TRAVEL 

The Place Where Gods Were Born 

     by David Garnes

They do things big down Mexico way. The vastness of the capital, by some estimates the world's largest metropolis, is overwhelming. The city spreads out from the center for miles and miles, and so does the pollution from the millions of cars and buses that traverse its spider web of avenues, streets, and alleys. The Zócalo, once the central square of the Aztec capital of Tenochtitlán, is the largest city square in the western hemisphere, a flat expanse surrounded by an impressive array of historic buildings.

Just north of Mexico City is the most stupendous site of all, the ruins of Teotihuacán, "the place where gods were born." Although there is much to see in its 12 square miles of excavated and restored avenues and structures, the main attraction is the Pyramid of the Sun, second only to the great Egyptian pyramid of Cheops in size and grandeur.
 

The Pyramid of the Sun in Teotihuacan, Mexico is second only to the great Egyptian pyramid of Cheops in size and grandeur.

I'd been advised to get to Teotihuacán early to avoid the crowds and the worst of the mid-day sun. I was successful in steering clear of the mob scene, but the heat was already intense at 9:30 a.m., when the public bus I'd taken pulled into the dusty parking lot at the edge of the site.

And there it was, sprawled out before me: a dusty expanse of scattered ruins, bisected by a wide thoroughfare, "the Avenue of the Dead," a two-mile stretch so named by the archeologists and historians who re-discovered the site in the late 19th century. Already abandoned 700 years before the rise of the Aztec empire, this lost civilization remains somewhat of a mystery in its religious and political origins. At its peak, Teotihuacán is estimated to have been bigger in population and size than ancient Rome.

I'd traveled by myself on the crowded, well-worn but air-conditioned bus, my seat companion a middle-aged man who dozed from the time we left the Terminal del Norte in Mexico City. Later I saw him working at one of the concession stands near the entrance, and we smiled and nodded. Otherwise, I wandered the ruins on my own, often virtually alone as I roamed the unpaved lanes, squares, and excavated buildings.
 

Quetzalcoatl, the "Feathered Serpent"

Though there are plenty of structures and objects to see--houses, frescoes, murals, the pyramid and temple of Quetzalcoatl (the Feathered Serpent)--one is inevitably drawn to the immense Pyramid of the Sun. With a base of 760 by 720 feet, the gradually tapering structure rises to a height of 260 feet. It dwarfs everything around it.

Though my guidebook insisted that climbing the pyramid was not to be missed, I had second thoughts as I approached the central steps and looked up--way up. Since I'd arrived I'd already become a bit aware of the high altitude of the region (Mexico City sits in the lake basin of a large plateau at an elevation of 7,800 feet above sea level). The air pollution in town no doubt added to the consequences of taking a good, deep breath.

Here at the base of the pyramid, it was hot, I was sweating, and I'd left my bottle of water on the bus. I rested on a flat rock and applied more lotion to my face and neck. I sat for a while, noting that a few intrepid tourists were already well on their way up the side of the pyramid. Some were climbing, others resting on the tiered platforms, their shorts and shirts vivid patches against the beige adobe and stone. I shaded my eyes and peered further upwards into the shimmering sunlight. Climbers near the very top were blurs of green and red and blue.

In the end, the view that I knew would await me at the peak was too tempting, and so I wiped my face, took a semi-deep breath, and began the hike. Surprisingly, the climb was not that strenuous, though I rested at each tier before continuing on. I looked around a few times at the beginning but refrained from doing so the higher I ascended.

Though it's believed there were sacrificial altars at the top of the pyramid, today nothing of that sort remains. The summit is essentially a modest expanse of flat rubble, but the view is even more thrilling than I'd expected. The entire site is spread out before you, with mountains rising in the distance and, on this day, a heady breeze cutting the heat of the mid-morning sun.

I thought of Shelley's poem, "Ozymandias," whose narrator hears a traveler tell of coming upon a trunkless statue in the desert of an "antique land:"

And on the pedestal these words appear:
'My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

I remained for some time at the top of the pyramid, watching an assortment of climbers come and go. Several Mexican women with babies had made it to this highest tier and were basking with them in the blazing sunlight. I'd read that there is a religious belief that special cosmic energy is concentrated here. This modern-day pilgrimage seemed in ironic contrast to the thousands of skulls and skeletons of children discovered in various burial sites within the temples and pyramids on site, but both phenomena, I suppose, are testimony to the power of religious belief.
 

An Olmec head, 1500 - 300 BCE

The descent was, for me, more difficult than the climb. I was grateful for the rope railings that line some of the steps, though when I occasionally held the rope, I had to pace myself behind senior visitors who were taking it very slowly, hand over hand, step by step.

Stopping at one point, I sat down next to another tourist, a white-haired man in Bermudas and knee-high socks mopping his brow. "Feeling a bit dizzy?" he asked in a British accent. I confessed I was. "Don't look all around, just pay attention to the step directly in front of you," he advised.

