Per usual I was running late getting home from work. My son needed (his choice of word) to go into New York City to visit friends. He had to catch the 5:40 train, which meant I had to drive him to the station. The dog needed to go out. Son hadn’t figured out that one. First things first: attend to dog. A recent storm left ice that was smooth and slick on the hills that pretend to be our backyard. Being winter, it was already dark. Dog was in no hurry to fulfill his obligation. He sniffed the night air, he ventured forth, albeit gingerly. I tried to encourage him with the “hurry, hurry” phrase that the trained suggested. Obviously, our pet’s command of English was lacking. He’s a hound, you know, a little one, a mini in fact, but a hound nevertheless. Dog finally assumed the position and prepared to oblige when—like a cartoon character—he slid down the hill. I laughed. I called him. He struggled to climb, but could get no purchase. I stopped laughing. This was serious. He slid farther and disappeared behind a fir tree. I saw him search out another route, but the ice was too smooth, too hard for him to obtain a grip. He slipped from the path and fell down steep slopes into the deep woods behind our house. The dog was lost, without a sound. I heard my son call; could we leave now? =========== ========== ==========
He had waited all day for her to return, and not just to “go out” either. There was also dinner. And yes, he could play with her and be petted and cuddle on the sofa while she read or watched TV. Go out! Yes, the night air was cold, frigid in fact for his short hair coat, but there were scents in it he had to investigate. Why didn’t she understand that? He was a hound, and the hound in him rejoiced to be out. He must explore! He picked his way across the level snow and ice towards the extreme edge, where the hill fell off sharply. This was his favorite spot. What is she saying? Just about to obey the command when he falls down the hill. His nails do not give him purchase into the ice; the ice is too hard, too smooth. He hears her calls and tries to obey, but it is futile. He exerts himself only to remain in place. He looks up at her and decides on another route, one remembered from the summer. Ice also blocks that path, and he slides farther down, past boulders left from a glacial age, into the forest. The ice hurts him, cuts him. He slides for a long time, unable to grasp or gain a foothold. He bounces like a pinball off rocks and trees. The steep slopes down lead to a river. Can he avoid that route? He comes to a stop, and wonders if she will find him, but does not call out to her. =============== ================
It was bitter cold, the ice was treacherous and it was dark as well, no moon in the night sky. The woman before him explained it had been hours since her little dog had fallen down the ravine, and she only heard him bark after 10 PM. Yes, she said, she was certain it was her dog’s bark. No, she hadn’t heard a coyote or a raccoon. It was now midnight. This is why I studied animal rescue, he told himself. To save animals. Just didn’t expect it on a night like this when I’d rather curl up on the couch in front of the fireplace. Good thing I brought crampons and a pike. The night was still and the frozen air hung like an oppressive blanket, hostile to one’s lungs. Now he too could hear the dog’s plaint. It was erratic. “He’s weak, probably hurt. Dachshunds aren’t big on baying, not American bred minis anyway. Probably why he didn’t call out sooner.” He didn’t want to say the dog might be injured, since he was barking now. Tough situation for any dog, but especially a designer lap dog. He thought of his own dogs, large and with thick fur. Even they were no match for this ice. All in all, it was unlikely the dog could survive in this weather, with temperature close to zero. Amazing the little guy has lasted this long! From the sound of his barking, he was about a half mile away from the house and weak. They drove to the neighbor’s; called the police least the neighbor assumed it was a break-in. The animal rescue man did not wait; he attached the crampons to his boots and took the pike with him into the woods. ============= ================== At least the AWD holds on this ice! I drove up onto an ice ridge and pointed the headlights into the forest to give him as much light as possible. He was not familiar with this area and a misstep could be disaster. Can’t lose him down the ravine. After waiting uncounted minutes, I heard the dog snarl and bark. Could he attack his rescuer? I saw the man return from the forest, holding the dog in his jacket. He’d taken off his jacket to wrap the dog! I turned up the heat. The man performed an examination and pronounced the dog sound, despite a bloody belly and paws. “Did he snap at you?” I asked. “He’s afraid. He’s been out a long time.” Then he added, “Nothing seems injured, as far as I can tell. Keep him warm. He’s a lucky little dog.”
2009/LTG
Armonk Fire Department's Ambulance, 51-BZ 2002 Ford. Photo courtesy Armonk Fire Department.
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Surprise Ending by Louise T. Gantress
A year ago this month my husband and I were driving to the Burns to see a Russian film, perhaps Uncle Vanya. We were going south on Route 22, with the green light, approaching the entrance to 684 north. I noticed a too eager car on the other side but thought the driver was just positioning himself to turn to take the ramp. When he didn’t stop I thought, “No, this can’t really happen. He’s going to hit us!”
Though I’m not an Armonk resident (I live in the Eastern District of North Castle), Armonk has always been a part of my life. Among my early memories is the tame bear which was tethered outside Mr. Tagliaferro’s honey stand on Old Route 22 in the early 1930’s. Seeing the bear (and getting the honey) was a rare treat, as was watching the planes taking off and landing at the airfield, where the Business Park complex now stands. The American Legion used to hold clambakes there, too, and I remember my father taking me once or twice.
When I was in college, I took dates to the old Log Cabin Inn a few times. My father told me that this rather run-down place had once been a big drawing card for couples who would drive up from the city.
In later years, when I’d taken up free-lance writing, I frequently used the North Castle Free Library for research, and Town Librarian Chris Ansnes graciously invited me to give a talk there.
As a writer, I deal in non-fiction, mostly science-oriented. I write on topics that interest me, with the result that I became a generalist rather than a specialist. I find that doing the research on my topics is the most fun, for I learn so much from it. [Of course, I forget most of it after the project is wound up, but that’s life.] Getting the words down on paper is the hard part: getting the thoughts in the right sequence so that one leads into another; choosing the best word for the situation; making sure that I don’t distort the facts, etc. Grammar and spelling are no problem—they come naturally to me.
