Patrick Egan's Blog, page 68

Gone and Still Forgotten in God’s Acre

“When out of sight, quickly also out of mind.”–Thomas a Kempis

They’re everywhere, like abandoned cars in the South Bronx (ca 1972), only you don’t see them on your way to the Bodega.  No, these are found in the verdant fields and well-kept lawns of cemeteries in counties like Westchester, NY or Crittenden, VT.  They are pieces of granite and marble and slate.  These are the lost headstones of once living souls.

After the grave-side service, the living go back to their homes and jobs.  The departed are left in the cold ground to await the Second Coming.  The stones above their heads are now proud reminders of a life lived.  Names, spouses, birth date, death date and maybe–if the family could afford it–a quote from the Bible or poem.  But when the living kin begin to join those who have gone before, the memories of the “old dead” start to fade.  Soon, no one is left to remember.

And then what?

I volunteer for a geneology group that provides photos of headstones upon request of the descendants. I get to wander graveyards.  Perhaps these are just off the village green, at the edge of a cornfield or on a lonely hillside.  When I locate and photograph a requested stone, I enter it onto a website.  I get heartfelt thanks, for this simple task, from those who wished to see the stone.  Some “thank you” emails are heartbreaking to read.  But what is more painful is to fail in locating the stone.  Many are simply too old to read through the lichen and weathering.

And then there are the stones that no one has asked for.  Too many lie broken, fallen and covered over by grass…but the mute stones want to talk.  Remember me?  Remember who I was and what I did and who I married and who I loved.  Recall how young I was when I met death? Or, how so very old I was, living beyond my allotted time from a century ago?  See my little stone with a lamb on top?  I was so young.  See the sad poem my lover or spouse had carved by my name?  I was handsome.  I was beautiful.  I put a gun to my head.  I passed in childbirth.  I died of a broken heart.  I died surrounded by family and a preacher.  I died alone.

Whatever they say to you, they know they are forgotten.

Mindless teenage boys push these stones over for fun. (May they rot in a special hell.)  Some inattentive back hoe operator backs into a stone and breaks it.  Whatever.

There is no one left to come and fix things.

This is where I come in.  As a walker of these domains, I wonder why we, as a society, can’t do more to protect and preserve the memorial to the past?  If we can declare a unique building in Buffalo a “landmark structure”, then why can’t the same logic extend to the neglected burying grounds of our forefathers (we are all related in some way).  Not all cemeteries are like Mount Hope in Hastings, NY, Greenwood in Brooklyn or Arlington with famous interments and rich endowments.  In these more commonplace grounds are all that is left of our links to the past.  These places are where “The rude forefathers of our hamlet sleep” (‘rude’ used here as a synonym for ‘common’.)

It has to start local and then move outward.  Churches, civic groups, boy and girl scouts, knitting societies, history buffs, students and gentle caring people could come forward to help to clean, restore and memorialize the hallowed grounds.

R.I.P.–Rest In Peace should mean more than something we put on cardboard tombstones at Halloween.

Weeds need to be pulled and attention given to those whom we have never met, but link us to our common roots.

“Of all the pulpits from which the human voice is ever sent forth, there is none is none that reaches so far as from the grave.”

–John Ruskin

Where Are You Going, My Brown-Eyed Son?

Oh, where are you going, my brown-eyed son?

There you were, a small shadow on a monitor. Small and washed by changing shades of black and white amid countless lines that made watching difficult. The Technician slowly moved the grey piece of equipment around the oiled skin of your mothers swollen abdomen. There. Right there. A hand. Look at the fingers. The thumb of the other hand seems to hover near your mouth. A few months later I could make out your bent knee. A few months later, you looked like a cherry wrapped in white as you lay in the incubator. You wanted to get out on an early release program from the confines of the womb. We were unprepared for how early you would be. You drank the real milk and you waited for the mashed carrots. And, you went through Pampers like quarters in Vegas. That was when I began saving coupons. Hey, a dime here and a dime there adds up. You crawled and you would use my wooden stirring spoon to bang on over-turned pots and pans. I rocked you to sleep singing “Blowin’ in the Wind” and “Baby Beluga”.

