Patrick Egan's Blog, page 8

Better Late Than Never: A Fairy Tale of New York

[Shane MacGowan. Photo by Martyn Goodacre/Getty Images]

Music, once admitted to the soul, becomes a sort of spirit, and never dies.

~~Edward Bulwer Lytton

I love music. The older I get, the more varied my tastes have become. Spotify is my second home. But, I have a problem.

Many times I have forged new trails in the snowy slopes of the Juneau Icefield, Alaska. I led the way. When my friend, Greg, and I began rock climbing near New Paltz, NY, I led the way. When I X-Country Skied across a frozen lake in Pennsylvania, I was alone, so I led the way.

But, with music, I never led the way. I was, most often, following someone else’s lead. A perfect example was some time in the early 1960s. My friend, Jimmy, came over to our house one day holding a vinyl LP.

“You should hear this guy,” he said.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll put in on our Hi-fi.”

“Whoa,” I said a few minutes later. “This guy can’t sing at all. He’s no Fabian. Who is this?”

“Bob Dylan,” he said.

The rest is history. Dylan became my #1 Poet/Hero/Songwriter/Philosopher. I am Dylan’s Influencer. Back in the day, Jimmy, was the Influencer. But I never learned my lesson. I never seem to discover new talent by myself. For many years my working philosophy was that if it wasn’t Dylan, the Stones or the Beatles, then it somehow wasn’t worthy of my time. But, that’s history. Now, on Spotify, I find an artist and download a song or two. I see who they are playing with, and I continue following leads. I’ve rarely been disappointed where my wandering has taken me.

In the last dozen years, I’ve had a musical Library of Congress-person enter my life. His name is Bob Goldstein, and he is the loving husband to my daughter, Erin. His musical knowledge is the stuff of legend. After every visit to Orting, WA, I came away with a list of CD’s to buy or artists to download. If the State of Washington had a law that sets a limit on the number of CD’s one person can own, Bob is clearly guilty. I stand in awe of Bob. He is truly a leader when it comes to finding new talent.

So, in the spirit of the recent holidays, I found a playlist titled: Indie Christmas. Indie artists are among the most cutting edge but underrated talents out today. Today’s music, by the way…?? Try going into a Starbucks on any given day at any given time. [The company used to provide an ambience that was suited for conversation, writing, reading or just thinking. Like the cafés of Paris or London.] The music is the most insipid and relentlessly awful noise that could, if you don’t take care, make your ears bleed.

So, don’t ask me about modern pop music. My glare of pity will be your answer.

Well, on this Indie Christmas list was a band I had heard about several decades ago. The Pogues. My first impression, at the time, was that they were much too punk for me. Indeed, they are punk but with a mix of Irish/Celtic melodies. I gave them a long listen. They gave me gems. I was sold.

Now I have a new artist to follow. The lead man for the Pogues is Shane Macgowan. His style and energy is something to behold. I finally found someone of note, all by myself. I was not out there alone, though. My daughter, son, son-in-law, all know of the band. Yes, I found him/them, but I had to run to catch up with that once elusive bandwagon. That part wasn’t hard.

What is hard is that I won’t be able to follow Shane’s newer music. The man died a month and a day ago.

I love 99% of the songs I’ve heard, but the one that keeps me awake at night and thinking and listening during the day, is Fairy Tale of New York. Was it the holidays? Perhaps. Was it the lyrics? Yes.

It’s dark and heartfelt. It’s bawdy and chaste. A playful duet. A cutting accusation.

I read a comment: “This song can make you cry and dance with joy at the same time.”

That’s an achievement. So, to welcome in the New Year (and I hope a far better year than last), here is a link for you to enjoy. I strongly suggest googling the lyrics and following along so you can get the full measure of what Shane is saying.

Do enjoy and have a great New Year !

The Pogues – Fairytale Of New York (Official Video) – YouTube

https://www.youtube.com › watch

The Persistence of Memory: Chris, Bill and High Adventures

Where’s my high quality mug?

