Papa's Birthday

Grave nights

We had a thunderstorm tonight. It was the kind of storm that would have sent Paws scurrying under the bed. Storms frightened her. Instead of being under the bed, Paws was in her grave which is near the entrance to my oriental garden. I try not to think about it. The wound caused by her loss is too new. I try to think about other things. When I worked in the yard today, the first day in more than a week that was hospitable to those seeking to be outside, I passed by her grave several times and left roses for her.

My garden is a cemetery. As we chose a location for Paws’ grave, my son B commented that we are running out of room. We have buried three dogs, four cats, two guinea pigs, a frog, and one hundred koi and comets in our yard. Our dog Windsor was the first pet we buried in the woodland garden. His death was unexpected. I couldn’t find him one morning and after searching the house I went outside and found him in the area near the fence appearing to be asleep. As we buried him and said some words over his grave, the bells at the nearby church began to ring as they do at six o’clock every evening. When we buried Cutty Sark, our Scottish Terrier, next to Windsor 10 days later we chose the same time. Every evening I would sit on the bench in the woodland garden , listen to the bells ring, and cry.

I wanted to bury Paws next to her brother Goliath, but the area is filled with roots. Paws is buried in good place. It gets sun in the morning and it’s cool during the heat of the day. A weeping cherry is next to the site and I will plant a hydrangea on top of where she sleeps forever.

A Piece of My Heart

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Our oldest cat Paws died tonight. She had been failing for weeks, so I knew her days were numbered. Watching her grow weaker every day and knowing there was nothing I could do to stop the inevitable was agonizing. I didn’t want her to suffer, but at the same time I didn’t want to let her go. Every day that she stayed with me was a gift and during her last two days I was able to be near her, comfort her, and let her know how much she meant to me.

Paws was part of our lives for 14 years and 7 months. She was born under my son A’s bed, the offspring of a pregnant barn cat that we adopted. Paws initially went to the home of one of my son B’s friends, but she was returned to us when the family discovered their live in babysitter/cousin was allergic to cats. Paws’ mother Phantom and her brother Goliath had bonded by the time Paws came back to us, so she was always an outcast. Goliath was the big lovable one and Phantom was my lap cat. Paws was the one we hardly noticed. She was quiet, independent, and didn’t seek our attention. After the others died, Paws was basically an only cat even though we had seven other cats. Our younger cats were kept upstairs because they harassed Paws and our two older dogs dislike cats. Paws was much older and not very active, so she could coexist with the dogs and could easily be separated from them.

My life with Paws fell into a pattern. Every morning she would greet me, meowing a hello and beckoning me to her food dish or water bowl. When I sat down at the computer after breakfast Paws would come to me to have her head scratched and then she would share my chair with me. When she wasn’t next to me she would sit in the “old lady chair” in the living room, on the floor in a patch of sunlight, or on the round table next to the window where she had a good view of the front yard. If there was a thunderstorm, she would sleep under our bed because storms scared her. Most nights she slept in her chair in the living room and if she got bored, she would scratch at the bedroom door.

Paws died in the same room where her mother died next to the room were she was born. I wish she could have been with us for many more years, but I take comfort in the fact that she had a good life. The house is empty without her. I know as the days pass I will look for her in her old familiar places and maybe, before I remember that she is gone, I will catch a glimpse of her out of the corner of my eye. She will always be with me.

“Another cat? Perhaps. For love there is also a season; its seeds must be resown. But a family cat is not replaceable like a worn out coat or a set of tires. Each new kitten becomes its own cat, and none is repeated. I am four cats old, measuring out my life in friends that have succeeded but not replaced one another.” ~Irving Townsend
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gloom & Doom

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My daughter has a nickname for me: "Debbie Downer". Debbie was a fictional character on Saturday Night Live. The character developed into a slang phrase referring to anyone who spreads bad news and negative feelings, thus bringing down the mood of everyone around them. My Uncle Phil's wife, Aunt Francis, was the original Debbie Downer. My mother called her "the voice of gloom". The only time Aunt Francis ever called our family was to tell us that someone had died or some other bad thing had occurred.

I don't view myself as a Debbie Downer, but sometimes I hear about something that really bothers me or circumstances arise that so overwhelm me with negative feelings that I need to share with someone. Sharing often makes me feel better, but unfortunately, it also has the effect of ruining someone else's day.