Where are you going, my brown-eyed son?

We camped at beautiful sites on small ponds. I took you to Howe’s Cavern and you said “Awesome, Dad”. We collected leaves for your science project. I encouraged you to play sports but you resisted me. You wanted no part of Tai Kwan Do classes. Soon, you learned to swim. You joined the Little League. We sat on an embankment while you got on first. Next batter hits it long. You begin to run toward right field but our shouts redirected you to second. You went on to learn new skills. You were a center in JV football. We made origami animals. We rode an old train. We snorkeled in Bermuda. At dinner that night, you almost met Ross Perot.

Oh, where are you going, my brown-eyed son?

I called your high school to have them find you in a class and let you know your stepmother and I were okay on Sept. 11, 2001. I helped proof a few English papers for you. We sit and watch you stroll across the stage to take your diploma. A few years later, we watched you stroll across the stage to take your Associate Degree from BCCC. Before we know it, you’ve come to New York City to stay with us in our one bedroom apartment while you studied for a B.A. at Baruch College. Our one bedroom became a two bedroom…you slept on the pull-out sofa. My computer area became the kitchen table. We had long talks late at night about the ethics of downloading music for free and other topics that lay buried deep in my memory bank. The day after you graduated from Baruch, you moved to Queens to share an apartment with friends. You landed a great job in the middle of the Recession. Not bad, kid.

Where are you going, my brown-eyed son?

You watched as the movers packed up our belongings when we moved upstate. You watched them wrap the piano and told us (we sat on the stairway in the hall) they did it as quickly and easily as stuffing a taco. You said: "Have a safe trip north" when we pulled out to follow the van. Were you happy for our new life or were you just happy to have the Big Apple to yourself without me bugging you all the time to join us for dinner? In the eighteen months we've been gone, you moved on in many ways. Promotions. And less and less time at your shared apartment. You have a friend. She is a lovely woman with wit, talent and wisdom. Be kind to my son. I'll be his father forever. He and I are linked by an exquisite chain of DNA. When he laughs, I laugh. When he's happy, I'll be happy. And, if he cries, I'll cry too.

Oh, where are you going, my brown-eyed son?

Where Are You Going, My Brown-Eyed Son?

Oh, where are you going, my brown-eyed son?

There you were, a small shadow on a monitor.  Small and washed by changing shades of black and white amid countless lines that made watching difficult. The Technician slowly moved the grey piece of equipment around the oiled skin of your mothers swollen abdomen.  There. Right there.  A  hand. Look at the fingers.  The thumb of the other hand seems to hover near your mouth.  A few months later I could make out your bent knee.  A few months later, you looked like a cherry wrapped in white as you lay in the incubator.  You wanted to get out on an early release program from the confines of the womb.  We were unprepared for how early you would be.  You drank the real milk and you waited for the mashed carrots.  And, you went through Pampers like quarters in Vegas.  That was when I began saving coupons.  Hey, a dime here and a dime there adds up.  You crawled and you would use my wooden stirring spoon to bang on over-turned pots and pans.  I rocked you to sleep singing “Blowin’ in the Wind” and “Baby Beluga”.

Where are you going, my brown-eyed son?

We camped at beautiful sites on small ponds.  I took you to Howe’s Cavern and you said “Awesome, Dad”.  We collected leaves for your science project.  I encouraged you to play sports but you resisted me.  You wanted no part of Tai Kwan Do classes.  Soon, you learned to swim.  You joined the Little League.  We sat on an embankment while you got on first.  Next batter hits it long.  You begin to run toward right field but our shouts redirected you to second.  You went on to learn new skills.  You were a center in JV football.  We made origami animals. We rode an old train.  We snorkeled in Bermuda.  At dinner that night,  you almost met Ross Perot.

