Earth is a place where we all live . How easy it is to forget the

importance of the land, trees, plants and creatures who reside

here. We are only visitors, yet the footprints we humans make,

may determine the outcome of all the inhabitants of this planet.

I was fascinated sitting here among the tall upright trunks and

canopy of leaves to learn of the connectiveness of trees.

(a gentle wind blows quietly through us and and the trees

joining us to this space)

It seems almost unbelievable that these stately trees are

connected to each other through an underground fungal network that

allows them to reach out , and care for each other. This is a perhaps

a lesson we all need to learn if this place of earth we call home

is to survive for future generations.

tk

You drive by, from one place to the next. As a long-time Westport resident, you know the shortcuts to your destination of the day. Only sporadically you pause to contemplate, to relish the many places in town, at least that’s what happens to me sometimes. Reconnecting with the town, through writing, offers an opportunity to reaffirm our desire to remain anchored.

The WriteHere idea was simple: Open to the community, participants were encouraged to unveil their writing creativity by connecting with our place, Westport.

Writing about life and experience in Westport led sometimes to dig into past memories that brought some nostalgia for the old Westport; other times to reflect on current town life, our hopes and sense of renewal.

The placemaking writing project leader was as bright as a bulb, as bubbly as fine champagne. She convened her cohorts of the day to quintessential community places where even town old-timers either had never been to or had visited those places a long time ago. Open to the whole town, some people joined, some others couldn’t. Regardless, her enthusiasm never diminished, the same caring and cheering for that one day, that one moment, that one place.

Inspiring places and settings were called on: Starting and ending with The Library. The Brick Walk welcomed us on a beautiful mid-day with a chorus of crows inspiring stories of the Saugatuck. The visit to an emblematic coffee-shop at our Saugatuck Train Station, part-taking doughnuts and coffee while some participants composed poetry, kids wrote or drew their story; while others wrote about their experiences as commuters or incorporated historic events after a great history lesson of the Westport railroad station. The visits to the police station and the firehouse showed us what community service looks like, filling us with gratitude, as evidenced by the writings. And the playhouse, ah… It inspired many wonderful stories that linked the playhouse to old times, to famous people in town, to the resilience of that little art-house to remain vibrant and spread appreciation for the arts and culture in town.

The writing sessions at the Dimes Marina, Compo Beach, and Longshore provided settings of bright sun and the summer taste of Westport

Using the Earthspace as our muse brought us in close contact with our environment, with earthly things, and inspired us to write about and connect with nature, recognizing the effort involved in preserving a healthy ecosystem. From our town’s environment and caring for the Earth, we focused our imagination on the space beyond – the Universe, the Cosmos. The Observatory visit reminded us how committed people keep our Town apprised of what lies in Space, the history of the place, and inspired writing about that part of science that makes children’s eyes widen in wonderment and excitement, and make us adults act like children. These and several other places visited define Westport, give it its character and inspired us to write and write.

WriteHere was a great idea that merits repeating. Thanks to the people who graciously invited us to the places visited. They radiated their devotion and enthusiasm to the cause of their place of work, shared their love for what they do, how they got there and showed us that they are people with a mission, worthy missions. …

Thanks, Jan for your indomitable enthusiasm, your ideas, your hard work. From constant reminders about posting our stories to carrying heavy shopping bags to keep us hydrated and munching on our snacks. I am pleased I had the opportunity to hear other voices, other stories, other experiences rooted in this place, Westport.

The Universe, encircling us, tranquil made of galaxies that are thousands, millions, billions of light-years away encapsulating a profusion of stellar events of swirling galaxies like our Milky Way and our neighbor Andromeda.

Galaxies in suspension, the calm after explosions, expansion, and contraction, where nothing is ephemeral, and nothing can be proved eternal. Where calmness is not stillness and faraway galaxies twirl in rhythmic gyrations, some stars dying, others being born.

The parts of the resplendent Cosmos that human intelligence and endeavor uncover illuminate our understanding of what is knowable, and it humbles us with its magnificence.

