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ENLARGE
THEN AND NOW
Edna Van Leuven
When you think about it, a lot of life is seen by looking through glass windows of one sort or the other. We look through the windows of our homes, of our cars, through those in stores, office buildings, in buses and trains and airplanes, and not many of them are “rose colored,” just plain old ordinary glass.
I remember so many times, during my long life, of looking through assorted windows that proved to be about events that had changed the lives of all of us. One of these was during the spring of 1945 as the train my husband and first son were traveling in from Philadelphia to Fort Myers, Fla., where he was going for bombardier training. The conductor had told us that our train would be passing — during the evening hours — the one bearing President Franklin D. Roosevelt's body along with his wife Eleanor from Warm Springs, Georgia to Washington, D.C.
The conductor came around just before the time we would pass the other train, and told us it was coming. We stood in the aisle by our compartment and watched that sad train, it's windows blackened, as our president's body passed within a few feet of our train. It was a difficult time for all of us. FDR had been just about the only president I had known through all of my growing up years.
But later, after a few hours of sleep — as dawn appeared — I looked out of our compartment window to see orange trees in full bloom. I was amazed; this Philadelphia girl had never seen citrus trees blooming before. I was used to apple trees and occasionally a peach tree bearing fruit somewhere along one of New Jersey's many highways on our way to the seashore for vacation.
My sons and I often talk about the huge buffalo — whose picture we got that takes up the entire film — as he tried to push over our car just outside of the Mount Rushmore area. Doug put that little car in gear and we took off, and none too soon. But coming into Mount Rushmore was another revelation for all of us. Coming down that highway, going around a bend in the road, suddenly those huge faces came into view and we were all open jawed at what we saw.
Years later, when Van and I had just moved to the very tiny, mountain town of Lowman, Idaho, our new neighbors asked us if we wanted to drive to Stanley for lunch. They said we needed to go soon since the highway would be closed just passed Lowman for the winter due to the chance of avalanches. Of course we said yes. The four of us drove down that winter highway, on a cold, crisp day and off to our right were the Sawtooth Mountains. Spectacular!
Stanley is a small town, bigger than Lowman, but we had a nice lunch and later I was to think this was the only time Van was to ever see that little place and those beautiful mountains.
If you were from a place where you thought the Poconos were big mountains, just imagine what it would be like to see all of the western mountains that you pass coming west from the east. The Rockies, the Tetons, the Sierras, and all of the rest are so different than the rolling hills of Pennsylvania.
Back in the early 1940s my first husband and I were — along with his mom and dad and brothers — visiting one of their aunt and uncle's house in Jersey City, N.J. Their uncle worked for the railroad and they lived in a row house that was high on a hill adjacent to the huge railroad depot area. There seemed to be hundreds of tracks, and as I looked out of the kitchen window, it was not the trains that caught my eye but a lady in the water, the Statue of Liberty.
Then, of course, was the first time — on a school trip — I saw the Liberty Bell. Then, it was out in the open and you could actually touch it; now it is encased in glass.
But another memory, last but not least, is my memory of looking at the New York skyline from a restaurant in the Twin Towers.
Memories of looking out through the “looking glass.” Don't we all have a lot of those?
Edna Van Leuven is a Churchill County resident.
I remember so many times, during my long life, of looking through assorted windows that proved to be about events that had changed the lives of all of us. One of these was during the spring of 1945 as the train my husband and first son were traveling in from Philadelphia to Fort Myers, Fla., where he was going for bombardier training. The conductor had told us that our train would be passing — during the evening hours — the one bearing President Franklin D. Roosevelt's body along with his wife Eleanor from Warm Springs, Georgia to Washington, D.C.
The conductor came around just before the time we would pass the other train, and told us it was coming. We stood in the aisle by our compartment and watched that sad train, it's windows blackened, as our president's body passed within a few feet of our train. It was a difficult time for all of us. FDR had been just about the only president I had known through all of my growing up years.
But later, after a few hours of sleep — as dawn appeared — I looked out of our compartment window to see orange trees in full bloom. I was amazed; this Philadelphia girl had never seen citrus trees blooming before. I was used to apple trees and occasionally a peach tree bearing fruit somewhere along one of New Jersey's many highways on our way to the seashore for vacation.
My sons and I often talk about the huge buffalo — whose picture we got that takes up the entire film — as he tried to push over our car just outside of the Mount Rushmore area. Doug put that little car in gear and we took off, and none too soon. But coming into Mount Rushmore was another revelation for all of us. Coming down that highway, going around a bend in the road, suddenly those huge faces came into view and we were all open jawed at what we saw.
Years later, when Van and I had just moved to the very tiny, mountain town of Lowman, Idaho, our new neighbors asked us if we wanted to drive to Stanley for lunch. They said we needed to go soon since the highway would be closed just passed Lowman for the winter due to the chance of avalanches. Of course we said yes. The four of us drove down that winter highway, on a cold, crisp day and off to our right were the Sawtooth Mountains. Spectacular!
Stanley is a small town, bigger than Lowman, but we had a nice lunch and later I was to think this was the only time Van was to ever see that little place and those beautiful mountains.
If you were from a place where you thought the Poconos were big mountains, just imagine what it would be like to see all of the western mountains that you pass coming west from the east. The Rockies, the Tetons, the Sierras, and all of the rest are so different than the rolling hills of Pennsylvania.
Back in the early 1940s my first husband and I were — along with his mom and dad and brothers — visiting one of their aunt and uncle's house in Jersey City, N.J. Their uncle worked for the railroad and they lived in a row house that was high on a hill adjacent to the huge railroad depot area. There seemed to be hundreds of tracks, and as I looked out of the kitchen window, it was not the trains that caught my eye but a lady in the water, the Statue of Liberty.
Then, of course, was the first time — on a school trip — I saw the Liberty Bell. Then, it was out in the open and you could actually touch it; now it is encased in glass.
But another memory, last but not least, is my memory of looking at the New York skyline from a restaurant in the Twin Towers.
Memories of looking out through the “looking glass.” Don't we all have a lot of those?
Edna Van Leuven is a Churchill County resident.
