Patrick Egan's Blog, page 4

Below The Equator V: At The Flea Market in San telmo/ Knives, Bola Balls & Street Tango

[The street where the artists sell their…art. Photo is mine]

Is it me or is the temperature 90° F?

~~Patrick Egan (January, 12, 2025)

“Oh, you simply must go to the Flea Market at Plaza Dorrego in San Telmo,” said our landlady, Flor. She has an appropriate tat on her right forearm. It’s a beautiful flower. At first I thought. she worked at the Botanical Garden. But she doesn’t.

The Uber pulled over across Defense Street. I knew we were here because of the hundreds of people who were gathering on the corner. A street Dixieland-style band played at the corner. This was the place where the San Telmo Flea Market unofficially begins. It was a Sunday afternoon. And it was hot.

[The band. The street corner. Video is mine]

I was looking for some sort of memento, an item to hold in my hand and recall this visit to Buenos Aires. It didn’t have to be something large like a gaucho’s saddle, or a meat grinder for their legendary beef. Or something rare and valuable like a 19th century copper-framed mirror or a bust of Elvis. Nor could it be something small and easily misplaced in our apartment back in New York, like a 1930s pocket watch or a even a fob for said watch. No, I was looking for something edgy, unique, interesting like…a gaucho’s knife. Or a set of Bola Balls.

I looked over the knives carefully. My interest was piqued by a handsome one with a horn handle. I checked on that again when we walked back to where the Uber would take us home. Then I saw the Bola Balls. I once owned an original Frisbee (until a neighbor’s dog chewed it up). But a real set of Bola Balls. Now that would look grand on our wall.

[The Bola Ball set of my dreams. Just in case you’re unfamiliar, these are used in hunting and capturing four-legged beasts, wild and tame. Saves on learning the lasso thing. Photo is mine]

We walked on, with Mariam helping me from falling on the mean cobblestone street. My foot, remember.

Music drifted from blues bars on the second floor above cafes. If you paused for more than thirty seconds at a booth, a thin aged man with chin stubble or his weary wife would come to you, eager to let you pick it up, try it, touch it and, hopefully buy it. The younger men were more aggressive in their approach, almost taking your arm, leading you toward more goods in the boxes at the back end of his table.

We walked on. On to Plaza Dorrego. More booths, A hundred more booths. The items for sale numbered in the thousands. I wanted all the beautiful little things, and I wanted none of them. I only wanted what I had set out to get.

And original art was one of those desired items. So we looked, we bartered, we walked away and came back. Did they take credit cards? Only cash? No thank you. We finally settled on two pieces, one with the watercolor paint almost, almost still wet. The cost to us? About $40 USD. A good deal as far as I’m concerned.

[Video is mine]

By that time of the day, I had lost seven pounds of body moisture through my pores. The SPF on my arms had melted away an hour ago. We were both a little peckish so we took an outside seat at a cafe and ordered classic lemonades for both of us. We ordered french fries. The drinks came and we waited for the fries. And we waited and waited, like the poor people in Casablanca, waiting and waiting for the letters of transit. As we sat, the hot afternoon sun crept higher in the sky and slowly toward the two of us huddled against the disappearing shade against the wall of the restaurant. Finally, just as the Infrared and UV rays reached the pepper mill (my lemonade was next!) our fries arrived. Just in time. I was about to phone the American Embassy over on JFK Avenue.

This blog site of mine is not TripAdvisor or Yelp, so I will make no comment about the fries. We ate most of them and left.

Back at the Plaza Dorrego, in a corner of the park where there were no booths, a small speaker was playing the music that I recognized.

Then the couple, a dark and handsome man and his partner, a black-haired woman of rare beauty, her earrings black and matching her clothes…began to dance.

Here they are: And I will be back soon with another episode…

[The Tango Dancers in the Park. Video is mine]

Below The Equator IV: A Day at the Recoleta Cemetery/ Among the Serene, the violated…and Evita

[Abandoned poster display outside the wall of the Cemetery of Recoleta, Buenos Aires. The advertising is gone, but behind the wall, the city’s dead remain. Photo is mine]

My biggest fear in life is to be forgotten.

I cast my dreams aside to fulfill those of others.

~~Maria Eva Duarte de Peron (Evita)

Readers, you know me by now. And you’re wondering when I’m going to get around to writing about another famous cemetery. I shan’t keep you on the edge of your seat any longer.

London has High Gate, Paris has Pere Lachaise, New York has Greenwood, my hometown of Owego, NY, has Evergreen. These aren’t just places where the deceased are buried, indeed they are much more than that. Designed by landscape architects, they offer vistas, elaborate mausoleums, curious and heartbreaking epitaphs, trees, benches, rolling hills, and even ponds and fountains. I am drawn to these beautiful and hallowed grounds for many reasons. My Irish melancholy, my deeply suppressed poetic sensibility, my historical curiosity and my appreciation for how those who have gone on, chose to tell us who they were and what they’ve done in the brief tenure on earth. So, we’re here in Buenos Aires and I knew well before we boarded our flight at JFK where I was going to spend a sunny afternoon.

[Arial view of the cemetery. Photo credit: Shutterstock]

I would be found among the dead in Cementerio de la Recoleta on Avenue Junin. The Uber dropped us just a little too far from the front gate so I was already in a light sweat by the time we made the moderately long walk to the corner, down the block, back up, along a wall to the Entrance Gate. We gladly charged the $17,000 fee. (No need to panic. The $ is used for the Argentine peso. Oh, and the exchange rate is about $1,000 pesos to $1.00. So it cost us $17 USD.) Not too bad. But, I always assume these fees are earmarked for maintenance of the grounds. And that’s where I had a problem. More on that later. Let’s get back to visiting the not-so-forgotten deceased.

[A partial list of the notables buried here. I am not recognizing any except for a writer perhaps. And, except for the person, eleven down in the left column. Photo is mine]

The cemetery is twelve acres. It currently has over 6,400 tombs, etc. Each crypt I examined had several interments. So, you can do the math. Close to 10,000 individuals? Who knows? And does it matter?

Not really. I’m here to see the stone structures and study the funerary art. Here’s how I recorded my impressions after we passed through the gate:

There is a certain austerity to this place. The walkways, lanes, tiny alleys and broader streets are without litter. Benches abound but not enough are in the shade for this writer, who has a very low tolerance of sun and heat. Again, my Irish blood…it’s thick. The Paris cemetery, as well as Highgate in London, both have a lushness, secret grassy places between the stone houses, grass even. But not much here. Paving stones give way to granite and marble edifices, with little transition.

And no cats were to be seen. The cemetery is rumored to have a significant population of feral cats, but I spent hours walking about, and no little kitties. I asked a young woman at the exit gate about the no-cat thing. She gave me two answers. In her broken English she said they came and took many away. A moment later she said they don’t like people so they come out after closing hours. (In a cemetery like this, one finds it easy to speculate about what else comes out after the gates close.)

