really bad baseball cards: Rocky Bridges: The Man with the Chaw
See more ideas about Baseball cards, Sports and Baseball field. Royals Baseball, Pro Baseball, Baseball Quotes, Baseball Players, Softball, Baseball Stuff. He punched another hole in your card with each dime. . Just up from our home on Broadway was a bridge that the steam engines and later the . Remember how the circle went around by the duck pond and the baseball fields and He never comments on the quotes from Clinton, Hillary, Kerry and Kennedy who all. I read it again: “I am leaving the hospital as I reach retirement age; Another was a greeting card from a boutique in Kamakura with a . whose parents had died as well and whose bodies no one claimed. .. On the way to Santa Fe, we had crossed a bridge across the reddish brown river, the Rio Grande.
I am telling you, this joint was packed wall to wall on a Friday night or a Saturday afternoon. Everyone from construction workers, factory guys and suits and ties were there for a cold one and some good old fashioned bulls—t. It was a right of passage for young men of N.
I do remember Eddie, a rotund sort who ruled the club with a steady hand but there were a lot of underage guys at his bar over the years. I just never understood the big jars of pickled eggs and ham hocks … reh tampabay. He and Aunt Bea were fixtures there for years and every family party was held there. I remember playing musical chairs with all my cousins in the middle of the dance floor after eating dinner.
Was this their son that you speak of getting killed? Hmmmm, wish my Meme was still around so I could call. Thank you, Bill, for sharing this! I so enjoy reading what everyone remembers … good memories and sad ones too.
I love when the Guestbook has stories of what people remember when they were growing up. I hope this continues! Comments remain posted for at least a month and are printed periodically as Letters from Home on the Opinion pages of The Sun Chronicle.
A note on style: Please do not send entries or names in all capital letters or in all lower-case letters. The Ten Mile River ran by there. We would have contests and see who could jump from one side to the other. I probably delivered papers there between and On Fridays we would go into the market and buy cokes, candies and ice creams.
The men in there would let us go into the back, behind the butcher counter into the freezer and get our own bottles of soda. I think I remember Eddy Ringuette, the son. He died in a car crash.
I can't remember the name of the road up where the farms are, but he hit a tree and was killed. I was just a little kid at the time.
We went to the store for sodas and pastries from about to I don't remember them having penny candy. The Broadway market had the penny candy. I can vividly remember sitting on the stone wall outside the store drinking sodas. The men in the store were always nice to us. I can't remember what they looked like - I do remember Eddy because he was a big kid and ran the cash register. I don't think it was ever the same after the crash. Thanks for reminding me of that!
Everybody sitting in their nice comfortable homes reading this needs to go to www. Then get to work and do something about what you see. Every single man, women and child can help here and it won't cost you more than a postage stamp unless you want to do more. Please go there now. Our troops need you. Let her know that Mickey Mouse isn't on the ballot. If I have my facts right, my great uncle Allie owned that place. I barely remember him as a white-haired, smiling gentleman with a white apron on.
I thought that his store was a meat market? Are we talking about the same place? Thanks for the memories! Keep up the excellent work! Now that I'm just about blind from reading all the wonderful notes from Rich Howard I think I'll add a few of my own. One things for sure, you can take the man out of New England but you can't take the New England out of the man. I was born at Sturdy Memorial on Jan. I remember the whistlestop Dewy campaign when it came to N. The station on Broadway was gone then but we lived just up the street, so I went there to see the train.
I wasn't interested in Mr. Just up from our home on Broadway was a bridge that the steam engines and later the diesels passed under delivering coal to the W.
Riley company and I and friends would try to drop stones down the smoke stack as the train went under the bridge. Around the corner in the other direction was Ringettes Store. That's where we got our penny candy in that neighborhood. Next to that was where my good friend Johnny Ippolito lived. His dad owned the Brook Manor and we went there on saturday mornings to help clean up and eat anything we could find.
