As I'm venturing out beyond 'journalism' in my writing, I've realized something about myself - it's not about the "job", it's about the passion I have for the work I do. Writing is a way for me to leave my mark on the world, a way for me to impact enormous amounts of people (someday) by what I have put on paper.
I am actually at peace with my writing now - not stressed out about what my bosses are going to think or what the repercussions of dropping an F*bomb may be. I love writing because of what I can accomplish with it - I can preserve a memory, I can stop time. How many other activities do you get to have a superpower?
Showing posts with label Saint John Musings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Saint John Musings. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Beyond language is emotion
Major (Ret'd) Harold A. Skaarup told two other stories that broke my heart once again. After listening to Stephen Puddicomb speak, I'm still not really 'over it' and I just wanted to run out of the auditorium but as always, I'm so glad I stayed.
He told us a story of ten villagers who didn't speak his language but linked arms to stop them from hitting a mine in the road. They couldn't thanks the strangers because there would be retaliation but these people risked their lives to save his.
The second story involved a man running towards Skaarup's convey, arms flailing wildly. Of course, numerous guns were aimed on him quickly - who was he? Was he dangerous? What did he want? There was a flash flood that had caught two children. One was rescued but the other, a little girl, was still under the water. The water was sludge and sewage but one of the men Skaarup was with jumped in and hauled the little girl out. In the water, he began giving her mouth-to-mouth but no one was able to say it had been too long - about 15 minutes. The little girl was dead. The villagers came around to the man and although they couldn't speak in his language, just put their hands on his shoulder to say 'it's okay, we know you tried.' The power of these sorts of stories - the ones that aren't told - are just overwhelming. The village had previously been hostile but because of this, because this man had tried to save this little girl, they were always welcome.
I can't really state an overarching moral or life-lesson to this story - it's heartbreaking and sad - but the power that was in those words, the crack in his voice, the apology for showing true emotion, that's true humanity. It's more powerful than a few words on a blog - but it needs to be remembered.
Skaarup left us with this and so, I'm going to finish with it.
"We are not over there to fix the problem...We're trying to keep it there so it doesn't come here."
He told us a story of ten villagers who didn't speak his language but linked arms to stop them from hitting a mine in the road. They couldn't thanks the strangers because there would be retaliation but these people risked their lives to save his.
The second story involved a man running towards Skaarup's convey, arms flailing wildly. Of course, numerous guns were aimed on him quickly - who was he? Was he dangerous? What did he want? There was a flash flood that had caught two children. One was rescued but the other, a little girl, was still under the water. The water was sludge and sewage but one of the men Skaarup was with jumped in and hauled the little girl out. In the water, he began giving her mouth-to-mouth but no one was able to say it had been too long - about 15 minutes. The little girl was dead. The villagers came around to the man and although they couldn't speak in his language, just put their hands on his shoulder to say 'it's okay, we know you tried.' The power of these sorts of stories - the ones that aren't told - are just overwhelming. The village had previously been hostile but because of this, because this man had tried to save this little girl, they were always welcome.
I can't really state an overarching moral or life-lesson to this story - it's heartbreaking and sad - but the power that was in those words, the crack in his voice, the apology for showing true emotion, that's true humanity. It's more powerful than a few words on a blog - but it needs to be remembered.
Skaarup left us with this and so, I'm going to finish with it.
"We are not over there to fix the problem...We're trying to keep it there so it doesn't come here."
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Looking for Lost Canadian History
Harold Skaarup is not the average historian from what I can tell - he's tall, short, white hair, clear, sharp eyes, and a deep voice. He reminds me, in ways, of Race Bannon, a body/security guard in the cartoon 'The Adventures of Jonny Quest' which makes sense, I suppose, since Skaarup is newly retired from the army. In a white, short sleeved button up t-shirt, black casual vest, and dark pants, he wasn't intimidating but definitely had my attention. He picked me out and asked if I was writing for something or doing homework - I replied that I blog. He told me not to believe everything I hear from him - I told him if people believed everything on my blog, I'd appear to be a terrible person. People do have their own perception.
Skaarup introduced himself without saying his name - he began by explaining New Brunswicker's were famous for their storytelling, which was a tool for bridge building, forging relationships. He explained he was working in Kabo with a team of 27 people from 14 countries. I sat, interested of course, but trying to understand what this had to do with any sort of history. He had to learn to say 'good morning' to each of these people in their language. If he said hello to one person and not the other, the person he ignored was sulky all day. It was easier to greet them all. In his interactions, he learned about their culture and continued (admittedly, I'm still interested and confused).
