Creative History

                    On the Monday after Easter all work and farming in the Medieval English village comes to a halt.  The town is completely quiet.  Yesterday had been spent in church; in prayerful reflection on the divine mystery of Christ’s sacrifice, but today is being spent in relaxation for the old and on playful flirtatious diversion for the young. With the early springtime sun shining down, birds twittering in the trees and a gentle breeze blowing in the air about two dozen teenagers, young men and women in the prime of life, gather in an open field. Four of them are carrying stools.  The four stools are arranged on the field in a circle with each stool being placed, approximately, twenty yards away from the other.   One young maiden stands in front of one of the stools with a flattened stick, a bat, in her hands.  A young man, possibly a potential suitor, stands in the middle of the...

            Friday morning begins normally enough.  It is cloudy and overcast, a little gloomy with a slight chill in the air but it is nothing that the residents of New England aren’t used to.  After all, this time of year the temperature does fluctuate rapidly, with one day being warm and humid, summerlike, and the next cold and stark almost like winter. It is May 19, 1780 and the New England and Mid-Atlantic states have been in the grip of America’s War for Independence for over five years.  Much of the countryside is ravaged, many of the cities are still under British control, but led by George Washington, the Continental Army of the United States continues to survive and the spirit of American patriotism is proving resilient and indomitable.  There is reason for both hope and despair, but no one expects what this day is about to bring. At around ten in the morning the overcast sky begins to change colors turning from a pi...

“South Street is burned down...exchange place is bured down...Wall Street is burned down.” -from the New York Courier and Enquirer December 17, 1835           The temperature has dropped to a frigid negative 20 degrees Fahrenheit.  It is the middle of the night December 16, 1835.  Gale force winds begin whipping through the meadowlands of New Jersey. The Hackensack and Passaic Rivers are frozen solid.  Only a few hours ago a bright full moon had illuminated the meandering waterways of ice and made them glow like reflective glass serpents as they wound their way through the marshlands. Now, those same frozen rivers are glowing eerily pink in the night like something from a martian landscape, and the moonlight is obscured by dark and ominous clouds of smoke. In New Jersey the sky is glowing red.  All of lower Manhattan has become one solid wall of flame.  The foreboding glowing red sky can be seen as far away as Philidelphia ...

“Anti-aircraft batteries dotted the heavens with beautiful, if sinister, bursts of orange shrapnel.” -from The Los Angeles Times February 25, 1942 The city descends into darkness.  It is a complete blackout.  Sirens wail; pedestrians hurriedly scamper for the nearest shelter and motorists turn off headlights then anxiously speed through unregulated intersections. Soon searchlights can be seen criss-crossing the night sky making luminescent X’s across the high wispy clouds on the horizon.  Sounds are heard approaching from somewhere to the west--droning sounds growing louder and louder; getting closer and closer by the minute.  Engines? Hastily trained civilian radar operators see blips begin to appear--multiple hazy dots across their tiny screens--and they begin to wonder what they are.  Are they enemy bombers?  Weather balloons?  Flocks of seagulls over the Pacific ocean? Soon, everyone hears the distinct pop pop pop sound of anti-aircraft art...