Progress and Change

Image Source: Nick DeWolf

There’s a kind of poem to remember what the weather light on the Berkeley Building means:

Steady blue, clear view
Flashing blue, clouds due
Steady red, rain ahead
Flashing red, snow instead

Now the only exception to this is flashing red in summer, and that means that the Red Sox have been rained out. But that’s what that light on top of the tower is all about. I always think of that poem when I’m on the trolley and the tower comes into view. I don’t speak about this sort of thing too much, but it’s one of those little things that make me happy and proud to be a Bostonian.

I especially love seeing the light of the tower on a good spring night, while walking through the Public Garden and Boston Common, with a light fog to make the new flowers pop. The city is just so damn pretty then: warm and proper, but just a bit mysterious, too. And it works so well because of the scale of the skyline.

I’ve heard talk about putting up a couple of new glass towers. I hope that doesn’t happen. I suppose everything has to change, but I’d hate to see something so cockeyed. The scale of Boston is manageable. That’s what makes it so livable.

Here we are freshly in 1960. Boston is nearly two hundred years old, and the connection to history is still there at every corner. And yet you can go out to the corner store and get a bottle of milk anytime. To me that’s a livable city. It has problems, to be sure. But all those problems seem to be erased on a night like this, with a view of that magnificent tower.

I hope that doesn’t change. I can’t imagine the new poem. Glass and steel, rain real? It just wouldn’t be the same…

Like on Facebook!
http://www.facebook.com/BrianWestbyeWrites
Follow on Twitter!
@BrianWestbye

Pride

Image Source: Ashley Noelle

I am of proud American stock. Cherokee stock. My people have suffered greatly. But we remain proud.

My great-grandmother survived what we now call the Trail of Tears. Her American government passed the Indian Removal Act in 1830, forcing her people to give up their land in Alabama. Many stayed, believing the land was theirs. But the government enforced a treaty that was not signed by the leaders of her people, and she was forced by bayonet to march from Fort Wayne, Alabama, to Tahlequah in the Indian Territory, or what is now Oklahoma, in 1838.

Many thousands of Cherokee died of cold, hunger and disease during the march. And when my people arrived on their new land, which they never wanted, they had nothing.

My great-grandmother survived this injustice, and remained proud of her people. And now I remain proud as we survive these difficult times. The depression worsens by the day. Henry picks up work where he can, as a blacksmith and a grave digger, but with eleven children, it is hard to provide properly. We have not enough for food, nor an extra stitch of clothes, so often Henry and I go without.

In the cities, men set up shanties in camps called “Hoovervilles” after the former President. They walk past bread lines that stretch for blocks, and in every window is a sign saying NO WORK. Both the President and Mrs. Roosevelt have said on the radio that they wish to bring federal aid to help feed children, and would that it were so. I do not mind going without myself, but leave us provide for our children.

But I remain optimistic that things will change. This country is great, in spite of shameful chapters such as happened to my great-grandmother. And her people are great. Strong, proud, people. Pride is in my Cherokee blood.

At The Fair

Originally Published: 10/10/2011

Photo Source: Library of Congress

The day was warm for fair season, but the breeze carried a heady mix of fried dough, cotton candy and the last swirls of the morning wood smoke. The speakers played “The Anniversary Waltz” and “(I’ll Be With You) In Apple Blossom Time”, mixing with the sounds of bells clanging, cows snorting and auctioneers calling. Roland Heath and his grandson Jack were taking it all in from the top of the Ferris wheel.

“See all them trees turning all them pretty colors out there, boy?” Roland said to Jack, spreading his hands in an arc. “A lot of them was just saplings when Ethan Allen and his boys was protecting this area from New York and the British. But they was there in the ground, a hundred and fifty years ago, just like they are now. What do you think about that?”

Jack, awed at being so high off the ground with such a view of the world, and as always awed by the strong presence of his grandfather, just smiled and stared out at the faraway hills. He had learned about Ethan Allen and his battles for the Vermont Republic in school. Jack imagined battles between the Green Mountain Boys and the British with their red coats on the hills, with big guns and cannons going off. And to think that they may have fought on those same hills by the same trees! Gee!

“Tell me more about Ethan Allen, Grandpa!” Jack yelped, unable to contain his excitement.