He told us a joke - a snail gets on a turtles back and is excited because it's a fast ride - the joke was not the point so, I didn't write it down. To the Germans, a joke is serious - you say it seriously (of course, Skaarup said the joke in German -I am impressed). To the Turkish people, a joke is quiet because otherwise, it is assumed the person telling the joke loudly is drunk and that is immoral - so he tells the joke (in yet another language). Then...the Italians - he has hand gestures and movements and loudly explains...it's a full body experience to tell a joke!
He explained that, in Bosnia, when asking if a road was safe, a Turkish man asked about the weather. Skaarup thought this man was avoiding the topic. The Turkish man asked about Skaarup's family - which didn't make sense either at the time. Skaarup explained that culture and interaction were not amiss in this situation. The weather was crucial because the enemies would place mines in banks along the roads - when the heavy rains came - the mud washed down (as did the mines) and the road was unsafe. His family was of interest because "An officer who doesn't take care of his family is unlikely to take care of his men." The story of joke telling began to make sense - every culture is different but writing it off because it's different could be deadly.
The topic of the night was "Looking for Lost Canadian History" and Skaarup asked for the help of the audience in the room. There are writings of Norse origin on Ontario (Peterburough) - doesn't it make sense that they trekked through the Atlantic provinces?
As Skaarup is explaining this, he begins talking about the Battle of the Plains of Abraham (which was linked to his first relative in the NB area). Admittedly, I was more attentive to the animation this man displayed - he walks back and forth explaining the battle in a manner I have never seen. He explains how the British are down on the ground - and he drops to the floor pretending to hold a firearm. He paces the stage, speaking in a haughty British accent - as he begins to bark orders he screams "PRESENT" and tells us to look at the distance (the length of the room) in which they were firing. "FIRE," Skaarup screams, his brow shining in the glow of the projector. He explains how General Wolfe was hit - retracting his wrist in mock pain and lurching to the side to portray a shot to the ribs.
Admittedly, I'm still slightly confused as to how this relates to lost Canadian history...but I'm captivated. The next story was easier to follow as to what is lost and needs to be found.
The HMCS Niabe's guns were used to defend the Port City (that is, Saint John) in WWII. Skaarup began tracking down guns (cannons). 530 guns were brought back from the Great War, 26 were given to New Brunswick. In WWII, scrap metal was needed to make machines - and Saint John offered their guns to the war effort. These pieces of history are gone - only 6 have been accounted for but there are more. Skaarup estimates 30-40% of the identities of the cannons are actually inaccurate. People put what they think the gun is on a $5000 plaque but don't know for certain. Skaarup began recording where the guns were and what kind they were. Saint John has the only 5.5 inch gun in Atlantic Canada as most were melted into scrap metal. He explained he's looking for them - and would like help finding them.
Skaarup explained he wrote about his uncle who was killed in a tank in Italy. He didn't get the opportunity to tell his story. Skaarup explained, "As a New Brunswicker, that's not right." Skaarup wrote about his uncle to get the story out there - to tell a story that should have been told by him.
He continued on his quest to find lost Canadian history by explaining about a report of a submarine that had sank off the coast of PEI. He was told by the Dept of History not to ask. The British sank the submarine so the Germans wouldn't get the technology or the boats....but if that sub is found, there is a chance to prove friendly fire killed four men - and that would be negative historical press. The official report was that a ship, smaller than the sub, collided with something but there is a letter from J. Edgar Hoover stating it had to be sunk because it had turned against them. Skaarup wants to find the sub and be able to put it in the hands of a museum.
His next quest involved finding out about a rocket. He rants in a British accent about Canadians not needing rocket intelligence, and then explains (in a slightly Newfoundland-like accent - pronouncing there as 'dere' but I believe that is his actual accent although maybe not NFLD-based), a young officer takes a case of whiskey, get's the British security drunk so the Canadians can steal the rocket with some sledgehammers and a flatbed truck in the dead of night. After painting it grey, adding some wood and calling it a submarine, they get it past Customs and in Canada, realize it's live. They hose the liquid out (since they're not blown up) but the rocket disappeared. He also mentioned there have been thousands of machine guns brought to Canada...he's found 4 in NB. These are the sorts of things that are in people's attics and wants help finding.