With my various aliments regarding my right foot, I didn’t get to investigate each and every corner of this awesome and fascinating place. I also did not have access to a thick guidebook and, not incidentally, virtually no grasp of Spanish, I can show you a number of mausoleums, making a brief comment about the style. I can not provide any history about the families or the silent residents.

So, enjoy a tour of this famous Buenos Aires burying ground:

[Probably my choice for the most interesting and artistic tomb. Photo is mine]

[The statuary here is some of the best. Photo is mine]

[A few mausoleums are simple and austere. Important enough to have a plot, not solvent enough to afford the spires. Photo is mine]

[Many tombs have no space for flowers. So many of the avenues look exactly like this one. Photo is mine]

[NOTE: FOR THOSE READERS WHO HAVE NO DESIRE TO SEE EXPOSED COFFINS, PLEASE SCROLL PAST. I am showing some here to illustrate my main objection to the manner of how many of the crypts are maintained and the use of the entrance fees. Part family responsibility and part that of the Cemetery Authority?]

[Creepy and just a little disrespectful of those who can not advocate for themselves. Photo is mine]

[Not a movie set. I just photographed a few of the broken glass views. Photo is mine]

The one that follows is likely the most egregious example of the vandalism I observed. My personal opinion to explain this sad state of one interior…I believe I saw the rank of General on the outside. Argentina went through almost a decade of state-sponsored terrorism 1974-83) in which several thousand citizens were “disappeared”. This tomb may, and I emphasize may, have been an active participant of the “Dirty War”.

This is only conjecture.

[I can not speak as to the why of this destruction. Nearly all cemeteries experience vandalism, but this…? Note: This is not a chapel. It’s a private crypt. Photo is mine]

And now we’ve come to the most visited tomb in the entire cemetery. That of the wife of Juan Peron. Eva Duarte Peron. Known to much of the world as Evita.

Born Maria Eva Duarte on May 7, 1919 in the rural village of Los Toldos in the Pampas. Her family lived in poverty. She moved to Buenos Aires in 1934 to pursue the life of an actor. Her beauty gained her success on Radio and early TV. The history of Argentina was changed in 1944 when she met Juan Peron at a charity event. They married the following year.

She was a very influential first lady. It would not be unfair to compare her to Jackie O. Because of her roots in poverty, Eva (given the affectionate nickname of Evita by her country’s people) she could relate to the lower social classes. She once said: “I can understand the problems of most woman because I know what they go through.”

If you, reader, are interested in the politics of Peronism, I suggest you find a book and take a deep dive. It’s a fascinating story.

Evita died of cancer on July 26, 1952 ( I was five) in the Unzue Palace in Buenos Aires. Photos of her in death can be found on the internet. If that’s of interest to you.

Here is where she is interred:

[The Duarte Family Crypt. Several plaques to Evita are seen on the right. Photo is mine]

[Detail of one her plaque. Photo is mine]

At the end of our visit, just beyond the exit gate, I saw it. The sign for Clark’s Steak’s.

“Mariam,” I said, “I need to sit over there and catch up on my journal and plan a blog post about Evita and this cemetery. I need an Aqua con gas.”

“Okay,” she said.

“You first,” I said.

“Thank you,” she said.

And we sat in the shade, in the breeze and coolness of the shade, under the red umbrellas (or were they green?), and we talked, I wrote, she read and Mariam prepared to call an Uber.

“An Uber?” I protested. “That’s way too expensive. Let’s hail a red & green. We have to save our money. Uber is too expensive.”

“It only cost $4.00 USD to get here,” she said.

“Call an Uber,” I said. “That’s the best way to get home.”

Below The Equator III: Getting Down to Business in the Big Garden

[Yes, I’m thirsty. A statue greets the park visitors, offering a drink. Photo is mine]

One touch of nature makes all the world kin.

~~John Muir

There should be no doubt, dear readers, that your host and blogger has had a few stressful days upon our arrival in Buenos Aires. You’ve read how painful the flight was (I’m still sore). But, you’ve yet to read about how I went into the kitchen of our apartment to fetch a glass of water at 4:45 AM and limped back to the bedroom with a wet sock.

It was our hot water heater. It went south, and we’re already pretty darn south as it is. That brings to mind just how south I am right now. Here is what you need to know:

The latitude of Buenos Aires is 34 degrees S. New York City is 41 degrees N. (I rounded up or down to make the complex calculation easier to perform. I can’t be bothered by a few minutes of latitude, really.) If you add the two numbers you will get 75 degrees. That is how far south we are. Seventy-five bleeding degrees from our place on W. 143rd St.

But, I digress.

So the water heater has become a bit of a problem. I did get a shower in yesterday so that was something of a good thing. The landlady has made several trips here to help work out the problem. We needed to get out of the way so we made a plan. We decided to visit the Botanical Gardens. It was a Sunday and we expected a lot of people to have the same idea. They did.

We made our way to Avenue Santa Fe but on the way, I had to have my early afternoon cup of Americano and chat with Gus, the part owner of Gusto Coffee. Arriving at the very busy Avenue, we found a safe place to cross and walk along until we found the entrance. At the corner I looked up Santa Fe and down another avenue. I could not find a gate. Mariam had the route on her Google map.

“It’s down this way,” I said.

“It shows the route the other way,” she said.

“It’s wrong, Google maps are always wrong. Trust me, I’m a former geography teacher,” I said.

We went my way. No gate. Lots of people but no gate. No way into the Botanical Garden. We stopped in the shade to study the incorrect map.

“We have to go on a little further,” I said.

“Let’s ask someone” she said.

“I don’t speak Spanish,” I said.

“Let me. I know a little,” she said. She approached a young woman and asked (in very good Spanish) which way did we have to go to find the gate.

“No luck, eh?” I said.

“She said it’s this way,” she said, pointing to the way Mariam wanted to go in the first place, about forty-five minutes ago.

“I think she’s wrong, but we’ll go your way just so I can make a point,” I said.

Seven minutes later we were strolling through the gate and into a beautiful park. Trees and shrubs from all the world’s biomes were spread out along the pathways. When Mariam asked me about the misdirection, I suddenly was seized by a terrible coughing fit. I couldn’t answer for another hour, by which time she pretended she forgot the whole thing.

We went into a large greenhouse to see a few special plants and I was greeting by this:

[Inside the greenhouse. I. didn’t think such a flower existed on earth. Venus perhaps, but not here. After a moment, however, I knew what it was. Heliconia metallica The Shining Bird of Paradise. Photo is mine]

We sat on the steps of a large elegant building. I needed to drink a cold water and re-hydrate. I looked up at the soaring trees. The sun glinted through the branches and sent dappled rays to the grassy yard in front of me. I pulled out my iPhone, attached it to a tripod and set the mode to Time Lapse. I sat for ten minutes to get fifteen seconds of usable video. Here it is. I hope you enjoy the few seconds of peaceful sunshine against a leafy sky.

