Patrick Egan's Blog, page 9

Someone Called My Name: A Halloween Story

Never respond to a whisper of your name when no one is there…

~~mi abuela

[Photo: Google Search]

{The narrative that follows is the truth. Some ghost stories start with this statement but it is often part of the fiction. It’s setting the reader up to ‘buy’ into the story–perhaps a willing suspension of disbelief. But, this little tale is the truth–to the best of my recollection and that of my wife. She should know. She heard the voice.}

It was a cold New Years Eve in Cooperstown, New York. Upstate winters will drive you indoors, insure that you will have a wool scarf and force you to pull your cap down and over your ears. Yes, it was quite cold on the last day of December, 1992.

My soon-to-be wife, Mariam and I decided to get out of Manhattan and plunge into the heart of Central New York State. I always loved Cooperstown, for its history, its small town charm and its interesting architecture. This was in the dark ages before TripAdvisor, Yelp and Google, so we used a regional pocket guide (a paperback book!) to find a B & B. We booked a room for two nights at an old house that had been converted to an inn. I can’t recall the name but even if I could, I most likely wouldn’t use it in this post. Let’s just call it The Old B & B and move on.

I believe we were the only guests registered. After a short rest, Mariam and I went searching the streets for a place to have dinner. After our meal we stopped at a few pubs. I remember looking at my watch and thinking that we should get back to our room by nine-thirty at the latest. We didn’t want to get involved in a festive bash to watch the ball drop in Times Square. Too many kisses from strangers and too much noise. We wanted quiet and not be a part of anything that was…too much.

By ten o’clock we were esconced in our cozy room watching Dick Clark in NYC. By twelve-thirty Mariam turned over and closed her eyes. I propped myself up and read a book for an hour or so.

I switched the lights out and pulled the covers up to my chin. I was warm and comfortable. Mariam was deep in slumber. Within a few minutes I followed her into Dreamland.

I felt Mariam’s arm nudging me. “Get up, she’s calling you?”

“Who?”

“The landlady.”

“When?”

“Just now. She called: Patrick. Patrick. Twice. She called you twice.”

I didn’t hear anything. I was asleep. But Mariam said that she was fully awake. It was about eight in the morning. I got out of bed and stood by the door. “Yes? Yes?” I spoke loudly. Silence.

“Yes,” I said again. “Who is it?” Silence.

I cracked the door several inches and peeked out. The hallway was was empty. The light of morning came through a window. I closed the door and began to wonder.

A few hours later, we decided to go for a walk. The landlady was sitting at her desk in a small open office off the dining area.

“What did you want me for?” I asked.

“Excuse me?”

“You called me earlier. What did you need?”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t here this morning. I didn’t go upstairs. It wasn’t me.”

“Oh, must be the ghost,” I said as a joke. Her smile faded.

“Well, maybe so,” she said. “Maybe so.”

She then told us a story. She and her husband bought the place to convert it into a B & B. (Her husband was away during the days we were there.) There was a daughter who was not present, the night we were there either. The story went on. A few years ago, she and her daughter were in the yard raking leaves. As they went into the house, the girl asked the mother who the lady in the second floor window was. She replied that she didn’t see her but asked what the woman looked like. The daughter said that she was an old lady with white hair that was put up in a bun.

The story went on. The next day the landlady was standing in line at the supermarket. She got into a conversation with the woman in front of her. She told the woman that she and her husband just bought the house and were planning on turning it into a B & B. She asked about the previous owner. The woman told her that an old woman lived there for many years. In fact, she died in the house. That she was well-known around town for her attractive white hair…that she always wore in a bun.

~~

It has all the elements of a classic Urban Legend, doesn’t it? Perhaps. That’s the story as Mariam and I recollect it. I reconstructed any dialogue I, myself, did not hear to the best of my knowledge.

Who was the woman who called my name on that cold New Years Day…on the first morning of 1993?

One thing for certain. I don’t know. But if was indeed a spirit, I would have liked her to stick around. I had plenty of questions for her. Was this my Ligeia moment?

I shrieked aloud, :can I never–can I never be mistaken–these are the full, and the black, and the wild eyes–of my lost love–of the lady–of the LADY LIGEIA.

~~Edgar Allan Poe

[Poe and Ligeia. Source: Google search]

[Photo: Google search]

HAPPY HALLOWEEN

[England’s Lady on the Staircase. Perhaps the most famous ‘ghost photo’ of all. Source: Google search]

Word Games In The Time Of Cholera

It’s only words and words are all I have

To take your heart away.

