They call it a basal cell carcinoma. Located on my ear. Operated on it three different times until it was finally removed. The ear is smaller now.
I left the hospital and drove off making two mistakes: a wrong turn-signal indicating I was entering a driveway where the other driver was pulling out, and a full stop at a green light in a busy intersection where I was in the lane going straight ahead when I wanted to turn right. Much honking.
This morning saw a little dog hobbling on three legs. I stopped and talked with the Swiss lady who had him on her leash. The little fellow laid down on the cold bricks and looked up at us the whole time, shivering.
Today I saw a picture of an old woman, bent over, with three small children in Auschwitz. Then I saw myself having to lead my own three grandchildren to the gas chamber.
When I wanted to become an altar boy the nuns taught me the prayers I had to know, in Latin. Right now I catch myself mumbling one of those prayers on my morning walks in the December darkness at 7:30 a.m.:
Spera in Deo, quoniam adhuc, confitebor illi: salutare voltus mei, et Deus meus.
It is snowing. I stand at my window and look into the neighbor's yard. Two ungainly plastic sleds ---oh my, those great sleds we had as kids! Really sleek wooden designs with steel blades.
Who is this man on our horizon who has shown us his capacity to commit himself to an impossible undertaking and fight effectively to attain it -- and win? Who were his heros, his models he looked up to for such inspiration?
Just at the moment when everything seemed bleakest along comes this man determined to change things, to start anew. And we have shown ourselves eager and willing to place our fate in his hands. He has already reinstated in us the feeling that we can hope and trust.
I can see it in their eyes when they talk to me. The impossible happens in your country, they say, with Obama in mind. They are talking now about America like they used to. Makes me proud. I walk down the street a bit more upright.
As the plane taxied on the runway I thought I should be heading west, to Pennsylvania, Ohio and Indiana. But instead I was flying east, to a foreign country. Will that same moment of uncertainty return to me on my deathbed?
Caught the train at Penn Station and headed out to Long Island. Two hours to Southampton. A Greek wedding. My niece, Alexandra, got married. This is why we flew over to New York.
The next evening a memorable outing at the ocean. Moonlight shining on the water, the sound of the breaking waves, the white sand. Good old hot dogs, corn on the cob and lots to drink with family and friends.
Just had to walk across that bridge. Stopped to read a plaque honoring its builder, John A. Roebling. He perfected the use of twisted steel cables, which made the bridge possible. He died from injuries while constructing it, his son Washington Augustus, a Union Lieutenant Colonel in the Civil War, came home from war and finished the project. These brilliant engineers came from my neck of the woods: Saxonburg, Pennsylvania.
Early mass at the cathedral. Low mass. Two candles. Very plain sermon about God's love. It is He Who makes us able to love. We cannot do it on our own. Then we received communion. It was all low key. No cardinal. No pomp.
While staying in New York we wanted to get up the Columbia, walk the campus, see the young students. Kind of a tribute to Thomas Merton. But couldn't manage to cram it into our schedule.
We sat out in front of the New York Stock Exchange and picniced on ham sandwiches. Tourists stood looking up at the columns and and would walk away, somberly pacing. The financial crisis had just staged a Black Tuesday.
Amid the skyscrapers, just a stone's throw from the Twin Towers I found this old church [1766] on Fulton Street. Overpowered by the achievements of architects and Man the Creator I walked inside and sat there for few moments feeling of my own lowliness. I felt like an empty church. But being there was somehow very consoling.
Stood in Central Park watching adults playing a new frisbee game. One team, like in football, flinging the disc to one another and advancing toward their goal, unless the opposite team intercepts and scores their own goal. Serious game played gracefully. Girls just as deft as the boys. Clean fun in New York.
I was not aware that Art Deco was so prevalent in New York. Everywhere! Of course, the Chrysler Building. But in so many other public buildings, private dwellings, in decorations. While walking down 5th Avenue I happened upon The French Building and stepped inside to find this magnificent entryway and hall.
Went to an historical Episcopalian Church on Fifth Avenue for a Sunday service. A woman priest. Her sermon in English: a delight for my ears and heart. Afterwards I spoke with her. Call me Elizabeth, she said, and conversed in such a friendly way. She had recently received her Doctor of Divinity and had just been assigned to this church.
Spent a lot of time in museums:the Guggenheim, MoMa, the Metropolitan. But the one that left the indelible mark was the Frick Collection on Fifth Avenue. I asked myself where Henry Clay Frick acquired his taste for the beauty of paintings and sculpture. He was a college dropout. His masterpiece collection is exhibited here in the serene and intimate rooms of his home. Frick comes to life here. It was as if I were standing there looking at beauty through his appreciative eyes.
After seeing the Frick Collection, viewing much of the collection at the MoMa was like reading comic books— trite and trivial.
This must have been one of Henry C. Frick's favorite paintings. He had it hanging in the hallway leading to his library. Just what did he see when he looked up at her?
Friday morning to the pier on 42nd Street. A three hour boat tour around the island of Manhattan. Our guide, Tom Wurl, was extraordinary. Non-stop interesting information about what we were seeing, what buildings we were looking at, who lived there, history, architecture of New York, baseball-football stories, quoted poetry and sayings of important personages.When I later moved up to the front of the boat to look out, I saw him standing in a corner with a mike in his hand talking, inconspicuous.
Standing at Ground Zero before the huge empty abyss. I look up at the buildings edging the crater. They seem to be standing silent on this Nine-Eleven, still in mourning.
What a pleasure: to get an invitation to have supper with friends in New York. Poured down rain, caught a taxi to 114th Street near Columbia, had the best corn I've eaten in ages and spent the evening mainly in heated political discussion about the presidential candidates. I noticed a marked difference in my perception as to what was being said, hearing it coming from Americans. Coming from a living source, thus carrying more meaningful weight. From the distance, in Europe, all talk about America seems speculative and groping.
An interesting comment made about books: America doesn't have a national literary culture. About the only book that we have in common is the Bible and we use it as the key to all literature, art, to living. It is the book that offers us vision of the whole.
You went down five steps into a little shop run by an Turkish-American who had just bought the place. So polite and friendly. He would be toasting bagels and making pancakes for us for the rest of the week. Sat right by the counter and watched all types of people come in, most of whom just wanted the morning paper.
Just had to cross the street from our hotel and walk up the stairway entrance and I was in Central Park at the so-called Great Hill. On the flat circle at the top that Sunday morning at half past seven there were at least 50 people with their dogs and they had them chasing balls thrown in all directions.
What a spectacle: the sight of those dogs, legs extended, in flight . . . in the morning sunlight.