[A peaceful Sunday afternoon in the park. The people stroll. Video is mine]

A day later, an evening later, Mariam and I enjoy a dinner on our balcony. A single candle flickers and my iPad is playing Sincerely by the McGuire Sisters. A quarter moon hangs over the apartment buildings to my right, out of view.

“We should be here to see the upcoming full moon,” I said.

The last full moon I saw was from the roof of our building in New York. I was trying to video the rising moon with my GoPro. I stood on the roof and nearly froze my…earlobes off. Not going to happen this time.

[Dinner. Photo is mine]

Below The Equator II: The Incident At Gate 47

[The afternoon of January 2, 2025 found me sitting on a sofa in the lobby of a Hostel. Photo is mine.]

Some travel is more of a nuisance than a hardship, but travel is always a mental challenge, and even at its most difficult, travel can be an enlightenment.

~~Paul Theroux

The original title of this blog post was: “So Far And Not So Far“. Then I decided it was going to be: “I Am Exactly Where I Need To Be“. But after more thought, I figured that the illustration above would take care of that sentiment.

It was mostly written in a cafe just yards away from Gate 47 in the International Departures Terminal of JFK. I never finished writing. We had to make our way to the exit doors and find a particular car service to take us back home. Ten minutes earlier, I had left Mariam in a seat at Gate 47 to browse the Hudson News for a book or magazine. I only had about three paperbacks and four book review sections already packed, but you never know what might befall your carefully made plans. My cell rang. It was Mariam. I could almost see her from where I stood studying the issues of Auto World and Cigar Aficionado when I answered.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” she said.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Our flight has been put off until tomorrow morning,” she said.

Silence on my end.

“*#!@”, I said. That’s when we went to ponder our options at O’ Neal’s and I wrote the bit below on my iPad. (Not an easy thing to do.)

[The Board at JFK. Notice the dark yellow panel. Photo is mine.]

It was 11:15 pm. What follows is the blog I wrote after our flight was cancelled:

It’s funny how things can go sideways on New Year’s Eve, while Jingle Bell Rock is playing faintly in the crowded halls of JFK…in a violent thunder and lightning storm.

Did I say it was New Year’s Eve?

I should be sitting in a Buenos Aires cafe and telling you how nice it is in the warmth of the Southern Hemisphere summer. Yes, I should.

Instead I’m finishing breakfast at O’Neal’s. A little restaurant across from Gate 4. (I had an egg & bacon croissant). And I’m writing this.

Our adventure has begun and we haven’t left the airport yet. In fact, instead of watching three movies and trying to sleep in a seat proportioned for a nine-year-old, we slept in our own bed last night. If 1.8 hours of downtime can be considered a nights sleep.

Let me tell you my story in one go…

Two hours before our departure last night, we were told that the flight was canceled until this morning. After a confusing session with American Airlines agents, we were told that because we lived in the City, a hotel would not be covered. We had to go home. Car service was late…that’s when the lightening started to flash over Jamaica Bay. I was soaked getting into the car. The driver began texting while we made our way out of the tangled web of roads that are the arteries of JFK. He stopped after I read him the so-called riot act.

I could go on for another few pages but I think you get the idea, my lovely readers, of how things went sideways, on a stormy night, on New Year’s Eve, at the edge of New York City.

Oh, and I do wish that the nice lady that comes on the PA system, would stop saying that firearms are not permitted when going through the Security Gates.

Isn’t that a given?

Okay, now we’re in real time. Out flight left on time. It was fairly smooth until about hour 8 when the turbulence began. It lasted until three minutes before touchdown. Let’s just say that between my abject terror, restless legs and back pain, I was not a happy person when we deplaned at the BA airport. I have no idea when we crossed the Equator, but it was likely around 3 or 4 am. Another taxi fiasco played out on our way into the city. That deserves an entire blog of its own. If I don’t ever get around to writing it, just find me on the streets of Owego (when I go for a visit) and buy me a mint tea and I’ll tell you the story. Here’s a teaser: The driver pulled over on an interstate-like highway, got out, opened my door and handed me the key. All because I demanded that he stop turning around and asking for his fare. Is everyone on the roads these days totally insane or just the two drivers we had in two days?

It’s the end of our first day in BA. We haven’t had time to see any sights because we slept in. I turned out the light at 6:00 am.

We went shopping for some staples. A few blocks from our apartment, we stopped at Ciro for lunch. Two very nice servers took very nice care of two very weary Yanks.

[Ah, the beauty of the Argentine people! Photo is mine.]

My dear readers, if you can make sense of any of what I have written, please drop me a text and tell me what happened. Please do.

Because I’m so tired right now.

Maybe we’ll actually see something tomorrow.

Below The Equator I: I Don’t Need A Reason To Go To Buenos Aires, But I Have A Few

[A Gaucho. Source: Wikipedia.]

In Llama land, there’s a one man band

And he’ll toot his flute for you…

–Come Fly With Me. Songwriters: Sammy Cahn/Jimmy Van Heusen. The song is referencing Peru.

In Buenos Aires, tango’s a must,

Even pigeons here dance in the dust.

Empanadas so good, you’ll shed a tear,

But watch your wallet–pickpockets are near.

The Obelisco stands tall and proud,

A giant toothpick amidst the crowd!

–A ChatGBT poem at my request. Important: This is NOT my poem. It’s AI.

Everybody knows the world is round. Most everyone that is. These days when the glaciers melt on camera and people still say climate change is a hoax…well, what can I say? Let’s just go with the assumption that the world is indeed round. We’ve all seen globes so we all know that the USA is up and South America is down. A student once argued with me that rivers can’t flow north because that was up, and rivers can’t flow up. He was in sixth grade so I guess that must be the truth.

Now here I am packing for a trip to Argentina. We’re going there for these (and other) reasons:

When it’s our winter, it’s their summer. So it’s warmer.I’ve been told by my back surgeon that warm weather is better on arthritis than chilly damp weather (see the forecast for N.Y.C.). I usually obey the doctors orders.The cost of living in Buenos Aires is a fraction of that in Manhattan. (Almost every place on earth is).I like a good steak once in a while. Buenos Aires is said to have a vibrant art scene with lots of galleries and museums.My Lonely Planet guidebook reports that the coffee is great.The park near our apartment in Palermo has miles of bike paths.I love the author Jorge Luis Borges. He never won the Nobel Prize but he is considered a writer of major importance. He went blind at age 55 and, instead of learning Braille, he would memorize long passages of literature.The Tango is very sexy. [More on that later.]There are Gauchos there. [More on that later.]One US dollar is equal to 1,028 Argentine Pesos. This will make me feel rich.

So, with all of that, what’s not to like about Argentina? It has a interesting history. I loved Evita. Wasn’t Madonna great? I always cry when I hear her lilting voice soar through “Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina”. Evita’s husband, Juan, was a lot of fun. Until he wasn’t.