~~The Bee Gees. Lyrics by Henry Priestman & Sean O’riada

[A Wordle puzzle from the N. Y. Times. Sometime in September, 2023]

If you backed away from your device while reading this post, its okay, rest assured. There is no Cholera pandemic. The last one (Covid) was hard enough. So, why the Cholera thing? I used it to grab your attention. The power of certain words is frightening. Once, while chaperoning a week-long field trip to Cape Cod in the 1980’s, I was the Person-in-Charge. We always had a teacher drive their own car in the event of an emergency. The motor coach wasn’t on site. A 7th grade girl had to make a visit to the local hospital for nothing really serious. No worries. Upon our return to the school in Stamford, CT., I was asked by an administrator if everything went without incident.

“Yeah, no problem. We just had to take a girl to the ER for Smallpox,” I said.

I had to help the admin up from the floor.

“S..S..Smallpox?” she managed to blurt out.

“Oh, sorry, I meant a flare-up of measles.”

Believe it or not, I continued to teach there for another few years. So why am I telling this to you? Its the power of words. Smallpox–Measles…for a moment they were the same to me. It may not have been measles, I just don’t recall. So, pardon my liberties with this narrative.

But, I digress.

I have been a crossword player for as long as Rome had Popes (hyperbole). When I began my teaching career in Pennsylvania in the 1970’s I lucked out with my schedules for several years in a row. My lunch period abutted a planning period which gave me more than ninety minutes to get in my MG Midget, buy a New York Times, drive across the river to Wilkes-Barre, go to a McDonald’s for a cheeseburger, fries and coffee. Armed with a sharpened #2 pencil, I would find a hidden booth and get down to work. This was my life for several years.

Before long I moved onto the harder stuff. The Sunday Times crossword. This is a notorious graveyard for word people. I’ve seen grown men reduced to tears, marriages broken, bargains made at lonely crossroads with Satan, farms mortgaged and rings pawned for the power to solve the Sunday Killer. I recall taking my daughter to Quebec City in the 1980’s. We were driving through Maine. At our campsite, after dinner and a short evening walk, she would retire to her little pup tent with a flashlight to read The Witch of Blackbird Pond. I would adjust the Coleman lantern so the light was on the picnic table. A small campfire sent a fragrant scent my way once in awhile, obeying the shifting breezes. I popped open a can of Moosehead Ale, got two #2 pencils, folded the Sunday magazine section to the puzzle and lost myself for an hour. An hour later, I sensed movement near me, beyond the glare of the Coleman. I looked up. A large, furry thing strolled between me and my daughter. It was a black bear. I froze. It passed by and vanished into the woods. I called to Erin. “We just had a bear come through”. She got back to her book. I finished the puzzle.

But not before the word BEAR resounded throughout the campground. It had been heading for the refuse cans. Lights were lit. People scurried about.

The power of one word energized the sleepy campers.

~~

Several years ago, I noticed everyone was talking about SUDOKU. I thought it was a type of sushi, which I don’t eat. When I found out that it involved numbers, I was not interested. I’m very weak in math and arithmetic (is there a difference?). But its not my fault. The nuns didn’t teach it right. (I’ve dined out on that excuse for my deficiencies more than once.)

~~

So, a short time ago I was half sitting/half lying on my bed with my surgalized right foot elevated. Helps the swelling, I was told. I stared out of my bedroom window and surveyed our patio. It was overcast, gloomy actually. The monsoon that swept through the City today had abated, a little. On Alexa, my Spotify was playing Indian Love Song by Slim Whitman. Man, that guy could yodel. My eyes fell on a paperback lying on the window shelf. It was a Crossword Dictionary. I grabbed it and leafed through a few pages. How did there get to be so many words in the English language? It was awesome. I was familiar with many of these. Who can forget EMU or GNU after you’ve spent years doing the crossword? Other words I use a lot danced before my eyes. ERICACEOUS, SALACIOUSNESS and the oft used PINNATIPARTITE. And there was one words I use nearly everyday, if not every hour…NYMPHOMANIACAL.

[The book. Photo is mine]

I should mention that I was an avid Scrabble player. Not so much the board game, but the one you get as an app. The same goes with Words With Friends. I stopped playing them for several reasons:

1–I don’t have a lot of friends.

2–I got sick of the ads. This is where I got smart. Bear with me, my readers. I got so annoyed by having to view hours of ads for online games that I would never play. Games where I get to mow down advancing Zombies with a gun that Rambo would have trouble holding. Or, waifs with a bundled baby who is thrown out in the snow by her cheating husband. And how many times should I have to click NO, or an X to indicate I’m not interested? Five clicks to convince the word-game-people that I don’t want to play Candy Crush Saga. I cried ‘Enough’! I walked away from them like a bad date. But, I came back to those two games out of boredom. The kind of boredom that creeps in at 3:00 AM. Only other insomniacs would understand. But I figured out a way to block those stupid, inane ads…I would outsmart those ads people. I would pay $3.99/month to have them removed! Am I clever or what?

