Category Archives: death

Is My Enchiridion Indulgentiarum Account Balanced?

[Purgatory. Credit: Shown Above]

Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.

~~Patrick Egan Fantastical Essays v. 1 (2024)

In Saranac Lake, New York, on a warm and humid day in 2017, an elderly woman crossed Church Street safely because of something Sister John James said to me in 1957. This was no small feat because the tourist traffic was thick and heavy that day. The potential for disaster was present at every intersection. But I was behind the wheel of my Honda CRV and I had the words of the gentle nun in my ears, for the last sixty years.

She was safe. I was happy. And I scratched off about 10,000 years of my time in Purgatory (give or take a century or two).

You need to be aware of the backstory for all this to make any sense at all.

I was raised a Roman Catholic. Growing up in Owego, New York, and being Catholic, I attended St. Patrick’s School. During those formative years, I learned the basics of the Vatican’s teachings, which included the concept of eternity. Well, that whole idea of something going on forever and ever, without end, was a hard pill for this little guy to swallow. But swallow it I did. And that’s where the problems started.

There are three places I needed to concern myself with. Heaven. Hell. Purgatory. (I won’t bring up Limbo here. Too touchy).

Heaven–Unattainable.

Hell–Too Scary.

Purgatory–Negotiable.

Forever! Never ending! Too much for a ten-year-old’s brain to appreciate. I mean, I did understand what never-ending meant–to a point. I need to mention that the full realization of what death meant was another of those hard-to-swallow pills. Furthermore, I remember sitting in the last pew of St. Patrick’s Church one afternoon thinking about the fact that I had no choice but to walk the inevitable path to…what? Sunny meadows? Gardens? Heaven? But, wait. I could only go to heaven if I died without sin. Early on, I realized that everyone had a stained soul. It’s common knowledge that only a very few people lived on earth without sin. The Virgin Mary, Jesus and Derek Jeter and perhaps Marjorie Taylor Greene were the only ones that came to mind. I could never go to heaven with a stained soul. And there’s the dilemma. Where would I go? The Church had the answer, and it was Pope Urban II, in 1095, who proclaimed, I could go directly to the right hand of God if I took part in a Crusade. That’s called a Plenary Indulgence. In other words, a wet eraser on a dirty chalkboard. Clean slate.

Crusades are hard to come by these days. They still exist, in many forms, but riding off to Jerusalem on a large horse, with a cross painted on my shield, was not an option in 1957. Perhaps the KKK? Or any people bent on destroying another people because of a religion? Maybe. But, in the end, not my thing.

I had to find another means to save my immortal soul, and I found it in the back pages of my Little Missal. I remember leafing through my prayer book and finding short and not so short prayers that would grant me a Partial Indulgence. A short paragraph might wipe clean fifty days. A longer meditation might earn me a year off (for good behavior). Small change, I thought. I’ll never get anywhere this way.

What was I trying to escape from? A cursory survey of Dante (The Divine Comedy) was enough to raise the tiny hairs on my forearm. If this is Purgatory, what the hell was Hell going to be like?

[Purgatory. Source: Google Search.]

The above illustration looks interesting, at first. Naked women? I can deal with that. But upon closer scrutiny–the objects growing out the foreheads of the beasts gave a whole new meaning to the term horny. I got the point. This wasn’t Studio 54. Or Fort Lauderdale in April. Or Vegas on any given weekend. This was unsettling. I needed a way out. Maybe I could make a hefty donation to the restoration bill of St. So and So’s Church in Iowa. Wait! An indulgence for money? Unthinkable. Besides, that was taken care of during the Reformation. Too late again.

What was a poor, more-or-less-innocent kid from Owego to do?

There I was, driving into Saranac Lake on that warm day in 2017. I turned right on Church Street. An elderly woman was waiting to cross. The traffic was heavy. I saw her, she seemed to be in a hurry. She took a step. An SUV the size of Long Island was approaching. I’m not saying she was about to purchase the ranch, but I couldn’t take any chances. So I slowed and waved at her. Go on, Miss, I said to myself. She did, and I continued on to Radio Shack to purchase an indoor/outdoor thermometer (its AA’s were to last about nine years, but that’s another blog).