But I digress.

I really want to talk about Gauchos. To be honest, I never like the sound of the word. The way it starts back in my Pharyngeal Wall, past my Palatine tonsils and off my tongue. I like the idea of a Gaucho, just the word bothered me…as a child, that is. I’m better with it now. Unfortunately, we will likely not be traveling up into the Pampas where these Argentine cowboys live and handle the cattle and ride the range. The photo at the top of the blog is a Gaucho from a few generations back. Here is a more recent photo:

[A modern-day Gaucho. Photo source: Pintrest.]

After looking at this picture, I think I get where the producers of the Clint Eastwood films of the squinting high plains drifter got their inspiration.

The Tango? Oh, my, the tango. It’s pretty hot when you see it done properly. And I’m not talking about the Marlon Brando movie here. [Full disclosure: I’ve never danced the tango. I had enough trouble with the ‘Twist’ and the ‘Locomotion’. And don’t even mention the ‘Hokey Pokey’. My back has been very sore for decades, and that what’s it all about.]

Now, where does all this leave us? This post is just a teaser, in case you haven’t guessed. We will be leaving for Buenos Aires on New Year’s Eve. While thousands of party-goers will be standing in the cold rain in Times Square waiting for the Ball To Drop, I will be seated on the aisle of an American Airline flight, heading south. It will only be a 12-hour trip to BA so I expect to arrive in a world of discomfort. Frankly, I don’t know if my body will allow me to stay seated and belted in, instead of screaming in agony while running down the aisle waving a copy of a biography of Che Guevara.

If nothing else, it will be interesting.

This is only the first post about my journey south, below the equator. As I said earlier, Argentina is ‘down there’, so the trip should be easy.

It’s all downhill.

Enjoy the blogs in the days and weeks to come. And, let me know you enjoy them.

{Please note: ALL of January’s blogs will not be about my Argentina trip. I will be dropping a few into the stream if I feel the urge to put my content out there on any other topic. If you stick with me, it’s all a win-win situation for you, my dear readers. Additional note: I really dream of being a podcaster but I hate the sound of my voice. So I have to type and type and type, while listening to the awful sound of my own voice in my head imagining that all this a popular podcast and that I have finally achieved my ultimate dream of being a Tik-Tock Influencer pushing merch like a jaw-line definer. Just sayin’.}

[My stuff, positioned on our living room floor for maximum wood grain effect. Absent for the photo shoot: My Passport. I won’t be forgetting that. Photo is obviously mine.]

Coal For Christmas

[Another year. Another Christmas. I republish this every holiday season with a tweak here and there. This story is true and I am passing it down to new readers and my two children and my grandson. Every story from our own lives or the lives of those we once loved…every story is worth telling. There should never be a ‘last story’. They should live forever.

I hope you enjoy it. Have a great and meaningful holiday.]

[Winter scene by Paul Egan. Watercolor]

I am a grandfather now, feeling every ache and sadness of my seventy-seventh year.  The stories that my father told me about his father have taken on new meanings.  I’m the old one now, the last of the Owego Egan family.  I am the carrier of the family history.  The Patriarch. When a recollection of a family event comes to mind, be it a birthday party, a funeral, family reunion, a wedding or a birth, I get my journal and I write with haste, in case I might forget something, get a name wrong or a date incorrect.  Or, forget the event entirely. This is especially true when the snow falls and the Christmas tree decorations are brought down from wherever my parents lived during any particular winter.  There is a certain melancholy mood that comes with the wintertime holidays.  The sentiment of A Christmas Carol comes to mind.  It is a time to listen to the winter wind blow, put a log on the fire, tell ghost stories, pour a little more wine and to recall and celebrate the memory of those who have passed on.

It’s time for a Christmas story. 

So, while you’re reading this, or in the moments when you push the laptop aside to rest your eyes, try to recall your own family and the gatherings and dinners, the trips taken and the many parties, the laughter of birthdays and the tears of wakes. Try to be there in that moment. Think of your ancestors and how they lived their lives so many decades ago… 

I was raised in the post-war years.  My parents were not saying anything original when they would tell me, or my brothers, that we had to be good–very good–or Santa would not leave us any brightly wrapped presents, red-ribbon tied with a bow and as big a box as a boy could hold.  No, Santa would not leave such a wondrous thing.  But he wasn’t so vengeful to leave nothing in our stocking.  No, he would leave a lump of coal…if you deserved nothing more.

My father grew up poor.  Not the kind of poor where he would walk barefoot through ten inches of snow to attend school or go from house to house asking for bread.  No, not like that. My dad loved to tell a joke about how hard things were when he was a boy. He called it a joke, but like all lore, there was a grain of truth in it.

It was just the kind of poor that would keep his father only one step ahead of the rent collector.  Dad would often make a joke about poor he was as a child.

“I was so poor that I would get roller skates for Christmas but I would have to wait until the next year to get the key,” he would say with a sly smile.  It was a joke, of course–wasn’t it?

His parents provided the best they could, but, by his own admission, he was raised in the poverty that was common in rural America in the 1920s.  My grandfather and my grandmother should be telling this story.  Instead, it came to me from my own dad and it was usually told to his four sons around the time it came to bundle up and go out, find and cut a Christmas tree.  I heard this story more than once when it was cold and snowy in the 1950s.  In the years when my father was a child, the winters were probably much colder and the snow ever deeper.

It was northeastern Pennsylvania. It was coal country and my grandfather was Irish.  Two generations went down into the mines.  Down into the shaft they would go, every day before dawn, only to resurface again long after the sun had set.  On his only day off, Sunday, he would sleep the sleep of bones that were weary beyond words. 

Because of some misguided decision on his part, my grandfather was demoted from mine foreman to a more obscure job somewhere else at the pit.  Later in life, he fell on even harder times and became depressed about his inability to keep his family, two boys, Paul and Jack and two girls, Jane and Nelda comfortable and warm.  It all came crashing down, literally, when their simple farmhouse burned to the foundation.  After seeing his family safely out, the only item my grandfather could salvage was a Hoover.  My father could describe in minute detail how he stood next to his dad and watched him physically shrink, slump and then become quiet.  He rarely broke the silence after that and died in a hospital while staring mutely at a wall.

But all this happened years after that special Christmas Eve that took place in my father’s boyhood.

It was in the early 1920s.  The four children were asleep in a remote farmhouse my grandparents rented.  Sometime after midnight, my father woke up to a silence that was unusual and worrisome.  It was too quiet.  There were no thoughts of Santa Claus in my father’s mind that night—the reality of their lives erased those kinds of dreams from his childhood hopes.  There was no fireplace for Santa to slide down.