The past few days have been rainy and gloomy. The constant rain and the inability to enjoy my garden have caused me to dwell on several situations over which I have no control. First, the baby elephant at the Louisville Zoo died. Scotty was a favorite of staff and visitors, and I remember taking pictures of him the last time I visited the zoo. Knowing that this oversize baby is gone make me extremely sad.

Second, shelters have been killing animals without giving them time to be adopted or rescued. Spring is puppy and kitten season which means shelters are overflowing with unwanted babies, pregnant animals, and animals with babies. My anger and frustration with ignorant, irresponsible humans is boundless. People are dumping animals using every lame excuse and several shelters have flooded which has caused overcrowding in other shelters and overburdened rescues. One rescue, that has helped a previously high kill shelter become low kill, may have to close due to financial difficulties. When I try to talk to family members about all the needless suffering and situations over which I have no control, they tell me they don't want to hear about it.

Probably the real reason I feel down is that Paws, my 13 year old cat, is fading away before my eyes and there is nothing I can do about it. During the past several weeks Paws has lost half her body weight. She has gone from being strong and robust to frail and skeletal. Her voice, which used to be loud and conversational, is soft and weak. I force feed Paws several times a day to keep her from dehydrating and I go to bed ever night fearing that she will be dead in the morning. It hurts me to look at what she has become, but it hurts me more to think about losing her.

I don't want to be a Debbie Downer. I want to focus on what is good in life and the things that make me happy, but even on the sunny days when all is well with the world, there is always a cloud nearby waiting to cast a shadow. If listening to another person eases a pain or lessens a burden, my ears and shoulders are waiting. I would like to think others would be willing to do the same for me.

“Shared joy is a double joy; shared sorrow is half a sorrow” ~Swedish Proverb

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Beginnings and Endings

cemetaries

Miss Wilson

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When I moved to Louisville in 1978, I had no job, no friends, and no car. When finding employment proved to be impossible and being isolated in a small apartment while my husband attended classes was more than I could bear, I decided to volunteer at the art library at the Speed Museum. The museum was adjacent to the law school at the University of Louisville and every Tuesday and Thursday I would ride to and from the museum with my husband. While performing research, dry mounting photos, and updating files I became acquainted with another volunteer, Elizabeth Wilson. Miss Wilson was petite and pleasantly plumb. She had a sweet round face, a full head of white hair, and was many years my senior. She was also one of the most interesting and knowledgeable people I had ever met. Despite the difference in our ages, we soon became friends. We talked for hours while working in the library and began to have lunch together. For some reason Miss Wilson enjoyed my company and my husband and I began spending time with her outside the museum.

Miss Wilson was born in 1902 and was one of three sisters. Her father and a brother died when she was young and she was raised by her mother. All three sisters were talented and interesting. Miss Wilson often spoke about her childhood and her life. She was involved in the theater when she was young and she was the coordinator of the Louisville Service Club during World War II. She lived in Germany after the war working with the United Service Organization. Miss Wilson is mentioned in the encyclopedia of Louisville and the Elizabeth A. Wilson Papers are available in The Filson Historical Society Special Collections: http://kdl.kyvl.org/static/findaids/kyead/kyead_KUK-Knt001309.html

Miss Wilson was like a surrogate mother to me. She often praised me and encouraged my endeavors. She was kind and generous. She was a living archive and shared her time and interests with me and my family. Miss Wilson mentioned me and my husband in the annual Christmas letter she sent to friends. She and her sisters invited us into her sister’s home during the holidays and my children visited her in the nursing home after she fell and required temporary care. Unfortunately, as my children grew older and their activities and work overtook my life, my contact with Miss Wilson decreased. We still exchanged Christmas cards and notes, but we no longer spent time together. New friends partook of Miss Wilson’s knowledge and enthusiasm for life. I thought of her often, but, to my great regret, did not make an effort to renew our relationship.

Miss Wilson died January 28, 2000 at the age 97. At her funeral friends spoke of her most recent interests, including donating a doll that had been in her family for many years and learning gospel songs. Miss Wilson and her sisters had no children and she was survived by one cousin. Her friends were her extended family. I am honored to have been one of Miss Wilson’s many friends.

Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive. ~Anais Nin
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Camp

A Garden of Memories

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Memory is a way of holding onto the things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to lose. ~From the television show "The Wonder Years"

I always wanted to create a memory garden filled with plants, bushes, and flowers associated with special people and pets. A memory garden can honor a deceased loved one or recognize the living. It can also include mementos related to events, special occasions, or something in our lives we don’t want to forget. I don’t have an area in my yard that I can dedicate to this type of garden, so I have been planting “special” flowers and rose bushes here and there. In my front yard against the picket fence I planted a Constance Spry rose in remembrance of my Aunt Connie and every year I plant impatiens aka Patient Lucy in memory of my Aunt Lucy. My mother was one of three sisters and my father had four sisters. They were neighbors and grew up together. I planted a Seven Sisters rose bush in the berm near our pond to honor all of them. Although the majority of my memory plants were chosen to remember someone who is deceased, some of the plants in my garden recognize the living. I planted an Adam’s Needle next to the pond in honor of my oldest son.

Choosing the right plant for my memory garden isn’t always easy. Most of the time I try to find a namesake plant: a plant with a name similar to the person I am honoring. I searched many months to find a plant named Kelly to plant in memory of my oldest son’s deceased friend. Sometimes I choose plants that are related to a memory. My grapevine covered arbor is a daily reminder of my paternal grandfather Joseph who had his own grape arbor. Chinese lanterns grow in my front yard under an old tree just as similar plants grew in the backyard of my Uncle Johnny and Aunt Annie in New York. The lilac bush that blooms near my vegetable garden every May reminds me of my childhood in Rochester, New York, which is known as the lilac city. The lilacs in the yards of my childhood bloomed in May and I always thought they were a birthday gift to me.

Although those who are special to us always remain in our hearts and memories having visible reminders is a special joy. The johnny jump ups planted for Uncle Johnny and the Michaelmas Daisies planted for Uncle Mike, the lilac bush that blooms every May, and the Eternal Flame hostas planted on the graves of my pets are comforting to me. The problem with planting flowers or bushes in remembrance of a person is that there is always the chance that the plant won’t survive. This has happened to several of my memory plants. The rose bush “Mary Rose” that I planted in memory of my mother and her sister Rose, the Kelly plant I selected for Kelly, and an “Angel Face” tree rose planted for my Uncle Butch (aka Angelo) failed to thrive in my garden. The loss of a memory plant is always a reminder of the fragility of life.

Many gardens don’t survive their creators. Sometimes I wonder what will happen to my garden after I am gone. Will one of my children or the person who lives in my house pick up a shovel and hoe and continue my work? Will the plants I loved and tended be overtaken by weeds or perish due to lack of care? Will the ground grow fallow like it did in my grandfather’s vegetable garden? Some plants, like my grandfather’s grapevine, continue on their own unattended and become a living legacy. How will my children remember me? "Where my caravan has rested, flowers I leave you on the grass." ~Monica Dickens
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mother’s Day

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Today is Mother’s Day. It is also my 60th birthday. The two days always fall within the same week if not on the same day and I always feel cheated because there will be only one celebration instead of two. Turning 60 doesn’t seem so significant. In reality I am only one day older than I was yesterday. As for Mother’s Day, I doubt that the day will be special in any way. My daughter is in Paris and my two sons probably don’t even remember that this day is not only Mother’s Day, but also my birthday. What is significant about this day is that it is one more Mother’s Day that I will not be able to call my mother or send her flowers.

My mother died twenty years ago. I remember those last weeks very clearly because it was the year I was turning 40. My children were young, ages 1, 5 and 8. I had planned to send my mother 40 roses for my birthday to thank her for my life. However, things don’t always go the way we plan. First of all, I didn’t have the money to send her 40 roses. Second, my mother was in the hospital on my birthday. She had been in the hospital before because of her diabetes and the problems it caused, but this time she called me and requested that I come visit her, something she had never done before. I viewed this request with foreboding.

My husband and I celebrated my 40th birthday at a restaurant. What I remember most about that meal was me crying because I knew this upcoming visit would probably be the last time I would see my mother. My daughter and I flew to Rochester the next day. For two weeks I visited my mother daily. My daughter played by her bedside and visitors came and went. Some times my mother was lucid and other times she seemed near death. I remember she said to one visitor in my presence, "I'm too young to die." The physicians gave us no hope and my family discussed funeral arrangements. During that time and in my absence my oldest son “graduated” from the school he had attended for six years and my father-in-law died unexpectedly. The following week I returned to Kentucky with the intention of returning to New York in a few weeks with all of my children. My mother died before I could return.