~~ Bill Zeller

On a very chilly afternoon in early December, Mariam and I stood in the doorway of a friend’s house in Dunbarton, NH. The warmth of his hand infused me and the gleam in his eyes inspired me. We went in, met his wife, Anne and Pepper, their dog. We then settled in for two days of memories…some of which I thought I had lost forever.

I was all of thirteen when I first met Bill Zeller. He was the new 4-H Extension Agent for Tioga County, in New York State. He had become friends with my older brother, Chris. The two of them, along with Phil Gage were active outdoor people, and fervent canoeists. I was often invited to join in the adventures. Later, this involved hiking and camping in the High Peaks of the Adirondack Mountains.

[On one such trip, in December, my brother asked me to go over to the ranger cabin and check the temperature. It was night and I held the flashlight on the wall thermometer.

“It’s 28,” I yelled to Chris. It felt colder.

“Where is the “0”?,” he asked.

“It’s above the 28,” I replied. It took a minute to sink into my adolescent brain…it was -28 F.]

I went back to the fire and sat with Chris, Bill Zeller and Phil Gage while we watched our hot chocolate freeze over. I thought I was having an adventure.

The camping and canoeing continued until Bill got drafted. That was around 1960 or 61. I don’t believe I saw Bill after that, until a few weeks ago, on his front porch, an old house that was next door to the house where he grew up.

That’s over fifty years!

[Bill’s house. Built ca. 1831. Photo is mine.]

We took a brief walk around the town square. Brief because it was cold and my back was, as usual, hurting. The quiet was soothing after a hectic drive around Boston from Salem.

[The Dunbarton Cemetery. Photo is mine.]

We visited the library, located across the street from his house. A book collection so close to one’s house is a dream for many, including me.

But it wasn’t until later in the afternoon that we sat in his living room and told stories of what great things we did back in the day. (See the lead photo).

My brother went on to teach at a college in Petersburg, VA. I went on to working on the icefields of Alaska, college and then 30+ years of teaching. Bill never lost his love for canoes or kayaks. He has a camp in Northern Maine where he would ply the waters of rivers in Labrador and elsewhere. He also kayaked the Yukon River and other waters in the north. He was living a dream.

The city lights, traffic and crowds that define our life here in NYC, holds no special interest for Bill. A cabin. A crackling fire. The smell of wood smoke and pine trees are where Bill and Anne would be most happy.

[Bill ready to kayak the ice floes. Caribou antlers were a found object. Photo: Bill Zeller.]

As I sat and listened to his stories and memories, I was quiet, trying to deal with the flood of events and places that I haven’t thought about in decades.

[A man. A kayak. Antlers. Photo: Bill Zeller.]

The evening before we left, they drove us to Dover where we had a excellent dinner at an Italian restaurant.

[I had white clam sauce pasta. Photo is mine.]

We left at mid-day. I was reluctant to say good-bye to Bill because we had only scratched the surface of our memories. So much was left unsaid…unspoken. But a half-century old friendship was rekindled and more, newer memories are in my heart. I can’t think of anyone I would rather sit beside a blazing campfire with and spin yarns and tell tales or sit silently, more words left unspoken, to just watch the smoke drift up through the branches of a whispering evergreen tree.

Thank you, Bill and Anne for being such gracious hosts. I wish I could have packed up some of the warmth of the wood stove to bring back to our home. But the warmth we got from our visit will suffice for now.

See you in Maine…

Dark Night/Dark Happenings

[A British tabloid. Photo: Google Search]

I can’t Imagine…

~~ Patrick Egan

It was 1980. I was teaching Oceanography and Earth Science at the Ridgefield High School in Connecticut.

Monday, Dec. 8, was a normal day of classes. Late that afternoon, Parent/Teacher Conferences were scheduled. I was a new faculty member and somehow I scored The Conference Room near the Main Office for my appointments. Parents came into the room, we discussed their child, I held the reports and we talked.

Me–“Oh, your student is doing just fine.”

Them–“Are you sure? She/He seems to distrust me now. Am I the enemy?”

Me–“No, it’s just hormones. You child will rediscover you in a few years.”

Them–“Oh, thank goodness.”

Then the darkness descended…

The parents came in and left. The dinner hour passed. The final dozen or so waited in the hall. A father and mother came in. He had a bandage on his forehead. We sat for a few minutes and I politely asked about the bandage.