Oh, where are you going, my brown-eyed son?

I called your high school to have them find you in a class and let you know your stepmother and I were okay on Sept. 11, 2001.  I helped proof a few English papers for you.  We sit and watch you stroll across the stage to take your diploma.  A few years later, we watched you stroll across the stage to take your Associate Degree from BCCC.  Before we know it, you’ve come to New York City to stay with us in our one bedroom apartment while you studied for a B.A. at Baruch College.  Our one bedroom became a two bedroom…you slept on the pull-out sofa. My computer area became the kitchen table.  We had long talks late at night about the ethics of downloading music for free and other topics that lay buried deep in my memory bank.  The day after you graduated from Baruch, you moved to Queens to share an apartment with friends.  You landed a great job in the middle of the Recession.  Not bad, kid.

Where are you going, my brown-eyed son?

You watched as the movers packed up our belongings when we moved upstate.  You watched them wrap the piano and told us (we sat on the stairway in the hall) they did it as quickly and easily as stuffing a taco.  You said: “Have a safe trip north” when we pulled out to follow the van.  Were you happy for our new life or were you just happy to have the Big Apple to yourself without me bugging you all the time to join us for dinner?  In the eighteen months we’ve been gone, you moved on in many ways.  Promotions.  And less and less time at your shared apartment.  You have a friend.  She is a lovely woman with wit, talent and wisdom.  Be kind to my son.  I’ll be his father forever.  He and I are linked by an exquisite chain of DNA.  When he laughs, I laugh. When he’s happy, I’ll be happy.  And, if he cries, I’ll cry  too.

           

                                         Oh, where are you going, my brown-eyed son?

Last Stop: Tir Na Nog!

Hardly a mythology exists that doesn’t include a “Land of Eternal Youth” tale.  It could be a Shangra-La, isolated in a mountain valley somewhere or Ultima Thule for those brave souls who travel to the Northern Realms.  There are Gypsy versions and Japanese variations, but, for my money, the Irish story is the most haunting in its terrible beauty and tragic end.  How else can the Irish see things?

Tir Na Nog–Land of the Young.  No, it is not a place on a distant and dismal shore across a dreadful river where the dead go to reside.  Indeed, it’s a place of beauty and love and youth.  Those who dwell there, however, are not mere mortals, they are god-like in a way.  But it is a paradise.  You stay there and everything stays fine…you are forever young.

But, as with all good things, there is a string attached.  It’s only a minor point, though–you see, you can never leave Tir Na Nog.  In truth, you can leave…but you can never return.  This  is not like leaving behind a dusty farm town full of broken-hearted maidens…and perhaps a child or two.  There is more at stake here.

If you get restless, and you find the path out…you’d better think twice, for if you depart, you must never touch the ground of the outside world.  If you do, by accident or intention, serious stuff will happen to you.  Age will fall on your body very, very fast.  If you lived 500 years in Tir Na Nog, well, you’ll soon look like a fast forward video of Joan Rivers’ life.

In the ancient day of Irish past, Niamh of the Golden Hair led the hero, Oisin to the “Land of the Young.” (Don’t ask, it’s a long story.)  Oisin, a mortal, needed a guide to take him to that magical place.  That’s the way it is in journey stories.  The guide could be Gandalf, Yoda or Virgil.

In my case, it was Mariam, my wife.  She saw this house and she loved it.

Which takes us to our home in the Adirondacks and the completion of the Tir Na Nog connection.  We moved here full-time in 2011.  We came up from New York City (now, there’s a place that can age you fast).

Our bodies are older now but our spirit has grown younger.  Instead of collapsing on the sofa from riding the No. 2 train from downtown, we now collapse from kayaking for five hours or hiking ten miles.  We continue to age when we visit the City, but, it seems to be at a faster rate.

So, I’ve come to the end of my story, sort of.

The real end is this:

We bought a camp on a lake.
We named it Tir Na Nog.