Before standing up, I gazed one last time at the spectacle below. More tourists had arrived, though the sheer size of the site made everything but the larger pyramids and temples seem insignificant. I wondered what it would have been like for a sacrificial victim--or priest, for that matter--as he or she gazed down on the thousands of Olmecs assembled for the bloody rites that were part of their culture and that surely took place here.

I heeded the gentleman's suggestion, focused on my feet, and had no further trouble reaching terra firma. As I settled in on the bus for the ride back to Mexico City, I shivered a bit as cold air blasted from the vent next to my frosted window. Or maybe that momentary frisson had more to do with what I'd just experienced, albeit briefly: the extraordinary, tangible evidence of a mighty but long-lost kingdom--indisputably grand, irretrievably gone.

There are many thoughts that one can conjure up to deal with the events that our minds store for the future, when, at some point, we will re-live to the assembled present the past as we remember it. There you go! I've covered the past, present, and the future all in one sentence. It's easy to do if some of the thoughts place you in a nostalgic frame of mind. Nostalgia can serve two purposes, whether happy or sad. Some of the fondest memories one can have might start on very sad notes, only to blossom into wondrous life events.

There are certain triggers that cause the mind to remember, with clarity, events that happened decades ago. The following three events took place in different time periods, but they all happened in the winter and they all are related to snow. The strange thing about this is that I don't really like snow, but my spouse has always seen fit to somehow get me to enjoy the moment. Because of her I now have many "nostalgic" memories of winters past.

I remember the December of my wife's first pregnancy. That winter was especially harsh on both man and machine. My wife had spent most of her summers in our small town; we were married across the lake from where we now lived. Everyone knew everyone else. Our neighbors were concerned that, when it was time to go to the hospital, would she be able to get through the heavy snows that we were experiencing. Our road was your typical dirt road, plowed by the town when they could get to it. We were the only people living on that road that first winter.                                                               

Word got out to the town guys that we were getting close to the delivery time, so they plowed us out first. I made hot soup and coffee for them and had it ready when they came over the slight hill around the curve of the road. They promised that if she went into labor they would plow us all the way to the city, if need be.      

That was my first experience with the goodness of neighbors. Even after she gave birth, they still plowed our road first, just in case something went awry. I thought, at first, it might have been the soup and coffee that brought them, but it was just them being wonderful neighbors. I missed that when we moved away to a bigger town, and sometimes think back to the way it was. We try to repeat those acts of kindness when opportunity lets us.

The little "Red Bug" was the best car that we could have ever picked to be our first brand new vehicle. It went everywhere, on very little gas, and it never got stuck. If it did, you put it in first gear, got out and gave it a push, jumped back in, and off you went.

            You must remember we were young. We were invincible, not too smart, but invincible. We would wait until the height of a storm to go out and play with the car.  The roads were empty of other cars, so we would wrap the kid in his bunting, throw him in the back seat, and away we would go. Before you get mad at me, you must remember that we did not have the child seats and seatbelts and extra equipment that people need today for their kids.

            I still remember how the big snowflakes came at us in my high beams and how they seemed to dance out of the way at the last second. It was at those moments that our world looked as clean and pure as it could, beckoning us out in it to play and frolic like nature had intended us to. There were many nights that we shared the wildness of a winter storm with Mother Nature, as we drove the main roads of our small town looking for a parking lot to spin the car around in once or twice.

The third nostalgic event that comes to mind relates to our horses. We were older and the "Red Bug" had long since been outgrown. It was replaced in order to carry our ever- growing family. We lived in a much larger town with much larger family needs. We lived on one side of town but stabled our horses some eight miles away, on the other side of town. Twice a day we had to get to the barn to care for them.

            We incurred many hardships that first winter at the barn. We had to haul water with us because the well pump didn't function. We braved some of the coldest weather, ice, and snow, just to build stalls at night. We did that for the love of being able to have our own horses. Although it was hard, there was also an element of extreme pleasure attached to it.      

When the snow came down like huge spheres, we would get to the barn, un-blanket the horses, and lead them to the open door to the field. Their hooves began a dance of anticipation as they beat them on the heavy wooden planks of the barn floor.  They flared their nostrils, attempting to inhale all the scents from beyond the door. They were childlike in the way they played and rolled and bucked high into the air, while they made mad dashes across the field of fresh snow.  

            We called them in when we had finished our nightly chores. The door was always open, but they would wait, until they were summoned with a whistle or a couple of loud clangs from the top of the grain barrel. They seemed to thank us by putting their soft muzzles inside our open coats, while we brushed them down. I think they were looking for their treats, but it seemed like they were saying thanks. That was fun; the snow was our friend on those nights. Who knew that later in life, a nostalgic re-cap of these events would make one want to look at winter and the beauty of snow in its true light.

         For now, be well, and may your God bless you...Joe

February 25 Brown Bag Lunch

The Poetry of Emily Dickinson & Billy Collins

presented by David Garnes 

TECHNOLOGY 

Firefighter's Ode

      by Rick Farren 

I miss him on a rainy day while waiting for my ride.

I loved him when he held me closely to his side.

I beamed the day I saw him standing proud, as was his style.

I walked with heart a-thumping, in cadence, down the aisle.