Father–“You heard about the Stouffer Fire?” {Conference Center in Westchester Co. A fire broke out while a Corporation was have sessions. Twenty-six people were killed.}

Me–“Yes, of course.”

Father–“I was the last one out. The guy behind me died.”

I sat in silent shock. The academics of his (really good child) was suddenly put into a new perspective. The upcoming holidays, the father/husband and child flashed through my mind. There were more important things in life for this fortunate man than his child’s Earth Science grade.

Me–“I’m sorry. We’re done here. Go home. Have a special holiday.”

Father-“I most certainly will.”

My mood darkened…

After conferences, several teachers from the Science Department met in the Parking lot. The decision was made to go to a nearby pub and have dinner. So, we did…

We had nachos, tacos, refried beans and a few beers. Then the lights came on. The night manager told the crowd to please leave. There was a bomb scare. Get out!

So we did. In another parking lot, there were three of us left.

My co-teacher, Jeff and his house mate whose name I can not recall, said: “Hey Pat, why don’t you come over to our place for a dessert? It’s on your way home.”

I said: “Lead the way, Jeff.”

And things got even darker…

At Jeff’s house (Jeff was a musician with an album or two out there. It was his avocation. He taught Biology.) I plopped myself on the sofa and opened a final beer. Jeff went for a bowl of popcorn, some cheese and not a few crackers. His house mate, sat and ate with us and retired to bed. Jeff and I sat on the sofa and talked about the next day, and the upcoming holiday vacation. It was 10:30 pm. I began to think of going home to my room in the house of a teacher from the Ridgefield Junior High School.

In New York City, at the entrance to the Dakota Building, something very very wrong was about to happen…

I sat for a few minutes longer then found my coat. Jeff was in the kitchen attending to something. I stood in front of the TV. A news break.

On the screen, a news stringer from one of the City’s stations, was standing in Central Park West holding a mic. His update…

“John Lennon has been pronounced dead.”

I called Jeff. He stood in front of the screen. I never saw a person turn so completely white, so fast and so pale, in my life. He called his friend.

Ten minutes later I was driving home, just a few miles, but it took me ages.

I was somehow less innocent than I was at the start of my day. So many tragic things, so much pain, so much confusion. But, in a sense, the world became less innocent that night. The spirit of the 60’s, the excitement of the Beatles–it all seemed to die when Chapman pulled the trigger. He is sitting today in his cell at Green Haven Correctional Facility, probably unaware of the chain of events he set in motion. But, perhaps he is aware. And, if he is, is he sorry?

It doesn’t really matter, though.

It’s a “day the music died” again. In the years to come, there will be many days when someone’s music will die.

We’re all sorry.

[The last photograph of John. Taken by Annie Leibovitz on the afternoon of Dec. 8, 1980. He was also photographed naked, in the fetal position, on a bed, next to his beloved wife, Yoko Ono. Photo: Google Search.]

Twelve Days With A Sad Little Tree

Ho ho the mistletoe

Is hung where you can see

Somebody waits for you

Kiss her once for me…

~~Burl Ives (Lyrics by Johnny Marks)

[The sad tree. Photo is mine.]

Once upon a time, I was sitting in a small inexpensive apartment in a city quite far from where I’m writing this, and I was sad.

The holidays were approaching too fast for me. I stood in the cracked-glass window and looked out at the street, the houses and the city beyond. The Yuletide Spirit filled the air. The malls were crowded. The taverns were full. The beautiful teenage girls wore red coats with red Santa hats and white mittens. The handsome teenage boys carried hockey sticks and toboggans. Der Bingle sang White Christmas from the radio behind me as the children on the sidewalk threw snowballs at one another. So much joy.

And I was still sad…so sad that I began to cry.

I looked around my living space. In an empty corner of the living room the TV sat silent as a Christmas night. The sofa had my blanket and pillow where I slept last night.

The room was too bare. I needed a tree.

