Sanctum Sanctorum - Overrun!
2. An inviolably private place: The clubhouse was their sanctum sanctorum.
So last night my Sanctum Sanctorum was overrun. And I was allright with it all, indeed, I had invited them in. But it felt like a passage - wasnt I the only one who had seen it - labored on it for a couple years.. took a sledge hammer to a wall when it needed expanding, cursed when its roof wouldnt stop leaking? Wasnt I the one who had a bed out there, sleeping in it, so I could rise before the dawn and test my latest drillings quickly. Hadnt I spent countless silent summer afternoons on off days tweaking, soundtracking, photographing .. dreaming .. it didnt seem real. Two weeks ago a small group had come to be the first and that still felt private, as did my small family's visit. I could give small groups a look through my keyhole .. but last night was different .
They came in waves .. the first group precisely at six .. 8 of them, not too bad but one had a father who had lectured in his high school planetarium .. they were asking to see constellations .. wheres the lady in the chair one small child asked, startling me .. yet one husband exclaimed as he exited .. 'Im VERY impressed, you dont get this level of detail at a public planetarium' ... we did a standup runthru of my history theater, this I was more unsure of .. but they seemed interested in the pyramids and castle and even the titanic .. they laughed at the mummy in the big pyramid .. this was encouraging .. they left happy
But then the waves started. The second group arrived one van at a time .. home schoolers with their parents ... I had to put them in the barn .. first there were 6 .. then 4 more .. then 8 more .. the room filled up ... wait, theres more coming they said .. finally I had a crowd of over 30 big ones and little ones buzzing about me .. would they fit? They fit .. somehow.. they spilled out onto the floor, the kids did .. they were polite, asked good questions .. my sanctum sanctorum suddenly a church with a hushed multitude behind me.. it wasnt perfect - I bumbled with my constellation flashlights .. I spoke as much about building it as using it .. the history of it .. HPA .. the whole picture .. they drank it all in ..
Then came my own moment of truth .. they piled back into the Star Theater to see the pyramid show.. and here I was .. the stars I knew I could do, but a stage show - ??? - a sinking ship ... a castle with a comet .. a ghost in the machine .... I did it though ..and they laughed.. they gasped on cue when the mummy emerged .. they made 'jack' jokes when the titanic music played - this wasnt perfect either - I got out of sync with my music and had to stall - I just admitted it and laughed, told them this was SHOW ONE for this place and they seemed happy to be part of developing it .. there were no expectations .. just happy people there in my sanctum sanctorum ..
We went out and it was clear and saw the real constellations .. they were interested in everything .. a small boy uttered the quote of the night .. all of about 7, he looked up at me and uttered ... now I know what I want to study in college....
I hope he does. But even if he doesnt, I told them that Halleys comet would be back in exactly 50 years, 2161, and they might see it. And if they did, I asked them to remember this night in their distant childhood, and maybe a little comet dust would come up out of their memories.
There may be many reasons I built this sanctum sanctorum. but this was surely the best.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Titanic Survivors - Lifeboat 15 - Elisabeth, Eleanor, and Harold Johnson
Mrs Oscar W. Johnson (Alice ?Elisabeth Vilhelmina Backberg), 24, was born 24 January 1885.
Elisabeth was Married to editor Oscar Walter Johnson and lived with him and their children Harold Theodor and Eleanor Ileen in St. Charles, Illinois.
She and the children were returning from a visit to Oscar's parents home in Ramkvilla, Småland, Sweden. They travelled via Malmö (where they bought their tickets) and Copenhagen. They boarded the Titanic at Southampton.
Elisabeth and her children got into one of the last lifeboats on starboard side either lifeboat 13 or 15. A man, probably Gunnar Tenglin stepped out of the lifeboat to offer a place. After that he found there was still room left in the lifeboat and stepped back in.
In New York she was quartered on St. Lucas Hospital, where Red Cross gave them an unknown sum of money and a new trunk. 24 April she travelled via Chicago on her way home to St. Charles.
Her husband died in 1917, she then married Carl Peterson who died in 1964. Elisabeth Peterson (late Johnson, née Berg) died 19 December 1968.
Notes
Another source suggests she was in Finland visiting her dying father.
References
Claes-Göran Wetterholm (1988, 1996, 1999) Titanic. Prisma, Stockholm. ISBN 91 518 3644 0
Contributors
Phillip Gowan, USA
Leif Snellman, Finland
Travelling Companions (on same ticket)
Master Harold Theodor Johnson
Miss Eleanor Ileen Johnson
Elisabeth was Married to editor Oscar Walter Johnson and lived with him and their children Harold Theodor and Eleanor Ileen in St. Charles, Illinois.
She and the children were returning from a visit to Oscar's parents home in Ramkvilla, Småland, Sweden. They travelled via Malmö (where they bought their tickets) and Copenhagen. They boarded the Titanic at Southampton.