While I am writing, I think, “ This stuff is awful! This is dreck! No one will ever want to read it!” But when I read the finished product years later I think, “This is pretty good. Did I really write it?”
How do I get my ideas? Some have come to me from free-lance projects I worked on; others come from newspapers, magazines, and TV. Some have been suggested by editors, which was fortunate because then I didn’t have to struggle to pitch the idea.
Like many a person I know, I did not start out with the idea of doing what I now do. When I started college, I yearned to be a chemist, exploring the mysteries of how atoms and molecules interacted with each other. Freshman math did me in. Being good at languages, I then thought I’d try for the Foreign service. I flunked the orals twice. Finis to that career. How about teaching? As a student teacher in a good high school, I found myself sympathizing with the students rather than with the administration. You can guess how successful I’d have been on my first real-life teaching job, stuck with the worst, most resentful students.
I finally found my niche when, through a family connection, I got a job as copy editor at Collier’s Encyclopedia. On the next job, also a reference work, I found that I had to do an immense amount of rewriting the god-awful stuff our contributors sent in. This eventually led me to strike out on my own. I was able to survive as a free-lance writer with a wife and four children thanks to an inheritance. In my writing, I try to inform and entertain. Making the material interesting for the reader is vital—even the most informative and accurate account is valueless if no one wants to read it. But I don’t want to sensationalize or vulgarize my material. I think a good story can tell itself without hoking it up.
I’ve probably said enough by now, so I’ll just encourage you, gentle reader, to visit my Web site at www.peterlimburg.com. Thanks for sticking with me.
He ran the light. My husband tried to avoid the other car, but that was
impossible. They say that in such situations the action moves in slow
motion. Perhaps that is not exactly the best way to describe it. We
knew it was inevitable that he’d hit our vehicle, but there wasn’t time
enough to react other than to try to avoid a collision by moving to the
right. The other driver seemed to track us, almost aim at us. The
impact—with a loud noise of metal compacting—was to the driver side
wheel, fortunately not to the driver side door.
We
were hit, with a force, and driven off the road. Just a few months
prior I had a bad fall that injured my back, so this sideways motion
worsened my condition. While trying to avoid the other car my husband
was also aware of the large metal posts holding the traffic lights and
tried to avoid being pushed into them. He succeeded, and we landed in
the soft earth between the two pillars. Just in front of the entrance
ramp. Two other cars stopped, and one of the drivers called the
police.
North Castle’s finest soon arrived. They
told me to stay in the car, because I wanted to get out and leave.
Shock, they said. Soon the Armonk Fire Department ambulance arrived.
The volunteers were in gear, but I recognized one and called his name.
He came over to me and asked how I was. There was a series of
questions after which it was decided to put me on a plank for transport
to the hospital. To be safe, the put my husband on a plank as well.
It is not comfortable to be tied to a hard board, your head braced
secure against any motion. Your vision is fixed, straight up. To be
sure, it is necessary to stabilize an injured person for transport and
to prevent any further injury, but it is not a pleasant experience.
The volunteers loaded us onto the truck and sped away to the hospital.
On board we each were tended to by a volunteer who took readings to
give to the ER staff upon arrival. The woman who took my readings was
a new resident to Armonk. It is an indication of our town’s community
spirit that new residents are motivated to join the volunteer corps.
It is not just hopping on a truck, but serious study and proficiency at
the medical components of emergency service.
The trip to the
hospital seemed to take a long time. Funny, how relative time can be.
I remember how soothing her voice was, telling me we’d arrive soon,
asking me to follow her finger to test my vision.
When we
did arrive, our neighbors transferred us to the hospital and entrusted
us to the ER staff, wished us well and left. One is tempted to say
they “disappeared into the night” but they are present in our lives as
volunteers and neighbors. It is good that they are.
Honda The Boy Who Dreamed of Cars by Mark Weston.
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HONDA - THE BOY WHO DREAMED OF CARS by Mark Weston
Walk down any street in Armonk and you will see a Honda. Probably several. Yet few people know that a man named Soichiro Honda (1906-1991) founded the Honda Motor Company.
Longtime Armonk resident Mark Weston has written a new children's book,
"Honda - The Boy Who Dreamed of Cars," for kids 7-10. Lee & Low
published the illustrated 30-page biography in September 2008. It is a
particularly good book for not-so-studious boys, because it discusses
pistons, carburetors and transmissions, but girls will enjoy learning
where Hondas come from too. "Honda" is based on a chapter of a book for
adults Mark wrote in 1999 called "Giants of Japan - The Lives of
Japan's Greatest Men and Women."
He has also just written a 560-page
history of Saudi Arabia, "Prophets and Princes - Saudi Arabia from
Muhammad to the Present," that John Wiley & Sons published in
August.
Mark's interest in the Middle East and Far East began with a
9th grade class in non-Western studies that Herb Klinger taught at
Byram Hills.
Title: "Prophets and Princes - Saudi Arabia from Muhammad to the Present"
I wrote my
first-ever published article at the North Castle Library back when I
was nineteen. It was for Seventeen Magazine and it was about the trauma
of turning twenty. Twenty!
Now that those years are far behind me and I
have had twelve books published, I'm working on a new novel that is set
in both Armonk and in Manhattan, where I currently live. The working
title is ANSWER ME and it's about a girl who slowly comes to terms with
the death of her mother. There's one character who, like me, is an
advice columnist who answers snail mail and email from girls. Her own
daughter goes to Byram Hills.
Yes, we writers do like to write what we
know, and I sure know that Armonk was a great place to grow up. Go Bobcats! More at carolweston.com.