One Saturday we got into the liquor cabinet and went home feeling pretty high. That was the last Saturday I was allowed to go there. I attended the Bank Street School for a few years before we moved to Plainville. The Community Theater was the big event of the week when I got to go to the movies.
My mother gave me a quarter and dropped me off in front of the theater. It cost ten cents to get in, ten cents for candy or popcorn and a nickle left over to go to the drugstore on the corner to call for a ride home. Welch had his dentist office upstairs over the drug store and there was a shoe store the other side of the theater where I went to get shoes for school.
I don't remember the owner's name but he was a very nice person and put up with a lot trying to fit me with shoes. He had a machine there you could see all the bones in your feet and that was scary, I'll tell you. Time for dinner, so more later. Sun October 10 I'd be happy to hear from anyone who remembers me or any member of my family in Plainville.
Sat October 09 Why have there been very few entries in the past couple of weeks. Is the Lynxmaster on vacation?
No, I have been here all the time. This site has been flooded with e-mails for several days - all of them blank. Looks like people are starting to get through now although there were blanks over the weekendso I'll keep an eye on it. You talked about the Lewicki brothers.
Were they from Plainville? I know two of the boys names are Tom and Joe. Rolly was my neighbor growing up on Hillcrest Drive.
Gosh, what a treat it was to have his homemade donuts in the morning. They always made for a special day. Rollie, Chris, and "Little" Rollie were a great family. Their kindness and goodness will surely live on in their son, grandchildren and great grandchild.
It's called "playground mix" and is cut to government standards to insure safety and to eliminate splinters. It maintains standards that allow a youngster to fall into it and be cushioned by it.
It compresses to set standard to allow for continuous cushioning. Many homeowners put it under their youngsters playground sets and wisely so. I believe daycare centers in Mass. Tell Dave or Nick Metcalf that "Rich sent you". Tell Tom and Kathy David Bosh said hi! Those of you who are away from Attleboro will be glad to know how "kid friendly" the Capron Park playground is now.
Approximately two years ago, new playground equipment was put in place by volunteers! It consists of two age-appropriate sets of climb-on apparatus. There are also the "baby swings" and "big kid swings. My description doesn't do it justice. I know our childhood memories tend to be a little rose-colored, but think about how unsafe the old equipment was. I can still see those concrete blocks under the "monkey bars.
They always seemed to be patient and polite.
So rare these days! So on the days that my granddaughters and I stayed local, it was a good experience and a happy summer. Unfortunately, Capron Park is no longer as you remember it. It hasn't been for many years, since they renovated it and started charging admission.
That entire playground area is GONE. There were three metal slides on that playground. The first one had NO bumps, the middle one had one bump and the last one had three bumps!Entrando Numa Fria Maior Ainda
I feel that is what happened here. The last time I drove into "Capron Park" I had to make a u-turn in the middle of the road because it had been turned into a dead-end. Remember how the circle went around by the duck pond and the baseball fields and then by the playground and the parking area for the snack shop? It's ironic how many times things are ruined in the name of "preservation. No matter, nothing stays the same forever, I guess.
I remember all that and I can't remember what I had for breakfast either! I had the best time at that playground with your sisters. Everything I saw from the car window could be found in her paintings. As far as I know, only a few of her works directly portray human beings, but we see hints of the female body, both young and mature, amidst the natural objects like flowers and mountains that she fondly painted. In them may have been the ultimate form of the life she pursued. The sandy land and the sky glowing in the setting sun suggest a woman in her early years of old age who has finished reproduction.
As nature reflects the body and the body mingles with nature, the body is given life in the form of mountains and flower nectar. A form of rebirth, perhaps? As I was following my thoughts about this painter, a Native American reservation came into view.
It was a settlement of twenty or thirty-one storied houses. Between those houses that stood in no particular pattern, was parked a small-size Japanese-made truck with a Romanized company name written on its body.