On day one, I walked to the nearby Dollar Store to buy matches. There, by the entrance, was a tree. A very sad tree. I stood and looked at it. It seemed to say: Buy Me! So I did. (I always listen when a tree talks to me). It was now my tree. I paid cash and dragged it home. No need to worry about a proper stand and water. The tree wasn’t real and no needles would be dropping on my shag rug. I also bought a small string of white pin lights for $.99. I had three bulbs that I once placed on my family tree, back in the day. Better days. I stood back and studied the plastic pine. You’re pretty lame, I said to no one. You’re pathetic, I said to myself. You’re an embarrassment, I said to the tree. I can’t let anyone see you.

Darkness had fallen on the street.

On day two, I heard something on the front porch. The bell rang. Carolers.

I opened the door to six adults and their six children. I stood as they sang Silent Night Oh, Little Town of Bethlehem and three more lively carols. I wanted to kiss them all, the fathers too, but I failed to buy the Mistletoe. They stopped and someone said Merry Christmas. Same to you all, I said. They hesitated a moment and left. I had left the door open all this time.

On day three, I heard an unexpected doorbell ring. Not that I was expecting anyone. I opened the door to an adult and a little girl, who was bundled in fleece and faux fur. Mister, she said, I sang for you last night. I remember, I said. Well, sir, I peeked in and saw your pretty little tree. But, I thought you needed one more piece for the top. She pointed with her mitten. Then she reached in a Macy’s bag and pulled out a little golden star. Here, and Merry Christmas, she said. How much do I owe you?, I asked her. Oh, nothing. Gifts are free. Thank you, I said. The mother nodded to me and a tiny, ever so small and sweet smile moved on her lips.

I placed the star on top and stood back. Funny, I thought, the girl saw the tree pretty and I saw it as scrawny. But, you’re not so bad after all, I said with a smile. What shall I call you? I have to give you a name. After all, my UkuleIe is named ‘Maybellene’. I thought it over. I know, your name shall be Tiny Tim, now and forever. I poured myself a double of Snapple Unsweetened Iced Tea and placed eight Tater Tots into the toaster oven. The bell went ‘ping” and, with a generous dollop of ketchup, I was good to go with my dinner. The Travel Channel is something of my default setting so on it went and we watched a documentary on the Migratory Habits of the Musk Ox. “In the spring, the mother musk ox takes her young…” I dozed, off but not before commenting to my tree: “Watch this, it’s so cool”.

On day four, a friend dropped by. He handed me an unwrapped box. No need to wrap it, he said. You may want to use it in the days ahead. I opened it and pulled out a CD. It was Bob Dylan’s Christmas of the Heart. I put it in and played “Christmas Island”. I laughed. I smiled. I sang along. I first smelled the tree.

On day five, I played the song again. The Bob is having so much fun. I loved it. I grinned and sipped a Toddy. It wasn’t the toddy, but the tree looked pretty smart in the afternoon light.

On day five, I turned on my Weather Watch radio and listened as Dr. Bambi, the meteorologist, told us that a major snow event was coming our way. This made me sing out loud…Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow. I adjusted a bulb on the tree. Pretty smart, I said to no one.

On day six, I sat down and watched It’s A Wonderful Life on TCM. I always cry at the part when George tries to find Mary, his wife. But not sad tears, happy tears, if such things exist. I felt good as I wiped away the salt from my cheeks.

On day seven, I was back on TCM. This time I saw Sleepless in Seattle for the twelfth time. I cried, as usual, when Tom Hanks almost misses Meg Ryan on top of the Empire State Building. I smiled at the happy ending. I turned to my tree and said: Great movie. I know, I thought the tree had spoken to me.

On day eight, I stopped in at The Clarence Tavern to see an old friend. She had just put a dollar in the juke box and was listening to Honky Tonk Woman. Such a nice old song, I said. But a tad old, don’t ya think, Carla? I had a shandy and got up to leave. You know, I had a vision last night, she said. The Rolling Stones were going to have another #1 hit someday in the future. Ha, I said as I headed for the door. In your dreams, I said. Merry Christmas, she said.. Back to you, I said.

On day nine, I sat and watched the Evening News at Six. I had put a cup of water in the stand of my tree. Hey, some habits are hard to break. I smiled. The News showed a clip of cars in some city to the west sliding down a hill while the snow fell. They played Paul Simon’s Slip Slidin’ Away. It was funny. No one was hurt, just fenders bent. I tweaked a plastic branch on my tree and laughed.

