You are currently browsing the tag archive for the ‘memorial’ tag.

On our Labor Day outing, Kelsea and I accidentally passed this unique statue and made a U-turn for closer inspection. This is the Rocky Flats Memorial called the Cold War Horse. Please note the radiation-protection suit, rubber boots, and gas mask. The dedication is slated for October 18th. For those of you unfamiliar with it, Rocky Flats was a nuclear weapons production facility that closed in the 1990s. During the 1980s after I moved here, I recall seeing protestors outside the gates every time I drove by on Highway 93 (a small, pretty highway between Boulder and Golden that is so dangerous that there were bumper stickers saying “Pray for me, I drive 93”). There was also much wrongdoing in the facility; it violated numerous environmental laws and the Department of Energy said that the plant’s ground water was “the single greatest environmental hazard at any of its nuclear facilities.” (according to the Google).

In the last decade, the space became the Rocky Flats Wildlife Refuge – but the clean-up only required that the cleaner-uppers clean-up the first three feet of soil, so I always expected to see glowing, three-headed, 20-foot tall elk with trees for antlers crossing Indiana Street. Now, though, something else has changed, and apparently memories and agreements are short, because they are putting up hundreds of homes on this property that used to be so contaminated. I honestly didn’t think that plutonium contamination resolved itself so quickly, but who am I to say?

But back to the memorial…or perhaps not, because when I tried to take MKL by it last weekend, it had vanished. VANISHED! I am puzzled and plan to make a trip back down the road to see if I just missed it (not likely!) or….?

The Cold War Horse
Near Arvada, Colorado.

Quote of the day: “Now, I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.” — J. Robert Oppenheimer

Daily gratitudes:
The owner of The Happy Beast
Talking to wonderful strangers on the train
Falling asleep with my head on MKL’s shoulder
Stargazer lilies
My pink cowboy boots

On top of my own scare today, my heart is aching for the families of Moore, Oklahoma who lost homes, loved ones, and children. This image of the children’s garde at the lovely Oklahoma City Memorial seemed fitting today. Wishing you all as much peace as you can find tonight.

Oklahoma City Memorial

Oklahoma City, Oklahoma.

Quote of the day: “What I need is the dandelion in the spring. The bright yellow that means rebirth instead of destruction. The promise that life can go on, no matter how bad our losses. That it can be good again.” — Suzanee Collins

Daily gratitudes:
Kelsea
MKL
People who stand by me
Prayers
Clouds

 

I wasn’t around for Pearl Harbor. Unbelievably, I’m not that old. But my parents equated their feelings about 9/11 with the feelings they experienced when they heard about Pearl Harbor. My father was unable to serve, so my first-hand experience of World War II is non-existent.

Almost.

Years ago, when I was a road warrior for work, I spent a lot of time in New York City.  On one visit, I had a string of meetings with ad agencies on December 7. I liked (and still do like) to create quintessential experiences for myself wherever I go, and so at the end of a long day, I decided to go have an experience at Sardi’s.

For those of you who don’t know it, Sardi’s is a classic restaurant in the Theatre District. It’s one of those places that you can go for a late supper after the show lets out. Known for the hundreds of caricatures of celebrities lining the walls of the dining room, Sardi’s has been a Broadway institution for 90 years. I considered it my duty to experience it firsthand, so on a chill December twilight, I made my way under the flashing neon and the burgundy awning, through the mahogany and glass doors with their brass kickplate, and into a slice of history.

The dining room was quiet so early in the evening, so I headed upstairs to the bar, which was bustling. I ordered a martini and stood back a bit, watching, gauging the energy of the people clustered together chatting. But not for long. The folks were welcoming and social and I was almost immediately included in conversations with people who seemed to have known the place forever.

There was a very drunk elderly woman, garbed in exquisitely pure white, complete with turban, wearing way too much makeup and hanging onto an extremely handsome young Brazilian man.  She was somehow related to the New York Times family, and we had a long chat. She kindly bought me another martini, and when she had excused herself to powder her nose, the Brazilian gentleman slipped me his card – thick, cream-colored, embossed with his name.  He was her kept man – her Giglio, he explained with pride. But if I required anything, he was sure he could get away, and she wouldn’t mind. How…. kind.  He was really quite charming, discrete and nice about it all. And I declined, in case you were wondering.

There was a small circle of old-school newspaper reporters who enjoyed complaining as much as they enjoyed drinking, which was quite a lot, and seeing as how I was a fresh ear, they bought me another martini and regaled me with tales about their long careers.

And then there was the final little circle of elderly gentlemen.  About six of them. They were all Pearl Harbor survivors. They met at Sardi’s every year, coming from around the country on December 7 to celebrate life, loss, patriotism, and victories large and small.  Two of them had overcome cancer.  Others had lost spouses, children, careers. But all were proud of their own survival, their own tenacious hold on life.  They told me stories – where they had been, what it had been like, how they had felt.  Tears were shed. After a couple more martinis for all – I bought them a round – they made me an honorary member of their unit and asked me to promise to come back the next year. They would be there.  I was honored. And I was proud to have been able to meet them all.

I did not make it back next year. In fact, I never made it back. But December 7 never passes without my recalling those men and that night.  I’m fairly sure that their number has dwindled, perhaps to nothing. Nevertheless, I am with them in spirit tonight, wherever they are.

(And after that many martinis, I had dinner with an ex-boyfriend and his wife, and spent the evening pretending that I spoke broken English with a charming French accent when the waiter was around, much to his amusement and her displeasure. I think the old boys would have gotten a kick out of it.)

 

July 2019
M T W T F S S
« Jan    
1234567
891011121314
15161718192021
22232425262728
293031  

Archives

Make your life a little sweeter every day! Sign up for an email subscription to Seasweetie.

Join 2,117 other followers

wordpress stats
plugin
%d bloggers like this: