Lost in History

I haven’t blogged for a couple of weeks because most of my time has been spent trying to remember events of the past forty-five years. In 2019, Community Presbyterian Church of San Juan Capistrano will celebrate its 100^th birthday. I was asked to help put together a book to chronicle the events of the church during its lifetime. No small task!

When we let people know we were doing this project, supporting material appeared from closets and file cabinets and shelves. Those who knew where items were stored in the church unearthed them. And several people began to research and amass data from the internet and the historical societies of San Juan and Dana Point.

Original church building

Then began the process of sorting through all the material and deciding what to include and what to leave out. (Much of the historical material was about the cities of San Juan Capistrano and Dana Point but wasn’t directly related to the church.)

Then, several of us began to compose the articles. As they were completed, I received them. We also began to post pictures on the church group on Facebook and invited others to do the same. We asked the members of the group to identify the people shown in the photos.

We have contacted those who participated in the events for their input, memories, and corrections.

If everything had been left as originally received, the book would end up at over 1000 pages! So, ruthless editing has been required. This will still be a large volume (or two, maybe).

Since we were present from 1972, I have many first-hand memories of events from this point to the present. We have also gone through our own photo albums (probably at least three dozen) to find photos. We have also gone through at least another three dozen of the church’s. Each dig through the archives uncovers another event we need to write about.

Fortunately, the unofficial historian of San Juan (she has written several books about the city) is not only a descendent of one of the founding families, she was also a member of the church for many years. She is beta reading the oldest material—the historical stuff—to validate the facts. (Sometimes these are in conflict. Local legends clash with the recorded data.)

We keep receiving more photos. Although they are delightful to see, many are too old and faded to use. Others are too far away or blurred to identify anyone. Still others are interesting but don’t really tell the story we are trying to convey. We have had to limit ourselves to not more than two photos per article—a difficult task!

Each photo we decide to use has to be adjusted in PhotoShop. Since they will appear fairly small, I need to crop them to show only the critical parts. Then I have to make sure they are at least 300 dpi. Photos can’t be dragged and dropped into the text, so they have to be inserted in a specific spot.

All the articles have to be formatted for publication, and the styles have to be consistent from article to article so we can combine them in the final manuscript.

I have probably spent forty and sixty hours a week for the past couple of months on this project, and there is still quite a bit to do.

We have targeted the end of the summer for receipt of all the material and responses. Then I’ll combine everything into one cohesive book. Once all the final material is combined, I will start at the beginning and do a complete edit of the entire manuscript—including more deletions.

We hope to have the book ready for publication by the beginning of next year. Our intention is to have it available for Kindle and in print on Amazon. We also expect to have copies available at the church. This will be an expensive book to produce and purchase because many of the photos are in color, but it will be a valued keepsake for those who shared in the experiences.

So, if you don’t hear from me for the next couple of months, you know what I’ll be doing!

The church today in its new location (as of 1968)

Swallows Day Parade

Happy Swallows Day 2018!

For the last thirty years we’ve lived here, and the seventeen years before when we spent weekends here, we have assiduously avoided San Juan Capistrano on Swallows Day. Larry doesn’t like crowds. We’ve never had kids in the parade. Although friends have marched, we have never even seen it—until today.

Larry was asked to take pictures of the group from Community Presbyterian Church where we were members for well over forty years. The church will celebrate its 100^th anniversary next year, and they are trying to get out the word.

They arranged for a wagon with large banners to carry those who were unable to walk the whole parade route. Another large group walked. Larry followed the group, going back and forth from the wagon to the walkers taking photos. I decided to go along with Larry at the last minute. I figured I’d wave them off and then walk around town until they came back.

However, the group organizers wanted the wagon to be full, so I was invited to ride along.

I loved seeing all the great costumes of the various groups. The local Acjachemen (Juaneño) Indians in their native costumes represented the first people of this area well. The costumes of the Mexican Chinelo dancers were the most colorful I saw, and there were lots of them.

The traditional riders’ groups, mounted color guard groups (two of them), the Marines from Camp Pendleton, groups representing the mission itself, the local theater, and several local schools, as well as marching bands created a delightful mix of sights and sounds.

Okay, I’ll admit I had a great time. I don’t think I need to do it again, but we’ll see next year.

NYC Part IV - Holy Ground

Last week, I described our bus tour of the city. This week, our visit to the 9-11 memorial.

The Big Bus stopped about three blocks from the 9-11 memorial. Everyone disembarked with us, and we made our way through the ice and slush and wind toward One World Trade Center in the distance. Because of our tight schedule, we had no time to go up in the tower, nor did we have time to visit the museum. They’re on the list for our next tip.

We heard the sound of water before we reached the plaza. We approached the pools and were moved by the many names engraved deeply into the granite. Here and there, a flower had been placed into the deep groove of a letter—a reminder of the families and friends of those who were lost and who continue to miss them. The footprints of the original towers struck me as enormous. The sound of water cancels out the sounds of the city as it falls from the outer rim to pound onto a second level. Then it flows into a small, square pool, where it finally drops into an abyss at the bottom and disappears from sight. Just as the towers fell and disappeared. Holy ground.

Larry circled the pools while I remembered the events of the day as if it had been the day before. We woke early and turned on the TV as usual to see the weather and traffic reports. Suddenly, the local feed shifted to the national news. Behind the reporters, smoke billowed from one of the towers. They announced a small plane had crashed into it. The incident was believed to be an accident—until another plane hit the second tower. I turned to Larry. “We’re at war.”

I watched as first responders rushed to the scene, and then as the towers crumbled. I remember the ‘ghosts’ who ran from the disaster covered in ash. Specific images of people remain vivid in my memory. I kept waiting for an announcement about a movie being filmed, hoping against hope this was a joke. It wasn’t.

As I stood next to a pool reading the names, it began to rain. Larry said it was just the spray from the falling water, but I was sure God’s tears blended with my own. Sacred space.

We headed back toward the bus stop. As we turned, I spotted an enormous structure next to the museum. From the end, it looked like a giant dove, whose wings consisted of thin concrete ribs. We were freezing and decided to step inside to warm up. The interior resembled a giant cathedral. Between the ribs, large glass panels revealed the surrounding buildings. We have been to the Crystal Cathedral in southern California several times. This space reminded me of the church. The sides of the interior met in a tall pointed arch.

As we looked down, we noticed a stage. We found it easy to imagine a concert in the space. The lower floor was lined with shops and stores. Two more levels rose along the sides. We found our way to the next floor down and followed it around to the exit closest to our next stop. We discovered this building, known as the Oculus, is actually the transportation center for the memorial site. Although no trains were running, this soon will be visitors’ introduction to the memorial. Beautiful, functional art.

Before we left, I wanted to visit St. Paul’s Chapel, George Washington’s church. I had read about this special location. It survived several major catastrophes untouched to become a source of comfort for survivors and first responders. For weeks following September eleventh, those working on the site were fed here. They slept in the sanctuary and found comfort from the congregation and clergy.

On our way, we passed the graveyard. The fence surrounding it was used for memorials in the days following the collapse of the towers. I looked to the right and spotted one of the old headstones in three pieces. I immediately remembered my great-grandmother’s headstone in the old cemetery in Spring City, Utah. We stopped there while on our road trip in 2012. I was moved just by seeing the names of those people from whom I descend. I have inquired a couple of times about having the headstone repaired, but the person who used to do the work is no longer available. Because this is a private cemetery, I assured those I spoke with that we would be happy to pay for the restoration. When I mentioned it to my cousins, they also said they would contribute. The last I heard, it is still in pieces, just like the one at St. Paul’s.

Larry took photos of the old gravestones while I entered the chapel. A preschool class colored on the floor in the center of the sanctuary. I smiled when I realized this was the perfect image for this special place. It isn’t a dead museum. It is a living place where the congregation continues to worship and serve. Testament to faith.

We re-boarded our bus, deeply moved by our short visit. By the second stop, everyone else had left. Once again, we claimed the very front seats on the second level. Our guide turned off the microphone and moved to the seat behind us.

He shared his story of that infamous day in 2001. He lives in Brooklyn. At the time, he was attending Columbia University, just a couple of blocks from the World Trade Center. The school announced an accident in one of the towers. Unlike management in the towers themselves, those in charge told the students to evacuate the school immediately.

