Tuesday, June 03, 2003
This article explains my sentiment over the loss of the Old Man of the Mountain.
Sadness over loss show Old Man's meaning to us
By LORNA COLQUHOUN
Union Leader Correspondent
FRANCONIA — The man had waited until Monday to come down from Littleton to Franconia Notch, partly to avoid the crowd of the curious on the Sunday after the collapse and partly to believe for a few more hours that maybe the headlines weren’t as bad as they sounded.
Like thousands of other Granite Staters that weekend, he took the news that the Old Man of the Mountain had collapsed with a mix of disbelief, denial and sadness — sadness for the loss of such a symbol and sadness that his two faraway sons did not get one last look at it.
“They live in Florida and Virginia,” said the man, dressed all in blue, who did not share his name. “My son in Virginia, he’s in the service overseas. But whenever he comes home, he always comes up on (Interstate) 93, just so he could see it. He comes up that way, even though it would be quicker for him to come up (Interstate) 91. When he would finally see it, he would say he’s at the gate, he’s almost home.”
The tumble of the Old Man, in the early hours of Saturday, May 3, caught everyone off guard. Surely, while few of us had doubted such a formation could continue defying gravity, we figured this granite icon was good for as long as we were.
What has also caught us unawares is the emotion that has flowed in the aftermath. Because few of us ever really thought that the Great Stone Face would fall in our lifetime, we had also never really thought about what that would mean to us individually and in our collective psyche.
We are finding that for every piece of crumbled rock resting below Cannon Cliffs, there is a memory and a piece of our hearts attached.
For some, the Old Man was a destination at the end of a journey. Getting there to see him meant a long summer’s ride in a station wagon, maybe with a bunch of cousins and an arsenal of Fluffernutters. It was taking in a bear show at Clark’s and a splash in Echo Lake and between those times, the station wagon was pulled over and everyone looked skyward.
Long after growing up, a glimpse of the Old Man would bring those memories back over the years and a succeeding generation would seek to recreate those days with their own children.
For others, to see the Old Man come into view meant they were almost back home or that in just a few minutes, they would be at their grandmother’s house.
But those feeling the loss of the Old Man most deeply are those who lived and grew up in the vicinity of his gaze. Maybe as children, they fought siblings for backseat rights that would let them see the Old Man first. As adults, they would drive by him on their way to and from work and like a cherished neighbor they pass on the street, to go by the Old Man and not acknowledge him would be rude.
The Old Man was such a part of the landscape, it was almost like he was a protector or a guardian or the keeper of the Notch. In a world of rapid and bewildering change, the Old Man was steady at his vigil. He did not change. He was just always there and there was something greatly comforting about that.
Now that he’s gone, there is a feeling of vulnerability: the protector, the guardian, the keeper is gone. Who’s there to watch over us? Who’s there to listen to what we have to say to him? Who’s there for children to wave at?
In these few days after the fall, it is still hard to fathom, much less even say out loud. The Old Man is gone. After a first look at the empty cliff last Saturday, at least one woman has not looked at it again, even though she drives through the Notch twice a day. “I pull my visor over my window and just look straight ahead,” she said. “I just can’t bear to look up there.”
Wishful thinking would have the whole past week be a bad dream and in the morning, the profile would be there. The Old Man has been staring southward for 10,000 years or more, but he was a relatively recent discovery. He was just two years shy of celebrating the bicentennial of his discovery. We had fewer than 200 years to enjoy him.
Our parents, their parents and their parents introduced each succeeding generation to him, but part of the collective sadness this week is the regret that those who follow will not know the strength, the inspiration, the awe or the comfort of the Old Man.
And so we now try to figure out how to best remember the Old Man of the Mountain.
Do we do everything we can to recreate his visage high above Franconia Notch and if we do, will that assuage the aching emptiness on that cliffside?
Could a mere replica inspire poets, charm children, uphold the identity of an entire state or remedy our broken hearts?
Or do we realize that the hand of man can never recreate the wonder of nature? Do we let the Old Man rest in peace — and pieces — with a modest memorial to explain to those who follow us why his image remains — and must remain — 10, 20, 200 years from now.
Nature proved this week that what it can make, it can also take away. It showed that it is not static.
We lost a huge symbol this week, but who is to say that nature is finished making marvels, creating wonder and provoking mystery? Tomorrow or 10,000 tomorrows from now, there maybe another night of hard rain and high winds and frost. The hillsides may shake and rumble and change, unseen in the fog that so often cloaks high elevations. And when that veil lifts, possibly on a blue sky day like last Saturday, perhaps a new generation can find a source of strength and pride and awe, one we can’t even imagine today.