We are brought closer to the Firmament and we dream explorers’ dreams. Even as we discover ice water in our own satellite, the moon, explorers imagine breaking apart its hydrogen and oxygen molecules to convert them into rocket fuel. We discover gold and other metals and imagine how will we use it and who should claim ownership. And these imaginings are just about our moon.

We are barely grasping exploring our solar system, much less our galaxy.
And through the vast unknown we recognize the fragility of our earthling existence.

As the race for galactic discovery continues, a special kind of committed Cosmos-lovers come together to share their passion, wonderment, and knowledge with their local communities.
People who form astronomical societies like our own in Westport bring to us the marvels of the Firmament. Their service to the community is meaningful and invaluable.

LM

Now that Write Here Westport is ending, I feel regret that it is over. It has been a unique experience for me, not only because of its place-focusing design, but because it has opened my eyes to such a variety of facets of my town. I think back on where we’ve been this last month and the different relationships I have had with the places we visited. Some are today almost daily spaces in my life; the Y, the Senior Center, the Library – some are current but only on occasion; the Playhouse, Longshore, the Farmers Market and some bring echoes of a vital past; Earthplace (when it was the Nature Center), Compo Beach, Wakemen’s Town Farm – and there were a few first timers, even for me who has lived here since 1956; the police station, Toquet Hall, the Boardwalk at National Hall, the (Rolnick) Westport Observatory. All have given me a sense of place, but perhaps more importantly, it is the people who were present at each that leave the most indelible mark. I have a sense of Longshore but it is the words tumbling out in enthusiastic intensity about the Gatsby tie, that makes the strongest connection- or the policeman that started out a journalism major, and still brings strengths from that talent to his vocation for law enforcement – the head of Parks and Rec who fought a career that she brings so much to, the site supervisor at Compo whose background in marketing and policing helps to make us safe and welcome, the naturalist at Earthplace that traces her love of nature to a hummingbird’s nest, a town historian who was with us in a few sites and speaks his love of place in every word. Places and people, that’s what makes up my Westport now, my legacy from Write Here.

Today Im going to start making a number language I think its going to be very fun I so Excited i think I know Just where to start Im going to write one of the Page's with the number and then what letter is means. So In my next articles Im Going to write down the numbers that mean the letter so me and you guys can speak the same Language, By the way the name of my new Language is called Cutemini Girl's.

Bye guys Hope you Enjoyed my Article's make sure to check out my other Article's
By: Alianna nelson

When I was a child, my parents smoked. I, on the other hand, was the original nonsmoking campaign – damaging to health, yellowing the walls and curtains, that smell you just couldn't get rid of. I took a puff once when no one was looking. It was foul.

But one summer day, a friend and I found a book of matches. Inside was a simple drawing of a man's face and information on how to win an opportunity to become a famous artist. All you had do was copy the drawing, exactly as in the matchbook. My friend and I spent the rest of the day drawing. I wouldn't be confined to copying the silly head. I produced nothing to submit. She did version after version and decided to send one. She was accepted. While she never enrolled, she did become an artist — and a smoker.

It rained the night I finally made it to the Westport Observatory. I’ve known it was here since it became the Westport version of what to do with an abandoned Nike site. I mostly forgot it was here after the kids left school. But now, because of ‘Write Here’ it is back in my life. Maybe on some super clear Wednesday I will make the effort to connect myself to the night sky – to squint into some version of what Galileo wrought – to expand my sense of sight – to catch a glimpse of a nebula – the surface of the moon -the milky way. To find out, once again, how miniscule I really am, how insignificant this world I live on really is, confronted by the vastness of the universe that is available by looking through the eyepiece of a scope, as long as it doesn’t rain.