~~

I lived in England for a year in the 1980’s. I used to read the Guardian newspaper every day. I tried to solve the British-style of crosswords and I failed horribly. In the last several years I tried again to conquer them…then success. It takes some getting used to, but that’s because the Brits are far better at English (and words) than we Yanks.

[Order the book if you’d like a challenge. Photo is mine.]

Now where are we? I read via Google that Wordle is the most popular word game today. I had a few friends post their results on FB. I thought it was just another fad…until I tried it. Now, of course, I can’t make it through the day without playing. Kind of like my need to watch TV commercials about Beet Nuggets and ED medication.

As I draw this blog to a dramatic cliff-hanging end…one that will make you await my next post with an eagerness beyond the desolate corners, wilderness areas, unexplored regions, secluded hideaways and uncharted realms. Wait. Just now, at the finish, I noticed a Post-It attached to the edge of my laptop. It’s a note to myself, scribbled during the night. A prompt to help me make my point. It simply reads:

Don’t say gay

What was DeSantis thinking when he made that statement? If I say that, can I be arrested?

It boggles the mind. It is without a doubt beyond doubt and veritably factually…stupid.

Truth And Lies-Love And Hate

You are right from your side, I am right from mine.

–Bob Dylan “One Two Many Mornings”

I don’t find very many quotes from Dylan that aren’t spot on. 99.999% of his poetry is impossibly true and astoundingly real. They don’t give the Nobel Prize in Literature to just any drifter from Minnesota. But, the above line is where Bob and I part ways.

Maybe I was in the Debate Club in high school, but I can’t remember if I was. But, in some class, at some point a teacher told the class that a successful debater should be able to argue both sides to a question. In theory, that sounds interesting. But it also sounds a bit strange. If you look at it from a salesperson’s point of view then one should be able to sell a refrigerator to an Inuit. Nice, but what’s the point?

Slight shift here, stay with me.

I have been interested in Sociology, Anthropology, Religion and History for much of my adult life. I read many books on rituals, customs, ideologies and beliefs. I tried to keep an open mind to all sides of all issues. But in the last several decades, I have come to a truth. And that truth is that every custom or ritual is not, by definition, true or wise or even just.

There are not two sides to every story.

When I look at the world now, I see it in a new fresher light. Many things that cultures do are proper…and many are not.

It’s so easy for people to stand back and say: “Oh, it’s their custom. We must respect that.” That is a very dangerous worldview.

Using this logic (does that even exist anymore?), a German citizen in 1939 could justify any comment about what the real problem in society is…and propose a solution. I’m tired of trying to see things from another POV when that view is simply wrong.

-Preventing the women in many religions to be fully free and equal to men is wrong.

-Customs that go back a millennia, i.e., the genital mutilation of young girls is not justifiable in any way. What God would want such a thing? The answer is no loving God would. It’s simply control over females, by men who use Holy Texts as an excuse.

-Cult leaders who stand at their pulpits and say: “God has told me that I can have as many wives as I would like…and they be thirteen-years-old.” Do I need to even say anything about the idiocy of this practice.

I could go on, but that would darken my spirits even more than they already are. Lies and hypocrisy have cast a dark and evil blanket over the world. The USA’s government has to share the blame.

Dylan’s quote is true on one level at least. In personal relationships, each person brings their own baggage into the room. That burden (baggage) can be the result of a lifetime of experiences. As long as that isn’t used to justify violence, it’s okay.

As long as religion and God aren’t there to support someone’s hatred or prejudice, then I have no problem.

Some things are true and good, and some things are false and evil.

There’s no debate.

My Premonitions?

“If we learn nothing else from this tragedy, we learn that life is short and there is no time for hate.”

~~Sandy Dahl, wife of United Flight 93 pilot, Jason Dahl

[Split images. Photo: New York Times.]

The memory of that Tuesday morning is still very clear in my mind. That crisp autumn-like day when the sky was deep blue. It was September 11, 2001. I was crossing Central Park in a Yellow taxi on my way to school. As I was about to emerge from the Park onto 5th Avenue, I had something of a premonition of sorts. But I also had a similar feeling the evening before.

I don’t really believe that one can see the future, but whatever it was that happened to me is certainly very curious.

On the evening of Sept. 10th, I was sitting in a taxi heading down 9th Avenue to an apartment in Hell’s Kitchen (now called Clinton). I had been taking the Fiction Writing course with the Gotham Writers Workshop. The classes had ended but a handful of us didn’t want it to be over so we agreed to meet at our various apartments. As the cab sped downtown, I looked to the west. Dark clouds from an approaching cold front were heading toward Manhattan. As I stared at the grey cumulus masses, as each street went by, I remember thinking of an invading army…from the west. It rained hard and furious while we discussed and critiqued each others work. The front passed over, and set the tone for a clear and sunny Tuesday.