He pulled on a heavy shirt and pushed his cold feet into cold shoes that were five sizes too large, and went downstairs to the kitchen, where he knew his parents would be sitting up and keeping warm beside the coal stove.  But the room was empty and the coal fire was nearly out. My father managed to find three lumps of fist size coal hidden or forgotten behind the bin. The only light was from a single electric bulb, hanging from the ceiling on a thin chain. My father noticed the steam of his breath each time he exhaled.  He called out.

“Mom? Dad?”

He heard nothing.  Shuffling over to the door, he cracked it open to a numbing flow of frigid outside air.  The white hills blended into the grey skies. In the snow there were two sets of footprints leading down the steps and then behind the house.  He draped a heavier coat over his shoulders and began to follow the tracks.  A pale moon helped light the way.  The tracks led across a small pasture and through a gate.  From there the trail went up a low hill and faded from his sight.  He followed the trail. Looking down at the footprints, he noticed that they were slowly being covered by the wind, driving the snow into the impressions.  A child’s fear swept over him.  Were the young kids being abandoned?  It was not an uncommon occurrence in the pre-Depression years of rural America.

In his young and innocent mind, he prayed that the hard times hadn’t become that hard.  But deep within, he knew of his parents’ unconditional love and concern.  He knew he and his brother and sisters were cherished and loved.

He caught his fears before they had a chance to surface.  His parents were on a midnight walk, that’s all. A nearly full moon shining off the snow gave the landscape a light that helped him keep on the trail of the four footprints.

In his anxiety, my father had forgotten it was Christmas Eve.

At the top of the hill, he saw a faint light shining out of a large hole near the side of the next slope.  He slowed his pace and went to the edge of the pit not knowing what he would see. 

He knew this pit from the childhood games of summer, but it was a place to be avoided in the winter.  The walls were steep and it would be easy to slip in the snow and fall the eight feet to an icy bottom.  The children never went into that field after the hay was cut and the autumn leaves had fallen.

He dropped to his knees and peered over the edge.

At the bottom of the small hole were his parents, picking various-sized lumps of coal from a seam that was exposed on the hillside.  The light came from a kerosene lantern. A bucket had nearly been filled with the chunks of black rock.  They looked up, quite surprised, and saw my father standing a few feet above them.  The two looked back at each other with a sadness that must have been heart-breaking.  They certainly didn’t want to be caught doing this in front of one of the kids, not on Christmas Eve.

Looking up at my father, my grandfather said, “Boy,” the stove is empty.  Come on down and help us get a few more lumps, will ya?”

My father was helped down and after only a few minutes his hands were black from the coal.  The bucket was filled.  They helped each other out of the pit and walked back to the house together.  My father and his father carried the bucket between them.

In a very short time the coal stove was warming up again.  My father sat up with his parents until they finished their coffee and the house was warmed a few degrees.  Dad kissed his mother and father and went upstairs to bed.  He fell asleep, he would always say, with a smile on his face.

Twenty some years after that midnight trip to the coal pit, my family moved to Owego, New York.  I was born two years later, in 1947.

. . .

When I was a young boy, my father took me aside one Christmas Eve.  I had not been a very good boy that day, and I was afraid. Neither of my parents, however, had mentioned the threat that would be used to punish a child if you were naughty and not nice.

My fear left me.  Father’s voice was warm and full of understanding.

“Pat,” he said, “If anyone tells you that you will get a lump of coal in your stocking if you’re not a good boy. Tell them: ‘I hope so,’ then wish them a very Merry Christmas.”

[Winter scene by Paul Egan. Watercolor.]

Ooh, Paddy: A Boy Sits In The Grass Near His Grandfather

[My grandfather, George Hotchko. Photo is from the early 1970’s. Credit: Daniel Egan.]

Oh, I dunno, Paddy. Sometimes those stories keep me up at night. They make me uncomfortable.

~~Spoken to me by my grandfather, George Hotchko. When I was a little boy. 1950’s.

Part 1-Meeting my grandfather…

Yes, the title. Of course I’m the ‘boy’ mentioned. And I’m Paddy. That’s what my grandpa Hotchko always called me. Maybe he really meant ‘Patty’ but I don’t think so. It’s just the way he talked. His voice, if I’m remembering this with any accuracy, was a dusty baritone. It was never rough from talking because he was a quiet man. Very quiet. Thinking back on my many hours spent with him, from earliest boyhood to his final days, I always found him to be a man of silence. Solitude even. I’ve written a fair amount about many members of my family, but never about George Hotchko. So, let me tell you a few stories about him…

My grandpa was born in 1890 in Throop, PA, a small mining town northeast of Scranton. As a young boy he worked as a slate picker at one or more of the collieries in NE PA. His job was to stand beside a conveyor belt that carried raw coal up to the breaker and pull out the chunks of slate that contaminated the coal. (I’m not an expert on early 20th century coal mining practices so my terminology will be faulty.) It was not particularly dangerous work but by today’s standards, the company was seriously violating child-labor laws. He came home each night dirty with coal dust, but he came home safe and alive.

I know very little about the jobs that he held during his early life. At one point he operated the Merry-go-Round in a small park at Lake Winola, PA. The majority of his life, he farmed and ran a boarding house at Lake Winola, with his wife, Mary (nee Korman). It is during his life at this house where all my memories of him were made.

[My maternal grandparents, George & Mary Hotchko pose in the yard beside the Lake Winola boarding house they owned. Photo is from the 1950s and very likely taken by my father or one of my older brothers.]

There is one story about him that I cannot 100% verify. It may be just family lore but when I was not yet a teenager, someone in my family told me the following account:

George (it’s very strange to keep referring to him by his given name. He’s always Grandpa to me. But I’ll be using George when necessary) and a few of his boyhood friends decided to go swimming on a hot day. This would likely have been around the turn of the century, (ca 1902). In and around Throop were many swimming holes. They were large pits left from the mining and most were filled with water. Inviting indeed to a 12-year-old boy and his pals. But in those places, the water can mask unseen hazards. Like large rocks.

The story I was told was that on that day, one of George’s friends dove into the water from a ledge. He didn’t see the submerged rock. He was killed…in front of his friends, in front of my grandfather. I wanted to know more but I was told that it probably wasn’t a good idea to ask him anything. He carried that memory his entire life. I can’t make that statement with certainty, I can only assume it because that’s how I would have carried a dark memory like that.

Part 2–Trying to get stories out of him…

During the 1950s, on warm summer days, the Egan family would cram ourselves into our deep deep blue 1949 Cadillac. You remember, the model that had a hidden gas tank. To access said tank, you had to push the quarter size reflector (part of the tail lights) button. The whole light fixture would pop open and there was where you gassed that bad boy up. It must have taken thirty gallons, but hey, gas was a whopping $ 0.29 a gallon.

But I digress.

