I got a tour of the new building! A group of us from the Library and Learning Center went over at 4 to get hard hats from the construction trailer, and Rich Greer, the site manager, unlocked the door and took us in.
There was yellow caution tape where walls were painted, and stacks of shelving laying about, but how exciting it was to see the reality of what I have been hearing about. I am struck by how homey and comfortable the place is already - large windows with great views, a double fireplace, interior views that allow you to feel the spaciousness of the architecture. Now the conversations about where things will be make much more sense.
We still have much to do before the move in at the end of the month. Staff here have been weeding, boxing, redirecting, thinking, planning for months. Its still hard to think of all the things we will need to settle once we move. Great times though. I can't wait for the company that will move the collection to start. That's what will make this seem real.
Here are a few links that will give you a sense of what's coming!
Pictures
http://rwc.edu/Development/Library/
Live Cam
http://libcam.roberts.edu/home/homeJ.html
Promo - but gives excellent and very accurate idea of how the library looks - note the fireplace in the cafe and grad study areas!
http://www.roberts.edu/development/library/?page_id=5
Thursday, July 5, 2007
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
July 4th
A day of celebration. A day of joy, picnics, fireworks. A day of unpacking - wait! How did that get in there? Really, one should take full advantage of a holiday and do special things. But this year turned out to be very quiet and stay at home-y. Not that I hadn't planned to go see fireworks and eat picnic foods. There certainly were many opportunities to do that. But with the rain, and the dozens of yet unpacked boxes in the apartment, I ended up just puttering about and working on getting things settled.
How fortuitous that in the middle of my first week at Roberts I had a full day to relax, take care of things at home, and adjust to new schedules and patterns. Besides, its not like we have had an irrevocable family tradition of going to the same place every July Fourth and doing the same highly anticipated activities. It has usually been a celebrate-wherever-you-are holiday. If you could manage to participate in a picnic, with or without swimming and boating, eat some sweet corn (which I can't do now anyways) and watermelon, see a few fireworks wherever the local place was offering them, then it was a banner year. If not, then a quiet meal of hot dogs and hamburgs at home with family, then watch the Boston pops on TV was a pretty good substitute.
I recall one year when my boys were fairly young and we were with my parents for some reason. We went to West Mountain (normally a ski resort) to watch the fireworks. I hadn't been to a live show for a number of years, and the weather, though a bit chill, was comfortable enough. We sat looking up the mountain at the brilliant colors high in the sky above us. The event was well attended and we shared oohs and aahhs with our fellow patriots sprawled on blankets and in lawn chairs about us.
When I was a kid, we would walk as a family over to Knox Jr High School on South Perry Street in Johnstown, NY (yes, its still there and thriving for those of you who think institutions from the dark ages are long gone) where they set up their fireworks near the new athletic field. We would sit on the small banked hills near the bleachers to watch the noisy displays play out against the black sky. I think the entire town came to that event - certainly I knew most of the people sitting nearby, and it was back in the day when kids in the elementary grades could walk around by themselves and not worry about being accosted. Sometimes my friends and I would wander about, dodging the cotton candy vendors and laughing at the little kids who were scared by the noise.
So I guess that missing the Rochester fireworks our first year back was OK. I didn't even watch the Boston pops. But friends and family called to wish me a happy fourth, that and made the day special. Connections. I am happy that despite living far from many friends, I can still connect via phone, email, and the occasional visit. So happy fourth, perhaps next year we will do it up with more of a bang.
I recall one year when my boys were fairly young and we were with my parents for some reason. We went to West Mountain (normally a ski resort) to watch the fireworks. I hadn't been to a live show for a number of years, and the weather, though a bit chill, was comfortable enough. We sat looking up the mountain at the brilliant colors high in the sky above us. The event was well attended and we shared oohs and aahhs with our fellow patriots sprawled on blankets and in lawn chairs about us.
When I was a kid, we would walk as a family over to Knox Jr High School on South Perry Street in Johnstown, NY (yes, its still there and thriving for those of you who think institutions from the dark ages are long gone) where they set up their fireworks near the new athletic field. We would sit on the small banked hills near the bleachers to watch the noisy displays play out against the black sky. I think the entire town came to that event - certainly I knew most of the people sitting nearby, and it was back in the day when kids in the elementary grades could walk around by themselves and not worry about being accosted. Sometimes my friends and I would wander about, dodging the cotton candy vendors and laughing at the little kids who were scared by the noise.
