Summer in the Birkshires
by
Homer Page
I am totally blind
as a result of a retinal disorder that is
genetic in origin. However, I had some residual vision until I was 30 years old.
I can remember bright colors and visually constructed spatial perspectives, but
I could never see well enough to read or recognize a person by his or her facial
features. I have not had light perception for over 25 years.
Throughout the years, a number of persons have told me that
they would rather die than lose their sight. They believe it would mean giving
up the beauty and inspiration of the natural and created world. Nothing could be
further from the truth. Perhaps I can explain some of the ways I experience the
world through my senses and imagination. During the week of July 4th, I visited
the Berkshires in western Massachusetts. I want to share with you how a blind
person can grasp the richness of the world, and perhaps you may grasp some of
the magic of this historic slice of America.
At the western end of Massachusetts, a range of hills
masquerading as mountains provides the setting for a delightful summer vacation.
Angie Wood, the editor, and I spent a week in July taking in the Berkshires. I
have often been asked how I can enjoy the experiences of sightseeing, viewing
nature, and appreciating art. The Berkshires offer ample opportunity for doing
all these things and our visit provides the opportunity to present the way in
which a blind person perceives the world.
The History
We flew into Boston and drove westward along the
Massachusetts turnpike past cities and towns with familiar historic names. The
Connecticut River divides Massachusetts. The turnpike crosses the river at
Springfield and then begins its climb into the Berkshires.
Angie tells me of the forest of trees that line the roadway.
I roll down the window and listen to the songs of the birds in the trees. I feel
the presence of the wooded barrier and note the sense of isolation from
development along the highway. She confirms my observation.
We exit the turnpike at Lee and find our lodgings. We discuss
the layout of the roads and cities. Later we will look at a map. She will take
my hands and trace the Massachusetts, Connecticut and Vermont borders. We will
study the roads. I will build a map in my head of this geographically complex
region of New England. As my understanding grows, my feeling of engagement with
the area also grows.
We read brochures and check the Internet for information. The
area was originally settled in the second half of the 18th century. Lee is named
after General Charles Lee, the second in command to George Washington during the
Revolutionary War. Stockbridge was named for the Native Americans who occupied
the land where the town now stands. Monuments list the names of those from the
area that fell during the Civil War.
Angie reads a headstone that we find in Lee. "Here lies
old John, a gallant war horse," it read. John’s master organized a unit
of light cavalry and led the soldiers south astride old John. John and his
master came home after the war with those who were left alive. The Union was
preserved and slavery abolished on the backs of old John and all the other young
men and horses who answered the call. I stand in the Town Square. I can feel
their presence.
The Landscape
We drive along Highway 7 into Vermont. The sun warms my body
and the air cools my face. I feel the warmth of the sun withdraw. We are clearly
passing into a shaded area. I hear the resonant sounds of birds singing in a
forest canopy. The sounds of the car wheels are absorbed. I can no longer hear
the pop of insects across open fields. I smell the strong aroma of pine rosin.
We have entered a state forest.
I ask Angie if the trees have grown together across the
highway.
"Yes," she tells me. "The leaves form layers of dark green high
above us. The branches touch one another across the road,
blocking out the sun and creating a tunnel to protect us from the heat and the
rain. It goes on for miles."
We leave the forest. The pungent smell of horse manure
communicates the presence of open fields and stables. The echo of a bridge
speaks of a stream running below. The smell of new mown grass and the sound of a
tractor announce a nearby field of hay. I feel the slight tilt of the car and
hear the motor pull as we climb out of the river bottom. I am engaged with the
landscape. I am creating a vision of scenic beauty in my own way.
Later, we stop. Angie gets out of the car to photograph the
sun setting across a lake. I stay in the car and listen to the sounds of the
coming night. An owl is hooting from his hiding place. A chorus of frogs is
tuning up. A few crickets chime in with their meditative chant-in. The life of
the night is awakening along the shores of this ice age gouge in the surface of
the earth. I am, for this moment, a part of this landscape. I am grounded. I
belong.
During the night I am awakened by the melody of a long train.