On day ten, I heard that the New York Giants were going to be playing in the Superbowl. I laughed and smiled. Must be someone’s idea of a practical joke, I thought. I watered my tree again. While bending over, I noticed three pine needles on the shag carpet. Imports, I said, with a laugh.

On day eleven, the doorbell rang. It was the little girl and her mom. The child handed me a candy cane and the mother passed a bag over her daughter’s head. It was a bottle. I almost cried from pure joy. I closed the door and immediately the scent of pine and evergreen and balsam hit my nose. Must be the candy cane, I thought. I laughed. I hung the child’s gift on the branch below the star. The tree felt funny.

On day twelve, I brought a mug of Oolong tea into the living room to play the Dylan Christmas album again. The scent of pine was overwhelming. I went over to the tree…

A small miracle had occurred in my apartment. The plastic had turned into real needles and real wood. It wasn’t a small miracle, it was a mind-blowing major event. The doorbell rang. The carolers were there. I invited them in. My friend Carla stepped in behind them. My friend Bob was a minute late. I put on Dylan. We sang It Must Be Santa Claus, White Christmas, Silent Night and Deck the Halls and more than a few Hanukkah songs. I was out of tune but everyone else sounded like angels. We lit more candles. I lit my tree. A father helped his little very observant daughter lite the Menorah. We turned down the lights and sang until the end of time…which was ten o’clock. They all left me alone with my tree. I couldn’t stop laughing.

I can’t say my tree resembled the one at Rockefeller Center, but it was real and it was here. Still scrawny, but very real.

Everyone had a great time. I’m so glad they all got my invitation.

I turned out all the lights and walked in the near-dark to the sofa. I wanted to leave the tree lights on. I settled into my plush pillow, pulled my Irish throw over my legs and put my earbuds in. I couldn’t get enough Christmas music. I closed my eyes.

Softly, ever so softly, almost mutely, hushed, gentle and with sweetness, I heard my tree, my Tiny Tim Tree say “God Bless us Every One”.

The Land of the Lost

Do the chairs in your parlor seem empty and bare?

Do you gaze at your doorstep and picture me there?

Is your heart filled with pain, shall I come back again?

Tell me dear, are you lonesome tonight?

~~Elvis

[Source: Google Search]

Thanksgiving Day, 2023. New York City.

I volunteer to deliver meals to home-bound and health-compromised people on the Upper West Side. This is not about me, though. Normally I don’t say much about this, but without my sharing it with you, dear readers, I would have no context for my narrative.

I go to people’s apartments with the food. They open their door, sometimes wide and sometimes only a crack to take the bags. The rooms are warm, often cluttered, sometimes crowded, but usually empty. The old faces look at me with anticipation, never fear. They smile, they want to talk but they know you have to continue on to others.

A caregiver or a son or daughter wants the client to meet me, wave to me. I wave back. But the people who are alone are the ones who get the most attention from me. I want to make sure they hear my words. See me try to smile. Hear my holiday greeting.

[The bags of Thanksgiving dinners. Photo is mine]

There are many difficult things in life that must be endured. A painful ankle can be mitigated. A headache? Take a Tylenol. A sore neck requires a message or a blop of Ben-Gay (or something that really works). Lower back pain needs a great deal of care, but a good stretch or hot soak with Lavender Epsom Salts may take a bit off the edge.

But being alone is a dark place to dwell. I’m not speaking of a 30-something person who seeks quiet to escape the madness of life in this world. I’m talking the 66-year-old widow. The 75-year-old widower. The divorcee, the illegal immigrant, the homeless, the frightened, the mentally ill, the afflicted and the disenfranchised.

These are the people I cry for.

I was a teenager walking along a street in my hometown. 1964? Seems about right. I was heading for the Cookie Jar, the teen hangout. Cherry Phosphate, Ice cream and coke, french fries and the juke box…for a nickle. I passed the house of one of my classmates. There was a party. Music. Laughing and talking.