Beyond it, at the far end of the path of trodden grass, was a casino with a small pennant fixed among the eaves. Another path branched off leading to a church. The cross atop the steeple with the sun behind it distanced itself as we drove by. She had made several paintings of a cross in the wilderness using the same composition: The space differs from painting to painting in terms of the time depicted—night, dawn, and so forth—but the sun is invariably drawn at the back of the canvas.
Invariably again, the crosses are all black. What thoughts did she put into depicting the cross in the shadow that stood between herself and the sun? The sun in the wilderness reddened, pushing time forward by the minute. We were heading for Los Alamos on a steep mountain road. One side of the road formed a cliff, and the mesas we had seen on the way to Santa Fe were visible far below.
Winds blowing through the valley seemed to have brushed away the plants, for there was no green grass on the steep sides of the mesas. Stones and dirt had also been blown away, so that the sidewalls had holes resembling worm-eaten cabbage. From a distance, the round holes looked no larger than if they had been made with an adult fist.
Holes of the same size were scattered on the surface of the sidewalls, and here and there grey rock showed partially. These holes were traces left by rocks that had been buried and then fallen off when winds swept away dirt.
Rocks lay scattered at the base of the mesas. They were its dead members. I recalled my second trimester class that began after the war. Fifty-two students gone, our grade was one class fewer when the classes were reorganized.
When instruction for us survivors began, many desks in the classroom were missing their occupants. While taking roll, the teacher called the name of a girl who used to be seated before a now empty desk. Each time this happened during roll call, I visualized the face and figure of the girl whose name had been called.
It was painful to imagine the appearance of someone who was not where she should be.
The space around each of those desks, white with dust, looked particularly expansive, conveying a sense of emptiness.
The mesas from which rocks had fallen were tranquil, having sucked away the sounds of the wind. No thank you, not for me. After climbing all the way up, we looked down from the flat height at the city of Los Alamos below us. Tsukiko parked the red rental car at the center of a parking lot under the shining blue sky. This was the location that had been chosen as one of the three base areas for the Manhattan Project.
The plutonium and enriched uranium produced at the two other locations, Hanford and Oak Ridge, were transported to Los Alamos, where atomic bombs were assembled. The Los Alamos National Laboratory built back then has been dismantled and rebuilt in a corner of the mountain across the road.
After writing down our country and personal names, as we had at the Air Force Museum, the attendant who had waited the while explained to us the lay of the land where the Los Alamos National Laboratory was located, pointing at an aerial photograph. The building, a stylish one, stood on a lot situated atop a mountain of rock that spread its roots on the earth, and was the same color as the surface of the Rockies that I had seen from the airplane.
The brave-looking mountain made me think of the day that would eventually come when the people of this country would fully conquer the Rockies. It has not yet been two centuries since it was first discovered. While listening to these explanations deep in thought, I learned that a documentary would be screened in about ten minutes. Entering the room behind several other people, we took seats in the rear.
Spectators here were also, without exception, white. The film projected onto a large screen was an a-bomb history of the same kind as the film we had viewed on the TV screen at the Air Force Museum. The characters who appeared in the film were all heroes: Einstein, who was also on the labels of wine sold in the souvenir shop, and soldiers departing on an a-bomb carrier. While understanding this to be a record of victors, I found myself examining each detail with various objections and denials.
The sky over Los Alamos, just before noon, was clear and blue, and everything including the breeze and rustling of leaves seemed peaceful. But where would we go? On the way to Santa Fe, we had crossed a bridge across the reddish brown river, the Rio Grande. On the railroad that stretched along the river, a rust-colored cargo train passed by. It was an old-fashioned train, reminiscent of the age of prairie wagons. The river was quite rapid there, tossing the tips of bush branches that hung in the water.
It was that night. It is October 1, just past 10 p. The scale of the accident greatly concerns me. I am writing you because I feel restless with too much time left on my hands before tomorrow morning, when I will head for Trinity. When I told you about my plans to visit Trinity, you asked if I was an a-bomb maniac.
