Statue of an Athlete from Hadrian’s Villa (160 AD), Source British Museum, Author Carole Raddato of Frankfurt, Germany (CC BY-SA 2.0 Generic)
I might with the words of angels be able to reconstruct the landscape of my childhood; portray in all their complexity the most important people in my life, laying bare their hidden motives. Instead, I am left to grasp at straws, and wonder how the paths we take are determined [1].
In the end, we walk by faith, trusting that Providence has a purpose for our lives.
“There were giants on the earth in those days, and also afterward, when the sons of God came in to the daughters of men and they bore children to them” (Gen. 6: 4).
There is a public space in the northeast corner of the Bronx known as Pelham Bay Park. Irregular in shape, the park nestles against the less affluent (some would say forgotten) end of Long Island Sound, covering more than 2700 acres.
Unlike most urban parks, Pelham Bay does not consist largely of pavement. The park offers locals both grassy vistas and wooded areas. As the result of recent civic improvements, Pelham Bay is today reasonably well groomed. Due to budgetary constraints, however, the park was for many years left by the City of New York to fend for itself.
Pelham Bay represented wilderness to me as a girl. In my young mind, the park was vast and uncharted, holding an irresistible appeal. My father and I would drive to the park, and walk in the woods there. Once I learned to bike without supervision, Pelham Bay Park — some five or six miles from our home — was within my own range.
It was, in fact, at Pelham Bay that my father taught me how to ride a bike. As with most children, that moment is etched indelibly in my mind. The event took place in the paved lot behind what my father called “The Giant.”
The Giant was just that, the stone figure of an athlete approximately eighteen feet tall, farther elevated above the nearby park grounds by a small concrete stadium. This vantage afforded the Giant and those moved to climb the full height of the stadium a bird’s-eye-view of the surrounding countryside and a feeling of great, if temporary, self-satisfaction.
Though fond of the view, I rarely experienced that feeling since my father was always insistent on climbing to the Giant not by way of the steps provided, but by the concrete risers comprising the stadium seats.
“Keep up, Annie,” he would call. But this route posed a formidable challenge to my much shorter legs, requiring complete concentration and leaving me breathless by the time I finally reached the top.
My father seemed a giant to me as a child. He would dominate dinner conversation; his personality, fill a room. He could do no wrong. Anxious to please him, I routinely made the ascent at Pelham Bay, but regularly experienced the effort as a failure on my part. Continue reading
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