As I approached 5th Avenue on Tuesday morning, I had a silly thought. I was looking up at the deep blue sky. I imagined I was inside the movie The Wizard of Oz. I imagined the Wicked Witch, on her broom, sky-writing SURRENDER DOROTHY across the heavens, across the blue sky. I imagined these things, but I could never imagine what was going to happen about an hour later.

[On my way back to the Upper West Side in the afternoon I looked down an avenue. This photo is not exactly what I saw, but it’s very close. Source: Library of Congress.]

I spoke with my wife who was at work at Mt. Sinai Hospital on the Upper East Side. I told her to go home and wait for me. I couldn’t leave until all the students had been picked up and after attending a quick faculty meeting.

My usual ride home was with the school nurse. Normally I was the only passenger she had, but on this day, there were six of us. The NYPD had closed all the transverse roads in Central Park, so we were rerouted to 110th St. I got out of her car on Central Park West. A single bell was tolling from St. John the Divine. The streets were quiet. The skies were empty except for a sole F-16 flying around Manhattan Island.

I got home and found Mariam riveted to the TV.

“Look at this,” she said.

I had not seen any images of the Twin Towers falling until 6 PM. What I saw put me into a shock that lasted for months.

I called the school in Binghamton, NY where my son, Brian was in class. I asked if someone from the office could find his classroom and tell him that his dad was okay. I spoke to my daughter, Erin who was living in Arizona.

Your dad is safe. He’s okay, I told them. Sadly, that wasn’t the message thousands of children were to hear in the days that followed.

What I remember the most about walking home in the weeks that followed were the countless notes, posters, letters and photos pasted to utility poles and windows.

PLEASE HELP ME FIND MY DADDY!

MY HUSBAND IS MISSING. PLEASE LOOK FOR HIM

I HAVEN’T SEEN MY WIFE IN DAYS. PLEASE HELP ME!

I LOVE YOU, DADDY!

I LOVE YOU, SWEETHEART.

I have these images on a photo chip in a box, in a corner, in the dark. I’ll find them someday.

But I don’t need to review my camera’s history to verify what my eyes saw in the days and weeks after that bright blue Tuesday. That Tuesday in September of 2001.

So, were those visions–those ominous feelings I had the night of Sept. 10 and in the minutes before the planes on that Tuesday morning–really premonitions? Was there something in the air of Manhattan that I was breathing, a collective crying out, an over-soul of loss and pain?

I’ll never really know, will I?

The Curse Of The Uninformed

Our lives are universally shortened by our ignorance.

~~Herbert Spencer, Principles of Biology, 1867

[DNA Double Helix. Photo credit: National Human Genome Project. Art: Darryl Leja.]

Your blogger is back. It’s a mildly-warm late August afternoon here on the Upper West Side. I just completed my first attempt at Wordle (did it in 4 !). Not bragging, just sayin…

I also put aside my copy of Killers of the Flower Moon by David Grann. I’m fairly sure it’s a banned book in Florida but I can’t say for certain. It does meet all the requirements of DeSantis & friends: it describes the terrible things we (yes, we white people) did to the Osage Indians in the early part of the 20th Century. Wait for the movie this fall. Read the book, it won’t kill you. It won’t pollute your mind but it may and should make you uncomfortable about the real facts of American History, you know, the acts that our collective ancestors perpetrated on the Indigenous People.

If you haven’t picked up on it yet, I’m feeling a bit collywobbled today. Sort of a hangover from watching a certain debate on Wednesday night on Fox. I actually heard with my own ears one of the candidates (gaining in the polls?) say, out loud and into a mic: “Climate change is a hoax.” I ran to the phone to make an appointment with my Audiologist. I must have heard him wrong. It must have been my inner ear issues acting up again (I did feel dizzy when he said it).

Two issues have been on my mind of late. I’m going to try to cover these ideas in this screed (blog). The Common Ground: 1) People are complex and, 2) Freedom of expression and ideas are essential, today more than ever.

But I digress, so let’s cut to the chase. Let’s talk about sex.

I am so sick of the growing intolerance of those people who have chosen (or been born with) ambiguous gender. I taught science for over thirty years so I have some informed things to say here.

It is NOT a scientific fact that every human on the planet is born into one of only two sexes. I want to make a clear point here. Your sex is how you were born. Your gender is how you perceive yourself. Most people are born either XX (female) or XY (male). But one can also be born with only one X chromosome. (XO). Some can be born XXY. A person cannot be born YY. The birth would end in a certain miscarriage. The Y chromosome contains the genes that make life processes possible. But the whole thing gets more complicated than that.

Everyone should have the choice of how they want to live. That brings up the multitude of gender identities. An example: In India there is a whole group of people (Higras) who choose not to be in either of the two genders. They offer blessings to the Hindu families, often these visits at weddings, births etc are unwelcome. They have been subject to violence and abuse. That is changing thanks to laws enacted several years by the Indian government that makes it illegal to discriminate. (Some of our states could learn a lesson here).