                                           [Thanks  to Wikipedia]

The Lawn and the Short of It

Why are people afraid of trees?

The Adirondack State Park, where I live, has something like 6,000,000 acres of land.  This great northern forest was to be held “forever wild.”  That was stated in Albany in the 19th century.

Now, it seems logical to me (I’m not Plato, mind you) that those who choose to live here would do so in the spirit of the “forever wild” clause, i.e., embracing the ethos of the natural environmental world that encompasses us.  This is a land of trees, rivers and mountains.  The operative word, for this post is ‘trees.’  Hey, I love a good rousing manly game of croquet as well as the next guy.  And can I put a Frisbee in the palm of a friend’s outstretched hand at fifty feet? You betcha.

So, having said all that, I now grow edgy and sullen when I drive by people who think they live in Newport, Rhode Island.

Simply put, I dislike lawns in the Adirondacks that are landscaped like Augusta National Golf Club.  As you compare and contrast (I used to be a teacher) the photos below, consider a few points:

The Carbon footprint for mowing these fields of Kentucky Bluegrass.
The egregious amount of water to keep the lawns as green as Connemara, Ireland.
The cutting of the trees (and then replanting selected nursery stock).
The alteration of the microclimate that comes with deforesting and replacing with grass.
The disruption of the landscape esthetic (argue if you want, but wilderness is vital to our spirits…look it up.).
Is Astroturf next?  Actually, on the shore line of a lake near my home, the owners put large sheet of plastic grass, I assume to prevent sand from touching the bathers feet.

These “McMansions” of the north sadden me and break my heart.

Look closely at the photos again:

Notice the top photograph and the Great Lawn.

In the lower photograph, there is a house there, a rather large one at that.  But you would never know it.

One property screams at you like a Brooklyn Dodgers Fan.  The other merely whispers like a gentle breeze.

Epitaphs: Part I

Anyone with a good eye can find a zillion stories in cemeteries.  That’s saying a great deal about a place where only mute stones stand there to speak to you.  The dead can’t tell their tales and in most cases, there will be no one around to tell of a life and give those reposing there, a voice.

Go to a nearby cemetery, walk among the stones and read of the lives of people you will never meet.  Or find the grave of a friend and continue your chat you started 37 years ago.

Edgar Lee Masters wrote a masterpiece of American fiction, “Spoon River Anthology.”  Thornton Wilder wrote a sublime play, “Our Town.”  Read the book, see the play and go stroll in a graveyard.  Stop, read and listen.  Someone is talking to you, crying, laughing, begging, or simply waiting…waiting for you to notice them.

I have read hundreds if not thousands of epitaphs for decades now.  I never cease to be moved, alarmed, shocked or humbled by what I read.  I’ve seen stone markers of suicides, 14 year-old murder victims, infants and people unknown or individuals who were quite famous.

I hope to share some of the more remarkable epitaphs I’ve collected in future postings.

Here’s one I recall from a solitary New England burying-ground.  The dates carved were in the early 18th Century.  It was the slate marker for twins:

“They tasted of life’s bitter cup.

Refused to drink the potion up.

Turned their little heads aside,

Disgusted with the taste, and died.”

Here’s one I photographed in early May, 2013:

Now It’s Time to Get Real

For a number of months now, I’ve been posting short blogs that were mostly fiction in nature.  Among these were a few that were based on memories and dreams (reality or wish based?). Today, I’m going to begin to mix it up a bit with non-fiction ramblings and musings.  

This is where I get to mention my absolutely brand new book titled “In All The Wrong Places.”  http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00CJG0BXY

 

I am very pleased to offer this work to you.  I’m proud of the content I’ve chosen.  It is a collection of short stories and non-fiction.  In this book, you’ll meet Gnomes, Ghosts, Wicked Women, Loneliness, Loss and even a Mountain Nymph.  And there’s more, of course.  Seventeen pieces in all for you to sit back at the beach (don’t forget the SPF), curled up in bed, under two trees in a hammock, in a tent hidden in the forest or while stretched out on a cheesy mattress in a cheap motel outside Del Rio, Texas.  