So I guess that missing the Rochester fireworks our first year back was OK. I didn't even watch the Boston pops. But friends and family called to wish me a happy fourth, that and made the day special. Connections. I am happy that despite living far from many friends, I can still connect via phone, email, and the occasional visit. So happy fourth, perhaps next year we will do it up with more of a bang.
Sunday, July 1, 2007
Yaddo
Sunday morning 5:30am. I have friends that tell me such times do not exist on their clocks. Nothing before at least noon (it often seems that way with my kids too). I woke at the sound of my younger brother Jim getting ready to go to work at Hannaford groceries. I knew I had to get an early start myself in order to get to Rochester to pick up the key to our apartment before the movers arrived. We had a noon appointment preceded by a four hour drive, so I had told the boys, who had spent the night with their father, to be up and ready to go by no later than eight. That meant I needed to leave Mom's by 7, so I had thought to get up by 6:30.
But it was no good. I was awake, and loathe to lay abed a whole hour wasting time. I decided I would tiptoe out of the house and maybe find a quiet spot on the way for a time of meditation and prayer. As I left my parents' picturesque A-frame, I could just see the lake glinting in the early morning sun down the mountain. The previous evening there had been a tree blocking the road from the Glens Falls side of Bell Mountain, so I headed down the Lake George side.
As I drove along, I tried to think where I might pull over to read a bit of Scripture and pray. After all, it was Sunday, and I would have no chance to attend church, much less spend any time with the good Lord. "Lord," I prayed. "Show me where to go - some special place where I can meet with You." Suddenly I remembered Yaddo. It was perfect! And it was just off the Northway close to exit 14.
Yaddo is an artist retreat, a place where poets, authors, painters and artists of all kinds come to meet with their muse. Notable people have stayed there in the past (see http://www.yaddo.org/ ). Just outside the private areas there is a riotous rose garden surrounded by reflecting pools and marble statues. Surely early on a Sunday it would be all but deserted.
I pulled into the shaded drive and back into the silent woods away from the highway. I nosed the car over a narrow bridge, listening to the gravel crunch under the tires. After parking, I followed the signs to the rose garden, though I could just as well have followed my nose - the heady fragrance of roses met me at every turn. I paused at the first fountain, peering into the shallow depths to see if they still kept coy, but there were none there. No water lilies either. No matter.
I could see the splashes of color ahead where the formal gardens were, and I hurried toward them expectantly. They were in full bloom, branches bowed down to the ground, all colors and sizes in neat and orderly rows, nodding gently in the early morning sun as if waiting for me.
I wandered slowly on the grassy paths, the dew painting my toes chilly with delight, stopping to admire the delicate blush of the champaign roses, burying my face in the rose bushes on the far side. Here in the direct center was the second pool, filled with water lilies and coy who rose to meet my shadow, grouping the surface for handouts that I could not give.
Here and there a spiderweb was pearled with tiny dots of water, betraying the spinner's hideout. At the top of the garden area is a long arched trellis wired with select roses, each carefully named and pruned to best effect. I made my way to the north side of the bower and gazed down the manicured length, my eyes finally lighting on the bench in the very heart of beauty.
But alas! The bench was occupied by a pipe smoking gentleman in what I guessed might be his early sixties. His mane of hair was tinged a respectable gray and his neck was swathed in a maroon silk scarf. He was engaged in reading a book, seemingly unaware of his unusual surroundings.
For a moment, I thought perhaps he was one of the artists come for early morning inspiration, perhaps writing a novel himself. The tomb he held in his hand was leatherbound and voluminous. I hesitated, not wanting to disturb or wander where I was unwelcome. But he glanced up and halloed at me so I responded, wandering slowly toward him, stopping to admire the various roses on each side and over my head.
He laughed a bit and said, "You won't find much fragrance in these beauties. These are the hybrids, all fragrance genetically removed in favor of vibrant color. Bah - I am disgusted with them. Now if you really want to experience a rose, take a hike back behind here in the pine trees. There are some vagrant roses who have escaped the gardener's ploys. There you will find extraordinary rose." He waved over his shoulder toward a patch of evergreens.
"Thank you, I will," I replied. We chatted for a few moments. Turns out he comes to Yaddo every Sunday morning to read poetry. He feels it is the only safe place for a construction worker like himself to indulge such a fetish. He has been coming for over thirty years. Said he rarely ever sees anyone else.
I followed his direction and did indeed discover an extraordinary rose - one I would not have found without his assistance. There was a bench just yards away where I sat with my pocket new testament, reading from Psalms the equally fragrant words of David about love, life, trouble and deliverance. I smiled at where God had decided to meet me. What a wonderful time we had.