Finally, he explained about a Hawker Hurricane - an airplane - that crashed between here and St. Stephen. The family has pieces of the airplane - Joe (the fellow who found it) was killed in an airplane crash - but it was never found. Where is it? "I believe it exists," Skaarup said, "I just can't find it yet."
He said that there was another form of airplane - one that had a front and back propeller that was brought over but once the general attempted to fly it - the explosive in the back detonated and the general was dead as a doornail. Needless to say, there were not a lot of pictures of that type of plane but especially, of that one in particular.
Skaarup is looking for the following things:
-the Hawker Hurricane
-parts of guns and Cannons from WWI
-1300-1400 crossbow pieces or evidence of people in Canada in this time-period verified on-site by archeologists
-the PEI submarine
He wants their stories. He wants to know why they are there, who the people where, what happened, when it happened - he's giving people who did not tell their stories a voice once again. If anyone has any information about these items, e-mail hskaarup@rogers.com or comment on the TinkerTimes and I'll get you in contact one way or another.
If interested in learning more about Major (Ret'd) Harold A. Skaarup, check out his books here.
The next two stories he told, I'll save for my next post.
Note: This post is free to be reproduced for any non-profit organization in any way provided credit (and notification) is given to me (Samantha Tinker).
Skaarup introduced himself without saying his name - he began by explaining New Brunswicker's were famous for their storytelling, which was a tool for bridge building, forging relationships. He explained he was working in Kabo with a team of 27 people from 14 countries. I sat, interested of course, but trying to understand what this had to do with any sort of history. He had to learn to say 'good morning' to each of these people in their language. If he said hello to one person and not the other, the person he ignored was sulky all day. It was easier to greet them all. In his interactions, he learned about their culture and continued (admittedly, I'm still interested and confused).
He told us a joke - a snail gets on a turtles back and is excited because it's a fast ride - the joke was not the point so, I didn't write it down. To the Germans, a joke is serious - you say it seriously (of course, Skaarup said the joke in German -I am impressed). To the Turkish people, a joke is quiet because otherwise, it is assumed the person telling the joke loudly is drunk and that is immoral - so he tells the joke (in yet another language). Then...the Italians - he has hand gestures and movements and loudly explains...it's a full body experience to tell a joke!
He explained that, in Bosnia, when asking if a road was safe, a Turkish man asked about the weather. Skaarup thought this man was avoiding the topic. The Turkish man asked about Skaarup's family - which didn't make sense either at the time. Skaarup explained that culture and interaction were not amiss in this situation. The weather was crucial because the enemies would place mines in banks along the roads - when the heavy rains came - the mud washed down (as did the mines) and the road was unsafe. His family was of interest because "An officer who doesn't take care of his family is unlikely to take care of his men." The story of joke telling began to make sense - every culture is different but writing it off because it's different could be deadly.
The topic of the night was "Looking for Lost Canadian History" and Skaarup asked for the help of the audience in the room. There are writings of Norse origin on Ontario (Peterburough) - doesn't it make sense that they trekked through the Atlantic provinces?
As Skaarup is explaining this, he begins talking about the Battle of the Plains of Abraham (which was linked to his first relative in the NB area). Admittedly, I was more attentive to the animation this man displayed - he walks back and forth explaining the battle in a manner I have never seen. He explains how the British are down on the ground - and he drops to the floor pretending to hold a firearm. He paces the stage, speaking in a haughty British accent - as he begins to bark orders he screams "PRESENT" and tells us to look at the distance (the length of the room) in which they were firing. "FIRE," Skaarup screams, his brow shining in the glow of the projector. He explains how General Wolfe was hit - retracting his wrist in mock pain and lurching to the side to portray a shot to the ribs.
Admittedly, I'm still slightly confused as to how this relates to lost Canadian history...but I'm captivated. The next story was easier to follow as to what is lost and needs to be found.
The HMCS Niabe's guns were used to defend the Port City (that is, Saint John) in WWII. Skaarup began tracking down guns (cannons). 530 guns were brought back from the Great War, 26 were given to New Brunswick. In WWII, scrap metal was needed to make machines - and Saint John offered their guns to the war effort. These pieces of history are gone - only 6 have been accounted for but there are more. Skaarup estimates 30-40% of the identities of the cannons are actually inaccurate. People put what they think the gun is on a $5000 plaque but don't know for certain. Skaarup began recording where the guns were and what kind they were. Saint John has the only 5.5 inch gun in Atlantic Canada as most were melted into scrap metal. He explained he's looking for them - and would like help finding them.