My father always drove. It was 65.1 miles and it seemed to take far too many hours to get to their house. In reality, it was about an hour and a half. But, it wasn’t just visiting grandparents that excited me and my brothers. It was their dock at the lake. And the hours of swimming in the cool waters that were in our future. We approached the lake from the Tunkhannock road. We would swing to the left and drive along the lakeside properties with the unnecessarily large powerboats with the Johnson 65 HP motors. We passed the Rodham house, where, later, Hilary Clinton’s brother would live. A small dirt lane came in from the left and we made a sharp J-turn. Through a small forest of pines and then the boardinghouse appears on the left. My grandfather’s garden and orchard is to our right. Sometimes he would be tending to his grafted apple trees, other times he stood at the end of his rows of potato hills. It was a folk belief that to ensure a good crop of spuds, the one who planted the eyes was required to pee on the last hill planted. My grandpa believed in this practice, but, sadly, we never caught him in the act. Perhaps it had to be done under cover of darkness. But, sometimes we would find him sitting on a kitchen chair, leaning against the wall of the house, and puffing on his omnipresent pipe. He fiddled with his pipe a lot. I remember he had an odd lighter that was the size and shape of a shotgun shell. He’d pinch it and a flame would appear. Somehow he angled it into the bowl and he would start puffing. I don”t remember seeing him without his pipe.

Our very long car would turn a hard left and continue down a short crescent driveway. The back doors to the Caddy were open before my father put on the emergency brake. The boys would jump out to run into to greet grandma before heading out to corner my grandpa. If he was in the chair, we had him where we wanted him. We would all sit in a semi-circle on the grass like the followers of Buddha or Gandhi, waiting for words of wisdom…or stories. We begged for stories. And he would tell us a few.

I have a very clear memory of myself and Dan and maybe Denny, sitting on the ground one afternoon.

“Grandpa, tell us a ghost story,” I pleaded. It was often me that went for the ghost story.

“Ooh, Paddy,” he would say, trying to beg off. “Sometimes they keep me awake at night.”

He usually gave in if we persisted. But, I can recall only one story in his repertoire. And he told it something like this:

“I was walking home one evening from a long day at work. As I strolled along the street, I noticed a fellow sitting on a stone wall, a wall that surrounded a cemetery. I was approaching, soon to pass by him when he jumped down from the wall and asked me for a plug (chewing tobacco). I reached into my back pocket and pulled out my pouch and broke off a plug. Thanks, George, he said. I walked on. About a block away, it hit me that I knew the man, not well, just acquainted. And guess what, Paddy. The man had died a month earlier.”

It was a simple story, brief and to the point. Little in the way of suspense or shock scares. But, it sent chills down my young spine. He told me the story, always in the same way, for years.

I loved whatever stories he had to tell. I should have paid more attention.

Part 3–Was he really deaf?

My grandparents usually occupied one floor and rented the other two. It was a nice income. Lake Winola was, and still is, a popular summering spot. Rented cottages were abundant. We were in the kitchen of the boarding house. I would ask grandpa something.

“You have to speak up,” my mother would say. “He’s kind of deaf.”

But, over the years, I found out that there were places on the property that he was not so deaf. And those places were often where my grandmother was not present. Not that they didn’t love each other, they did. But, my grandfather was a quiet man who sought out quiet places. His orchard. Between the rows of his potato hills. Sitting in his chair, against the house…where he could just sit and think. It’s what old men often do.

I wonder what he thought about in the hours before we descended on him, violating his quiet personal space and demanded his stories. But I know he didn’t mind the intrusion. Grandfathers never mind those kinds of visits.

In the end, I have a pretty good idea what he sat and remembered. I think he was recalling a young friend who died in a small pond a half century earlier.

Some things you never forget.

Me? I will never forget my grandpa Hotchko.

A Dark And Sad Anniversary

[Steve’s grave. Monroe, Louisiana. Photo is mine.]

The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there.

~~ L. P. Hartley

On Friday, November 22, I will step away from whatever social engagement I may be involved in…and I will look up to a cloud or maybe a single star.

And I will remember.

A Golden Anniversary. Fifty years. It’s always something special, often a pleasant celebration, sometimes not. Fifty years is a long time. 18,250 days and nights, give or take a few. That’s far too much time to be given to recall a profound loss.

It was a cold night on the trail leading down into Lake Colden, in the heart of the High Peaks of the Adirondack Mountains. The moon was bright that night. The daytime white of the snow that covered the trail had became pale blue. The moon does that, to the snow, at night, in the forest.

Steve and I had lunch five hours earlier on Summit Rock. We ate our cheese and sardines and looked across the deep ravine at Wallface. A sheer and massive cliff.

Out of nowhere, I said: “Steve, can you imagine what it must be like for a mountain climber to fall from such a place. I mean, look at that.”

Steve gazed at the cliff. “I don’t know. I think I’d rather freeze to death.”

~~

The next morning, the State Police helicopter lifted off from the clearing of the Lake Colden Ranger Station, kicking up a blizzard of snow from the upwash of the blades.

~~

Seven months later, I stood in the furnace-like heat of a southern summer and laid a flower on Steve’s grave. Decades after that, I did it again.

At the time, articles were written, The Boston Globe, The New York Times, Backpacker Magazine. I came out wanting.

On many of those 18,000+ nights, I wept bitterly about my friend, Steve. I firmly believe that within the great Cycle of Nature, his energy, his molecules, his protons are going around and around and around.

A few days ago, while I was preparing to write this special rememberence of Steve, I found a photo of the high peaks:

[A part of the High Peaks. The trails and mountains here are the sites of my happiest and saddest memories of my hiking days. Photo is mine.]

Sláinte, Steve.

I Bought A Bath Bomb

[The Bath Bomb. Photo is mine.]

Do you think we’re going to leave this bath now? said Beaver Hateman, going menacingly to Uncle.

Yes, I do!

Well, you’re jolly well wrong! I’m going to stay here all night, if I want to!

~~ J. P. Martin “Uncle”

I glanced at the rear view mirror. The uneven ragged skyline of Manhattan was receding away from us at the rate of sixty-four mph. Into New Jersey, deeper and deeper, until the tiny notch appeared in the distance. That was one notch I knew well. It’s in all the Geology textbooks. The geographically notable and quintessential example of a water gap.

The Delaware Water Gap was soon upon us. Then the tangled streets of Stroudsburg with the impossibly short traffic lights. Then the winding route of #447 N. Through the nearly bare trees, past the small streams and up, up into the heart of the Poconos.

No, we weren’t booked for a blushing weekend at “Beautiful Mount Airy Lodge–The Host With the Most in the Poconos” No. We were here on business. Actually, Mariam was here for that. I was just tagging along, lending a hand where I could. It was the annual Steven L. Margolies, MD Family Educational Conference. It was sponsored by Hemophilia Association of New York (Mariam is the President of the Board).

In years past, the conference was held at the Mohonk Mountain House, near New Paltz, NY, on the fringes of the Catskills. This site was quite beautiful. The ginormous main building, made of stone, is reputed to be the hotel where Stephen King had the germ of an idea for The Shining. I can’t verify this, but it sounds reasonable.