Sadness over loss show Old Man's meaning to us
By LORNA COLQUHOUN
Union Leader Correspondent
FRANCONIA — The man had waited until Monday to come down from Littleton to Franconia Notch, partly to avoid the crowd of the curious on the Sunday after the collapse and partly to believe for a few more hours that maybe the headlines weren’t as bad as they sounded.
Like thousands of other Granite Staters that weekend, he took the news that the Old Man of the Mountain had collapsed with a mix of disbelief, denial and sadness — sadness for the loss of such a symbol and sadness that his two faraway sons did not get one last look at it.
“They live in Florida and Virginia,” said the man, dressed all in blue, who did not share his name. “My son in Virginia, he’s in the service overseas. But whenever he comes home, he always comes up on (Interstate) 93, just so he could see it. He comes up that way, even though it would be quicker for him to come up (Interstate) 91. When he would finally see it, he would say he’s at the gate, he’s almost home.”
The tumble of the Old Man, in the early hours of Saturday, May 3, caught everyone off guard. Surely, while few of us had doubted such a formation could continue defying gravity, we figured this granite icon was good for as long as we were.
What has also caught us unawares is the emotion that has flowed in the aftermath. Because few of us ever really thought that the Great Stone Face would fall in our lifetime, we had also never really thought about what that would mean to us individually and in our collective psyche.
We are finding that for every piece of crumbled rock resting below Cannon Cliffs, there is a memory and a piece of our hearts attached.
For some, the Old Man was a destination at the end of a journey. Getting there to see him meant a long summer’s ride in a station wagon, maybe with a bunch of cousins and an arsenal of Fluffernutters. It was taking in a bear show at Clark’s and a splash in Echo Lake and between those times, the station wagon was pulled over and everyone looked skyward.
Long after growing up, a glimpse of the Old Man would bring those memories back over the years and a succeeding generation would seek to recreate those days with their own children.
For others, to see the Old Man come into view meant they were almost back home or that in just a few minutes, they would be at their grandmother’s house.
But those feeling the loss of the Old Man most deeply are those who lived and grew up in the vicinity of his gaze. Maybe as children, they fought siblings for backseat rights that would let them see the Old Man first. As adults, they would drive by him on their way to and from work and like a cherished neighbor they pass on the street, to go by the Old Man and not acknowledge him would be rude.
The Old Man was such a part of the landscape, it was almost like he was a protector or a guardian or the keeper of the Notch. In a world of rapid and bewildering change, the Old Man was steady at his vigil. He did not change. He was just always there and there was something greatly comforting about that.
Now that he’s gone, there is a feeling of vulnerability: the protector, the guardian, the keeper is gone. Who’s there to watch over us? Who’s there to listen to what we have to say to him? Who’s there for children to wave at?
In these few days after the fall, it is still hard to fathom, much less even say out loud. The Old Man is gone. After a first look at the empty cliff last Saturday, at least one woman has not looked at it again, even though she drives through the Notch twice a day. “I pull my visor over my window and just look straight ahead,” she said. “I just can’t bear to look up there.”
Wishful thinking would have the whole past week be a bad dream and in the morning, the profile would be there. The Old Man has been staring southward for 10,000 years or more, but he was a relatively recent discovery. He was just two years shy of celebrating the bicentennial of his discovery. We had fewer than 200 years to enjoy him.
Our parents, their parents and their parents introduced each succeeding generation to him, but part of the collective sadness this week is the regret that those who follow will not know the strength, the inspiration, the awe or the comfort of the Old Man.
And so we now try to figure out how to best remember the Old Man of the Mountain.
Do we do everything we can to recreate his visage high above Franconia Notch and if we do, will that assuage the aching emptiness on that cliffside?
Could a mere replica inspire poets, charm children, uphold the identity of an entire state or remedy our broken hearts?
Or do we realize that the hand of man can never recreate the wonder of nature? Do we let the Old Man rest in peace — and pieces — with a modest memorial to explain to those who follow us why his image remains — and must remain — 10, 20, 200 years from now.
Nature proved this week that what it can make, it can also take away. It showed that it is not static.
We lost a huge symbol this week, but who is to say that nature is finished making marvels, creating wonder and provoking mystery? Tomorrow or 10,000 tomorrows from now, there maybe another night of hard rain and high winds and frost. The hillsides may shake and rumble and change, unseen in the fog that so often cloaks high elevations. And when that veil lifts, possibly on a blue sky day like last Saturday, perhaps a new generation can find a source of strength and pride and awe, one we can’t even imagine today.