Here is a photo of a Higra, a major spokesperson for the cause of inclusion:

[Hijra spokesperson. They are often called India’s 3rd Gender. Photo: Wikimedia Commons.]

In the interest of space, I need to move on to my second topic. Don’t fret, I’m not drifting too off topic. In fact, this Part 2 is a little sharing of what I found whilst trolling the internet about genetics and uncommon traits. This is all quite interesting.

~~~

This is a brief sample of rare traits that show up in the vast Human Genome. I’ll start with something I can spell easily.

Poliosis

This trait displays itself in humans by a distinct white streak in the hair. It is passed down by the mother (XX). Here is an example:

[Mother & child with Poliosis. A mark of beauty and not something connected to Cruella de Vil. Photo: fatima.theo.gomes.]

Sectoral Heterochromia

Here is a trait that is even more rare. An eye that has two different colors. An example:

[An awesome eye color (s). Photo: Photo_m_for_Minion.]

Sunflower Eye

Another rare eye color that includes a peculiar pattern. Example:

[Sun flower eye. Very rare and very striking. Photo: AlwaysSpinClockwise.]

Vitiligo Heterchromia

Once more, a rare eye color. This example shows a woman with two different eye colors:

[Photo: Reddit.com.]

If you’re interested in more rare genetic traits, Google away. I’m showing these images to you because it’s my way to illustrate that small segments of the population have certain conditions that make them outliers. A celebration of the vast diversity of human beings. This applies to gender choices to eye color to conditions that are harmful and often fatal. It’s Darwinism.

Evolution is real. Those who deny it are denying facts that can be supported by science.

Climate change is real. Evolution is happening as I write this. The world is full of variety and diversity. Gov. DeSantis is not aware, it seems, of critical thinking skills. Too bad expensive educations at Yale and Harvard were such a waste of time.

I don’t often post political blogs. But I’m getting pretty tired of INTOLERANCE and CLOSE-MINDED THINKING. It’s far too common today, when gun violence and lynchings and hateful actions are more and more common.

There is an increasing amount of flapdoodle being put forth these days.

Limited minds make for a limited and dark future. The clouds are already gathering.

I’m worried.

Bonding II: It Really Was a Labor of Love

Find something you love

And do it forever…

~~Anon.

It’s a beautiful Sunday morning. Mt. Rainier is like a distant vision of adventure, challenge and alpine serenity. But we weren’t taking in that view. No, we, my daughter, her husband, Mariam, me and Elias were looking with admiration at the project. It sat, begging for a photo, on Erin’s kitchen table. Even Arlo the cat sat on a ledge and stared with feline admiration at the final, completed model of Leonardo da Vinci’s Ornithopter. I do believe that if Leo himself were there in the room, he would have nodded his artistic head in agreement.

It was done!

For those of you who read my previous post, you can testify to the challenges we faced in completing this unique design.

I jotted a few notes on the activity:

~Total time was approximately six days or eighteen hours.

~1 tube of Elmer’s Glue.

~1 toothpick.

~5 single sheets of toilet paper.

~2 bent paperclips.

~5 cups of Starbucks Cold Brew

And this didn’t include what came in the kit box.

Personal Comments: I’m glad we did it. It was a bonding experiences that went far beyond that of a grandfather and grandson. I wish to thank Bob for his architectural expertise and advise. Erin for taking the right photo at the right time. Mariam for threading tiny string into even tinier holes. Elias for finding the right piece for me when all the pieces looked exactly alike. Arlo for not jumping up on the table and knocking the kit to one side to get a cuddle from me (like he did when I was trying to read an interesting article in The Economist).

However, one question remains: Would I do it again?

Well, yes and no. Yes, if the kit contained six pieces and more glue. And no, not another kit that says 6+ years of age.

I just turned seventy-six. I’m beyond the age limit now.

[Elias poses proudly with the completed model. Photo is mine.]

I was planning on jumping off Erin’s roof just to see if Leonardo had really known what he was doing.

But everyone held me back.

How To Bond With Your Grandson Whilst Assembling a Leonardo da Vinci Ornithopter Kit

[The kit in question. Photo is mine.]

As Mariam and I were sitting on our teal sectional in our comfortably down-sized apartment in New York City, we began planning for a trip.

It seems like we just got back from two months in Europe, but this was a special trip indeed. Due to factors out of her control, my daughter, Erin, was unable to travel east and visit us in our new apartment. She lives in Washington State, just south of Seattle. Now, since I wouldn’t have a chance to take my grandson to the Museum of Natural History and show him the big dinosaurs and the whale hanging from the ceiling, it was up to us to fly to Seattle and visit my family there. My daughter had planned to take us to Northwest Trek to view bald eagles, snowy owls and bobcats.

But, what was I, the grandfather, going to do to make our visit really special for my grandson? How could I find a real ‘bonding experience’ to help him remember me between the long time between the visits?