Too soon it was time to leave. I was almost afraid I had delayed too long. On my way to the car, I found a perfect rose that had been neatly severed from its bush - a delicate pink. I picked it up, and on the way out of town to meet my destiny in Rochester, I lay the perfect rose on Michael's grave, just to let him know I have not forgotten him, just to share with him a moment of beauty and joy.
But it was no good. I was awake, and loathe to lay abed a whole hour wasting time. I decided I would tiptoe out of the house and maybe find a quiet spot on the way for a time of meditation and prayer. As I left my parents' picturesque A-frame, I could just see the lake glinting in the early morning sun down the mountain. The previous evening there had been a tree blocking the road from the Glens Falls side of Bell Mountain, so I headed down the Lake George side.
As I drove along, I tried to think where I might pull over to read a bit of Scripture and pray. After all, it was Sunday, and I would have no chance to attend church, much less spend any time with the good Lord. "Lord," I prayed. "Show me where to go - some special place where I can meet with You." Suddenly I remembered Yaddo. It was perfect! And it was just off the Northway close to exit 14.
Yaddo is an artist retreat, a place where poets, authors, painters and artists of all kinds come to meet with their muse. Notable people have stayed there in the past (see http://www.yaddo.org/ ). Just outside the private areas there is a riotous rose garden surrounded by reflecting pools and marble statues. Surely early on a Sunday it would be all but deserted.
I pulled into the shaded drive and back into the silent woods away from the highway. I nosed the car over a narrow bridge, listening to the gravel crunch under the tires. After parking, I followed the signs to the rose garden, though I could just as well have followed my nose - the heady fragrance of roses met me at every turn. I paused at the first fountain, peering into the shallow depths to see if they still kept coy, but there were none there. No water lilies either. No matter.
I could see the splashes of color ahead where the formal gardens were, and I hurried toward them expectantly. They were in full bloom, branches bowed down to the ground, all colors and sizes in neat and orderly rows, nodding gently in the early morning sun as if waiting for me.
I wandered slowly on the grassy paths, the dew painting my toes chilly with delight, stopping to admire the delicate blush of the champaign roses, burying my face in the rose bushes on the far side. Here in the direct center was the second pool, filled with water lilies and coy who rose to meet my shadow, grouping the surface for handouts that I could not give.
Here and there a spiderweb was pearled with tiny dots of water, betraying the spinner's hideout. At the top of the garden area is a long arched trellis wired with select roses, each carefully named and pruned to best effect. I made my way to the north side of the bower and gazed down the manicured length, my eyes finally lighting on the bench in the very heart of beauty.
But alas! The bench was occupied by a pipe smoking gentleman in what I guessed might be his early sixties. His mane of hair was tinged a respectable gray and his neck was swathed in a maroon silk scarf. He was engaged in reading a book, seemingly unaware of his unusual surroundings.
For a moment, I thought perhaps he was one of the artists come for early morning inspiration, perhaps writing a novel himself. The tomb he held in his hand was leatherbound and voluminous. I hesitated, not wanting to disturb or wander where I was unwelcome. But he glanced up and halloed at me so I responded, wandering slowly toward him, stopping to admire the various roses on each side and over my head.
He laughed a bit and said, "You won't find much fragrance in these beauties. These are the hybrids, all fragrance genetically removed in favor of vibrant color. Bah - I am disgusted with them. Now if you really want to experience a rose, take a hike back behind here in the pine trees. There are some vagrant roses who have escaped the gardener's ploys. There you will find extraordinary rose." He waved over his shoulder toward a patch of evergreens.
"Thank you, I will," I replied. We chatted for a few moments. Turns out he comes to Yaddo every Sunday morning to read poetry. He feels it is the only safe place for a construction worker like himself to indulge such a fetish. He has been coming for over thirty years. Said he rarely ever sees anyone else.
I followed his direction and did indeed discover an extraordinary rose - one I would not have found without his assistance. There was a bench just yards away where I sat with my pocket new testament, reading from Psalms the equally fragrant words of David about love, life, trouble and deliverance. I smiled at where God had decided to meet me. What a wonderful time we had.
Too soon it was time to leave. I was almost afraid I had delayed too long. On my way to the car, I found a perfect rose that had been neatly severed from its bush - a delicate pink. I picked it up, and on the way out of town to meet my destiny in Rochester, I lay the perfect rose on Michael's grave, just to let him know I have not forgotten him, just to share with him a moment of beauty and joy.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)