But this place in the Poconos, Skytop Lodge has an ambience that draws me in. A century old family-style resort, it has everything: swimming, boating, golf, hiking, skiing, riding, sledding, skating, tennis, a zip-line, archery, axe throwing and most likely a dozen other activities I never noticed.

It was off season. A few families were there. Small groups of high schoolers wandered about, engaged in group trust activities and learning about knots and nature. Mariam’s conference had been given an entire wing for the sessions on blood factor infusions and updates on the newest research into a cure for hemophilia. She was kept busy getting attendees to the correct room and generally helping where it was needed.

Me? I had time to wander the grounds, sip tea and read by the giant fireplace in the main lobby (large enough to hold a hockey game).

[Mariam strolls the grounds of Skytop during a break. Video is mine.]

But I digress.

I am here for another reason. R & R. A mere week has passed since we arrived home from a totally delightful journey to Paris, the Sahara Desert and England. I was weary, bone-sore and unable to find a position to sit or stand without discomfort.

I wandered into the Gift Shop. I immediately pumped a gob of lotion on my dry hands from the tester. I hope it was the tester. The tee shirts were brightly colored and well-designed–and at $60+, they should be. Bathing suits for a six-year-old and a shawl for a matron. I clutched my 20% discount coupon in my pocket and headed for the door when I noticed them. Multi-colored spheres. The size of a billiard ball and encased in a plastic wrapper.

“What are these?” I asked the clerk.

“Bath bombs,” she replied.

“Oh,” I said, wondering what such a thing was intended for. Then, using my vast experience with mineral baths and Epsom Salts, heavily laced with Magnesium, I knew. They were bubble bath balls. Sadly, the micro-print on the little label sticker was unreadable so I couldn’t say if these bad boys contained the Mg ions to help alleviate my leg cramps, but I decided that these were not going to help my muscles.

I bought one anyway. The bomb part of it drew me in.

When I was much younger, I owned a SuperBall. It was roughly the same size of a golf ball and was made of a condensed rubber, so tightly packed that if you bounced it on a hard floor, it would bounce to the ceiling. I loved that little gray globe. I thought about bouncing the Bath Ball but, having taught science for three decades, I knew it would explode into a cloud of highly perfumed soapy powder.

I didn’t need that. And housekeeping would put me on a “do not rent a room” list to all the Travel Lodges and Super-8 motels in America. No, I didn’t need that.

What I did need is to find out exactly what this Bath Bomb, purchased at the Skytop Gift Shop could do for me and my aching infrastructure. I was about to drop said Bomb into the bathtub of Room 417, go and put my iPhone on it’s charger, untie the very lux terry bathrobe from the closet when I thought of something.

Once, a fair number of years ago, Mariam and I had a room at a lakeside hotel in Burlington, Vermont. I had purchased a packet of mineral salts to soothe early aches (v.1.2) from hiking in the Adirondacks. I emptied the packet in the tub and walked away, leaving the water to fill at a rapid rate. I only took a moment. When I went into the bathroom again, a mountain of suds, high as the Fresh Kills Landfill was about to overflow the rim and fill the room with foam. It looked like a scene from The Blob or something out of a Busby Berkeley movie.

[Bubbles. Not my bubbles and not my tub. Image credit: Google search.]

So, where does all this leave me? For one, I never got to soak in the tub at Skytop. Nor did I find the time to don my teal bathing suit and hit the Jacuzzi.

“Missed opportunity,” you might very well say. And you would be totally correct.

I actually spent far too much time taking videos of the things to see around the vast property. And trying to come up with a good hook for a blog about the Bath Bomb.

Then I made a mistake. Googling can be dangerous if it’s not supervised by an uninterested party. The results of my search were a bit overwhelming. The bombs available to people like me were thus: There was a 60 Pack of 6 scents and colors, a Bath Bomb with money inside, Donut Bombs, Christmas Figure Bombs, Hello Kitty Bombs, Ultra Moisturizing Bombs, Halloween Bombs, Orange colored Bombs (from Florida?), Bombs with toys inside, Egg Carton Bombs and Waffle Bombs. At this point, I stopped reading the lists of bath products. I was expecting to see a Bomb, shaped and colored to resemble an Atomic Bomb, or perhaps a Bomb that fell on London in 1941.

The lead photo above is the Bath Bomb I purchased, but never basked beneath those promised suds.

It’s sitting on the edge of my tub in our apartment in Manhattan. I’m waiting for the right moment and the right pain before I take the plunge, so to speak.

On A Warm Halloween, Here’s Something For You

[The author at Highgate Cemetery, September, 2024. London. Photo is mine.]

When I was a child, I was afraid of ghosts. When I grew up, I realized people are more scary.

~~Anon

Once more, another year, another Halloween and another opportunity for me to share something spooky with you. No ghost photos this year. Not one urban legends. Instead, I offer you a story. It’s never been published before. It’s original and it’s centered in my hometown of Owego, NY.

Brew yourself a mug of Lapsang Souchong, open a bag of roasted chestnuts and curl up in your favorite distressed leather wing back. I hope you enjoy my story…

The Worm Moon

By Patrick Egan

            Dark forests and graveyards are not the best places to visit on nights of the Worm Moon.

            This lunar phase usually occurs in early March. At least it did this year. It is the last full moon of winter, a time when the snows began to melt, tiny sprouts emerge from the soil and the worm casts begin to rise in the mud. This heralds the arrival of robins that will feast on the aforementioned worms. The dirty snow turns to slush. The rotting leaves from long-ago Octobers fill the air with the smell of decay. The churchyard graves become intolerably soggy, but the backlog of burials demand that the dead be removed from a cold storage vault and the appropriate graves to be opened. Winter attempts to hold its grip on the countryside. But soon the vernal equinox arrives, and it will be a steady sure walk into the warmth of early summer.

            My late husband, Gabriel, God rest his soul, was not a good swimmer. In fact, he detested the water. When we would take one of our frequent road trips, Gabe would always pack his swimming trunks in the hope that the motel pool would indeed be heated as advertised. Alas, he never wore his trunks. A few toes in the water was enough for him to retreat to our room or find a lounge-chair under a large umbrella.

            He liked the idea of water, but he hated to be cold. He was always cold, poor guy, and it only got worse when he was diagnosed with leukemia.

Looking back, it was definitely the wrong decision on my part to have him interred soon after the appearance of the Worm Moon.

            Gabe did not take his diagnoses with grace–who would? Instead, he became bitter and resentful. Bickering and silence often spoiled our days. I tried hard to be the best wife I could be in this difficult and painful time. This became easy once I understood the real issues he faced. Not only was he terrified of dying, but he was also equally terrified of being cold.

