Note the little scrap of wallpaper visible in the background? One can often find little bits of history tucked in behind built-ins, moldings, or furniture too heavy to move.

As a comparison, I can’t resist sharing the photograph below, showing the five members of the Thomas White family of Tylersport, Pennsylvania, with Cousin Violet visiting from Camden, New Jersey, taken in 1913.  That’s 100 years ago.  I wonder what they were thinking about on their 1913 New Year’s Eve Day?

White Family of Tylersport, PA, from l to r, Paul White (my grandfather), Thomas White, Esther (in driver’s seat), Anna White and daughter Ruth, Violet Belz

In 100 years, I wonder how people looking back will remember us?  And what they will remember us by now that our photos and writings are mostly ephemeral digitized data that may be largely inaccessible in 100 years.  (Print out a few photos and write a message from 2013 that you can leave behind!)

Here’s to 2013 — I hope it’s a great year for all of us.  Let’s continue to shift the perception of historic preservation from a narrow-minded effort to impede progress toward a more accurate, broader understanding of its benefits for community revitalization, economic development, neighborhood identity and so very much more.

Christmas in New York City (Photo by Sabra Smith)

Jeff Wood entered not once, but twice.  If you want to read more, his novella “Groceries” is featured in Isotope Fiction.  You can follow his work on Facebook at Clowncar Publishing.

Smile

I spent my first Father’s Day as an actual father in the Sand Dunes National Park with my wife and two newly adopted daughters, Shay and KK. Shay was four, KK two, and they had been with us for nearly a year. I am easily besotted by fatherhood, and so memories of the day are as bright as fireflies, as plentiful as dandelions.

Here is one.

KK had learned to smile perhaps a month before the trip. She had smiled before, many times, but always spontaneously; by “learned” I mean that she could control it now, turn it on by choice, return a smile from someone else. And so all weekend that is just what I did, I smiled at her–while building castles in the wet sand, walking in the bright water, eating hot dogs in the motel room that night–just to watch her return it. I was greedy for the dazzle of it, the effortless sunbeam of her face, shattering my fragile glass heart over and over and over again.

And his second entry:

Catstail

My memory paints the sky as deep blue, sunny, cloudless.  It was a summer day.

My friend Kyle and I and some other kid whose name I can’t recall were hunting for a feral cat in the fields outside the city limits of Ottumwa, Iowa.  Kyle lived on a farm, and the cat had killed three of his baby chicks.  He was going to cut off its tail, in revenge.

We found the cat after a long search. Kyle grabbed it tight, by the tail.  The cat was wailing and clawing, but Kyle held fast.  He pulled out his penknife and brought it toward the cat’s tail.

I screamed, “No!”  Loudly.  Kyle dropped his knife, let go of the cat’s tail, the cat ran off into the fields howling.

After a long moment I looked into Kyle’s eyes.  I was expecting anger, or disdain, or perhaps no eye contact at all in response.  But he met my eyes.

He looked relieved.

We both looked to the other kid, who had been standing behind us.  He stepped forward.  Kyle picked up his penknife, slipped it in his pocket, and together the three of us walked toward Kyle’s house, where his Mom had lunch waiting for us.

The Mill at Anselma, a National Historic Landmark

Chester County, Pennsylvania

And if you’re feeling a bit chilly, the recollection below of a summer childhood will warm your heart and soul.  Fireflies are the twinkle lights of the summertime.  (If you missed the other stories in the Lucy [the Elephant] Memory Contest, you can start catching up here.)

The Fall of the Summer King
by Paul Nettles

Once upon a time.

But this isn’t a fairy tale.  This is real life.  This all happened in a real place, to a real little boy who was not the handsomest of all, was not a prince, not even a squire, and he didn’t have companions with fey powers that were perfectly suited to his need to win the fair princess’ hand.

No one ever gave him three tasks, each harder than the last, in order to win unimaginable riches.

He did have a kingdom he could visit, though.  Not a kingdom with a king who wore a gold crown, but  a king who wore a black felt fedora, and old, faded slacks and button-down white cotton shirts.  His queen wasn’t the most beautiful woman in the world, but she ruled her kingdom with a strong and fair hand alongside the king, whom she loved very much.  Together they raised four boys who were kings in their own right, kings without titles or fiefs who rode out in the mornings with the dogs and hunted all day, then came home at night and brought wild game they had caught, and together they prayed and sang songs with the king and queen.