Here’s my reasoning: A good deed will earn me a Purgatory Point. How many years or centuries would be erased? I have no idea. But it had to be done without me thinking about what was in it for me. That’s hard to do when you’re driving among the tourists. To get the thought from polluting my mind, I began singing, loudly, Don’t Stop Thinking About Tomorrow by Fleetwood Mac. It worked.

Or did it?

I have no way of knowing until I take my last breath. Will the Voice say: Good job with old Beatrice, Patrick, you can skip Purgatory? Or will I hear: Nice try?

Only time will tell.

[One final look at Purgatory. Source: Google Search.]

Anemonia Keeps Me Awake

Recollection is the only paradise from which we cannot be turned out.

~~Richter

[The Berlew Family Reunion. Orange, PA. September 6, 1926. Photo: Egan Family Archives.]

I don’t think it rained that day. There are no clouds in the sky. I should know. I’ve crawled inside this photo more than once over the years.

One afternoon, in early September 1926, a photographer from Wilkes-Barre, set up his tripod and secured his camera (equipped with a panoramic lens) on a lawn in Orange, PA. I can imagine all the cajoling, yelling and flaring tempers that filled the air that day. To get all those people to line up and be still. The children want to run and push each other. An uncle wants to finish a mug of beer. An aunt needs to check her hair. A young woman needs to straighten out her dress. A twelve-year old boy needs to find a place to sit.

Somewhere in my apartment is a rolled up photograph. It is cracked with age. Yesterday I decided I needed to look at the photo again. I couldn’t find it. I looked in corners and alcoves. No luck. But I recall seeing it once in another format. Yes. It was on a CD that my brother, Dan, put together.

And there was the photo. The Berlew Family Reunion.

Berlew was my grandmother’s maiden name. She married Michael Egan on June 18, 1908. My cousin Elaine informed me that it was an evening ceremony.

Ever since my father showed the photograph to me, strange things began to happen. I returned to the photo time and again. I was drawn into the scene. I found myself on that lawn, tweaking the daisies as I attempted to sit beside my father. I looked at the faces, faces of those with whom I shared a bit of DNA. But, those were days, years ago, that I saw these relations as old people (and they were). As I look at this photo now, as someone approaching his 77th year, I see things in this scene that I missed as a young man.

There are approximately sixty-two people on the lawn that day in September. I look closely at the faces. Very few of them are smiling. Very few. They are a hard-working crowd. You can see that in their faces. A boy sitting on the ground, thinking about something, was smiling. I don’t know who he is, but I will guarantee that he is now buried in a rural cemetery, somewhere to the west of Scranton, somewhere in the rolling hills of the northern flanks of the Poconos. A smirk on my father’s face, a sly grin on the face of an older man. I look at my grandparents. My grandfather, Michael, looks stern and grim. My grandmother’s face, her bobbed hair falling over her forehead, is full of mystery and hidden charm.

[A detail of the lead photo. My grandparents are in the last row at far right. Photo: Egan Family Archives.]

I find my father. He’s seated on the grass at the left end of the gathering. He is twelve years old. There is an attractive young woman sitting at the far left end of the photograph. Is that her mother holding her child? She looks enigmatic and sad.

[Detail of the lead photo. My father is seated, third from the left. He’s wearing a vest and dark tie. He is twelve years old. Photo: Egan Family Archives.]

Sometimes I would imagine that if I could enter this photograph, I would sit down next to my father. I would talk to him. Maybe we would play catch. Maybe he wouldn’t see me. I don’t know how things like that work. But I wouldn’t interfere with him in any way. He has to be allowed to go on his way and eventually, twenty-one years from that afternoon in Orange, PA, he will become a father to his fourth son. That would be me. Nothing has to harm him. He must make that date to ensure my being born.

This overwhelming sense of nostalgia for a time and a place that one has never been to is called Anemonia. You won’t find it in most dictionaries. It’s one of those forgotten words.

I can’t turn away from the faces. These folks are now destined to remain trapped in a black and white emulsion. The paper photograph is cracked. But these people were surrounded by color and music, love and life. They hear the birds sing and the dogs bark. The child laugh and a radio is playing Paul Whiteman’s Birth of the Blues. They are not just images, they live. They live because I’m looking at them. Perceiving them. Talking about them.