The space in this world that the 52 people in my grade had occupied, the 52 spaces I cannot touch even if I extend my arms in a full embrace, what can I fill them with? After leaving the Science Museum, I asked to stop the car on a pebble-scattered dirt road by the Rio Grande, and went down to the racing water. This being a country road, hardly any cars passed by. As I proceeded casually, Tsukiko told me not to walk into the grass.
In Texas, she said, the first thing one checks for when rising in the morning and putting on shoes, when opening a desk or kitchen drawer, or when getting in the car, is the presence of scorpions and rattlesnakes. Dangers that cannot be imagined in Japan lurk here in familiar nature. The dry riverbed where the car was parked lay between two streams, which seemed to join downstream.
One was clear, and the other was reddish brown just like the main stream of the Rio Grande. I sat down by the clear stream on the riverbed of stones that had turned white while being bleached under water. Five or six ducks swam in the upper course. They appeared to be wild ducks hatched and grown in nature. I saw eggs abandoned on the pebbles of the riverbed. Will they hatch, warmed by the temperature of the pebbles and the heat of the sun?
I have heard that ducks do not sit on their eggs. In terms of childraising, this would be like walking off the job. Here too are patients for you, Rui. But the Rio Grande is ten times fiercer than the Nakajima River in terms of both quantity and the flow of water. If possible, I wished to put my fingers in the main stream that formed streaks as it flowed near the bridge, and directly touch this river on the American Continent.
Nature is never gentle, but holds no ill will. The sky lets torrents fall when it can no longer retain water drops, and rivers make their own paths as they like. Even as they swallow towns and force people to float, they have neither good nor ill will. In the human world, there are too many purposes and promises that have to be honored. I would like to have moments that are free of aim and reward, much like running water that has no purpose in and of itself.
How liberated my heart would feel. But at that museum, I found myself to be half American. A group of wild ducks swam this way, directing their shoehorn bills toward us. Apparently they knew they could get food from humans. I had thought they were part of untouched nature, but that was not the case. Feeling repugnance at their familiarity, I picked up a pebble and threw it into the water.
Tsukiko then picked up an egg-sized stone and threw it with a swing of her arm. It made a big sound and sent up a spray. We had a hearty laugh. The ducks playing in the Rio Grande River were tame to humans, but the water gushing out afresh every day continues to flow on the red earth at its own speed. It would seem that the river cleanses the mind by allowing one to spit out accumulated anxiety. I want to tell you, Rui, about an incident I encountered a week or so before leaving Japan. Since that day, I have been waking when the hour comes and listening, with my entire body, for a sound from the garden.
It was near dawn. I heard something hit hard against the glass door of the corridor. A pigeon had once hit it. This time the sound indicated greater weight and surface. From the back of my throat I uttered a sound that did not form words.
Right away, I got out of bed and looked to the garden from the corridor. The rectangular back of a man was visible in the dark. I looked at the clock. After checking to make sure that all the doors were locked, I woke Kei. I positioned myself at the same place in the corridor and looked out at the garden. One might call this inspecting the scene. Tree leaves and scattered pebbles showed in the purple air.
In the morning, I walked around and checked the garden. For he had left something behind. While calling the police, I trembled. The surrounding space narrowed in all at once on me, and I experienced a sense of crisis as if we were about to be assaulted. The item left behind made that clear. We decided to install a sensor in the small garden, and to put on a crime prevention light and bolt the rain doors before going to sleep. Rui, this incident made me realize my own loss of the sense of crisis.
I had been embracing a groundless sense of freedom from care, thinking that our daily peace was protected. I had kept glass doors slightly open to let the wind in on sultry summer nights, and sometimes I forgot to lock up. In the meanwhile, danger was always present. But somehow it sounded wrong. Was it all right to be so complacent? It could be you. Rui, how many years ago was it that you happened to be on a high-jacked airplane? One would attack him, or kill him.