So, come with me while I walk forgotten trails, sit on cliff-sides, pace city streets and wander dark alleys.  But you’ll be safe with me.  After all, the things that creep alongside us, hide in the shadows behind us exist only in my head.  In my brain that can’t stop wondering about lives and destinies of everyone I pass on the road or watch from a trolley window.

We are all held together by some kind of unknown chain…come and be a link in that chain.

I would like you to share your own dreams via my website:  http://www.patrickjegan.com

Love to you all on the eve of May, the month of my 20th anniversary, my birthday and the rebirth of the flowers that finally have a place to grow without the incessant snow. 

Are You Somewhere Up Above?

That’s right.  It’s class reunion time again.  These events come around so fast these days, it’s like speed dating.  The years are passing rapidly now.  It seems like I was looking forward to my 20th just a short time ago.  Now, I’m dreading the approaching 50th.  So, one more time, I’ll sign up, send in the $50 and try to find a blazer that looks like it fits me in some way.  Maybe a tight belt will do the trick on the few extra inches at the waist.

I don’t dread seeing my old classmates.  Forget the teachers, most of them are gone now.  Sometimes I feel like I should be gone too.  But once I get to the Elks Club hall, people will know where to find me.  I’ll be sitting near the cash bar on my favorite chair…the one I have claimed for the last thirty years.  Here’s what I won’t be doing: out there dancing to Chubby Checker and looking just as foolish as I did in 1965. What I will be doing is fingering the twenties in my pocket and drinking the top shelf scotch.

One more thing I won’t be doing is looking happy.  My second wife died five years ago so I’ll be going stag.  I’m not looking anymore.  I’ll also be staring at the Memorial Table from a safe distance.  It’s usually on the opposite side of the dance floor, on a table near the stage.  I don’t want to see who else left us.  Did the guy that sat behind me in homeroom have to get shot to death in Viet Nam?  Did the girl (her name escapes me) have to die in her twenties of breast cancer?  And what about the childhood buddy of mine that impacted with a large oak tree in his brand new Mustang while going about 85 mph?  I don’t want to think about all that.

But if you buy me a double, I’ll gladly tell you the story of the death of my sweetheart while we were in high school (she was just sweet sixteen).  I wasn’t showing much promise those days in being good at anything.  My grade were slightly below average, but Laura loved me anyway.  She really loved me.  Her mother was not crazy about her being with me, but she stopped saying much when she realized that Laura and I would go ahead and elope if she kept on about how unfit I was.

We’d been to a dance.  They called them “sock hops” in those days.  Laura didn’t mind if I looked goofy doing the twist.  I had about as much rhythm as a fence post.  We were driving home that night with the top down on my ’57 Chevy.  Elvis was finally on the local AM station.  Too many of us kids complained that they didn’t play the really cool black music, so to buy time to rethink their song lists, they gave us Elvis.  That was OK with Laura and I.

The trouble started out on River Road.  We were just tooling along when the engine began to skip and make strange clanking sounds.

Shit, I thought, I was going to have to haul the block out again and check the gaskets.  We were approaching a railroad crossing…we’ve been there hundreds of times but the engine started shaking.  We made the wide curve that led to the crossing.  It was too rural to have wooden poles drop while the train passed.  No, there was clear roadway over the tracks.

Just as we approached the intersection, I heard it.  The distinct howl and nasal blast of the whistle.  You probably guessed it already.  We stalled right there on the crossing.  The train was approaching from the west which meant the engineer had limited views ahead…and not enough time to pull the stop cord.

Believe it or not, neither of us panicked.  We had a full 45 seconds to casually open the doors and get the hell out.  Which we did.

We stood, motionless and holding hands while the train bore down on my beautiful car.  And then, to my horror and absolute shock, she broke free of my hand and ran back to the car, yelling “Wait, wait!”  It didn’t take a genius to see that her getting to the car and the impact of the train were going to happen at the exact same second.  I took a step forward and then closed my eyes when I heard the explosive crash of a locomotive against the side of a two door car.  It was over in moments.