I wish I had my father draw a chart of whom these people were. I knew a few of those in the photo, taken so many years ago. I can name these–Aunt Reen, Uncle Ford–but that’s about all. So many I do not know, but who are joined to me by genetics. It’s been written that reveling in the past is a waste of time. We should stay in the present. Anticipate the future. But, it is not wasted time to try and recapture a moment, a century ago, when people met, families gathered, to enjoy each other.

A suggestion, dear readers: Go into that old trunk. The shelf in the closet. The drawer. Find an old photo. Try to insert yourself into the scene. Listen. Smell the air. Feel the grass.

Is there an image of a couple who will become your father or mother? Pay attention to them. They will create you…

The Last Quarter Moon Gives A Pale Wintry Light/Late Night Thoughts Following Spinal Surgery

{Author’s Note: This blog post contains a photograph of an x-ray of my lower back taken six days after my spinal fusion. If the image of hardware screwing together two of my vertebra is irksome to you, my gentle readers, then feel free to search for another fine read. I have 645 in the bank. Find a good one and enjoy, just…please don’t check out A Brief History of Chains and Chain-making. It’s good, but there are other good ones out there, and far, far too many people have checked that one out. I have put this graphic at the end of the post for obvious reasons. The lead image is a generic photo taken from Google. Be warned. Enjoy.}

[A surgical room. Place: unknown. My room was more densely packed with instruments that went “Ping”. Source: Google search.]

An idea that fixed him to one spot was that life was a death dance, and that he had quickly passed through the spring and summer of his life and was halfway through the fall. He had better do a better job on the fall because everyone on earth knew what winter was like.

–Jim Harrison “Farmer”.

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

–Dylan Thomas “Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night”.

I removed my Bluetooth earphones and shifted my body up against the pillows that were packed hard against the headboard of our bed. No relief. The pain was white-hot. Intense. Bitter. Sharp. I reached for the small plastic amber bottle of painkillers. I shook it. Not a lot left. I put the bottle back and stared out at the patio. The half disk of the moon lit the patio with a soft light. Enough to see the BBQ, the umbrella, the covered table and the sturdy English Ivy, hanging out, wanting to grow, waiting for the spring warmth.

I had been listening to a podcast called A Voice From Darkness. The narrator, a young man on a road trip, described driving through New Mexico and suddenly finding himself in a city that appeared out of nowhere. He told of becoming hopelessly lost in a labyrinth of passages, streets, tunnels, sidewalks and dark lanes. He was filled with panic. Where did the city come from? It wasn’t Santa Fe. No indeed. And it wasn’t Albuquerque, either.

I looked out at the pale light and the patio.

I pondered what I had heard.

What the guy in the podcast (Category: Fantasy/Horror) was describing was uncannily familiar. I had the exact same experience, in many dreams, of being lost and confused in an endless series of false paths and empty halls and deserted passages. Often, it was set in New York City. I began having these dreams after moving to northern New York State in 2011. Sometimes the landscape was post-apocalyptic in nature. Sometimes it was a version of my hometown of Owego, NY. It was all too close to me. Too close to my own experiences. How did this storyline emerge from me and find its way into a podcast?

Recently, I have found myself having an abundance of reemerging thoughts and memories that I have not felt in decades. Tiny memories of tiny events–if any events in life can be thought of as tiny. In some weird Proustian way, I can smell a little bit of food and find myself back in 1954. I can hear music of a sort that takes me back to the sweet smell of a fifteen-year-old girl in high school. She’s in my arms, and I’m dancing with her in the gym after the big game. It’s 1964. A woman on Amsterdam Avenue is wearing retro bell-bottoms. It’s 1977.

Was I being set up for something? Why was a trickle of long-buried experiences flowing through the levee in my mind that separates the past from the present? Is this what happens to all people as they age? As they see less of the light and more of the twilight?

I reflected on my memories.

Wait! Do I want, really want to expose my inner fears and seemingly morbid thoughts and force them into the minds of my loving readers? They have their own problems. I can’t add to anyone else’s anxiety. That’s not what I do these posts for. I’m here to entertain and amuse, not deflate and depress.

I mulled over my thoughts.

The solution is likely in the extent of my pain. Pain can do odd things to one’s psyche. It can energize and it can terrify. It can lay you low, and it can cattle-prod you to attention. Make you laugh while you cry out. Run when you want to stop running, and get up when you’d rather sit. And sleep in quiet repose instead of writhing in a pool of nerve endings.