            Gabe passed away, with me by his bedside and holding his perpetually cold hand, in the autumn, almost five months ago. It was October 10, but an early snowstorm and a series of hard frosts made a ground burial impossible. We had purchased a lovely double plot in Evergreen Cemetery. Every section in the upper part of the property were spoken for so I had to settle for a location not far from the Long Epitaph in the Pixley’s and Drake’s plot.

            His death was not something unexpected, out of the blue, like a bolt of lightning on a clear day. He had been treated for his cancer three years ago. At that time, I readied myself for the end that we both thought was imminent. We waited. Traveled and loved each other as much as we could. Then he went into full remission. We enjoyed three more years of a normal life, at least as normal as we could manage. At least we didn’t have kids. That would have made matters much worse. But, after a routine blood test, we were told that his blood work had abnormalities. As ready as I thought I was after his remission ended, the finality came as a shock. A toxic shock that sent me reeling into a depression that lasted months.

            With the arrival of the Worm Moon and the accompanying thaw, I was grateful for the wait to be over. I could have him removed from the winter vault and interred properly. It would bring a certain sort of closure to his illness and death. I could begin healing.

            Many weeks went by, and my sleep went untroubled. But once he was buried in that soft wet soil, the dreams (or should I say nightmares?) began to disturb my nights.

            The first such dream happened ten days after the graveside service. I was raking leaves and cleaning away the winter damage to what was once our garden. My head was lowered while I worked the detritus into a pile for the compost bin. I nearly tripped over his shoes.

            “Why did you do this to me?” he said. “Why?”

            Then he quickly vanished.

            A few nights later he returned to me.

            “Don’t you care? Doesn’t it matter? Why do you want to hurt me like this?”

            This time I looked into his gray eyes. I saw the wetness of tears and the look of intense sadness.

            “What do you mean, Gabe?” I asked.

            “My grave,” he said, holding out his hands. White dead hands that were brown with mud. I sat up against the headboard, my hands clammy and my forehead wet.

            Soon, perhaps a month after his burial, he came again to me. It was late in the afternoon. It was my beloved and it was not a dream, I was very much awake. I had just finished a glass of Chardonnay. I turned the TV off and rinsed the glass. He was standing at the foot of the staircase.

            “Please. Do something. I am so lost, so alone and so cold. Please.”

            “What am I supposed to do?” I asked him. “What did I do wrong?”

            “I’m so bloody cold now. The water is everywhere. I’m drowning.”

            He stood before me for ten full minutes before he faded slowly, like a dissipating mist. I felt no fear, only deep sorrow. A sadness that one experiences when someone you love is in a kind of pain that you feel you cannot erase.

            I was confused. I didn’t know what to do. What’s done is over and done. I can’t change anything.

            Two days later I was packing up his remaining clothes to take to the Open Door Mission, when I saw him out of the bedroom window. He was standing in the yard, beneath the oak tree.

            What will the neighbors think if they see him standing there? A couple of teenage boys walked past our house and failed to notice anything. I realized that no one could see him. Only me. From my viewpoint on the second floor, he seemed anxious–and a little angry.

            He was gone by the time I stepped out onto the front porch.

            After my dinner of chicken salad, while I was washing the plate, I could sense his presence in the kitchen. I turned around to see him and was startled to find him only a foot away from me. I could smell a foul odor of decay, rotten leaves, and water. His breath was fetid and smelled of mold. The look in his eyes unsettled me. He was angrier than he had ever been in life. His mouth opened. The scream that came from his throat forced me to cover my ears.

            “I can’t stand it anymore. Do something, I’m begging you! Do something, anything but you have to make things better for me.”

            “How can I make anything better, Gabe, you’re dead. What the hell am I supposed to do?”

            “If you ever loved me, you would know what to do.”

            He faded away once again. I climbed the stairs and took a Valium tablet. I needed sleep. Quickly. As the drowsiness washed over me, I suddenly understood what was being asked of me. I knew what to do now. It would have to wait until morning to work out the details of my plan.

            I dreamed of worms.

~ ~ ~

            I knew a teacher at the local high school. I called him and asked if he could meet me at the bar in the Parkview Hotel around 5:00 pm. His name was Aaron.

            I arrived early and ordered him a beer and a white wine for myself. He arrived at 5:20 and settled in the booth across from me.

            “How are you getting along?” he asked after taking a large sip of his IPA.

            “About as bad as you could imagine,” I replied.

            “Oh, what seems to be the problem beside the obvious, of course?”

            I told him about the nightmares and the visits.

            “Damn. That is some bad crap you’re going through.” He reached for my hands. I saw something in his eyes that unsettled me. I think he was misreading my words. I felt that he was looking for something–hoping for something. I hoped that he wasn’t seeing me as a desperate widow in need of something more than words of comfort. I pulled my hands away gently. I couldn’t afford to alienate him right now. I needed him for something, alright, but it was not going to be what he wanted.

            “Move over here,” I told him. “Let’s talk.”

~ ~ ~

            Two nights later, I found myself waiting beside Gabe’s grave. The others would be here soon. I looked down at the thin mat of grass.

            “This better do the trick for you, honey. If it doesn’t, don’t blame me.”

            My friend arrived. He had three members of the varsity football team with him. I took him aside.

            “They know this is mega-confidential I hope,” nodding toward the tall seniors.

            “Not to worry,” he said. “They’re sworn to secrecy. And besides, a small baggie of joints, and the promise of more to come, can be a powerful incentive to keep quiet. Don’t worry.” He looked up at the nearly dark sky and stared for longer than I thought he should.

            “Something wrong?” I asked.

            “Looks like a Worm Moon tonight.”

            I looked into his eyes. “How do you know about the Worm Moon, I asked.”

            “Huh. Everybody knows about the Worm Moon.”

            “Wow,” I said. “A pay off with something that was illegal just six months ago. Quick thinking. But this thing tonight. We’re breaking the law, so will your little baggie do the trick?’

            “I have a contact in the Main Office. A secretary who has the key to the file cabinet. He’s a good friend. Get my meaning?”

            “Oh, yes,” I said. “Oh, yes.”

            Two hours later, our job was completed. We had disinterred Gabe’s casket and hauled it into the woods beyond the cemetery wall.

            It was dry soil among the trees.

            These days, when I visit Gabe, I bring flowers. Poppies were his favorite. I do believe he likes his new digs. The pun is intentional.

            I haven’t been screamed at by my loving husband since that night. That’s a good thing. I will miss the walks we used to take, right here through these very tombstones to sit on the hill, talk to Sa Sa Na Loft, smooch a little and look down over our town. However, that’s not ever going to happen again. Not with Gabe, anyway. I have a new friend.

            Aaron and I are going on our third date this coming Saturday.

©️ Patrick Egan 2024

[Illustration result of a google search.]

{Author’s Note: Please take a moment to click the LIKE button. I also encourage the reader to send me a comment. I hope to include this story in a new book of original Owego ghost stories to be published in 2025.}