I told my story to the police and watched in dumb silence as the hearse pulled away.  There was no need for an ambulance.  The police drove me back home.  As we pulled away, I looked out of the back window at the unmoving train, blinking red lights and a mangled mass of steel that was once a’57 Chevy

Yes, I’ll have another double.  That’s the way it went, sort of.  I still have my secrets, though.  The police told me that she had my high school ring clutched in her hand, tight.

Private secrets.  No, another double won’t get me to tell you my secret.  The strange thing that happened that night that, somehow over the years, led me to this chair is going to to stay with me and me alone.  I see you’ve heard enough.  Good night, my friend.

Because I’m sick and my days are numbered, I’ll reveal that dark puzzle to you and to you alone.  You must promise you won’t tell anyone until well after I’m gone, and when I say gone, I don’t mean tonight.  I mean to the plot next to Laura’s.

You see, it’s never been explained WHY she wasn’t wearing the ring that night.  Why did she have to go back for it?  I must confess, I don’t remember whether she was giving it back to me or I asked her to return it.  I don’t even know what happened to it.  I had always supposed that she was buried with it…but I really don’t know.  So, I guess it’s not really a secret then, since I don’t know the answer.  I just don’t know what it was she was looking for that night.

It was gold and had a green stone with an image of an Indian on a horse with his arms outstretched.  1965 is engraved around the green stone.

If you find it, let me know.

If You Build It They Will Go

I wish this story was not being written.  I wish the slate of my memory could be wiped clean.  I curse the Muse who invades my dreams, finds me in my idle hours and dumps thoughts I can barely recall would just go away.  Just go away and leave me to sit in peace.  But, no.  I am driven to this dreaded keyboard and another call of nature takes my fingers and makes me tell this tale.

Turn away if you must, Dear Reader, for my story will foul your minds with images that are not meant for your gentle and innocent eyes.

Like many of my tales, this one again takes place on the Juneau Icefield in Southeastern Alaska.  It is an awesome place and has been the scene of, shall I say, bizarre happenings.

It was in the distant and fair times of the 1960′s.  I was working for a glacial research Foundation whose main work was to keep track of the melting of the glaciers and the reconstruction of past climates through the study of ice cores.  Scattered over the vast Icefield were a number of research stations.  These were simple structures meant to function as base camps for the scientists and the assistants.  There were bunks, eating areas, laboratories and tool shacks.

There were also outhouses to be used when the need arose and privacy was an issue.

The Director of the summer season was an experienced mountain climber with an expertise in organizing and running, not only the scientific end, but also the day to day activities.  Now, Dear Reader, it is no secret that morale must be maintained at all times.  Any ships captain or  unit commander of a military operation will tell you that boredom is the Enemy.  The principle here was to keep everyone busy so they had little time to count the days to when the season was over and they could enjoy the fruits of Juneau (and it had many).

There was much work to do and time was of the essence.  One time waster was the waiting line for the use of the outhouses.  This began to play on the mind of the Director, and being a creative person, came up with two solutions that would get to the bottom of this problem.

Here is how it played out: He would identify those individuals who were savvy at carpentry.  Then he would order the supplies to be flown in.  And, in the end, he would build additional privies.  But on this particular summer, the Director decided to take the matter and go into a direction that has rarely been repeated.  Indeed, I know of no other solution, like the one he chose, in existence anywhere.

I know of what I speak, because I, myself, helped construct the buildings that sprang from his very “Creative Moment”.  This was no longer a mountain climber or researcher planning these designs.  No, he became an I.M Pei, a Dali, a Picasso of privies!