I felt a lump well up inside, the day we bought our house.

I quivered slightly with pen in hand when signing as his spouse.

I kissed him gently, hugged him tight and wished him all my best.

I watched him leave-my funny guy-for his firefighter's test.

I cried out in pain-he held my hand-the day our son was born.

I saw the tears stream down his cheeks that bright September morn.

I watched him working double shifts, proud to be his wife.

I heard him cry alone at night when an infant lost its life.

I sat alone so many nights and watched the years roll by.

I laughed with him and felt his pain, he'd smile and I would try.

I watched his innocent image lessen through the years.

I proudly listened late at night as he'd calm our child's fears.

I grasped our son for solace and through misty eyes I saw

And shook with grief and disbelief at the chaplain at our door.

I only heard some fractured words, "the floor collapsed-gave way."

I stood stunned and bathed in sorrow on that cold December day.

I buried him on a rainy day, our son stood by my side.

I watched him touch the casket, his face reflecting pride.

I feel the emptiness deep within, I never said goodbye.

I know you see me-our love will out-take care my funny guy.

    Rick Farren

   January 2011

Pastabilities

Food, Fellowship & Fun, All for a Worthy Cause

by Arthur Wagman

As the days grow longer and snow banks gradually recede, Southport residents are going to start hearing the word "Pastabilities" more frequently. Longtime residents know this is the Southport Residents Scholarship gala to raise money for scholarships for needy graduating Mashpee High School seniors.

For newer residents, however, perhaps a little history would be in order. The Southport Residents Scholarship Committee (SRSC) was established in 2003. Every year since then the committee has sponsored an Italian dinner we call "Pastabilities," both for its Italian theme as well as for the possibilities it helps to create for MHS graduates who otherwise might not be able to afford to continue their education. Attendees at "Pastabilities" are entertained by the very talented students of the high school's Blue Falcon Theater Company, the Mashpee High School Concert Choir, and the exciting Mashpee High School Jazz Band.

The SRSC is presently composed of Dr. Roland LaFerte, Ed Larkin, Julie McDevitt, Arthur Wagman and Woody Young Jr. Each year we strive to raise enough money to provide four or five $1,000 scholarships to students we choose from among candidates provided by the MHS guidance department. The qualifications we look for in our scholarship recipients are success in the classroom and in their personal lives and demonstrated financial need.

Since the scholarship program's inception, money raised from generous donations by residents and from "Pastabilities" has provided scholarships for 43 Mashpee seniors, with a total value of $41,000. Through the high school, we follow up on our scholarship recipients; we are pleased to report that every one of them has either graduated or is continuing their education.

At Southport we are blessed with talented neighbors who are willing to contribute their work for our famous "Pastabilities" raffle. Last year, through their donated work, we were able to raise an additional $2,000 toward our scholarship fund. Betty Kayes and her dedicated quilters annually donate a beautiful quilt, which is always in great demand. Also last year, Mardell McDonald produced an exquisite punch needle oriental rug, Norine Piscatelli and Steve Memishian donated original oil paintings, Teri Feldman contributed a magnificent afghan, Joe Tinlin built and donated a unique Adirondack chair, and his wife Judy gave a lovely hand-woven Nantucket basket. We thank each one of our contributors for their generosity.

This year "Pastabilities" will be held on Saturday night, April 30. Entertainment will again be provided by the Blue Falcon Theatre Company and the Mashpee High School Concert Choir, who will entertain with music and songs from "Oliver." Also, the Mashpee High School Jazz Band will "raise the roof." You really have to see and hear these young people to appreciate the level of talent they possess. Chef Roland, who has done such a fabulous job for us at previous events, will prepare a full Italian dinner.

Awards Night at MHS is Thursday, May 19, and I would encourage Southport residents to join other members of the Mashpee community, relatives and friends to attend the presentations.

Donations to the SRSC Scholarship Fund, either in memory of a friend or loved one, or to commemorate a happy event such as a birth, wedding, graduation or confirmation, or simply to be supportive, are gratefully accepted and all will be personally acknowledged in writing. Please send your check, made out to Southport Residents Scholarship Fund, to SRSC c/o Julie McDevitt, Treasurer, 9 Pacific Ave., or drop it in the Social Committee box in the Village Center Information Room.

In the next few weeks notices will become available to sign up for this terrific evening. Don't miss out. It is an evening of fun and entertainment, great food, super raffle prizes, and all for a great cause--the further education of Mashpee's students. Put April 30 on your calendar for "Pastabilities." See you there!  

Southport (Canine) Profile: Leo D. Lion Krowl

My name is Leo D. Lion Krowl. I am a three-year-old designer dog from New York. My mother was a shihtzu. She refused to mate with her own breed, but she lived next door to Pierre the Poodle, and I'm the result of their dalliance. My breed is called a shihpoo. My favorite food comes from Roche Brothers. I am a lap dog and when I am not doing my primary job I can be seen walking my two humans-James and Eileen. Barking at squirrels and leaves are favorite activities of mine. When you see me, come over and say hello. I am not as ferocious as my name implies. I love all people and some dogs.