I wasn’t invited. But the sight took the wind out of my sails. Who would be at the Jar to talk to me? A few people sat in the booths. I didn’t really know them well. I left.

But I had a home to return to. A family and a warm bed. I was lucky. And I was young.

These days I seem to see the lonely people everywhere.

Ah, look at all the lonely people

Where do they all belong?

~~Lennon/McCartney. Eleanor Rigby

A pill won’t relieve loneliness. The hopeless feeling of knowing you have few or no friends is one of the real truths of life for many people.

But, it’s New York City, you may say. There’s 8.4 million people living here. How can one be alone? It’s not easy and it’s not hard. But one can be impossibly lonely in a massive crowd.

Call someone. Write to someone. Listen to someone.

Help another person to be less alone.

[Photo source: Google Search]

Have a warm Thanksgiving…

Another Day Another Something To Upset Me

[Sometimes I wish this was my life. Quiet, serene, contemplative and domestic. Myself, Mariam and, of course, Lassie. But, I’m not in this photo. It’s not 1949. It’s 2023. Source: Google Search.]

Late morning on this day. It’s November 14 and I had just left my surgeon’s office. He saw my foot, two and a half months after he replaced a joint, he saw my swelling but he couldn’t feel my reluctant pain. Its hanging on and won’t go away, like a bit of dandruff on a jet-black dinner jacket. I was with my wife who helped me from the curb to the street and then back up again. Where did we go? To Starbucks, of course. Where else do you go to stand with your cold brew and try to eat an Impossible Breakfast Sandwich? Where else do you go when you head to the restroom (caffeine is a diuretic), find a keypad, go back to the barista for the code only to be told the code was taped to the door above the keypad. The gods of ancient coffee houses smiled on me. We found a table.

I bit into the plant-based burger and sipped on my cold brew. I’d like to say that I was content…

The music in the store was playing great big band tunes, for about four minutes. Then it switched to something else entirely. The relentless ‘beat’ and the unintelligible song began to make my ears bleed. To say that was mindless, insipid and boring would be kind. None of these songs had human musicians backing them up. The synthesizer beat is relentless and boring enough to crush your mine. I then did what I always do when I’m stressed. I stare out of the large window to 6th Avenue. I looked for relief in the bustling crowd. People watching. A great way to spend lost minutes or missing hours. I was fairly content, until my eyes fell to a cardboard box just outside the window. A man was sitting next to it. I snapped a photo:

[The street from Starbucks. Sixth Avenue. Photo is mine.]

I read the words written with a blunt point Sharpie. No Family/Friends.

Maybe it was the chilly weather. Maybe the barometric pressure. Maybe the headlines and the lead stories on CNN, but my mood went down the toilet I had just peed in. (The one with the useless keypad). I felt a deep pain for the man on the sidewalk. Loneliness is cruel in a city of ten million. It’s cruel in the company of two. The more I looked at the hopeful hands of the man, the more my heart broke.

Where were his friends? Avoiding him? Dead? Moved away to Akron? Where did he go when he went home? Did he have a home? Was anyone there? How does one survive loneliness?

Up and down the river, so many boats do arrive.

But precious few deliver the goods we need to survive.

~~ Maria Muldar “I Never Did Sing You a Love Song”

Now look what I’ve done. I managed to squeeze two blogs into one. Not with intention. I would never shortchange you, my readers.

Both sentiments are bitter.

And both made me sad.

[Note: Pay attention to those who are unhappy. And, listen to music that enriches you, not confuses you.]

John, Jean & Judy Play With AI/An Ode To Owego, NY.

Pat, Best of luck to a really wonderful guy! Hope you’re always happy! Stay as nice as you are and you’ll never, but never have any problems! May God Bless!

~~Sue M.

May we always be friends!

[From Page 102 of my 1963 High School Yearbook Tom Tom]

[Arial view of my hometown. Owego, NY. Photo: Fred Brown Collection]

If you are a friend of mine, an acquaintance, reader or just a fan, you are aware that I grew up in a small town on the Susquehanna River. The Southern Tier of New York State. The indigenous people who first lived there referred to it as Awaga, which means “Where The Valley Widens”. The photo above shows the old cantilever bridge, the dilapidated buildings of Front Street. These are the streets I walked when I was growing up. That was the bridge where I would stare at the crushing ice on frigid January days.

