Word: churchyard
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Dates: during 1990-1999
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...this is the church," he says. "These trees are tulip trees. And as you can see, it's one of those great stone churches." He tells us how his father, a bank president who suffered from calcified arthritis of the spine, used to "sit and look out at this churchyard, and it gave him a sense of peace, because it was always green, and it was always peaceful, and it was, um, a wonderful place." He pauses for a beat. "O.K., that's the church. Now we'll see the bank...
...power walking across the churchyard with the cameramen jousting and stumbling behind. After a brief stop at the bank, he leads us to the edge of a vast, weed-choked parcel that for 100 years was home to a plate glass factory, Crystal City's economic raison d'etre. The plant's 1990 closing sapped the town's strength, so another politician might use the moment to rail against Corporations That Turn Their Backs on Our Communities. Bradley looks for poetry instead. The missing landmark "tells me life has unknown terms and change is all around us," he says...
...play together in a park nestled a safe distance from the traffic of Mass. Ave. Their parents, of whatever belief or non-belief, make sandboxes and swingsets and help the small faculty show their kids how to read, count and share the space in the classroom and the churchyard...
...first memory was of plastic, a warm synthetic smell touched off by sunlight on her stroller. She would also remember visits to the churchyard grave of the child her parents conceived just before her, a boy who had lived barely 10 hours. If he had survived, she often wondered, would she have existed? Or would her mother, having produced a male heir, have left her husband for another man earlier than she did, before Diana could be born? After her parents split up, Diana bravely declared that she would marry only once, and only for love, and never, ever divorce...
...around. We tried using the fold-up bikes we'd trained on for two years. But the rubble on the roads made the whole thing impractical. After about three miles, we were ordered to stack them up in a heap. We dug slit trenches the first night in a churchyard; Jerry was maybe 1,000 yds. away. When we tried to negotiate with a local farmer to buy some eggs, he was mystified by our Quebec French and finally asked in English, 'What do you want?' He had been a steward on the French liner Normandie and lived for years...