I was not my mother’s favorite child. I don’t ever remember my mother hugging me, telling me she was proud of me, or saying she loved me. I can count the vacations we went on together on one hand. Many times during my childhood I felt unloved and unwanted. What I do remember is that my mother was always there when I needed her. I miss her every day.

“On Mother's Day I have written a poem for you. In the interest of poetic economy and truth, I have succeeded in concentrating my deepest feelings and beliefs into two perfectly crafted lines: You're my mother, I would have no other!” ~Forest Houtenschil
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Simple Gifts

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My children and husband always ask me what I want for my birthday, Mother’s Day or Christmas. I could name dozens of things I want or would like to have, but few things I really need. For some reason I prefer to give gifts rather than receive them. When my husband and I were dating, I would often surprise him with a little gift: a small book, an inexpensive item from a store that we could use together like a kite we could fly or a toy boat we could sail in a local quarry, or something simple, but useful that he wouldn’t think to buy for himself. I continued this practice of giving small gifts with my children. When they were young I would buy them a book every month purchased from the sale table at a local bookstore. I gave them treat bags for Halloween, Easter baskets for Easter, and bags of candy for St. Valentine’s Day. I enjoyed filling their Christmas stockings with useless items and candy. I purchased Advent boxes for them when they were young and still continue the practice of filling the boxes with small items to count down the days to Christmas. They complain and often tell me I can discontinue the practice, but I know they would miss having something to look forward to each day. This year when I didn’t get around to creating bags for St. Valentine’s Day my older son asked me if I had forgotten.

Many years ago when I had more time than money, I made gifts for family members. One year it was bathrobes. Another year I made needlepoint Christmas stockings, pillows, and ornaments. Sometimes the gifts were simple like homemade cookies, candy and pizzelles. My sister-in-law said those were her favorite gifts. I too have discovered that the simplest gifts are the ones I love the most. A drawing or card made at school, photographs hand colored by my daughter, an inexpensive gift chosen because the giver knew I would like it, a hand painted vase filled with handmade paper flowers.

Every year when my children ask what I would like for Christmas, I always tell them to have their photo taken with our dogs and Santa. I think they don’t realize how much that photo means to me. I keep the most recent one next to my desk and look at it many times during the day. When I tell my children I don’t need anything, I am being truthful. They are my gift.

“You give but little when you give of your possessions.
It is when you give of yourself that you truly give.” ~Khalil Gigran
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

School Days

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When I was a child in the 1950’s I attended Theodore Roosevelt Elementary School aka #43. Like most neighborhood schools at that time it was within walking distance of my house and many of my schoolmates were friends and neighbors. Very few children rode a bus to school. Most of the children, like me, walked to school in all kinds of weather and went home for lunch. The school had a lunchroom in the basement for those who rode buses to school.

#43 played a major role in my life for eight years and I have a clear picture in my mind of the layout of the building, the teachers whose names I still remember, and my classmates. The school had two floors. Kindergarten through grade 3 were located on the first floor and 4th through 7th grades were on the second floor. The administrative and nurse’s offices were on the first floor on the north side of the building and the kindergarten classes had their own small wing on the south side. A gymnasium with a balcony and stage was in the center of the building and seats were set up by the janitor for assemblies, recitals, and plays. The school had a fenced-in playground and parking lot in the back.

The school had a music teacher with his/her own room, an art teacher, and a workshop where students learned woodworking and other skills. Music lessons and other activities , such as gymnastics classes, were offered by private individuals after school hours for a fee. Students were released early one afternoon a week to attend religious instruction classes off the school property. The school did not have a library, but once a week a bookmobile would come to the school and we would be allowed to check-out books.

Teachers were respected and students were expected to be polite and well-behaved. Students were sent to stand in the hallway or to the principal’s office for the slightest infractions and in those days paddling was acceptable. It was a privilege to be assigned chores, like cleaning the erasers, picking up the milk for snack time, and running off copies in the school office. If you arrived at school too early, you had to stand in line outside the entrances leading to your classrooms until the bell rang. If the weather was inclement, students were allowed to line up inside, but members of the safety patrol ensured everyone remained in line and kept their voices low.

