Monthly Archives: November 2023

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 mind. 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.]