As he left, he saw a huge cloud of smoke and ash rise above the city streets. He headed toward the bridge and passed “ghosts” covered with ash. Since no transportation was available, he began to cross the bridge, along with many others. He said he developed a new respect for the bridge. Today he never crosses it without remembering his escape from the city. He said he loves sharing his love of the city and his experiences with visitors. I wish we had asked his name—another friendly and memorable person we met in New York.

Sacred space. Holy ground. Divine locations. We are still processing their emotional impacts.

Next week: Our night on Broadway.

A Fond Farewell

On Thursday, March 5, we marked the end of an era. On that day, we celebrated the life of our dear friend Edith Banning-Josef, who’d died two days earlier.

People are often called unique, but I have never known anyone else quite like her. She certainly marched to the beat of her own drummer.

We first met her over forty years ago when she brought her two boys to church. From that point on, no one who attended our contemporary service could miss her. She sat in the back row on the aisle and ‘managed’ the service.

She was hard to miss. A tiny bird-like woman, she nearly always wore leggings and a sweatshirt. She particularly favored a hot pink one with three small fuzzy teddy bears and pink hearts. I made it over twenty years ago for a church sale. Edith bought it, and every time she wore it, she pointed it out to me to make sure I remembered.

When the church was on a schedule with Sunday school between services, the kids remained for the entire first service. Edith decided they should take the collection, and each week, she chose the kids for this job. They were delighted when she picked them. If one of our kids brought a friend, Edith often asked the friend to participate. What a marvelous way to let a child know they were welcome!

1982

She truly had a heart for kids. She assisted in a classroom at the local elementary school for years, helped in Sunday school, and taught vacation Bible school. She had a particularly close relationship with my daughter, Kim, since she was the same age as Edith’s younger son. Edith’s nickname for Kim was ‘Snookie Cookie.’ (Where it came from, we never knew.) Before long, Kim called her the same thing. Even last Christmas when Kim visited church, they greeted each other that way.

After Kim moved to Texas, the first question Edith always asked us was, “How is Kim doing?” When talking with friends at the reception following Edith’s memorial service, I discovered she did the same with most of the kids who had grown up in the church.

All her involvement with our church was ironic because she never joined. I periodically invited her to become a member, but she always told me she had joined the church as a girl and didn’t feel the need to belong to ours, even though she attended regularly. She finally said she would join when David did. (He’d also been attending for years without becoming a member.) I suspect she said it to shut me up. When David finally joined the church about three years ago, I reminded her of her promise. Of course, she still declined.

Edith had the heart of a Deacon and performed lots of Deacon-like activities—even though we could never give her the official title. Whenever we held an event, Edith was there to help. She cared deeply about people, and always enjoyed our fellowship events. She was a guest in our home for several of these and had a great time.

1999

For many years, she and my mother spent Friday afternoons at the church folding the bulletins for Sunday morning. They became good friends. When Mom’s senility incapacitated her, we moved her to an assisted living facility. Edith made a point to visit her at least once a week. As Mom deteriorated, we had to relocate her to a nursing home. Edith continued to visit each Saturday. We always knew she’d been there because we’d sometimes find a cookie on a paper towel with a note written on it: Vera’s. Do not eat. She often left a bunch of wild flowers in a little bottle from which she’d soaked off the label.

On the day Mom died, we took her onyx ring to Edith since we wanted her to have it. We didn’t think she should hear the news from someone else or over the phone. We told her she could wear the ring, keep it, sell it, or give it away. She said she wanted one of her granddaughters to have it.

Fortunately, we have our old church directories since very few photos exist of Edith. Her niece confirmed that Edith didn’t like to have her picture taken. She said many of the family photos show Edith with her hands over her face.

This is ironic because she always had a camera in her hand. Over the years, she must have taken thousands of pictures of events at the church—but we never saw any of them. When asked about them, she said they were all on slides and she didn’t have a projector. We offered to let her use ours, but then she couldn’t find the slides. (No surprise.)

We speculated that she might not have had film in the camera, but after she died, her boys found several rolls of undeveloped film with her cameras.

Between services, we have coffee hour on the patio in front of the entrance. One of her ‘jobs’ at the church was to ring a school bell to let everyone know it was time for the second service to begin. I guess we’ll have to find someone else to do that job now.

2006

We will miss our friend Edith very much, but we consider ourselves so very blessed to have had her in our lives for so many years.