We played kickball, baseball, and dodge ball during gym classes and auditioned for plays and the school choir. We recited the Pledge of Allegiance every morning before school began and we collected money for the red cross in little white boxes. Student hygienists visited the school once a year to clean our teeth and we received the polio vaccine in sugar cubes that were lined up on trays. I remember singing a song at a school recital, having one line in a school play about Theodore Roosevelt (I still remember the line!), and being a Dutch girl with my blond hair braided for a kindergarten performance. I remember making Valentine boxes for St. Valentine’s day, sitting on the hallway floor with my head down during air raid drills, and the smell of clay kept in a big jar in the closet in my Kindergarten classroom.

Those were the days before children were over-scheduled with after-school activities and lessons, and they went home to stay-at-home mothers instead of empty houses. Children played outside with friends instead of sitting in front of televisions and computer screens, and people read books to learn what they didn’t know. I don’t know if those days were better, but parents didn’t make excuses for bad behavior, children were taught to respect themselves and others, and values were more important than money and self-gratification.

Intelligence plus character--that is the goal of true education. ~Martin Luther King, Jr.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Obligations and Resentment

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mother’s Day is fast approaching and, as the days pass, my resentment grows. It will be another day I will have to share with my mother-in-law and another day that I will not be able to spend with my mother. I will have to buy a gift and make a meal while trying to ignore the fact that my mother is gone. I feel petty and mean to express these feelings, but I can’t deny them.

My mother-in-law is not a bad person. She has many good qualities and never intentionally hurt me. She is elderly and is not the same person she used to be. What upsets me is not that my mother-in-law isn’t my mother. It is the fact that she was not a good grandmother. When my oldest son, their first grandchild, was born almost thirty years ago, my in-laws came to the hospital and then went on vacation. It isn’t as if the birth was unexpected or they had jobs that required them to choose that week. It was a conscious decision on their part. As my family grew, my in-laws' involvement with their grandchildren did not increase. My mother-in-law occasionally babysat at our house when we asked and my in-laws picked up our children every Sunday morning so they could be indoctrinated in their religion. They never took their grandchildren out for a snack or meal, never took them to a park or to see a movie, and never suggested that they come to their house for a few hours so they could spend some time together. Only one of my children ever spent a night at their house and that was because my husband and children bought me a puppy as a surprise for my birthday/mother’s day and my younger son didn’t want the puppy to spend the night alone at his grandparents' house.

My mother-in-law was 68 when my father-in-law died. She was relatively young and healthy. My children took piano lessons for a period covering at least 16 years and had at least two recitals each year. My mother-in-law attended two recitals. My children were also involved in sports: soccer, field hockey, wrestling, baseball and basketball. My in-laws came to one of my oldest son’s soccer games when he was four, left early, and never came to another sports-related event. My mother-in-law missed my daughter’s solo performance at a Grandparent’s Day at school and her last performance in a play at a drama school because she had other obligations. She often tells stories of the experiences she had with her grandparents, and my husband has memories of being with his grandparents, but my mother-in-law chose not to be involved in the lives of her grandchildren. Instead she chose to spend time with friends, volunteered at her church, a hospital and a nursing home, was active in clubs, and played bridge.

I have come to the point in my life where I realize I will probably never have grandchildren and, if I do, they will probably live far away or I will be too old to be the kind of grandparent I would like to be. I imagine myself reading to them, baking cookies with them, feeding the fish, exploring the garden, going out for lunch, seeing a movie, and taking them places I visited with my children. I resent the fact that my mother-in-law had the opportunity to know and spend time with her grandchildren and decided they weren’t important enough. I resent the fact that my family had planned to move to New York so we could be near my relatives, but both of my brothers-in-law announced they were moving out-of-state, thereby obligating us to stay in Kentucky so my mother-in-law wouldn't be alone. I resent the fact that I have spent too many Mother's Days with my mother-in-law and too few with my mother. And most of all, I resent the fact that this Mother’s Day will be another day without my mother.