I will leave out the boring details of the moving of the rocks, the digging of the holes (not an easy thing on a rocky mountain surface) and get straight to the end of the story.  I need to do so.  It is now 12:10 AM EDT in New York State.  I need to go to bed now and contemplate the medical procedure I am having later today.  If I was one of those sleazy, hack writers I would go for the obvious irony here, that I was going to have a colonoscopy in ten hours.  But, I am not a 7th Avenue whore willing to bend over and change the storyline to get a cheap laugh.  In reality, I am going to have a tooth extraction.

So, the results of this curious few days building an outbuilding?

One of the new structures was set to face an icefall.  A truly awesome sight, best compared to a frozen waterfall.  So what did we do to maximize the pleasure of the…the (lest not mince words) bowel movement?

We put in a picture window.  It was a 6′ x 5′ sheet of plexiglass that had a hinged door on the outside lest someone wandered by to get a closer look at the ice dropping.  Well, we thought the idea was “cracking good”…so we did the only obvious thing.  We added an extra seat, or hole as it were.  In this way, two close friends, or a very loving couple could do their duty using a buddy system.  Seemed like a good idea.  After all, the plane had brought in several crates of toilet paper, so there needn’t be any sharing in that way.  I’ve often wondered since then if there were any proposals for marriage, of any kind.  Hey, nobody said it was for males or females only.

With that project completed, we moved onto another camp.  Space for a privy was an issue here as the exposed rock surface was limited.  Remember, you can’t build these on snow.  That would present it’s own set of problems.

The solution to this was simple.  We didn’t need a genius to work this one out.  It had to be a two-story privy.

Now, sitting side by side can have it’s advantages.  Two occupants could discuss the beauty of the icefall.  But a two-story structure was something else.  While one person would, I assume sit in the lower level, there was a six inch diameter PVC pipe that passed within seven inches of the sitting person.  Whatever movements were taking place upstairs could be plainly heard trickling or bumping against the PVC.  Under these circumstances, it was hard to concentrate on a year old copy of Sports Illustrated, even if it was the Swimsuit Issue.

Well, that’s the story of the two loos.  I guess it’s now up to you to decide which seat you would have chosen.  You need to do this.  After all, you never know if you will ever be faced with this in an emergency situation.

As I recall, for some reason the group that year became much more closely knit that any team before.  We all knew each other a little better when late August came around.

All done at the Two-Story Loo                                  Back of the Picture Window Loo

                         

The ‘AA’ From Another World

I do believe that I am the only person in the Western Hemisphere, if not the World who is haunted and terrified by an AA battery.

I must hurry to tell you this story, before they tell you that visiting hours are over and they bring my tray of medications.  Once I take these small multi-colored tablets, I tend to lose interest in telling people things.  I begin to lose interest in almost everything.  It’s then that I sleep.  I sleep deeply and that’s when certain dreams come, the dreams that are populated with batteries.

You see, it all began when my wife and I bought this house in the Adirondack Mountains.  At first we rented it out for most of the summer to help defray the costs of the renovations we were planning.  After several years, we grew tired of giving our home over to strangers, even at $1,200 a week.  Eventually, we retired from our jobs in New York City and moved to the house permanently.

But, it was back in 2000, when we purchased the home and property, that the troubles began.

I have always been interested in weather and it has been a hobby of mine to keep track of rainfall, dew points and temperature.  One of the first items I bought after we took ownership was to visit the nearest Radio Shack to buy an Indoor/Outdoor thermometer.  I found a place just above the kitchen sink where it fit snugly on the narrow sill.  I then ran the wire out to the rear deck and secured the sensor to a nice shady spot under the eaves.  I used a red push-pin that is still there…I think.

During the first year, I would glance and the reading and keep my wife up to date as to the outside temperature.  I never moved the small switch to “indoor”.  I was only curious of what the Adirondack seasons would be like.

The little unit became my friend and reliable source of the daily fluctuations of the micro-climate I had on my back deck.

After the second year, I began to think of having an AA spare ready for when the first one died.  AA’s seem to burn out like short birthday candles.  The ones in my little flashlights are always being changed.  My small AM/AM radio ate them like taco chips at a Mexican bar.