Like a good Grandpa hoping to solve this issue…I googled.

I knew whatever I chose had to involve glue, pieces of wood and some string. He’s is a very bright ten-year-old so my choice had to be somewhat challenging.

Several clicks into my search, I struck gold. It was a wooden kit, taken from a da Vinci design, of a flying machine. I looked closely at the product description. These photos are taken from the box:

[Take note of the first line. I will come back to that later in the blog. Photo is mine.]

[Take note of the Age 9+ box. I’ll be referring to that later in the blog. Photo is mine.]

[Note the simple Step by Step Instruction Manual. I will be referring to this later in the blog. Photo is mine.]

Where was I? Okay, since there were time restraints, I had the kit mailed directly to my daughter’s address. I’m pleased to say that it arrived the day we landed. {Side note: One of The Jet Blue in-flight movies was My Sailor, My Love. I recommend it. Food was so-so but the leg room was enough for my chronic restless legs, but that’s a different blog for another time.}

On the way back from the airport, my daughter stopped at the Post Office. There it was! I brought the box home to my grandson. He looked it over and approved it. Age skill level was correct. And, the time to complete the model fit in with our schedule of things to do and see…here in the shadow of Mr. Rainier.

That very afternoon, grandpa and grandson opened the box, sorted the pieces, looked over the instructions and settled at the dining room table to begin our bonding/construction experience. He was great at finding the right pieces in the plastic bag full of pieces. I handled the glue. When his dad came home from work, we were half-way through Step 1 (that would be completing 50% of the first page.) We had been at work for about three hours. Undeterred, I set everything aside for dinner. The next day would be pretty much free to finish the model.

Midway through the second day, the word glitch kept coming to mind. I didn’t say anything to my grandson for fear of upsetting him. But, I couldn’t find him. He was busy in his bedroom playing with his cat and iPad and reading a book. Here, I will admit that I went out into their backyard, behind the spare room, beside the tomato plants and beat my fists against the wall. No one could hear me scream.

“Hey, dude,” I said, grandfatheringly. “I need help in finding the thing that has three slots and two holes.”

“Be right there, grandpa,” he said. He gave the cat a final stroke and whispered: “I’ll be right back, Arlo, grandpa is in trouble”.

Progress on the model got worse and then went downhill from there.

But, I had a few aces up my sleeve. 1) My wife. She has a Master’s degree. And, 2) My son-in-law. He’s an architect. He knows about these things.

[My son-in-law, Bob. He knows about these things. Photo is mine.]

We came to the conclusion that ‘spacers’ were different from things that looked like ‘spacers’, and that the bottom was unclear, unclear until I glued the base. The ‘front’ and the ‘back’ became problematic.

I kept eyeing the wings. I can do those, I thought to myself.

My wife and had reservations to fly back to JFK on Monday. I contemplated letting her go on and I would stay another week or two to finish the model, but my daughter had a trip planned, so that wouldn’t work.

My dear wife kept saying something to the effect of:

“Remind us never to order another kit again.”

“But, this isn’t like the last time. I will never leave them with something like that ever again. I was referring to a project from several years that…never mind. “I will do this, I promise.”

Soon, four of us gathered around the table and tried to sort out where this piece was to slot into that piece.

[This is the situation as of three hours ago. Approximately 2:00pm on August 12. Photo taken by my daughter, Erin.]

So, tomorrow, Sunday, is our last full day here. I don’t plan on spending too many hours completing the model. I will not, can not and would never leave them with another kit. That was a small metal dinosaur kit, “Easy and Fast to Assemble” purchased from the Natural History Museum in NYC. When that trip ended, there was a pile of metal bits and microscopic screws & nuts in the corner of the dining room. I went to the airport with tiny bits of blood on my forefinger and thumb.

Never again.

Next visit? A small backyard-sized working kit of small Colliding-beam Storage Ring Particle Accelerator Unit.

Yesterday, Two Loves Walked Out Of My Door

One of my loves walked out of my building and out of my life. It was a lovely late morning. I was handed $50.00. We parted with only a few words. Then, around 4:00 pm, a second love departed. I was left hold $150.00. Cash. Unmarked bills.

I know what your thinking, but it’s far worse than that. These ‘loves’ were not flesh and blood and mesh stockings. They were dreams and hopes I held for a long time…in my heart. One dream dating back almost sixty years.

Okay, I’ll end this agony for you (assuming you’re still reading this).

It all started when we left our Adirondack home this past October. We were moving into a one bedroom apartment in the City. We had to cull, cull and then after we had cheese and crackers, cull once again. I donated, sold or gave away about 50% of my cherished library. That’s okay, in a way, there was no way I was going to get through all those books anyway.