You would question this, Rui. You were always one to start by questioning daily life, then moving on to the larger questions facing countries and the world. I put my pen down. The sun rose late, and the morning of October 2 was still dark. I had to finish breakfast before my departure. I needed to fill my stomach with pancakes, green banana, and ruby-colored jelly provided at the hotel to prepare for whatever might happen in the desert.
The dining room was open from 5 a. All ready for the trip, I went down with a knapsack on my shoulder. We planned to leave at 6: The dining hall was full with balloon visitors. This is probably the only season that hotels in New Mexico become crowded, and this year Trinity Site was being opened on the same day as the annual Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta. When I returned from the Rio Grande River, the hotel parking lot was full of camp cars whose bodies were painted with pictures of colorful balloons.
It seemed that contestants gathered from all over the world to compete for ingeniousness in balloon design. At a supermarket I bought a photo book titled Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta, which introduced the participating balloons. The balloons had names: Americans who gathered in the dining room were more cheerful and relaxed than those I saw at the museums. Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta A man whose aloha shirt revealed corn-color chest hair, a woman in shorts who was so opulent that her chest almost touched her belly—they greeted one another as they ate bagels and pancakes.
There was also a woman who stood, drinking coffee in a stylish manner. They had hearty appetites, perhaps in implicit readiness to go out to the desert. Plates of the buffet breakfast were quickly emptied. A young woman holding fruit and desserts on a silver tray walked around filling the plates. The fiesta had already begun. Loading the trunk of the car with drinks, Tsukiko and I too departed. Not a balloonist camper remained. Trinity Site is on the outskirts of Alamagordo, about kilometers southeast of Albuquerque.
Our car entered the dusty wasteland as the rows of road lamps, dim in the morning mist, came to an end. The vista spread before us in a large circle, and distant mountain peaks to the east and to the left of the road began shining in gold. The morning sun was behind the mountains, the surfaces of which were still sunk in darkness. On the right side of the road, light spread from the mountain peaks to the grassy field at its base, minute by minute.
As our car raced on, the mountain ridge to the east rose high and then fell low, with the sun sinking behind it and rising again. In response, the mountains to the west now became dark, then again, in the next moment, the grass on their surface shone like the golden hair of a little child.
Soon, as the dewy grassy fields rolled forth like river mist, the morning sun appeared in full from behind the mountains. We encountered no other cars. We met no other living creatures, not to mention people. This was the first building we had seen after beginning our drive. It had a rectangular wooden frame with no windows or doors, and was only equipped with water and a washroom.
The washroom was the only area that had walls or a door. A Native American stood guard. Several trucks and passenger cars were parked there. A man napped after a presumably long drive, with booted feet resting on the windowsill of his truck. Tsukiko parked next to him. Tsukiko smoked as she crossed the wooden footbridge that led to the raised floor of the rest area. Dogs are not allowed to be unleashed into the prairie.
You are responsible for any injuries incurred by snakes if you disregard this warning. I crossed the wooden bridge after her, and stood facing the wild land to the west.
The prairie stretched westward to the foot of the mountains. Beneath the grass, snakes must be waiting for game to approach. Judging from the warning against stepping into the grass, they also lurked beneath our feet in the grass that I saw through crevices of the bridge. What shape are they and what color eyes do they have, I wondered.
Rattlesnakes are killers, so, just like Fat Man and Little Boy, they probably have sleek body lines. Their mechanism is extremely delicate. And it would not be strange if a 5-foot snake were to look up at Tsukiko or me. A 5-footer was not welcome. I kept to the wooden bridge and concrete path, and got in the car. The sunlight had become painful to the eyes.
Two hours and 40 minutes after departure, there was a slight change in the landscape. The wild scrub-brush land itself showed no sign of change, but I now saw plants the height of a boy growing here and there. People with detailed knowledge of the area would be able to read the geography from the look of the plants, but the Trinity Site is hidden and not on the map.