It’s all different now. The new bridge looks very smart. A RiverWalk takes you under the renovated RiverRow shops and restaurants. But, somethings never change. My memories. My adventures. The good times and the bad times are etched into my cortex, only to die when I do.

So I gathered my friends, John, Jean and Judy to compose an ode to my hometown. I thought I would keep it simple, clean and spare. I refused any embellishments, any hyperbole or exaggeration.

So here is my simple song to Owego (AI helped me a little):

Beneath the cerulean canopy of the sky, my hometown unfurls its splendor like a cherished tapestry, woven with threads of golden sunshine and the delicate hues of blooming magnolias. The meandering river, glistening like a necklace of sapphires, winds its way through emerald hills and pastures where wildflowers sway in harmony with the breeze. Each cobblestone, worn smooth by generations of wanderers, bears witness to the footsteps of childhood escapades and stolen kisses beneath the willow trees. The very air is laden with the scent of fresh-baked bread from the corner bakery and the intoxicating perfume of jasmine that lingers in the night. Oh, how I love this town, where the very soil sings with the stories of my ancestors, and the stars above seem to twinkle in recognition of the profound bond between my heart and this haven of cherished memories.

There is a saying in the community of writers that states never use a quarter word when a nickel word will do.

I hope you enjoyed my small change. If you click “like” on this post, I will tell John, Jean and Judy all about you.

A Death in Northumberland & Beyond

“…our tree.”

~~ Anon.

[Photo: Google search]

I’ve never seen the tree. Several years ago, on a trip to Scotland and England, we drove along the eastern coast toward London. We passed Hadrian’s Wall. As usual, we were rushing to a hotel to make the check-in time. I didn’t realize then how close we were. If I had the information and the time, I would have driven the extra miles to see this tree.

It was a legendary tree in so many ways–being made famous in the movie Robin Hood with Kevin Costner.

“This is my land, and my tree…“

The Bishop of Newcastle said that the tree bore “a pastoral load” of worries and pain of the local folk. Ashes were scattered under the tree, proposals made, loves consummated, hearts broken and kisses bestowed. For generations, it was an ingrained symbol of personal and communal landscapes.

A botany of desire.

In the darkness of late night of September 27 or in the morning glow of September 28, someone with a 28″ chainsaw felled this sacred tree.

[Photo: Google search]

With so many things that I cannot wrap my brain around these days: i.e., the selection of a right-wing religious fanatic to the Speaker of the House, the horror of the Israeli/Palestine conflict and other disheartening events, I found this story hurting me in a strange way. Obvious but still strange. Vandalism is an illogical and dispiriting act. Teenagers (mostly boys, I’m afraid), tipping over headstones in old mossy cemeteries. I’ve seen my share of this destruction and often wondered how some mind could say to itself: “Yes, I see that this stone has a family history engraved in the marble, but I will topple it into the mud. And for added agony on the descendants, I will make sure the name and birth dates and death dates are face down.”

Or, “I see a clean face on a building that I don’t own. Its the living space for strangers. Nevertheless, I will treat the wall as if were only mine and spray my unique ‘tag’ to the smooth granite.”

Or, “I hate your mosque.” “I hate your Temple”…therefore I will bomb it. Destroying your faith a little more, because I don’t understand it and therefore I hate.”

And, closer to home…”I am afraid of you. I am afraid of your body. It will lead me to sin. Therefore, I will tell you what to do with your body…because I am a man and you are merely, in the end, property.

And not to forget…”I believe that God hates you. There are only two sexes, the Bible says so. Therefore, you are violating God’s commandments if you think you can love anyone you choose, regardless of gender.”

My tree, the one I have never seen, may seem minute and insignificant. But, to me its just a symptom of an illness in our society. The disease of hate and intolerance.

I’m not naive enough to think that it’s only the here and now. This sort of thing that has existed for millennia.