Skaarup explained he wrote about his uncle who was killed in a tank in Italy. He didn't get the opportunity to tell his story. Skaarup explained, "As a New Brunswicker, that's not right." Skaarup wrote about his uncle to get the story out there - to tell a story that should have been told by him.
He continued on his quest to find lost Canadian history by explaining about a report of a submarine that had sank off the coast of PEI. He was told by the Dept of History not to ask. The British sank the submarine so the Germans wouldn't get the technology or the boats....but if that sub is found, there is a chance to prove friendly fire killed four men - and that would be negative historical press. The official report was that a ship, smaller than the sub, collided with something but there is a letter from J. Edgar Hoover stating it had to be sunk because it had turned against them. Skaarup wants to find the sub and be able to put it in the hands of a museum.
His next quest involved finding out about a rocket. He rants in a British accent about Canadians not needing rocket intelligence, and then explains (in a slightly Newfoundland-like accent - pronouncing there as 'dere' but I believe that is his actual accent although maybe not NFLD-based), a young officer takes a case of whiskey, get's the British security drunk so the Canadians can steal the rocket with some sledgehammers and a flatbed truck in the dead of night. After painting it grey, adding some wood and calling it a submarine, they get it past Customs and in Canada, realize it's live. They hose the liquid out (since they're not blown up) but the rocket disappeared. He also mentioned there have been thousands of machine guns brought to Canada...he's found 4 in NB. These are the sorts of things that are in people's attics and wants help finding.
Finally, he explained about a Hawker Hurricane - an airplane - that crashed between here and St. Stephen. The family has pieces of the airplane - Joe (the fellow who found it) was killed in an airplane crash - but it was never found. Where is it? "I believe it exists," Skaarup said, "I just can't find it yet."
He said that there was another form of airplane - one that had a front and back propeller that was brought over but once the general attempted to fly it - the explosive in the back detonated and the general was dead as a doornail. Needless to say, there were not a lot of pictures of that type of plane but especially, of that one in particular.
Skaarup is looking for the following things:
-the Hawker Hurricane
-parts of guns and Cannons from WWI
-1300-1400 crossbow pieces or evidence of people in Canada in this time-period verified on-site by archeologists
-the PEI submarine
He wants their stories. He wants to know why they are there, who the people where, what happened, when it happened - he's giving people who did not tell their stories a voice once again. If anyone has any information about these items, e-mail hskaarup@rogers.com or comment on the TinkerTimes and I'll get you in contact one way or another.
If interested in learning more about Major (Ret'd) Harold A. Skaarup, check out his books here.
The next two stories he told, I'll save for my next post.
Note: This post is free to be reproduced for any non-profit organization in any way provided credit (and notification) is given to me (Samantha Tinker).
People watching in Brunswick Square
While sitting in the Brunswick Square food court, drinking a large coffee (two sweetener, one cream) from Tim Horton's - the only spot open at the moment - the sights and sounds are distracting me from reading my newly purchased book from the University book sale.
The muffled crash of the water fountain in the center of the court is currently flowing bright yellow water in support of the Canadian Cancer Society. Tiny yellow droplets spit in every direction. While cheery in appearance, the sound is definitely leaving my tiny bladder slightly confused.
The noise of the fountain is overpowered by the incessant humming of the lights - most of which aren't turned on. This is leading me to feel as though I were in a slightly reclusive coffee shop, not a typically busy food court. If it were any darker, I'd be transported back in time to a 1940s bar atmosphere where the room was filled with wafting cigarette smoke and I'd be holding a cocktail, not a Tim's cup.
The elevator music is also competing for my attention - an upbeat guitar with a touch of resonance (that is what it's called, I believe) is only an afterthought though. The lights are rather like a swarm of hornets - they make their presence known.
A security guard catches my attention - young, rather hard looking face. This probably isn't his ideal job. He looks bored but at the same time, in the back of his mind, he must be thankful. Boredom in his profession must equate to safety. If not for his shoes, he would blend into his surroundings perfectly. Black jacket with SECURITY on the back, bright yellow liner barely visible in the front, black, decent fitting trousers, but bright blue sneakers...Rebock brand, I think.
As the time passes, closer and closer to the lecture at the New Brunswick museum, the number of people sitting in the food court rises. With this increase, the lights slowly come on. The Museum lights glow a soft yellow but I am unsure when they were turned on. Their warm presence, for some reason, makes me think of walking home in the snow after dark and seeing houses - cozy inside - with the same glow.