Those young men grew up into men, and claimed lands and took what power was in their hearts to hold.  They had children, boys and girls of their own.  None of the children were cursed by witches who weren’t invited to the christening.  None of them were locked in tall towers and forced to spin hay into gold, nor were they in any way involved with magic kettles, frogs down wells or ogres who lived in castles placed conveniently right up the road.

Not that I know of.

I do know about one little boy, however.  A son of one of the four young kings.  He loved the kingdom with all his heart.  It was far, far away from his own home, and it was magical in its own way, heavy with age and memory and subtle differences.  It had pecan trees like his own home but these were old, and the nuts were shaped differently. It had pine trees like his own home, but the ones in the kingdom were taller, so much thicker, and girt the kingdom like a fortress wall.  His mind peopled the forest wall with giants and rocs and serpents of immense size, but those were just the imaginings of a young, impressionable, fantasy-prone young boy.  There were no giants and no rocs and the serpents that lived in the lake and the little tiny pond were of the regular variety.  The kingdom had creeks, beautiful clear running streams that leaped and burbled over stones like they could speak, and all the prince had at his home was bayous, which were brown and muddy and smelled like rotten mud and dead fish.

The kingdom had something that the little boy’s home didn’t have, however.  It had fireflies.  At the little boy’s home were huge rocs, giant metal flying creatures that sprayed mists from their wings over the crops belonging to other kings, and those mists killed most of the little flying bugs that populated the air, so when summer came, hot and cloying and the prince went outside in the dark of night there were just the usual noises of giants rolling over in their sleep and huge feral wolves prowling at the edge of the porch light and the soft wet hop and plop of toad frogs in the grass.  But no fireflies.

The kingdom had fireflies in the warmth of summer, though.  The kingdom, ruled over by the kind and gentle king, whom the little boy loved with all his heart, loved with the blind and unquestioning love of someone who has never had his heart broken, never been hurt.  The kingdom whose air smelled different, whose bayous were clear and bright and burbled and almost spoke aloud, the kingdom whose tree-girt walls made it the safest, most pure place ever, had fireflies.

They moved in the air like faeries dancing in the dusk, gyreing and gimbaling to a music that we kids couldn’t quite hear.  They filed out of the forest walls by the hundreds, each drawn to the wide open spaces of carefully groomed lawn, there to dance for the sheer pleasure of being alive.  And when the old king would sit on the front porch in his swing and push himself slowly back and forth, and dispense quiet, calm wisdom to his sons and their wives, the princes and princesses would leap and caper off the wide grey porch into the huge green expanse and dance with the faeries.

Those nights would never end, it seemed.  If you were a very careful prince or princess with a very clear, very innocent heart you could track the on-again, off-again flashes of the fireflies, track them the way a hunter tracks his prey by where it has been, postulating where it will be, and you could cup your hands around a tiny black speck and suddenly you held in your hand the most magical of all things: a tiny speck of life whose sole power enabled it to make light at will.  Looking down at this tiny piece of magic in your hands your face would be limned with that yellow-green fire that didn’t burn, didn’t consume, simply existed, simple Was.

Those nights, those endless summer nights, parceled out like chartreuse pearls strung on a black wire.  We knew they’d last forever.  But they didn’t.  They never do.  One day the king faltered, grew weak, and died.  The prince had to put aside chasing the faeries for a time to carry the king’s coffin, the first time he had to assume the mantle of Manhood.  After that the kingdom felt empty, the gentle absence of its king manifest in his empty throne, in the lack of his voice carrying out softly across the faeiry-dappled night.

Nights still passed when the fireflies would dance and the heart of the prince would stir, and he would leap off the porch and chase and plot trajectories in the dark with his eyes and hands, but always, in the back of his mind, something was missing.  The ogre had closed up his castle and moved to a nice bridge in county Cork.  The rocs had taken wing, leaving behind the remains of nests made of tree trunks and boulders.  The stalking wolves had shrunk to the size and shape of foxes and racoons, and trundled in the dark reaches away from prying eyes.  The king no longer sat on his throne, and the kingdom would never feel quite the same way again.  Only the faeries remain, with their cold green light, stitching unread messages across the night.

###

And if you’re looking for a Christmas present that will make a little magic for you next summer — consider the author’s restored, vintage GMC truck.  You can email me and I’ll let him know.