And it can remind you of your mortality. Slap you upside the head and say: You’re not twenty-one anymore. “You’re not thirty-three or forty-seven. You’re seventy-six, soon to be…well, do the math”.

Walt Whitman wrote something…

I paraphrase.

Grass. The beautiful uncut hair of graves.

One of my avocations is being a volunteer for Find-a-Grave.com. I get a request to photograph the headstone of someone. The request may come from a relative who lives somewhere on the map but west of New Jersey, who will never plan to make the trip to New York State to visit Aunt Polly’s grave. So, I do the deed. And, more often than not, I get a thank-you email. They are grateful. I am happy. Their family tree fills out, and I had a chance to walk through the uncut hair.

The uncut hair. As I searched for the requested headstone, I often thought of grass as a shroud. But not hair. I get the analogy now. The earth is so very old that perhaps there are only a few places where we do not tread on a forgotten grave.

I mused over these thoughts.

The patio is still bathed in that pale light. I’m tired, but I have a plan. I will listen to one more song by Nanci Griffith: Late Night Grande Hotel.

“I’m just learning to fly away again.”

I will take my headset off and play one game of solitaire on my iPad.

Then I will go on Reddit and read an article I saw earlier:

A Cool Guide To Escaping Killer Bees

Only then will I pull the covers to my chin. Sip ice water and fluff my squishy pillow. Close my eyes and look out at the pale light on the patio.

And as I fall into sleep, fall hopefully into a sweet sleep… I find myself thinking of my hometown. Owego.

It’s that old blue line that you can never go back home…

I don’t know why I always come here in my dreams…

I only come here to remember my dreams.

–Sarah Jarosz

[R-Before. See the offset? L-After. See the Titanium screws? Photo is mine.]

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.]

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]

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.]

Last Thoughts From The Cathedral Crypt

[One of the many small chapels in the crypt of Canterbury Cathedral. Photo is mine]

I’m sitting with Mariam in a small chapel in the crypt of this amazing Cathedral. There are several reasons why I’m sitting here on a small very hard wooden chair. One is that the temperature is probably close to 65º F. Outside, it’s in the low 80’s. So it’s cool. The crowds are above me listening to the organ practice. So it’s quiet. And I’m trying to act like an artist. I have my sketch book and drawing pencil. I am not really an artist by any stretch of anyone’s imagination. But I’m trying. I’m trying to draw a column that was carved and set in place over 1,000 years ago.

Everywhere I turn I am steeped in history. And the thought weighs heavily on me. The worn limestone steps that lead this way and then that way in the Cathedral are places to contemplate. How many monks, abbots, priests and saints have used these very stones? What undiscovered cleric lies beneath my feet, waiting to be discovered when the stones are taken up to replace a water pipe or repair an already replaced electrical cable that had been installed in 1952?

These thoughts ground me to where I stand. They ground me to a solid stability in a time of turbulence and change.

But, enough about the crypt. Let’s go back several days ago when Mariam and I decided to take a walk. I had to justify bringing my hiking boots, didn’t I? We (I) had big plans to hike the North Downs Way, but the usual lower back issues and leg problems kept our walks to a minimum. So instead we took our chances to hike along the Great Stour Way. It’s a fifty-one mile trip, accessible only a few blocks away from our hotel. And I was curious about what I was capable of.

The day was unusually warm for this part of England. The local fields had just been cut and the pollen was as thick as a January blizzard in Yellowknife, or the smoke from the Canadian wildfires blanketing New York State.

The first part of the walk was through a garden-like park at the northwestern edge of town. People were laying on the lawns reading, small groups were sipping wine, and old men and old women sat on the shady benches thinking about the past.

We came to a bridge. Passing through the short tunnel I noticed three poems written on the brick walls. I photographed all of them. Here is my favorite:

Canterbury

The patchwork houses bend their great heads

Down to greet me as I pass

Walking the cobbled path

Saturated in history

Of those who had gone before me

~ ~

I hear them now

The many remembered and forgotten

Their voices live upon the wind

Their hearts wedded to the horizon

~ ~

Raindrops like goblets patter on the street

Marking the places that their feet once trod

I stand in the footprint already imprinted for me

— Lauren J. (?)

The poem seems to have been written for me, as all great poems are supposed to make you feel.

We finished out trip in a little over an hour. We didn’t get very far, but that wasn’t the point. I know now that I am still capable of some trail walking, no matter how little.