Elisabeth and her children got into one of the last lifeboats on starboard side either lifeboat 13 or 15. A man, probably Gunnar Tenglin stepped out of the lifeboat to offer a place. After that he found there was still room left in the lifeboat and stepped back in.
In New York she was quartered on St. Lucas Hospital, where Red Cross gave them an unknown sum of money and a new trunk. 24 April she travelled via Chicago on her way home to St. Charles.
Her husband died in 1917, she then married Carl Peterson who died in 1964. Elisabeth Peterson (late Johnson, née Berg) died 19 December 1968.
Notes
Another source suggests she was in Finland visiting her dying father.
References
Claes-Göran Wetterholm (1988, 1996, 1999) Titanic. Prisma, Stockholm. ISBN 91 518 3644 0
Contributors
Phillip Gowan, USA
Leif Snellman, Finland
Travelling Companions (on same ticket)
Master Harold Theodor Johnson
Miss Eleanor Ileen Johnson
Sir Fulke Greville - the ghost of Warwick Castle
he atmosphere of magnificent Warwick Castle is redolent of secrecy, mystery and intrigue, and to enter the spooky, fourteenth century Ghost Tower is a somewhat scary experience. Decorated in Jacobean style, with a gateway leading from the base to the river, this tower is said to be haunted by the restless spirit of Sir Fulke Greville, who was murdered there by his manservant.
A prominent Elizabethan-Jacobean courtier, Greville lived from 1554 to 1628 and was a gifted poet. Warwick Castle was granted to him in 1604 by James I, and he was at one time Chancellor of the Exchequer. On leaving this post in 1621, he was raised to the peerage and given the title of Baron Brook.
The castle had fallen into a state of advanced decay, and from the date he acquired it until his death, Greville devoted his time and fortune to its restoration. The gardens he planted were said to be unparalleled in this part of England, though during the Civil war they were dug up for gun emplacements by the garrison defending the castle.
Inside the gloomy Ghost Tower, creaks, groans and mutterings emanate from dark doorways as one explores the two rooms, one up one down, in which Greville lived whilst the castle was undergoing repairs. As one climbs the stairs to the bedroom, low voices, recounting the chilling tale of the murder, penetrate the inky blackness. They tell how, while Greville and one of his man-servants are away in London, an argument breaks out between the two men. It concerns the contents of Greville's will, Ralph Heywood, the manservant, being convinced that his master, however generous in his plans for the restoration of the castle, has been less so towards himself. Believing that Greville has not bequeathed to him his rightful due he draws a knife and stabs Sir Fulke; after which, realizing the enormity of the deed he has committed, he turns the blade on himself and dies immediately.
Greville, however, lingers on in agony, until after 27 days, despite the efforts of his surgeons, he too succumbs. His body is brought from London back to Warwick Castle, and he is laid to rest in St. Mary's Church in the town. His ghost, it is said, still haunts the tower that was once his home; for dying an unnatural death, his soul is said to be unquiet. On his death, Greville being unmarried and without heirs, the estate goes to his adopted heir, Robert Greville, the second Lord Brooke.
A prominent Elizabethan-Jacobean courtier, Greville lived from 1554 to 1628 and was a gifted poet. Warwick Castle was granted to him in 1604 by James I, and he was at one time Chancellor of the Exchequer. On leaving this post in 1621, he was raised to the peerage and given the title of Baron Brook.
The castle had fallen into a state of advanced decay, and from the date he acquired it until his death, Greville devoted his time and fortune to its restoration. The gardens he planted were said to be unparalleled in this part of England, though during the Civil war they were dug up for gun emplacements by the garrison defending the castle.
Inside the gloomy Ghost Tower, creaks, groans and mutterings emanate from dark doorways as one explores the two rooms, one up one down, in which Greville lived whilst the castle was undergoing repairs. As one climbs the stairs to the bedroom, low voices, recounting the chilling tale of the murder, penetrate the inky blackness. They tell how, while Greville and one of his man-servants are away in London, an argument breaks out between the two men. It concerns the contents of Greville's will, Ralph Heywood, the manservant, being convinced that his master, however generous in his plans for the restoration of the castle, has been less so towards himself. Believing that Greville has not bequeathed to him his rightful due he draws a knife and stabs Sir Fulke; after which, realizing the enormity of the deed he has committed, he turns the blade on himself and dies immediately.
Greville, however, lingers on in agony, until after 27 days, despite the efforts of his surgeons, he too succumbs. His body is brought from London back to Warwick Castle, and he is laid to rest in St. Mary's Church in the town. His ghost, it is said, still haunts the tower that was once his home; for dying an unnatural death, his soul is said to be unquiet. On his death, Greville being unmarried and without heirs, the estate goes to his adopted heir, Robert Greville, the second Lord Brooke.
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