So, consider the challenge: Trying to fit years of accumulated objects into a small apartment. It was clear to me from the start that more had to go.

Yesterday, I took a reluctant step to cutting another boatload free and give something to the outside world.

The first to go, was my kayak paddle. I bought it in 2012 when we purchased kayaks to paddle around Rainbow Lake. I spent many hours, untold hours, alone or with Mariam or my son, Brian exploring the tiny bays and crannies of the large lake. Mariam and I and Brian would pass cheese, a beer, crackers or some wine while we held the boats together and drifted under dark blue skies with patchy cumulus clouds.

The halcyon days of my middle years.

[Lightweight. Functional. I never named them. Some things that you love, don’t need names. Photo is mine.}

I took a monetary loss on the paddle. But I consider it even considering the hours I held them and cut through the waves.

The item that walked in the afternoon was something that had a much longer history than this paddle. It was an Osprey Internal Backpack. I bought it around 2015. I had plans to hike the Northville Lake Placid Trail. Solo. I had a hammock, a sleeping bag, foam pad and light-weight stove…all on my list or in my possession.

There’s some history here.

I first attempted this trail (152 miles +/-) across the Adirondacks, in the summer of 1965. It was the summer before I went away to college. My father and I were going to do the whole thing in two weeks. The only glitch was that we each carried about fifty pounds (far too much for such a hike). We made it thirteen miles before we decided to bailout. We failed.

I tried to do it again sometime in the late 1970’s. Solo this time. Again, I had packed too much. I decided to walk out the same place where my dad and I had done, years before.

[The decision to end the hike on this trip involved some very strange occurrences. A bad feeling in my heart…and soul. Something evil, I felt was following me. I was running with a full pack when I reached the road where I would go into Wells, NY. Horrific and furious thunderstorms drove me to seek shelter on the porch of an empty cottage. It was a terrifying experience for me. I never wrote about it and It still has me thinking about what it was that was ‘after’ me that day. There’s really more to the story, I have to admit. And that part harkens back to the trip with my father. Another story. Another time. But, nearly as frightening.]

I wasn’t using my Osprey pack in those days. I had an original Kelty pack.(then considered to be the Porsche of backpacks). That pack was given to my son several decades ago.

[The Osprey. I took a major financial hit on this. Photo is mine.]

So many dreams.

Someone said to me recently: “We all have to give up our dreams, don’t we?”

I’m wondering.

“Why?” I do not want to go gently into that good night.

My Day at Coney Island

[The Luna Park Icon. Photo: Google search.]

It wasn’t a humid heat or a muggy heat. Nor was it a roiling heat or a smoldering heat. It was a seething heat, like a kettle of water about to boil. It was so hot, my fillings softened. It was so hot the sweat glands on my eyelashes were dripping. That made me take notice, a second take because eyelashes don’t have sweat glands.

I stood at the back window of our apartment and looked out at our patio. Our rugged plastic shed was beginning to look like a cake that was left out in the rain. Our potted plants and flowers glared at me through the mosquito netting. I could distinctly hear them crying out to me: “What have we done? Why are you doing this to us?”

“It’s the fossil fuel industry,” I replied.

Before returning to the bed, I went to the kitchen and poured a short glass of cold brew from Starbucks onto three ice cubes. I studied my La Cross Weather Station from Costco. All the temperature/humidity readings were gone. The screen was black except for a small digital message. Two words: YOU’RE FU**ED

I made the bed in seconds flat and propped myself on the five cushiest pillows I owned. I played a few games on Words With Friends, but after being barraged by seventeen straight ads for Maybelline, I put my phone down. I leaned back against the pillows. The soothing roar of the A/C began to lull me to sleep.

There must be some way out of here, I mumbled. Then it hit me. I sat up to a sitting position faster than I did when I had root canal work.

There was something on our calendar. I slipped out of the bed. Mariam was in our home office on her Think Pad balancing our checkbook. I heard her quietly weeping.

I went straight to the calendar. There it was. In the square for the 28th of July was:

B & K

We had plans. We were going to meet up with my son, Brian and his wife, Kristin at Coney Island. I already had the tickets to see the minor league Brooklyn Cyclones play at Maimonides Stadium.

But first. First there was Coney Island, waiting for Mariam and me.

Coney Island! A place for all dreamers. Tawdry, tacky, sometimes seedy, grimey, beautiful and exciting.

“We have to go to Coney Island,” I yelled above the A/C.

Ten minutes later we were all ready. Our backpack, filled with three Starbucks mugs of ice water, weighed as much a summit pack for the Matterhorn.

I once went to Coney on my own. I was sitting in the Sideshow theater. It was a warm day those many years ago. Before I knew it, I was one of two volunteers about to stand on the belly and thighs of a woman who was laying on a bed of nails.

I was very happy.