The day after tomorrow, we will be boarding a British Airways flight to JFK. We’ve seen a great deal. The trip was a success beyond my expectations. But what am I going home with? What am I taking with me? How have I changed?

After the exuberance of life in Venice, the riotous traffic of Rome, the art of the Vatican, the pubs and the people of England, the trials and sweat of the Canal boat, seeing old friends…there is a renewed spirit within me that I had begun to lose during the Pandemic.

My experiences have redirected and affirmed aspects of why I choose to get out of my comfort zone. Observing sculpture, buildings and frescoes that were created for the sake of beauty alone and not for utilitarian use has put my mind back on course.

I will choose beauty over the mundane, love over hatred, hope over despair, peace over violence and tenderness over brutality.

And, I will try to remain grounded in the present with deep roots to humanities collective history.

[Along the Great Stour Way. Photo is mine]

[A tree for lovers for sure. Photo is mine]

[Wildflowers along the Great Stour River. Photo is mine]

[NOTE: It is Monday morning in England. 10:45 am to be precise. I have just finished reading “The Case Against Travel” by Agnes Callard in The New Yorker. (June 24, 2023). I have been a faithful reader of that magazine for many decades. I value it’s quality fiction, insightful and timely news articles and, of course, the legendary cartoons.

I found this article a misdirected attack on the whole idea of travel as a broadening experience. Callard clearly does not like to travel so she invokes classic overused quotes from G. K. Chesterton, Ralph Waldo Emerson and even Socrates to support her view. (What can Socrates know about the modern world?). I understand that a fair number of people, famous and otherwise, regard travel as a waste of time. Using that mindset, so is mowing one’s lawn or planting a garden. How do these things change and enrich our thinking about the world as a whole?

I will not write a screed to tear apart her argument. I’ll simply say that I think she misses the bigger picture and that I disagree with her premise. It’s clear to anyone who reads my posts that I love to travel and I feel I am a more rounded and thoughtful individual because of it.]

It’s The End, But It’s Far From Over

I wish, I wish, I wish in vain

I wish, I wish I was a youth again

But a youth again I can never be

Till apples grow on an ivy tree.

~~”Love Is Pleasing” The Dubliners

[The Bridge of Sighs, Venice. Photo is mine]

I didn’t think I could do it. I worried that we couldn’t afford it. I thought we were taking on too much. Was it more than we could pull off? Somehow, though, it all came together and it worked like a charm on a little girl’s bracelet. We were older by four years since our last visit to England. Even then I had trouble walking and had to scurry through muddy fields to catch up with Mariam and our friends.

I didn’t think I could do it.

I had taken her to England and shared with her the footpaths that I love. The thatched cottages, pubs, fields of rape, Roman roads, Christmas pantomimes, chilly and quiet country churches, mossy churchyards that were surely haunted. Stone walls of Yorkshire, crashing waves of the Cornish Coast, the Jamaica Inn, the Ploughmans lunch, steak and kidney pies, a room temperature pint of The Best Bitter, the bell (“Time, Gentleman, please”), the jaw-dropping grandeur of the Gothic English Cathedrals, driving on the left, the hedgerows that were over four hundred years old, the fields of sheep, sitting on a log in a gloomy forest with cold water, a chunk of bread and a chunk of Stilton, the effigies in the old churches, Jane Austen’s grave in Winchester Cathedral, the manor houses, lonely country lanes, place names like Hoo Farm, Puddletown, Sturminster Newton, Plucks Gutter, Blue Pigeons, Maypole, Chislet Marshes and Wagtail to name a few. I sat with her atop a Tumulus, where the ancient ashes of forgotten local chieftains are mingling with the soil. We sat under the hot sun in Trafalgar Square, walked the halls of art of the National Gallery, ate lunch in a crypt beneath St. Martin’s-in-the-Fields, graves beside our table. I took her to the Barley Mow Pub where I drank a pint or two of the “Best Bitter” beer.

I had shown her the England that meant something special to me. An England that held many memories of many trips over the decades.

But after the Covid lockdown we were anxious to travel again. Mariam had been talking about showing me the beauties of Italy for years. She wanted to show me the Sistine Chapel in Rome and DiVinci’s Last Supper in Milan. During my travels in Europe, somehow Italy eluded me. Someone once told me that there was no off season in Rome. Somehow, the idea of crowds put me off any plans to tour Italy.