“Well, ain’t you a curious fella!” Roland exclaimed, patting his grandson on the knee and lighting a cigar as the Ferris wheel spun. “It all started when New York thought they owned some Vermont land and Ethan Allan thought they didn’t. He and his boys showed them New Yorkers a little what for! They also captured Fort Ticonderoga, so he want just a Vermont hero, he was an American hero.”

“What’s Fort…Ticonoga?” Jack asked.

Roland chuckled. “Ticonderoga! It’s in New York, just over the lake over there. The British ran it, and it was an important fort for them. But they lost it to Ethan Allan!”

The Ferris wheel was at the top again. Jack just kept staring out at the far hills and the rolling farmland, imagining long ago wars and the Green Mountain Boys fighting for Vermont, and wishing his grandfather would keep telling tales all day. He thought about being a soldier when he grew up, and he thought about being someone who knew about trees and how they turned color and all. Mostly he thought about growing up to be like his grandfather; strong and smart and gentle.

They got off the wheel, got bottles of Coca-Cola and cones of vanilla Fro-Joy and wandered over to the grandstand where the cows were being auctioned off. They sat on a bench, feet in the sawdust, and made the most of their day at the fair, in their own time.

Diamond Vision

Originally Published 08/24/2011

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

It was a typical Saturday afternoon at Kelly’s: Cards/Cubs on the tube, Old Style on tap and in pounders, armchair analysis going around the bar. Tim and John, both Cubs fans but, more broadly, both baseball fans, were arguing the game on the TV and the games already played.

“Okay, you’re tellin’ me the Cards are more universally beloved than the Cubs?” John asked Tim, mocking his jaw falling to the bar.

“I’m not saying more beloved!” Tim replied. “I’m saying more historically significant!”

“What in THE hell you talking about?” John spat back. “Hack Wilson, Ron Cey, Ernie Banks! Hey, let’s play two! Harry friggin’ Caray and Wrigley Field!”

“Yeah, well Harry Caray was the voice of the Cardinals first, ya know!” Tim replied, proud at scoring a point. “And think of this: the St. Louis Cardinals changed the game twice.”

“Twice?” John asked?

“Twice.” Tim affirmed. “First, Branch Rickey – the man who later signed Jackie Robinson, no less – was the Cards General Manager, and he developed the farm system and spring training. Used to be a ballplayer would go home after the season and spend the winter drinkin’ and gorgin’. Rickey put ‘em to work in the hot sun before the season to get ‘em in shape. An’ he developed the farm system and hid his best prospects low in the system. Used to say that every small town in America in the ‘30s had an A&P and a Cardinals farm team.”

John was suitably impressed. He knew about the influence of Rickey, of course, but hearing it from Tim was revolutionary. But there was more to hear. “Okay, that’s once. How did the Cards revolutionize the game twice, smartass?”

Tim knew he was about to deliver a roundhouse to the chin. “Okay, think about this. In the course of twenty years – less than a generation – the Cardinals went from being one of the most fiercely segregated teams in the game to one of the most fiercely integrated teams in the game.”

John just stared at his friend.

“1947. Robinson breaks the color line with Brooklyn. At the time St. Louis was the farthest stop west and south in both leagues, and the closest thing to a home team for the deep south. Those were the Cards of Harry Walker, Whitey Kurowski, Enos Slaughter and Joe Garagiola. Some of those Cards agreed to boycott games against Robinson and the Dodgers. Slaughter and Garagiola, in spite of his later sunny persona on the Today Show, were notorious for spiking Jackie, race baiting, all that crap.”

John continued to stare, disgusted and fascinated in equal measures.

“1967. A mere two decades later. Tim McCarver, Orlando Cepeda. Roger Maris, Bob Gibson. Steve Carlton, Curt Flood. Total integration and a team that was completely there for each other.

“Think about that. Twenty years! It happened in Chicago, but not as dramatically. Sure, Ernie Banks was first for the Cubs in 1953, and the Cards integrated in 1954. But the integration of the Cards was absolutely unprecedented, and frankly one hell of a great American story.”

John was absolutely dumbstruck and silent. Kelly’s grew quiet, the most prominent sound being the play-by-play on the tube.

“You win!” he said, turning back to his beer and a slick 6-4-3 double play live from Wrigley.