Shuffling Back in Time

by Traci L. Suppa

The” yin and yang” of family travel means that, in return for enduring godawful meals at “Chuck E.”-type establishments which please my kids, I expect their best behavior at places which may not hold a lot of kid-friendly appeal. This deal doesn’t always work, but it’s a goal. I thought I might have to cash in a few credits when we took them to the Mirror Lake Shuffleboard Club, but they actually enjoyed it – almost as much as I did!

This club, located in St. Petersburg, Florida, is the world’s largest shuffleboard club, and the oldest in the United States. Since it’s not open every day, I made special arrangements with the St. Petersburg Shuffleboard Club president, a gracious and enthusiastic volunteer named Christine.

We played shuffleboard last spring as a family at the Woodloch Pines Resort, and we all enjoyed it. (Momma had game…thoroughly surprising everyone.) So we were all up for trying it again. Even Grandma and Grandpa came along.

This was one of those times I wish I had a time machine. The Mirror Lake complex, built in 1923, is an Art Deco charmer. I would have loved being there on a spring evening at the height of its popularity, gussied up in white – as was the custom — for a night on the court.

In its heyday — the 1930’s through the 60’s — the club gained international fame for its size, with 110 playing courts and an annual membership of over 5,000. There are now 65 shuffleboard courts at Mirror Lake, and covered grandstand seating for over 100. We had the place to ourselves, so Christine directed us to a regulation court.

I really wanted to learn how to play shuffleboard, the right way. Christine outfitted us with poles and disks, drew the scoring triangle on the chalk board, and gave an overview on how to score. She glassed the court for us, which involved spreading microscopic glass beads across the court’s surface to make the disks slide faster.

There is some skill involved in shuffleboard; you have to put the right amount of force behind your shot so the disk goes far enough, but not too far. Another important aspect is strategy, and knowing how and when to knock your opponents’ disks off the court. After a few frustrating shots, I was hooked. I wanted to get my game back.

A match is usually three games. Whoever wins two games first wins the match. We didn’t make it that long. Our four-year old daughter wasn’t cooperative. She played for a while, climbed up and down the steps of the grandstand, then told us it was time to go. Our 10-year old son enjoyed the game and would have stayed longer.

Still, I got some good shots in, and was able to spend some time inside the clubhouse, poring over the black and white photos of former club members, as well as the wall of trophies from as far back as 1934.

Mirror Lake is a special place. It’s an endearing example of historic preservation moving in the right direction. I learned that this club has been experiencing a rebirth, offering weekly play on Friday nights, and attracting hundreds of locals. In particular, families. For me, shuffleboard has a “retro” appeal, representing a time in our history when family entertainment was more social, and wholesomely unplugged.

St. Petersburg Shuffleboard Courts, 559 Mirror Lake Drive North, St. Petersburg, FL

727-822-2083

BIO — Traci L. Suppa drags her small-town family to see a quirky array of the world’s largest, longest, or tallest things, and blogs about it at Go BIG or Go Home.

Original illustration by Anne Fontaine, All rights reserved

The Battle of Sand Hill Cove

Striding importantly through the beach peas, I was on my way to find my brothers and my cousins on the crowded public beach and bring them back to the cottage for lunch.  It seemed to my 12-yr-old brain that as the eldest child and eldest grandchild there ought to be more to it but this was just the sort of errand I was sent on, often several times a day, when we stayed at the beach.  I knew exactly where they were, too.  Junior anthropologists all, they were crawling through the dunes to spy on awkwardly passionate teenagers.  Fetching them out might blow their cover, a prospect I was looking forward to until I noticed the tide was out.  The rocky shore on this side of the breakwater now extended past the middle of the jetties—it was like finding the door to a closely-guarded castle wide open and I thought, just for a minute.

It was slow going; some of the rocks were slippery, covered with green hair that lifted and sank with the rhythmic movement of the water.  I was watching my footing. peering intently into the sandy pools, when the jerky motion of a small shell caught my eye.  Two shells, actually, their occupants locked together, moving balletically over the sand and rocks.  Then my schoolyard instincts kicked in and I recognised the behavior: the two hermit crabs were fighting.  I knew boys fought, of course, and that men fought in wars; I knew that some animals fought over territory but they all seemed land-based, and large.  Around and around they went, my view of the battle sometimes obscured by patches of  sunlight that turned my watery lens opaque.  Then, suddenly, with what should have been an audible POP, one hermit crab pulled the other out of its shell.  It appeared on the sand, a bent knuckle with legs, as the victor quickly vacated his own shell and popped himself neatly into the emptied one.