Until the day I came to realize that it was high time that Mariam had a go at planning a trip and sharing with me the places that she had seen years before we met. Crowds or no crowds, I became interested in seeing for myself the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel and St. Peter’s Basilica.

While we were working out an Italian itinerary, something on the Internet came across my screen. It was a cruise from Venice to Rome calling at ports along the Dalmation Coast. We would see Croatia and Montenegro. It was a relatively small ship (number of passengers were about 275). This wasn’t a Carnival Cruise by any means. It suited us just fine. Despite the hefty cost, we booked the trip. I have posted several blogs that described our experiences. The foul weather prevented us from visiting a few places, but one can’t control the weather. We rode a gondola in Venice, climbed hills in Rovinj, walked in the rain at Pompeii, and saw the Pope in Rome.

[The Duomo in Milan. Photo is mine]

From Milan we went to Lake Como to see the beautiful villages. We returned to Milan and rode the train for six hours to Paris. A week in Paris. We walked a cemetery and saw the graves of artists and existentialists. We celebrated my birthday in a nice restraurant. We went to see the show at the Moulin Rouge.

The Chunnel Train took us to London. A Jack the Ripper tour, tickets to Hamilton and just wandering for a few days.

A quick return to Dorset to visit our dear friends. And then, something new. Something I had been reading and thinking about for many years. A short 5-day trip on a canal. We chose the Kennett Avon Canal not too distant from Salisbury.

Then Brighton to see what an old Seaside Resort looked like. And, of course, the famous Pier.

From Brighton we drove to the White Cliffs of Dover. I had made it so far. I felt good. Mariam felt good. Onto to our final destination…Canterbury.

I had been here several time since the mid-1980’s for only for a brief visit. This time I made sure we set enough time aside for me to sit in the vastness of the Cathedral and sketch some architectural features. We sat in the quiet of Crypt where Becket’s body was first placed after his martyrdom.

Today we walked the Great Stour Way for 2.51 miles. I was uncomfortable but able to walk without holding onto Mariam. I plan to post this on Saturday June 24th. Then I will go down into the crypt at the Cathedral again to attempt to draw the arches and capitals and columns in the cool dark rooms.

Tuesday will find us packing. My problem is where to find the room for the books I bought during this extended adventure.

I will ask Mariam to sit beside me and I will recite a favorite short poem by A. E. Housman from A Shropshire Lad:

Into my heart an air that kills

From yon far country blows:

What are those blue remembered hills,

What spires, What farms are those?

~ ~ ~

That is the land of lost content,

I see it shining plain,

The happy highways where I went

And cannot come again.

So, here, very near the end…is this the last adventure I will be having? No more walking the footpaths of Dorset, Yorkshire or Kent? Will Mariam push open another swing bridge on another canal? Will I sit in the chill of another forgotten parish church and look at the slabs on the floor that mark the graves of a long-dead villager? Have I reached the age and have I reached the point when anything is a little too much?

I hope this is not the final post from across the sea. I need to see the breathtaking dunes of the Sahara Desert, look down into the vast fjords of Norway or cross the equator and take a boat up the Amazon.

Sometime soon, maybe not in my remaining years, but almost certainly in my grandson’s life, much of what we are so used to seeing as our physical world will be changed.

I hope it not too late, for me or my descendants.

[A portion of the floor of Canterbury Cathedral. The stone has been polished by the steps of pilgrims and seekers for a thousand years. Photo is mine]

Como: Love, Clooney, Tragedy And Death

[Piazza Mazzini, Como. From our hotel window. Photo is mine]

Beautiful, even on rainy days.

~ ~ Anon.

Part One: Como & Beyond

If you found this post by finding “Como” and are expecting to hear a YouTube video of Perry Como singing “It’s Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas”, I’m very sorry. You’re at the wrong blog site. (But while I’m at it, I should mention that Perry Como was one of my mother’s favorite crooners.) That is a different story for a different time.

Is it really any wonder that I probably got a B- or perhaps a C+ in my high school English class? I, who read “Of Human Bondage” when I was in eighth grade. I likely thought it was a book about S/M, Boy, was I wrong.