In the third year I pretty much forgot about the battery as I bustled around the house making minor repairs and painting railings.  The only time I had to deal with the thermometer was when I would clean the windows.  I recall being very careful about moving the sensor wire.

By the fourth year, I began to make brief comments to my wife about the battery that was still churning along, feeding me the daily readings.  I dug out the directions.  The unit scanned and updated the temperatures every five seconds, 24/7.

During the sixth year, I began to focus more attention on the little white unit and the AA inside.  How could it possibly be still running after six years?

It was during the seventh year that I began to have grave concerns as to what it was that was inside the unit.  Was this really a “normal” AA or something else entirely”.

When the battery continued to deliver for the eight year, I became convinced that it was no average battery as we know it.  I read an article in a UFO journal that described secret government energy sources that were being developed in top secret locations in the Arizona desert.  They were working on power storage units that would stayed charged for a century.  I also read that some of these experimental “power units” were smuggled out of the research facility and found their way into the marketplace.  Counterfeit “Energizer” labels were printed on them.  I knew this is what was sitting on my narrow window sill of my kitchen above the sink.

During the ninth year, I came down with a bad case of the “flu”.  Well, no matter what the so-called medical professionals were telling me, I absolutely knew that my sickness was caused by eminations from the weather units power source.  It was slowly poisoning me slowly but surely.  I began to understand items in the news more clearly now.  I now know that JFK didn’t really die in Parkland Hospital, he survived and was being kept alive in a now closed-off wing of that hospital.  The casket at Arlington was empty.  Secrets were being revealed to me for some reason.  I was chosen for something.

Half way through the tenth year, the little unit began to speak to me.  It started innocently at first.  I would be sitting at our breakfast bar and I would hear: “Forty-one degrees  Fahrenheit” it said to me, clearly but quietly.  Once it said “Sixteen degrees Celsius”.  I yelled back at it, saying I don’t understand metrics.  It never made that mistake again.  After that exchange, it would tell me things that were unrelated to weather.  ”Put your money on George Clooney for the Best Actor”, it said to me one winter holiday when we were there.  Sure enough, Clooney walked away with the gold-plated statuette several months later.  ”El Nino will be wicked this year,” it told me one evening.  So, I better not buy real estate in Florida, I answered. “Better not,” it replied.  Who do you like for the Series this year, the Yankees or Pittsburg?  It was then that I noticed my wife staring at me from the kitchen doorway.

In the eleventh year, it told me to keep my guns buried out by the stone wall.  President Obama is going to pass a law that will take all our guns away and then set up a police state.  Our children will be shipped off to re-education camps and turn them all into Socialists.  I learned when to hop over buried cables that carried messages to Washington from the Vatican.  I won’t even begin tell you what instructions I got from the little unit in case a gay couple move in next door.  Around that time, the buzzing in my head got worse and the voice was coming in with a lot of background static.  I solved that by fashioning an Aluminum helmet.  The reception got better when I, after months of experimentation, found that two pipe cleaners, mounted on my forehead and bent at right angles cleared up the signal strait away.  Two small balls of mylar taped to the end of the pipe cleaners made things even better.

By the twelfth year we had moved to the house full time.  Now I could listen and talk to the little unit all day and into the night.  Sometimes it didn’t speak any words, but the words came to me anyway.  I heard it’s voice in my dreams.  I began to have thoughts of taking a long vacation to the desert of Arizona.  I even spoke to my wife of a trip to Devil’s Tower in Wyoming.  I knew all about Comet C/2011 L4 long before the popular press started running the story.  I started telling people what I had found out.  But no one believed me.  I think it was the clerk at the local Mobile station that made the first phone call.  My wife made the second.

Now, it’s the thirteenth year.  I know what I know and no one can take that away from me.  I am the holder of the Secrets.  The world will soon find out the truth…and I will then be worshipped as a genius and seer.

And, all this time the battery has never been replaced.  But only I know why.