I JUST FINISHED READING LIZA MUNdy's beautifully written essay "Inch by Inch" [PostModern, June 27]. I, too, have a young daughter (almost 5) and experience many of the same sentiments. I, too, feel "deeply ambivalent about the passage of time," and was just expressing this to my father a few days ago. I told him that part of me wanted to freeze time, keeping things exactly as they are right now, and his response was "but there are wonderful things ahead, in the future."
Having my own child has sensitized me to what my parents must have gone through, and makes me a little more sympathetic to my mother's reluctance to "let go," even though I am 42!
THE ARTICLE ABOUT CHRIS HENNEmeyer in the Kosovo refugee camp ["Relief Cowboy," July 4] was a disappointment. The term "relief cowboy" sounds glib, with a flippant media spin. The author's tone stresses cynicism. I know Chris, and I have followed his humanitarian efforts as he has risked his life to help the underdog in Africa. At least the article shows us there are dedicated, realistic people like Chris out there trying to pick up the pieces and glue together broken lives. No wonder Catholic Relief Services sent him to help in Macedonia.
BARBARA HUGHES MEIMA
WE OFTEN HEAR OF THE DO-GOODERS that put on a show for the media, the ones that try to connect to every refu-gee or every person in need. It's comforting to read of Chris Hennemeyer, who does his job because he loves it, instead of out of some altruistic whim.
Tamara Jones handled the article with some of the best writing I've read in The Post in a while, and Lucian Perkins's photography worked perfectly with the text.
I COULD NOT STOP READING TAMara Jones's piece about the Kosovo refugee camps and Chris Hennemeyer. It evoked tears -- of anger and frustration. And made me want to dash right out of my perfect little suburbia world to that other one where hope seems to be a fading commodity.
How fortunate humankind is to have people like Chris out there. Regardless of what it is that motivates and drives a man like him to make relief work his profession, the fact remains, he matters and makes a difference.
MORALLINA FANWAR GEORGE
WHERE THE MOVIES PLAYED
NEIL GRAUER'S ARTICLE ON WASHINGton's movie houses ["Gone With the Wind," July 4] aroused many memories for me. I remember the many Sundays we went to Keith's, which featured both a movie and vaudeville, plus an attended play area in the theater where I was taken when I was considered too young to understand the talking. I also enjoyed the candy bar dispensers on the back of the seats in front of us.
My dad played the cello during the silent movies at the Apollo, a theater in Northeast. During a snowstorm in 1922, he called a colleague who played at the Knickerbocker and suggested that since he (Dad) lived closer to this movie house while the friend lived near the Apollo, they could each walk to the theater. My dad started to walk to 18th and Columbia with his cello. The snow was over his head. After about an hour he returned home, admitting that he would never make it. Later we learned of the collapse of the roof at the Knickerbocker. We all cried about how lucky we were to still have our dad safe and sound.
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