Up, Up and Away! – Herbert Heineman

Our 12-year-old grandson Ethan, who missed out on dog sledding earlier this year (see A Different Kind of Vacation), had his turn at a “different vacation” this month, when he and I spent five days in Hutchinson, KS. Hutchinson’s claim to fame is the Kansas Cosmosphere and Discovery Center, a space museum and educational center affiliated with but financially independent from the Smithsonian Institution. The result of a local civic leader’s vision fortified by community support, it is funded locally, by admissions and fees for its many educational programs; I was told that it receives no federal money.

Among its many offerings, one of particular interest to grandparents is an intergenerational program coordinated by Road Scholar (formerly Elder hostel). Our group consisted of a dozen or so boys aged 10-15, each accompanied by one or two grandparents. (Parents are excluded from Road Scholar intergenerational programs.) We were comfortably housed and overfed.

The program was beyond expectation. An incomplete list of activities includes (1) flying: yes, the kids were at the controls of Cessna 172 props for more than 30 minutes, doing everything but land with only verbal directions from a certified co-pilot; (2) visiting the Cessna factory in Wichita; (3) seeing demonstrations of rocket science and technology; (4) touring the Center’s own rocket museum; (5) building and launching our own rockets; (6) building and competing with our own robots; (7) star gazing through GPS-guided telescopes; (8) visiting a 650-ft-deep salt mine; (9) flying a simulated space mission; and (10) submitting to various physical abuses like being centrifuged up to 4 g and tossed around every which way by a multi axis trainer (I’m tempted to put quotation marks around trainer, but it’s the official name). Grandparents participated where they wanted; of course no one wanted to be left out.

When I learned that, over the years, girls have made up fewer than 10% of enrollees, I had to ask myself whether girls really are uninterested in space or their elders don’t think to give them this option. The aforementioned visionary civic leader, Patricia Brooks Cary, would surely be disappointed.

If you’re looking for a new way to have fun with a grandchild, male or female, I suggest you look at this program.

Website by Foxglove Systems.

MEMORY, LONG TERM AND SHORT

Whatever happened to that brash 13-year-old
who shamelessly threw her arms around my neck
and locked the gaze of her hazel eyes on mine?

Whatever happened to that 14-year-old in the Juliet cap,
whom I sought so eagerly when the curtain parted
at the end of the worship service?

Whatever happened to the girl whose cheek I kissed,
     leaning out the window in that precious last second
     before the train began to move
    — a kiss that would sustain me for months to come?

We were children, uprooted from parental home
     by persecution and war,
     deposited in a strange country where people spoke
     a strange language,
     and after five loveless years we had found each other.

But postwar reunion with parents, who had been denied
bearing witness to their child’s flowering,
was just as disruptive as the original parting.

Preoccupied with memories of suffering
     they had barely survived,
     they had little patience with my romantic awakening,
     did not rejoice with me, did not allow my adolescence
     to run its natural, happy course.

Fearful and suspicious, they maligned, blocked, warned,
     and thereby sullied our parent-child relationship.
     What a shame they didn’t simply let youth’s fancy
     bloom and wither of its own accord.

Seventy years later — years of maturity,
     settled with life partner, children, grandchildren —
     she vividly remembers that lush oasis
     in the desolate landscape of our childhood.

But the present eludes her.
     She forgets my answer
     to the question she asked just minutes ago,
     even forgets that she asked.

So she asks again,
and asks again,
and forgets both answer and question each time.

That’s what happened to her.
     She did not choose what to remember
     and what to forget;
     her illness mercifully chose for her.

Mercifully, because forgotten questions can be repeated,
over and over until remembered,
but forgotten memories of youth are lost forever.

WORDS FOR A SACRED PLACE

I look, I listen.
I feel an indefinable presence.
In the majestic woods, in whose embrace this sacred place is nestled,
I feel it,
though my eyes see only trees and the sky above.
In the ground on which we stand, so full of life and the remains of life deceased,
I feel it,
though my ears hear only the occasional birdcall and the random rustle of leaves.
I sense a hand beckoning and a voice softly saying,
“If you are moved by what you’ve felt here,
then, in your good time, come to me, add your voice to mine,
so that together we may afford the same experience to those you’ve left behind.”

Meditation Garden, a place for quiet and contemplation in the woods at Medford Leas, underwent extensive reconstruction in the summer of 2013. These lines were written for its dedication on November 7 of that year.

A MOST PRECIOUS GIFT

The love of a friend is unlike any other,
Unlike husband for wife, unlike sister for brother.

It does not compete, it does not displace,
But claims in your heart its select, reserved space.

It’s not rooted in task, in advancement, or duty,
It’s a bond, pure and simple, and there lies its beauty.

It is honest, sincere, has no need for disguise.
Its embrace is for all, the naïve and the wise.

It is food for the intellect, food for the soul,
It nurtures the spirit and renders it whole.

Should you be despondent or feel cast adrift
Think of a true friend and your spirits will lift

…Indeed,

The love of a friend is a most precious gift.