She spoke of how she was moved to be a naturalist. a butterfly that gained his nectar from tree sap with the help of a bird. the trees that reach out to each other using tiny fibers of fungus to communicate and cooperate the hummingbird that builds his nest of lichen, human hair and spiderwebs What motivation more to direct your life? And what better place than this island of tranquility – this place where tree and vernal pool are given room – where woodland trails crisscross the lightly rolling hills – insulated from the affluence of suburbia. Here is a refuge, a safe and innocent spot the deer know all about (too many deer) who have devoured the understory, dispossessing native birds. So, here before our eyes and ears appears the fragile balance of the earth – here in Earthplace the balance exemplified, as we all hang on the thread of a spiders web.

We were treated to an enthusiastic and personal history of Longshore and its and Westport’s involvement in the Gatsby-Fitzgerald era and the excesses of the turn of the century and twenties. I find that I am not impressed, but rather oppressed by these tales of the super-rich, they seem to hit too closely to what is going on these days. I know I am hopelessly middle class and the stories of fabulous parties where stagecoach hold-ups were staged importing real cowboys and native Americans, don’t astonish, just shout unnecessary extravagance, and self- aggrandizement. I have never considered that I might be part of this society and remember viewing the muck-e-mucks pictures in the rotogravure sections of my folks Sunday papers as if they lived in a different world. I am troubled, not amused by the spending that marched lines of circus animals down Compo Parkway for no purpose than the fact that they could – although I have the hypocritical feeling that if I was around those days, I would have noisily lined the roadside. The transformation of Longshore from a private kingdom to a public space rings truer to my heart. But even here; I have never learned to golf, my tennis days were gone long before I moved to Westport, and the lessons I learned at the Sailing School long forgot. Compo Beach has been my steady choice.

For me there is some special connection I have with live actors that is not quite there on a movie screen or TV. Ever since I could remember my mom and dad would make a point of going to Broadway, even in the depression when money was hard to come by. It was always worth being there even if it meant a trek to the second balcony for 55 cents or $1.10 – that was better than not going. That legacy left me, as I had a family of my own and moved to Westport, with subscriptions to the Playhouse in the summer, and Long Wharf in the winter. There is magic in these places. The whole experience; from the presenting of the ticket to the usher, the scrabbling across the early arrivals to achieve a seat, the scanning of the program for the promise of what’s to come, the thrill as the lights go down– the voice of the announcer welcoming and acknowledging, the hush as the setting becomes visible and the first actor begins to move. And then – not always, but if the skill of the wordsmith and the players touch me, I am no longer a part of an audience watching a performance – I am suddenly, unconsciously THERE. I have become part of the texture of what is happening before my eyes, one with the real people living the story unfolding around me – feeling what they are, caught in the magic. The applause is a transition and I gather up my things, not quite sure of where I am, only knowing I have been totally out of myself for a while, often with tears having left a trail I choose not to obscure.

It's crazy to think about how much of our memories are tied to the place that they occur. How that can effect what and how we remember? Each place that you go even a new place has a history of its own before you even set foot in there. What is that history? How do you connect to it? What are the parts that you find most interesting and engaging? Why this place and why now? What made you say today is the day I will go there? Now that you are here, you become a part of that place's history just as it becomes a part of yours. With each new piece of information you learn, you evolve into a different person. I have always been fascinated by what lies in the history of each place I visit. How it connects with what I am doing now? How are these artifacts presented here in such a way that they are a part of the past and the future?

“Place in History”

Looking at the past to understand the present. Yeah of course. Looking at the past to better understand it, as it illuminates the lives of past societies and communities, and how they impact and shape the present, yeah better.

The task of preserving knowledge about past ways of life, customs, how science developed, how technology evolved to meet the needs of emerging societies is fundamental to keep alive and explain the growing human imprint. From tools to spoons, to early ads, to powerful photographs – these products of history, representing a moment in time and place, convey but only a sliver of that one moment among many moments of people’s past. Objects tell us a story, the story we dare imagine of those times. What kind of people were they? Whose objects are the ones preserved? Whose objects were lost, and, along with with them, their stories? Are the stories of the surviving objects similar to those whose objects are gone?