The tragedy of life is not so much what men suffer, but rather what they miss. ~Thomas Carlyle
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Old Friends

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Almost forty years ago my husband had a college roommate named Gregg. For two years they shared a room at their fraternity house and their senior year they rented an apartment together. Gregg asked his girlfriend Jodie to find a blind date for his roommate. I was the victim/winner depending upon your perspective. Jodie and Gregg were married in June after we graduated from college and my husband and I were married the following November. Fast forward thirty something years. In March 2009 Gregg showed up on our doorstep. He and his second wife were ending their marriage, they had sold their house, and Gregg was unemployed. He was estranged from his brothers and hadn’t spoken with his only daughter in ten years. Gregg had no money, no home, no job, no vehicle, and nowhere to go. He came to his old friends and we took him in.

Gregg lived with us for eight months. He shared our meals, watched TV with us every evening, and celebrated holidays with us. He partied with my children and their friends on Derby Day and joined us when we went out to dinner to celebrate the birthdays of various family members. Gregg borrowed my husband’s car to get to work when he finally found employment and borrowed clothes when needed. He drank too much, smoked too much, and worked too little. The older version of Gregg was a shadow of the person we had known. He called himself a minimalist because he had shed or lost everything he had and traveled with the few possessions that he owned. For eight long months we shared our home, our food, and our family with someone we had known for three brief years almost four decades ago. Gregg ultimately found employment in China teaching English as a second language and left on a new journey.

People have asked why we took Gregg in and how we were able to have someone live with us for so many months. The answer, of course, is how could we not. What kind of people would we be if we turned our backs on someone who didn’t have any options or resources? Wouldn’t we want someone to help us if we were in a similar situation? When I hear that someone is homeless or living in a shelter, I always ask myself, “Don’t they have family or friends?” Saying we believe in the Golden Rule and actually treating others the way we want to be treated may not always be easy or convenient. In the end, all we have is each other.

“A friend is the one who comes in when the whole world has gone out.” ~Grace Pulpit
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Progress, Prudence, and Preservation

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Many of my memories are associated with buildings: a favorite store, a much frequented restaurant, the site of a celebration. Every time one of these businesses closes and the building is leveled or another business opens in the same location, it is as if a part of our past has been taken away. One of the places that had many memories for my family was the White Castle restaurant in St. Matthews. My husband remembers the building from his childhood. We took my nephew and niece to the restaurant when they visited us from upstate New York in the late 1980’s and we often went there with our children for an afternoon snack or an after game treat. My sons and their friends would always walk to White Castle when they had sleepovers at our house. Standing in line behind an intoxicated customer at midnight was a common experience because the restaurant was one of the few places that was open late at night.

In April 2002 the White Castle in St. Matthews closed its doors after 63 years in business. The reason given by the powers that be was the location could not accommodate a drive-thru window. Offers were made to buy the restaurant in an attempt to keep it from closing, but the offers were rejected. The company claimed other locations in the area were being considered for a new restaurant. Eight years later St. Matthews still lacks a White Castle restaurant and the site of the old building is now occupied by a bank with a drive-thru window. Unfortunately, destruction of “landmarks” in the name of progress is all too common.

I yearn for the days when I could go downtown to shop at large department stores like Stewart's in Louisville, KY or Sibley's in Rochester, NY. I miss buying fabric and buttons at Baer’s Fabric on Market Street, a family owned business that had been in operation for 103 years before closing in July 2008, and seeing a movie at a neighborhood theater like the Vogue which was within walking distance of my home. Businesses are closed and buildings are razed in the name of progress, but the modern replacements lack the charm, character and memories of the ones they replace.

Today many cities in America are similar. The names of the cities are unimportant. We might as well call them anyplace, USA. You can shop at the same stores and dine at the same restaurants anywhere you travel. Being able to eat Kentucky Friend Chicken or McDonald’s burgers in China or France is not progress. Closing a restaurant that was part of a community for 63 years under false pretenses and replacing it with a bank when there were 20 other banks within a two mile radius was a decision based on corporate greed rather than the needs and desires of the community. Progress should be tempered with prudence and preservation. The bank building on the site of the old White Castle may be more aesthetically appealing, but it is just another bank. White Castle was an old familiar friend that can't be replaced.

"A building does not have to be an important work of architecture to become a first-rate landmark. Landmarks are not created by architects. They are fashioned by those who encounter them after they are built. The essential feature of a landmark is not its design, but the place it holds in a city's memory. Compared to the place it occupies in social history, a landmark's artistic qualities are incidental." ~Herbert Muschamp
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Derby Day