We hopped the #1 train to 59th St. and transferred to the D train for a forty-five minute ride to Coney Island/Stillwell Avenue.

An hour later we arrived. The sea breeze took the edge off the heat…but not by much. We headed straight to the Sideshow By The Seashore. The park had been damaged by a coastal storm several years ago. I was hoping it wasn’t too Disneyfied.

During the first of a handful of acts, I found myself once again called to help out. This time, I was asked to assist in pulling a nail from the nose of the performer. I did it with much fanfare. (Mariam has the video.)

It was time to head to the ballpark. I had $25.00 tickets so close to the home teams dugout, I could almost High 5 the players. Almost.

I drank our ice water and tossed peanut shells onto the concrete floor.

I was very happy…

Alas, the Cyclones went down 4-2, but it didn’t matter. This was baseball as it should be seen. Close-up and personal.

After the game, B & K caught an Uber to Sheepshead Bay to visit a friend. Mariam and I headed for the D train for the ride back to Manhattan.

I was very happy…

[The Parachute Ride. No longer in use, but still beautiful. Photo is mine.]

[The Fire Eater. Photo is mine.]

[The Sword Swallower. Photo is mine.]

[The Parachute Tower and waxing moon. Oh, and a Cyclones employee. Photo is mine.]

[Kristin and Mariam. Coney Island Lovlies. Photo: Kristin Maier.]

Fifty-Six Years of Darkness

[Sinead O’Connor. Unknown date. Photo: Google Search.]

This is probably the shortest blog I have or will ever post…

I was propped up in bed on a warm afternoon. It was July 26, 2023. My iPhone was in my left hand and I making a stab at the New York Times crossword. It was a Wednesday and all Times crossword solvers know that as the week progresses, the puzzles get harder.

That has always pained me.

I had just returned from a doctor’s appointment where I needed to have a blood draw. I hate needles.

They have always pained me.

Mariam was in the living room doing something on her iPhone. She called out to me:

“Sinead O’Connor died.”

I sat up. It wasn’t a 9/11 moment, but it did shock me. I immediately put my phone down and began to think of where I had stored my two Sinead CD’s. I’d never find them. But I had Spotify so there was no search necessary.

I had always been a fan of sorts of this Irish singer. When she was winning Grammy’s I began to buy her music. But that was years ago. Her importance to me had waned. In the next few hours all this was going to change.

Anderson Cooper’s comments on his CNN slot at 8:00 pm brought me to tears. This death in London was to unfold slowly over the next few days. It still is. I was hearing people, commenters and such, speak of the song that put her on the map…and put her into millions of peoples hearts. It was written by Prince:

“Nothing Compares 2 U“

I told Alexa to play it. I listened and it began to come back to me. It moved me once and it moved me on the 26th…and it has been in my mind for days.

Hence this blog.

Since that day, I’ve been listening and reading about her. The facts are out there. But what stood out in its tragic importance was the suicide of her son last year. Her tweet, posted a few days before her death, read, in part:

“Been living as undead night creature since”…”He was the only person who ever loved me unconditionally…”

My first thought after reading her tweet, was everyone on the planet deserves to be loved unconditionally.

I Googled her lyrics:

In “Love Hurts”, she sings:

“Love hurts, love scars, love wounds and mars…””Love hurts, love scars, love wounds and mars…”

I could go on but I think you know where this is heading.

But not before I make a personal note. The New York Times obituary two days ago depicted Kris Kristofferson with his arm around her. The obit went on:

“At the 30th Anniversary Celebration of Bob Dylan at Madison Square Garden in 1992, (two weeks after she tore the photo of the Pope in two dozen pieces), she was loudly booed and hurried off the stage”. (These were the approximate words of the obit writer.) Well, to set the record straight, I was at that concert that night with my daughter, Erin. She and I both saw and heard what really happened.

~She was not loudly booed. It was, to our ears, an equal mix of cheers and boos. That is a big difference.

~She was not hurried off the stage. She stood for several long minutes waiting for the crowd to quiet. She was scheduled to sing “I Believe in You”. She then pulled out her ears buds and recited a Bob Marley song. Kristofferson (who was one of the emcees) came over and whispered something in her ear. They left the stage together. Slowly.

It was a sublime moment.

The whole story of her life is one of pain and loneliness. She was abused by the Catholic nuns in Ireland, and suffered a lifetime of losses that would break any heart. Looking at the title of this post, I realize that I overstate the shadows of her life. She was fifty-six years old at her death. But there were, clearly, moments of great joy. The birth of her son and her life with him was such a time.

I am so sad for her and for our losing her. Her voice was pure as a crystal and as dark as night. She sang her rage and her agony and her broken heart.

Good-bye, Sinead, and thank you. Find peace somewhere…if you can.

I am going to load my Spotify with her music and I will weep while listening to her bleeding emotion.

Because Nothing Compares to her.

[I guess this really isn’t the shortest post I’ve written.]