Ann Gordon
When I think of Ainab, and I often
do, I think first of all of the fine people, included in this great project
that good Joshua has fashioned, whom I met and mingled with up there. The fun,
great walks up the hills, one very memorable one with Ray Close leading the way
to the top for pancakes over a fire, watching the sunrise! As I remember we
cooked 200!
And of course the tennis, Malcolm
and David Dodges’ first serves, plus Joan Landis’s rather eccentric but
effective one. The tennis was great, funny but a wonderful mixture of old and
young. I love the image of Nina selling watermelon slices, how reviving those
watermelon slices were for us sweating players.
What a place for the children of
all ages, the concrete roads built for the miniature cars and trucks. The games
on the court, rover-red-rover and lots of others. And wandering down to the
village for a cold soda.
Victoria kept her horse there one
summer, tethered to a tree. He escaped once, but was caught by Ralph Crow who
calmly put his arms around Nar and led him back.
The bridge! not brilliant, but full
of laughs, sometimes wondering if Archie would give us a splash half way
through. The food and drinks were special, no doubt because of the mountain
air. We all enjoyed guests coming up for a meal and a break from hot
Beirut.
We Gordons had the Leavitt house
from about ‘67 to ‘75. And thoroughly enjoyed Landises, Kerrs, Crows, Kennedys,
Dodds, Scotts Archie, and various other ex-Ainabis who visited. We all enjoyed
knowing Mary Eddy. She had such good stories. And was an elegant member of the
hillltop.
I was shaken when I saw in 2001
that nothing was left of our house but a concrete slab. I never knew whether it
was bombed or what happened to it.
But we are so lucky to have had
that magical place and all the memories it has evoked for over 80 years. And
bless this blog.
AINAB (by Matthew Gordon)
Hills that smelled of warm thyme
The pink and peach light of the late afternoons
The concord grapes: squeeze, the rush of thick sweetness and
broken seed
The treehouse, flashlight game beneath the Dodge house, the
volleyball games; best of all, kick-the-can.
Jisr al-Qadi: was there ever better swimming?
The tangle of car roads, oh, the car roads: why so
fascinating?
The tennis matches; one fierce net exchange with my father
remains fixed in my memory. And blessed Joan’s serve, the giggles.
And the people, a great swirl of faces, names, episodes. Ted
Kennedy on French horn! And Mary Eddy’s niece or granddaughter (what was her
name?), she took us on a long hike and much further across the hills than I had
known. And Ken Crow back from India at some point (he also played me the 45 rpm
version of “Paperback Writer” and spoke at length of why it mattered).
Concrete slab indeed. The Scotts lived in the house at one
point, during one invasion from the south or another, and I believe it was a
nervous Israeli soldier who shot up the roof (with US-provided ammunition?). I
don’t recall who told me, but he or she described it as the beginning of the
end for the house.
We’ve attached a watercolor of the Gordon family on our
porch (done by Ann Osborne, August 1969).
Those were the days my friends.
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