One woman in particular catches my attention. With perfectly coiffed hair, bright eyes, and absolutely amazing legs, her heels catch my attention as she passed my table three times. She is impeccably dressed in a trench coat and lovely skirt. Her attention to detail is remarkable. Her shoes, black, ankle height, high heeled boots, completely destroy my persona of the older generation. She is of my grandmother's generation - and I am jealous of her stockinged legs. Her face is not hard - but stern. If I were to guess her profession years ago, I would imagine she was a teacher or a principal. The way she holds her jaw says "No funny business" and "behave yourself."
The majority of people walking by are elderly but spry. Joining together, obviously familiar with each other, I am the outsider looking in. I am watching, listening, learning and yet, do not understand yet. Someday, I will look back at this and perhaps, I will understand. I hear them speak about a person who had a heart attack - it is a sharp reminder that yes, I am different. We aren't speaking about the same news, are we.
In contrast, three high-school aged youth walk past. Inexperienced eyes meet experienced for a moment of acceptable judgment. Older people are too boring. This young girl has rainbow coloured hair. Old people are unable to do anything. Young people are lazy. It's never said out loud - it may not have even been thought - but it happens often in one way or another.
A mother and child's gleeful cries stop me from furthering down this interesting path of judgment and age. The child - a little blonde haired girl with shoulder length hair is in a bright green sweater and Ugg-like brown boots. She runs aimlessly, carefree - but is doing exactly what I am doing - watching people. Her mother, a pixie-like woman, tiny with blonde hair, runs to catch her. She takes her daughter down the escalator, letting her leap off and swing in her mothers arms at the bottom. How big must an escalator be to her little eyes?
My professor interrupts my people-watching to ask about the books I bought at a sale earlier. Apparently, he is trying to get rid of books but tells me of other sales. I can't help but notice his glasses - I'm not sure if they are new or just different - dark rimmed. He has, in my mind, always been the stereotypical appearance of a professor - tan jackets, elbow patches, greying hair, old enough to be respected but young enough to be lively. He's got an old-school charisma about him.
A young boy - perhaps seven or eight - catches my attention. He's staring at the bright yellow fountain in baggy black sweatpants and a black cap, just pondering why the water is so bright. At the same time, the little blonde girl is capturing hearts. Her father swoops her up as she begins to cough but once she stops, she screams every child's favorite word only once - NO - as he heads for the exit with her. She's not finished yet.
An elderly man with a walker passes my table. His back is slightly hunched showing off his bald head. His face droops slightly giving the appearance of being tired or slightly grumpy. At one time though, no doubt, he was a handsome strapping man. He's still tall, rather broad shouldered but thin. The stories he must have...
Two more children walk past with their parents in tow. The children are dismissible from my attention - rather average and boring. The parents, however, are identically dressed in powder blue, long sleeved, button up shirts, and dark blue, almost black, khaki pants. The woman slightly feminizes her rather masculine appearance and short haircut with three rows of ruffles on either side of the buttons of her shirt.
An elderly gentleman notices a woman coming to join them for coffee. His group - perhaps four or five - is crowded around a couple of tables. Being of a different (and perhaps, better) generation, he immediately gets up and gets the woman a chair. My prejudice got the best of me as I was surprised by his dexterity. He moved quicker than I could, I'm sure. While a different generation, I can imagine them younger - enjoying time on the Boardwalk perhaps, probably with different groups or even different boardwalks - but maybe not.
Finally, the elevator music seems to play a conclusion as I check my cellphone for the time. Yes, this session of people-watching has ended and I, along with the older generation of men and women, head into the museum for the lecture.
The muffled crash of the water fountain in the center of the court is currently flowing bright yellow water in support of the Canadian Cancer Society. Tiny yellow droplets spit in every direction. While cheery in appearance, the sound is definitely leaving my tiny bladder slightly confused.
The noise of the fountain is overpowered by the incessant humming of the lights - most of which aren't turned on. This is leading me to feel as though I were in a slightly reclusive coffee shop, not a typically busy food court. If it were any darker, I'd be transported back in time to a 1940s bar atmosphere where the room was filled with wafting cigarette smoke and I'd be holding a cocktail, not a Tim's cup.
