family-- a tangible symbol of the fabric of our lives.

Cheryl Doran Girard ©2004/Rev. January 2009

John W. Doran, Sr., 1932

John W. Doran, Sr., 1932
Originally uploaded by cheryldoran-girard

John William Doran, Sr.
Born: January 22, 1881,  Died: January 15, 1986

Johnnie Doran was the youngest son of Irish immigrants, Patrick Doran and Catherine Lynch Doran. Born in Methuen, Massachusetts on January 22 1881, photographs of him as a child portray a serious child staring directly at the camera. His high school notebooks disclose political cartoons of sophistication and talent, he collected Indian arrowheads and wrote essays extolling the virtues of the town’s benefactor, Edward Searles, who gifted Methuen with the Searles Building that now houses the city’s offices. Johnnie was the first of his family to graduate from high school and his mother had high hopes that he would become a pharmacist; however, shortly after his graduation from Methuen High School in 1899, he became employed as a clerk with the Methuen post office.
Whether pictured in overcoat and bowler with a group of young men in Washington in 1903 or as an older man in dapper hat and well-fitted suit, he was downright handsome. In 1906 he was promoted to postal supervisor for Methuen. His popularity is evident from the large number of congratulatory letters he received lauding his fitness for the new post including one from his Pennsylvania cousin, Mary Lynch admonishing him to remain single as his brothers and sisters had.
It is no wonder that Mayme Brosnan set her cap for him. Handsome and employed in a stable, well-paying government position he was quite a catch for the orphaned daughter of Irish immigrants. Family photographs subsequent to their 1909 marriage, show a merry prankster chuckling and ducking behind his wife’s dress.
Over the years, he grew increasingly introspective. His interests encompassed reading historical texts on a variety of events and the Civil War in particular. He was especially devoted to his birthplace collecting texts about its history and newspaper clippings relative to events and historical buildings. After retirement from the postal service in 1951, he became a devoted back-yard gardener and recorded daily personal events as brief notes at the bottom of pages in his monthly cash journal.
Family friend say his personality and sense of humor became more evident after Mayme’s death in 1978.
His long life came to an end five days short of his 105th birthday in January 1986. His quiet presence still pervades his home at 43 Pleasant Street.