Old photographs bring, for me, compelling stories as they show the people in their clothes of the era, their face and body expressions, the streets and houses of the era, the instruments of the era, the transport of the era, the other characters who complement that scene. All converging at that time, in that place, through that photograph…

LM-LM

“Ned Dimes Marina”

I can imagine this place 100 years ago, how it would look like. Bustling with some sailor or fishing activity perhaps? Or a sort of marshland, pristine and far from the activity of an era of growth and expansion.

Somehow, this place has stayed. In its permanence, it has adapted to change without losing that air, that air of “aah”, clean air, blue sky, sparkling water, tall grasses, and varied fowl.

This area of the coastline is, for me, very distinctive of Westport. I use it as my place to come and shoot photographs, particularly during sunsets. It is as welcoming in the summer as it is in winter when birds and snow merge against a horizon in palettes mutating from reds to pinks to blues, then silver and darkening purplish-lavender. The care put into the area attests to the recognition of the importance of open spaces where the community enjoys together, from the 4th of July celebration to regular picnics nearby, on Sherwood Island. Places like this make people sit back and relax. Just forget for a bit the tribulations of life and be grateful for the open space and natural views that remain.

LM-LM

“The Little Firefighter”

Like any normal boy, he dreamed of becoming a firefighter. The cartoons presented them as these real-life heroes who saved people from tall buildings, climbing on wiggly extended ladders, and those uniforms! They made the firefighters look super-human, bigger than they actually were.

As he grew up, his dreams and idealization of firefighters grew with him. They saved people’s lives and that’s what he wanted to do. He explored the options, but as time passed, he realized he was not going to be 6 feet tall, ever. One day, a firefighter went to his school to talk about safety and what firefighters did. He could not shake the vision of such an imposing man, with gentle eyes and a friendly smile.

He was supple, he was physical. He climbed rocks and had strength, but he did not feel like the picture-perfect of six foot or above. Nonetheless, he considered his options. He decided to give it a try. He went through grueling training, surprising everybody with his agility and impressive strength to carry heavy loads despite his short height. His strength and willingness were noticed by his trainers and training peers.

Against all odds, he passed all the required tests and exercises. Once he hit the ground, he ran! He was exposed to real-life life-saving deeds and he found his niche among his company. He was the expert crawler, going into tight spaces carrying heavy loads. He furrowed through old buildings with hidden spaces as if going through the underground tunnels of fighting soldiers, with a mission.

In the end, he was a member of the company bringing his own qualities, his capacity to twist his body in tight spaces, to go as high as possible, to almost fly on roofs and still carry heavy loads. All this, regardless of his height. Having conquered this world, he felt super-human!

LM-LM

A building is a funnel, a telescope, a microscope, leading to a world, or many worlds. The Historical Society house is one obvious pathway to myriad stories/places/lives in Westport, throughout Connecticut, or across America.

Every building is a doorway to the past, of the area and the people and objects and animals. A doorway to the past -the good times, the bad times, the families and incidents and events.

But, perhaps this gateway may be seen as a portal from the past to the present – and even into the future. We are all products of our environment, and the house is probably the most significant manifestation of our memories of our past. And how then could it not play a major role in formulating our present (and future)?

Think of that the next time you remember the house.

Some interesting facts about the 1970's building and an explanation of the “emergency operations room” where we were comfortably seated, was fascinating. It is the place where all Westport's emergency personal meet and get their orders.

The loudspeaker sounded three times during our visit adding to the urgency of the job of firefighter. Disasters handled in the space include response to weather related issues and national disasters.

Nick spoke of the evident comradarie of all firefighters, and even how they are selected or forced to cook meals for there team. His laughter and kind spirit made this talk very relatable and true.

I am happy to have learned a bit about this heroic group of our service driven men and women who preform a vital need in my pretty town of Westport.