What gave me a premonition that we had come close was a steel tower on a tableland ahead of us along with a huge parabola antenna. Five or six cars were parked fifty meters ahead of us.
A female attendant, who was talking to one of the drivers, raised her hand to stop us. She approached and tapped on the window. Saying that Trinity Site was under the jurisdiction of the U. Army, she requested that we roll down the window.
What lay ahead was more of the same wilderness. A fence made of logs and barbed wire was open, the gate to Trinity Site. The attendant looked at us. She told us to read and sign it. Entering the Site, say at 2: Evening dusk comes early in the wilderness, and it is dangerous. As if to warn of this danger, the standing signboard clarified the locus of responsibility: Now I looked at the printed rules.
Easy as it was to jump the fence itself, a series of verbal warnings enclosed the place ten- and twenty-fold.
Trinitite is an artifact from a National Historic Landmark. Rattlesnakes have been seen at Ground Zero and the ranch house. If allowed out, all pets must be on a leash. If you leave your animal in your vehicle, be sure the windows are partially open to allow sufficient ventilation. The heat generated in a closed vehicle can kill a pet in very little time. We drove along the long, narrow road sided by fences.
Stopped again, we parked the car as guided by an attendant. Beyond that point was Trinity Site where no cars were allowed. Trinity Site refers to the small wilderness surrounded by fences approximately 3 meters high within the wilderness. Its approximate center is Ground Zero, the epicenter of the plutonium explosion test. At Ground Zero stands a National Historical Monument, an obelisk built with stones, perhaps also about 3 meters tall.
This area, including the space outside the enclosure, was probably used as the missile testing range. A one-hour visit to the inner fenced area will result in a whole body exposure of one-half to one millirem.
The decision is yours. The yearly exposure for an American adult being 90 millirems, the amount at Trinity Site cannot be considered low. Getting out of the car, we walked toward the fenced area carrying mineral water bottles, which were permitted.
Approximately visitors were there. Perhaps mindful of the thorny desert plants and short, possibly radioactive grass under their feet, visitors walked silently, looking down. The only things that moved were humans walking through Trinity Site. It is unlikely that birds nest in a desert devoid of trees. I listened for sounds in the hushed wilderness. I wished to hear the sounds of the small but powerful grass seeds that split open in the warm sun.
Even the scratchy noise an insect makes on sand while sliding down a doodlebug pit would have been fine. I wanted to hear the sounds of a living creature.
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I walked toward Ground Zero, stopping when I reached just outside the circle of visitors surrounding the stone monument. I lifted my face upward and looked around. It was a boundless expanse of bleak land where nobody could hide. In July over fifty years ago, an atomic flash had streaked from this point in all four directions.
I have heard that on the test day, there had been a torrential rain from early in the morning, which is rare in New Mexico. The test was carried out despite the storm. Living creatures on the wild land were silenced before they could even assume an attack posture. Trinity test from six miles From the bottom of the earth, from the distant mountain range exposing its red surface, and from the brown wilderness, soundless waves pressed toward me.
How hot it must have been. The Trinity blast Until I stood on Trinity Site, I had thought that the first victims of nuclear damage on earth were us humans. There were elderly victims here. They were here, without being able to weep or cry out. Tears came to my eyes. Since beginning the walk along the fenced-in corridor as guided by the attendant, the awareness of myself as a victim, which I had felt so strongly, had disappeared from my mind.
It seems that in walking toward Ground Zero, I had reverted to being fourteen years old, before I was bombed. When I stood before the Monument, I experienced the true bombing. As I look back, I shed not a single tear on August 9th. While running away and mingling with groups of people who had lost their shape—hands, legs, and faces--I did not shed a tear. A line formed like that of midsummer ants on the scorched field of Urakami. It was composed of people who could still walk and sought treatment.
Facing the line, one doctor gave treatments. He was seated on a cracked stone, a bandage around his head. Eyeing the landscape that loomed in the sunlight, I fled with all my might. Three days later, my mother walked 28 kilometers from the place to which the family had fled to find me.
