Hiroshima and Nagasaki, remembered

As a subscriber to the New York Times "What We're Reading" email that lists editors' top picks, I couldn't help but click on the one linking to John Hersey's New Yorker essay, "Hiroshima," written a year after the U.S. dropped an atomic bomb on Hiroshima (Aug. 6, 1945) and on Nagasaki, three days later, which would be today, Aug. 9.

Here is the intro that caught my eye:

The New Yorker Witness to the Inconceivable As Japan marks the 70th anniversary of the atomic bombings by the United States, it’s well worth returning to the seminal article that laid the horrors of nuclear warfare before the world. John Hersey’s meticulous recreation of the moment the bomb hit Hiroshima, and his intertwined tales of victims, survivors and a shaken country, holds up 69 years after it was published. It set a standard for narrative journalism and bearing witness.

Here is the link to the article.

I didn't mean to, but I read the whole thing both because of my interest in narrative journalism and because the dates pass through my mind most years. I posted it to Facebook and then deleted it because it is not the kind of thing people usually share.

You probably don't want to read it on a nice summer day. It's not useful to sit around feeling guilty,  but if you follow politics and the debate over the pros and cons of the Iran Nuclear deal, it's worth a thought that it is nowhere in the U.S. consciousness that our country is the only one that dropped the bomb and not only that, we did it to civilians, twice.

People are thinking about it, however.

Alex Wellerstein's, "Nagasaki, The Last Bomb," is fourth on The New Yorker's most-emailed list.

I read that one too.

Here is the history on the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

But now, back to reality, a sunny, less humid day, good for a lot of good things.

One craaaazy night

I dreamt that I was in Iowa and I couldn't speak the language (possibly because I had just read the funny "Letter from Joni Ernst About Measles" in The New Yorker.) My cell phone was dead and I couldn't call anyone but it wouldn't have helped because I couldn't remember the address of where I was staying.

I bumped into some friendly people who spoke English. I asked if they had ever been to the East Coast and they said no. I entertained them by telling them how the people speak. New Yorkers say New Yawk. Bostonians say Bahston. Long Islanders accentuate the "g" in Long.

Back in South Hadley, I had to leave at 10:30 for a doubles strategy session that Michael was giving (which is indeed happening today). But my father had taken my car and was not back. I knew Joe would not want me driving his car and I didn't know what to do. Turns out the car was actually in the driveway, blocked in by a red Ferrari that belonged to a workman. The workmen were all over the place. Bert was repainting my bedroom, and I nearly tripped over a drop cloth. My mother was hanging curtains.

No, I was actually at 1200 Fifth Ave., and in the condo remodeling they had moved the elevator door. Instead of being right next to 4C, it was one door down. I rang the doorbell of the new apartment and the woman who answered at first seemed annoyed but then said it happens all the time. She said she was a goalie for the Yankees and I said I would tell my son because he's a goalie too.

I rang for the elevator over and over and when it finally came, an annoyed tall man said I didn't have to ring it so many times.

I caught the Fifth Avenue bus and saw the tennis courts in the park. I jumped off but forgot my shoes on the bus. Luckily the bus driver stopped and handed them to me. When I got to the courts I saw that they were made of sand, and it was more like playing on the beach. I couldn't remember if I was supposed to catch the ball with my hands or hit it into a net like soccer. I decided on the latter and it slowly rolled in. But it was an onion that got buried in the sand.

Bill Clinton walked by smiling. (Second time a Clinton has appeared in my dreams; last time it was Hillary playing at the Australian Open.)

I went back home to rest while preparing to go back for our afternoon clinic (which is really happening today.) I was taking the whole week off from work because I had been sick and my mother had told me to. But I was worried that someone from work would see me playing. Luckily the afternoon clinic got canceled because Donna and Deb had decided it would be too much in one day.

I got in my car and when driving down the street I realized that the brakes weren't working. (Subaru has sent a recall notice saying they performed an incomplete repair on a recall notice for faulty brake lines.)  In my dream, the car wouldn't stop, and I didn't want to run anyone over. I pulled into the fire station, rolled down the window and asked for help. Fire chief Billy Selkirk and some others grabbed onto the car and slowed it down. Billy rotated the front tires and fixed the problem.

Then I was running barefoot down a city street, stepping over and crunching down on all sorts of construction debris. Someone said I was going in the wrong direction. I turned around and saw Ed Durkee from high school. And also Katryn from college. I thought I knew where I was when I saw our school Friends Seminary across a park. People in booths were selling strappy shoes. No, it was the Chestnut Hill Reservoir in Boston. No it was really Mount Holyoke College. Basically I just wasn't sure where I was.

At this point Maddie woke me up, yelping in her own dream. I called her name loudly, but she kept crying. I got out of bed and went to wake her up. She gave a little whimper and settled back into sleep.

It was 4:15 a.m.