Now it is serene and peaceful and calm – perhaps more beautiful at high tide – but there is a beauty in the mud and plants and, yes, debris at low tide as well. Life consists of high tides and low tides – to each its own. And life wouldn't be real without the highs and lows. How can we appreciate the highs without comparison to the lows, when things maybe weren't as we might like them?

Perhaps that is why people from times primeval have clustered along rivers – the sleepy village, the thriving metropolis. A metaphor for life itself.

So let us give thanks that providence has lead us to the banks of this beautiful river!

so...clear your head and say “yes, and? “

I once applied to bartend at the Inn at National Hall that overlooked the beautiful Saugatuck river from the west side of the bridge in downtown Westport. All I really knew of the fairly new venue was that President Bill Clinton had reportedly stayed there when he was in town campaigning.

The upscale restaurant on the first floor featured an elegant bar that boasted a vast wine collection. I realized my weakness immediately upon entering, having only tended bar in a popular local college spot in upstate New York where we certainly never had to unscrew a single wine bottle. The only bottle opener we needed was to pop off the caps to the endless bottles of Labatt’s Blue. I went to school in real upstate New York – we’re not talking about Poughkeepsie, or even Albany…

The village of Canton is a mere twenty miles from the Canadian border. Other than the two dollar bottles o’ Blue, we mostly served up shots like Jagermeister and mixed drinks like gin and tonics in cheap clear plastic cups – ordered by the mainly preppy, and largely underage St. Lawrence University students who poured into the infamous Tick Tock Inn to drink, dance, and perhaps black out after a day of liberal arts classes or an evening cheering on our Division I hockey team. I didn’t even learn to use a register as this mainstay of Canton NY was owned by a local who got away with operating it as a cash business for decades.

Needless to say, my Tick Tock ‘tending resume must’ve proved lackluster to the National Inn management, and I did not get the gig at the ritzy Inn’s bar. Besides zero experience uncorking wine bottles, I don’t think I had the look for that classy establishment. Moreover, I’m sure I still resembled more like a high schooler to those in charge. Instead, I would later land a bartending job for which I was better suited– believe it or not, at a biker bar in Black Rock.

Ten miles up the road from the National Inn, just over the Ash Creek and the Fairfield/Bridgeport line, lived a joint called The Avenue Cafe. That name did not accurately capture the vibe of this dark, divey watering hole where you’d find a cast of characters that may include Hells Angels prospects, hardworking people of the various trades such as carpenters and electricians, and definitely some alcoholics of various levels of functioning. The Ave, as the regulars referred to it, hosted a shots-and-beer crowd. My typical patron might simply request “a shot o’ Jack and a Bud.” Unlike the bar at National Hall, I can assure you Bill Clinton never bellied up to the bar at the Avenue Cafe...

When was it? The summer before 4th grade? 5th grade? My local public library had a summer reading contest . . . You had to read a book, then meet with a librarian to discuss it – to prove you weren’t fibbing, I suppose — and then you’d get to move your name card one place forward on a big board posted on the wall. I think it was a picture of some kind of race track.

Anyway, this one year I really got into the contest and wound up one of the top readers in town, finishing 30- or was it 40-something books. If you made it to ten, the library would send a letter to your teacher in your upcoming grade. Looking back, I don’t remember having received any acknowledgement from whomever my teacher turned out to be, notwithstanding my prodigious number. But I think it may have been that summer that established in my own mind that reading was something I was very good at and one of the important things about who I was. My performance probably also had something to do with what became one of my mother’s main talking points about me for many years – that her son was “such a bookworm! Give him a book and you won’t hear a peep out of him for hours!”

I squint to read the gold lettered Senior Center sign off of Imperial Ave because I'm running late and don't want to miss my turn. As I drive in, I'm thinking I'm having a harder time dealing with this vicious outside world and just want to get to place that feels safe. I've been to the Senior Center before and wish for a long moment that I would be old enough to come here regularly. I think about all that is offered for our seniors in our town and a little envious that I can't come here to participate in Jan's writing classes or take an art class or maybe some Tai Chi. I've got 6 more years until I qualify!