The elevator music is also competing for my attention - an upbeat guitar with a touch of resonance (that is what it's called, I believe) is only an afterthought though. The lights are rather like a swarm of hornets - they make their presence known.
A security guard catches my attention - young, rather hard looking face. This probably isn't his ideal job. He looks bored but at the same time, in the back of his mind, he must be thankful. Boredom in his profession must equate to safety. If not for his shoes, he would blend into his surroundings perfectly. Black jacket with SECURITY on the back, bright yellow liner barely visible in the front, black, decent fitting trousers, but bright blue sneakers...Rebock brand, I think.
As the time passes, closer and closer to the lecture at the New Brunswick museum, the number of people sitting in the food court rises. With this increase, the lights slowly come on. The Museum lights glow a soft yellow but I am unsure when they were turned on. Their warm presence, for some reason, makes me think of walking home in the snow after dark and seeing houses - cozy inside - with the same glow.
One woman in particular catches my attention. With perfectly coiffed hair, bright eyes, and absolutely amazing legs, her heels catch my attention as she passed my table three times. She is impeccably dressed in a trench coat and lovely skirt. Her attention to detail is remarkable. Her shoes, black, ankle height, high heeled boots, completely destroy my persona of the older generation. She is of my grandmother's generation - and I am jealous of her stockinged legs. Her face is not hard - but stern. If I were to guess her profession years ago, I would imagine she was a teacher or a principal. The way she holds her jaw says "No funny business" and "behave yourself."
The majority of people walking by are elderly but spry. Joining together, obviously familiar with each other, I am the outsider looking in. I am watching, listening, learning and yet, do not understand yet. Someday, I will look back at this and perhaps, I will understand. I hear them speak about a person who had a heart attack - it is a sharp reminder that yes, I am different. We aren't speaking about the same news, are we.
In contrast, three high-school aged youth walk past. Inexperienced eyes meet experienced for a moment of acceptable judgment. Older people are too boring. This young girl has rainbow coloured hair. Old people are unable to do anything. Young people are lazy. It's never said out loud - it may not have even been thought - but it happens often in one way or another.
A mother and child's gleeful cries stop me from furthering down this interesting path of judgment and age. The child - a little blonde haired girl with shoulder length hair is in a bright green sweater and Ugg-like brown boots. She runs aimlessly, carefree - but is doing exactly what I am doing - watching people. Her mother, a pixie-like woman, tiny with blonde hair, runs to catch her. She takes her daughter down the escalator, letting her leap off and swing in her mothers arms at the bottom. How big must an escalator be to her little eyes?
My professor interrupts my people-watching to ask about the books I bought at a sale earlier. Apparently, he is trying to get rid of books but tells me of other sales. I can't help but notice his glasses - I'm not sure if they are new or just different - dark rimmed. He has, in my mind, always been the stereotypical appearance of a professor - tan jackets, elbow patches, greying hair, old enough to be respected but young enough to be lively. He's got an old-school charisma about him.
A young boy - perhaps seven or eight - catches my attention. He's staring at the bright yellow fountain in baggy black sweatpants and a black cap, just pondering why the water is so bright. At the same time, the little blonde girl is capturing hearts. Her father swoops her up as she begins to cough but once she stops, she screams every child's favorite word only once - NO - as he heads for the exit with her. She's not finished yet.
An elderly man with a walker passes my table. His back is slightly hunched showing off his bald head. His face droops slightly giving the appearance of being tired or slightly grumpy. At one time though, no doubt, he was a handsome strapping man. He's still tall, rather broad shouldered but thin. The stories he must have...
Two more children walk past with their parents in tow. The children are dismissible from my attention - rather average and boring. The parents, however, are identically dressed in powder blue, long sleeved, button up shirts, and dark blue, almost black, khaki pants. The woman slightly feminizes her rather masculine appearance and short haircut with three rows of ruffles on either side of the buttons of her shirt.
An elderly gentleman notices a woman coming to join them for coffee. His group - perhaps four or five - is crowded around a couple of tables. Being of a different (and perhaps, better) generation, he immediately gets up and gets the woman a chair. My prejudice got the best of me as I was surprised by his dexterity. He moved quicker than I could, I'm sure. While a different generation, I can imagine them younger - enjoying time on the Boardwalk perhaps, probably with different groups or even different boardwalks - but maybe not.
Finally, the elevator music seems to play a conclusion as I check my cellphone for the time. Yes, this session of people-watching has ended and I, along with the older generation of men and women, head into the museum for the lecture.
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