It’s just sad that we haven’t grown as a collective soul…as the sole stewards of this isolated planet. It boggles my mind to think that there are people out there, friends and politicians who actually believe that climate change is a hoax. If it wasn’t so dangerous, it would be funny…that people can deny satellite imagery and field studies and instead believe the lies that are fed them by those who will benefit from their ignorance. What a joke. What a tragedy.

Small planet, small ideas from small intellects, and small minds.

I feel so lonely. I feel so afraid for my children and grandchild. I feel gloomy about our future.

[Note: The information about the Sycamore Gap Tree was published in the October 7th issue of The Economist.]

Uneasy Walks

“Sometimes the fear won’t go away, so you’ll have to do it afraid.”

~~Anon

[Image from Ghosts. Myths. Folklore. Legends. Facebook Group]

The information regarding the image above is from a subgroup (All That’s Interesting) of the FB group mentioned in the credits. Confused? Let’s move forward.

This is about the Dark Watchers–and a few other matters.

It’s a story that is set in the Big Sur, California area. But I suspect that it’s a tale common to every mountainous region. Perhaps the White Mountains in New Hampshire has their own version. Or the Adirondack Mountains of New York State. I’ve hiked in many of these locations (except Big Sur) and, alas, I cannot say that I encountered the Dark Watchers.

Over several centuries, the people who inhabit this particular part of California have had terrifying experiences with the Dark Watchers. Ten feet tall, with hats and brooms, they appear and then vanish. I admit I love stories like this. I’m not so much into the Bigfoot Thing but Urban Legends pertaining to wilderness areas have long been an interest of mine.

I did have a very unsettling experience in the Adirondack mountains. It was the 1970’s and I was on my second attempt to hike the Northville-Lake Placid Trail. Solo. I can’t stress enough that the solo aspect of the trip brought me into conflict with a number of issues. I would be alone, something I abhor. I would be in the deep dark forest. And I would have to spend the night on my own, stirring up my loneliness and my fear of the dark. I can make the story very brief. I was leaving a lean-to after a lunch break. As I continued along the trail I had a very distinct feeling of being watched and followed. The anxiety and fear escalated until I was actually running along the path to where a public campsite was located. I arrived, out of breath and sweating. I caught a ride into the nearby town. I never forgot the fear.

I have read that a logical explanation for this phenomenon is called Pareiodolia. Simply put, the brain provides a familiar image that seems very real when put against an unfamiliar background. That’s Occams Razor; The simplest explanation is usually the correct one.

Which brings me to a disclosure of sorts. I will tell you up front that I am a huge fan of strange things. I especially love ghost stories. This does not mean that I necessarily believe in ghosts, I just love reading about them. At heart I am a Dana Scully. I look for proof. Something that can be tested over and over. I understand that many things are faith-based. That’s okay, as long as the believers allow me the freedom to disbelieve. The Church and the State are supposed to be separate. But, that separation is slowly being blurred by the Supreme Court and the Far Right.

Having said all that, my wife and I are having a wonderful time watching all the X-Files on Hulu. Remember: The Truth is Out There.

[Image credit: Google Search]

A Halloween Musing

“Be afraid…be very afraid.”

~~The Fly

[Source: Google Search]

I’m walking the streets of my hometown. The calendar pages have been turned from mild September to cool October. The weather always dictates my moods when I walk. On a cloudless day, the maple yellows against the azure blue sky can lift my soul into rarefied air. When the cold clouds drizzle, I stare at the flagstone sidewalks and the fallen leaves–and my spirits sink.

I am not a poet as you will shortly see, but I thought it would be amusing to attempt a short ditty as a Halloween treat for you, my readers. A treat is better than a trick, or so I’ve been told:

October nights, the spirits rise,

To save your soul…you must be wise.

On nights when the chill wind blows,

On dead branches sit dead crows.

Their eyes, they blaze a crimson hue,

They lurk, they creep, they lust for you.

Oh, the specters seek you,

And the werewolves eat you,

And the angels forsake you,

…all that’s left is…HALLOWEEN.

[Source: Google Search]

[Source: Google Search]

Two more things, dear reader. I’ve always been afraid of the dark. And I’ve always been uneasy about giants.

So it’s no surprise that I dread the night when I encounter this…

[Source: Google Search]