But I don't feel out of place or unwelcome when I've had the chance to participate. It's the opposite, actually. I am embraced and comforted and feel that this is how it should be. We take care of our elders because they have rocked us and fed us and fought wars for us. And so, living here in Westport and raising my children far from their grandparents, I've always had this nagging voice in my head that tells me, “This isn't the way it's supposed to be...”

Being here feels natural. It gives me a sense of community and makes me feel part of a larger family. I hear other people's parents and grandparents read their stories and feel deeply moved by their honesty and their losses and their great loves. They have let me eavesdrop...no...they have told me to pull up a chair and put another log on the tribal campfire and listen.

I leave feeling hopeful.

High ceilings, light, smiles…happy engaged humans. Playing cards, working out, creating works of art, eating meals together, learning, interacting. People in their 60’s, 70’s, 80’s, 90’s and yes, even some over 100! Doctors, lawyers, entrepreneurs, teachers, actors, stay at home moms, workers in all fields. Members who traveled the world some who’ve never left Connecticut. High school drop outs to PHd’s to Poet Laureates & Pulitzer Prize winners. All coming together as equals. Sharing their strenghts, building bonds and friendships with the unlikliest of characters.

I have no children and for me the fear of being alone when I aged was real. Watching the seniors in my life, the loneliness and understimulation they experienced frightened me. Since then, I’ve witnessed my husband embrace and enjoy the Senior Center playing Bridge a few times a week. A place he said he would never go because it was for “old people”. He now values being around others and sharing a common interest. For me, his enthusiasm has shown me that I have nothing to fear.

The Yin of an expected and welcome loved one. Hugs! The Yang of a train departing, a head out of the window, crying.

In this scene, she is running madly to catch a departing train, her heavy satchel slowing her down. The conductor’s long reach pulled her effortlessly up the stairs.

He is left sitting on the wooden bench. The smoke disappears, the sound becomes fainter.

She is gone. He is alone.

A solid, beautifully designed brick building with leaded glass windows. Trees with wide trunks framing the welcoming main staircase. So what if that particular entrance wasn’t used anymore…the stories that those steps could tell. The building welcomed visitors that had strolled Wesport’s Main St. since 1923. The Y

I never entered the building, I just admired it whenever I walked by. News of their move shook up the town. Pitted neighbors against one another. The town was up in arms. I had no vested interest except the fear that such a precious landmark could be torn down. How could something that screamed Westport to me disappear? Once inside, before it closed it’s doors, I understood the reason for the move. The interior had seen better days. Frankly that is an understatment.

The move took place without the Y missing a beat. The building I loved so much was saved and was repurposed. Both the building and the Y movement within it, given new life.

Today I learned about the true mission of The Y and I have come to appreciate it as much as I appreciated that sturdy building it was housed in. Strength, beauty…inside and out.

Sitting at the station I think of comings and goings One going comes to mind Saying hello Sparked tears Knowing of the coming goodbye The sense of missing someone That is standing right there Knowing that they wouldn't be soon. However, Sitting at the station I think of comings and goings And there is hope That someday someone new arrives And the next going No one is left behind.

It was after midnight and I was about 4 or 5 years old. The memory is not crisp but what I do remember is that the train was ominous to me. It was dark out; the train was huge, shiny, noisy and steam frothing up from the front. We stepped into a sleeper car with bunk beds and the train pulled out. I could not conceive of spending the night on a train, but there I was with my father on the way to meet his brother, my Uncle David. I was so excited about the lights as we passed or pulled into stations, I forgot about sleep. I did not want to exit that train until I saw my uncle outside waiting for us. From then on every train station signals something freeing to me – travel that uniquely marks time and place.

The proximity of the river, however, lured her to think of escaping from the despair encircling her. The water's shimmering reflections sporadically broken up with floating seagulls, captivated and then momentarily diluted the dread she felt moving toward the confrontation ahead with her past deeds.