Its whistle greets me. Its rattle and clank educate me. I follow its progress as
it weaves, dips, and rises again. It draws a line for me through these little
mountains. I follow the line and learn about the hills and valleys. The map in
my head fills in. The flat map becomes three-dimensional. I am very happy in the
middle of this fascinating night.
The Art
Throughout the Berkshires, galleries display original art. We
visit one of the more unique of these institutions. Santarella is located in
Tyringham. Sir Henry Kitsman, an Englishman who became an American citizen,
converted the barn into a studio in 1935. He was a sculptor and creator of
monumental art. After his death in 1947, it became a gallery and museum
commemorating his life and work.
We visited Santarella on the hottest day of the summer, but
its thick walls and strategically located electric fans moderated the heat. The
air was thick with humidity and swarming insects. Mosquitoes furiously attacked
at every turn in the myriad hallways of the barn.
Angie describes the paintings and drawings and hands me
pottery to examine. There are pots with faces breaking through the sides and
looking out upon the world, or so it seems. Gentle breezes from a fan gently
stir wind chimes producing soft music. Replicas of Kitsman’s work remind me
that a man who passed from life over 50 years ago can engage me across the
decades.
We walk through the gallery and out into the Oriental garden.
Croaking frogs tell me that a pond lies at its center. Angie tells me that a
sculpted hand protrudes from the water. It holds a sword. It is one of 23
sculptures that are on display in this garden. This one is entitled "The
Lady of the Lake". I imagine an underwater woman wielding a sword in
victory, or perhaps she is signaling for help. In any case, she is no simple
victim.
We climb a rise into a grove of pines. A cool breeze brings
the scent of pine sap and fallen needles. We startle a deer that lets out three
groans of what I imagine to be irritation and disgust. I hear her shuffle
rapidly down the hill and then she is gone. It happens so fast.
We come upon a work by Adrianna Shultz. Two slabs of marble,
perhaps three feet in diameter, face one another. They are separated and held
together by a glass block that is approximately a five-inch cube. The top edges
flow symmetrically together across a space that separates them. Shultz seems to
say, "We are separate, but we are bound to one another. We flow together
across space in harmonious ways. The space that is contained between us can be
beautiful and complete. Here we are, solid marble and liquid space, but bound
together, we are a whole work of art."
I am reluctant to walk on, but the mosquitoes are feasting on
me. We walk through the garden. My hands explore the art. From time to time I
have a question for Angie. She waits for my questions, letting me explore the
sculpture in my own way while she engages it in her way. We would stay longer
but the heat and the insects win. We surrender and flee.
The Music
On the last night of our visit to the Berkshires, we find our
way to Tanglewood. By now, the heat has broken and the night is cool. Once
Tanglewood was the home of a wealthy family, but in the late ‘30s it became
the summer home of the Boston Symphony Orchestra. Over the years, performance
venues have been added and conveniences for patrons have been included. Tens of
thousands come to the Berkshires each year to visit Tanglewood and listen to the
music. We sit on a blanket spread on the lush Tanglewood lawn and eat a picnic
dinner. It is our last night. We reflect on the Berkshires and regret tomorrow’s
departure. We read the program. Before the intermission, the orchestra will play
two selections by Mozart. The performance will feature the world famous
violinist, Itzhak Perlman. Polio severely disabled Mr. Perlman when he was a
child. He is a wheelchair user. The program says that he is conscious of his
disability in everything that he does and that his consciousness of his
disability permeates his music.
I have read that while he is perhaps the greatest violinist
in the world, he must often go to a back alley to locate an accessible entrance
to a concert hall.
I remember that Mozart suffered from what we would now call a
bipolar disorder. But it did not stop him from becoming the greatest musician
and composer ever to live. The orchestra starts to play. I listen to the beauty
and reflect on these two disabled men whose art fuses across the centuries. Each
exists at a level of excellence only imagined by the rest of us. They come
together in the pure sounds that flow from the strings of Perlman’s violin,
and together they reach for the heavens. On a cool, clear Massachusetts night
they touch the stars.
Full to bursting with life, I listen and sip a glass of wine. Where are those
who could think that blindness is worse than death, or disability is in itself
justifiable grounds for a life to end? They understand so little.