Amazed and outraged at the same time, my head shot up to call out.  I realised my mistake instantaneously, along with a few other things.  I was alone and a lot further from the beach than I  thought but I had to know what happened to the newly naked crab.  Hurriedly turning back to the sandy battlefield, the water almost to my knees, the depth was now too great to see through clearly.  I couldn’t find it.   A frisson of fear shot through me as I heard, from the jetty to my left, the unmistakable gurgles and ominous sucking noises that meant the occupants of the black spaces between the boulders would be returning; the tide was on its way in and had been for a little while.  I moved quickly toward the shore, suddenly aware that I might be trampling over other oceanic dramas, a silent sorry, sorry repeated in contrition, just in case.  As the water level on my legs dropped and I began to see the stones again, a line of recognisable boys walked across the beach in the direction of the cottage, laughing and joking.  I never told anyone I witnessed a war that afternoon.  It seemed too big, and I was terribly late for lunch.

We were without power for a couple of days after Sandy blew through town.  Our many thanks go to the men in the Mississippi Power trucks for their efforts in our neighborhood to restore our electricity.  Though there is a certain charm to living by candlelight, after a while you start fantasizing about being able to take a hot shower, or make yourself a cup of tea.

No. Not THAT Sandy. I mean the Hurricane.

How about that Sandy, huh?

(And I mean the hurricane, not Sandy, baby, in “Grease”)

If, post-superstorm, you’re feeling the need for a little lightness after the darkness, have I got an event for you!

What’s more — it’s electrifying!

By which I mean that you buying a ticket to sip a cocktail in a National Historic Landmark and mingle with other cool people like yourself will help raise money to upgrade the electrical system at the wonderful, quirky, Victorian Wagner Free Institute of Science.  (Oh, did I mention that it’s a National Historic Landmark, a designation awarded to only 2,500 sites in the United States that are considered exceptional examples of our shared American history?)

At some cocktail parties, “small talk” is a challenge. Not at the Wagner. You are surrounded by conversation starters! “Is that a wombat?” “Have you ever seen a Chinese pangolin before?”

When?  Where?  Mark your calendar.

A Sip of Science: Electrifying!

2012 Benefit Cocktail Party

Wagner Free Institute of Science

1700 W. Montgomery Ave (nr Temple)

Friday, November 9, 2012, 5:30-8:30pm with a special “welcome” @5:45

If you can’t make it to SIP OF SCIENCE  but you like the idea of the spark of knowledge and bolts from the blue, you can still make a donation.

You and the Wagner’s stuffed alligator, crocodile, three-toed sloth, and whatnot will be rubbing elbows with more than 250 guests.  Guests who love cool science, and want to support the Wagner’s efforts to provide FREE science education to Philadelphia schoolchildren (and all the grown up visitors too; I always learn something whenever I visit).

Mayor Nutter and Governor Corbett are Honorary Event Chairs.  Senator Casey, Senator Toomey, Congressman Fattah, and Councilwoman Reynolds-Brown are members of the Honorary Committee.

Founded in 1855, the Wagner Free Institute of Science is dedicated to providing free public education in science. Its programs include free courses and lectures, field trips and lessons for children and museum tours for all ages.

The evening science courses — for all ages — are in their 157th year, making them the oldest program devoted to free adult education in the United States.  The Institute also has a strong commitment to children’s science education and offers a range of programs for school groups and through partnerships with neighboring schools and community groups.

The Institute’s Museum houses more than 100,000 natural history specimens, a collection begun by founder William Wagner in the early nineteenth century and expanded by the pre-eminent scientist Joseph Leidy in the 1880s.  Completed in 1865, the Institute’s National Historic Landmark building is essentially unchanged since the late-nineteenth century and includes a Victorian Exhibition Hall filled with fossils, shells, minerals and mounted animal skeletons and skins displayed in original wood and glass cabinets.  The Museum is open to visitors Tuesdays – Fridays, 9 AM to 4 PM, year-round.  Evening and weekend programs are offered during the fall, winter and spring.