It may be that, for the first time as a human being, I now shed the tears that I did not shed on August 9th. To this day, the days of my life had been of merciless pain that stung my body and mind. Yet that may have been an epidermal pain that was derived from the 9th. I had temporarily forgotten that I was an hibakusha, but, on this silent earth, I was in fact seeing the landscape of my escape, which I had suppressed in a corner of my heart over the years—seeing myself on that critical day.
The back of an old man walking toward Ground Zero caught my eye. He was walking alone, away from the groups of people. Around 72 or 73 years of age and with a long strongly built torso, he could be a disabled former serviceman. Perhaps he had weak eyesight, for he wore dark glasses. I imagined that he joined a bus tour to visit Ground Zero while he could still walk.
I was drawn to his form that conveyed sadness. What was the first half of his life like? The elderly man, who was feeling Trinity Site with his stick as he walked, stopped outside the crowd surrounding the stone monument. With one hand placed over the other on top of the stick, he viewed the monument from a distance. Three or four boys in camouflage clothes ran past him. Another played alone, throwing a red Frisbee to the sky.
Fat Man, housed at the Atomic Museum in the Air Force base until yesterday, was on display within the fence, having been transported there overnight. It was the sibling of the plutonium bomb used in the test explosion.
Twice a year, it returns home. Tsukiko and I were walking hand in hand before we realized it. A few five-petaled flowers, closely resembling a kind of quince seen in hills and fields in Japan, were abloom amidst the grass. There were also glossy, yellow flowers. We crouched to gaze at those flowers that kept themselves flat to the ground. After taking a look at what was left of the crater after the test explosion,26 we walked toward the exit, which had also served as our entrance.
There was a crowd. I had not noticed it before, but things like radium dials from old watches and clocks were placed on a table. The pointer swung and the counter began to buzz. Some of these items might date as far back as that morning after the rainstorm.
The sound became loud, then weak, undulating. I felt like applying the Geiger to my body for them to see. If the counter started to make harsh sounds, everyone would be shocked, I thought. Although it partly depends upon the material, the life of radioactivity sent out on earth is said to be semi-permanent.
By the side of those rusty instruments was a glass case containing a stone. It was a perfectly round pebble with a diameter of about 1 centimeter. It looked grey as a whole, but on taking a good look I saw that it was made of white, brown, green, and red grains of sand mixed together. Pointing at the lusterless stone, the attendant began to explain. They danced around, came together in the air, melted at a high temperature, and turned into this solid spherical shape.
I wished, at the very least, that the bones of the friends I had lost were lovely, pink pearls. Surrounded by people, stood two Japanese men. They were hibakusha from Hiroshima, about to be interviewed. Wearing T-shirts, the two stood looking tense amidst American onlookers. They stood upright, with uplifted faces. That night, I wrote to Rui once again. I attached a poem to the letter: One second after the explosion of the plutonium bomb what I saw was a ball of fire 1, degrees Centigrade at the core 7, degrees on the surface with a radius of meters a blast at a speed of meters per second shooting radioactivity and heat rays ofdegrees making the sun 6, degrees on the surface lose its dazzling brightness and fall red and large.
That light and cloud rivers of corpses the death cries of fathers mothers and children the howling of the flaming sea running at full speed the night groaned on the devastated fields each of the several tens of thousands who breathed their last— Xavier and the Apostles who stand atop the Urakami Church you know all these.
We survivors too will eventually depart but fat alley cats walk slowly people move their big bellies swaying our destination ah, where will it be? By now a few hydrogen bombs, it is said, are enough to make rising clouds and smoke stream all the way to the ends of the earth a nuclear winter will then cover the globe and all living things will become extinct.
Beyond Hiroshima and Nagasaki history at length has come to this. Xavier and the Apostles standing upon the remains of the Urakami Church some day if the world ends at that moment what will you see? Her older sister was one grade above me she died at age