For many years, I read and reread the English Romantic Poets. Percy Shelly, John Keats and Lord Byron. I came to love the opening line of Byron’s “The Prisoner of Chillon”:

My hair is grey, but not with years, 

Nor grew it white in a single night,

As men’s have grown from sudden fears:

My limbs are bowed, though not with toil,

But rusted with a vile repose…

For some inexplicable reason, I always thought that the island castle prison of Chillon was located on the shore of Lake Como. How wrong I was. It’s on Lake Geneva, Switzerland. With that misinformation in mind, I had suggested to Mariam that we should go to Lake Como and visit the poetically famous castle. It wasn’t until the reservations were paid and the plans were solidified that I discovered my mistake. But that’s okay. Como is only an hours train ride from Milan and Milan is where we have to catch our train to Paris. So, the two nights in Como were well spent and well worth the excursion. It’s a beautiful town and the lake is picturesque. 

A tiny bit of history first: The ancient town was conquered by the usual conquerers of the day–the Romans. It became a colony of Julius Caesar in 196 B.C.E.

Como has excellent examples of Romanesque and Gothic style churches. The hotels and residential buildings are mostly like the photograph that opens the blog. (See Above).

The cuisine is pasta, of course, and a wide variety of seafood. The menu boards in front of the numerous restaurants offer such delicacies as Salmon, Trout, Pike, Bleak (?), Laverello (?), Perch, Chub, and who will forget a plate of Misultitt (?).

The same interests in cheeses apply to many of the Market items: I know a good Cheddar from a Dorset Blue (I shop at Zabar’s sometimes), but Semuda, Zincarlin and Triangle del Laro leave me wondering. I guess that also explains why I got a D- in my Turophile course.

Part Two: Clooney, Madonna, Branson & Stallone

This part is going to be very short. We took a boat excursion to Bellagio (not the one in Vegas). It’s a charming town full of celebs like the ones listed above. I’m sure there are more. The wealth of the villas is a bit beyond our budget.

But Bellagio is stunning:

Bellagio

[One of the first places you see when you get off the ferry at Bellagio. Photo is mine]

BellagioStairSteps

[Stairway to more shopping in Bellagio. Someone told me that each stone was hand set. Photo is mine]

BellagoMap

[A map in the public dockside area. Photo is mine. The map artist is unknown to me.]

The return trip to Como was nearly two hours because we stopped at more small villages. Ensconced back at Albergo del Duca, our hotel we had a little trouble finding a place to have our final Como dinner. We had chosen a place earlier in the day…but it was now threatening a thunderstorm. And storm it did. The lightning flashes lit up Mariam’s Prosecco.

Part Three: Tragedy On The Lake

But life on Lake Como was not always fun and food. Love abounded and death struck many times. The story of Benito Mussolini’s daughter-in-law is a story of such love and death. Gina Ruberti (d. 1946) married the dictator’s son, Bruno (d. 1941) in a lavish fascist ceremony (is there any other kind?). Bruno was a pilot. He was tragically in a plane crash in 1941. Gina moved to a house in Como.

After the fascist government of Italy began to crumble shortly before the end of WW II, Benito’s days were numbered.

The details of what happened to Gina and her father and his mistress at the war’s end is something I will add as a link for you to read on your own. I encourage you to do so. It’s fascinating.

The Death of Benito Mussolini

[Note: Mariam helps with the techie stuff for which I thank her. I take full responsibility for any omissions, errors, etc.]

 

Greetings Bob

It’s your birthday. Eighty-two years ago Hibbing’s population grew by one. The one birth when a boy who grew up with a soul and a talent of a Byron, Rimbaud, Shakespeare, hobo, drifter, prankster, patriot, rebel and more, all with the soul of a true poet.

Your songs are sung not for the masses, not for everyone…but only to the one pair of ears that are hearing your words. You wrote for him, for her and for yourself. 

I want to give you a gift, Bob. Shall it be boots of Spanish leather or a jingle jangle moment while dancing on the beach? Shall it be a flat chested junkie whore or a prince who keeps watch along the watchtower?

Did you really see an old man with broken teeth stranded without love? Or was it some image in your 115th dream? 

It really doesn’t matter in the end, because at the break of dawn, you’ll be gone. But death is not the end. And after one too many mornings the paint will fade and the water moccasin dies. And the masterpiece will be painted.

Happy birthday, my close person friend. Keep singing until your voice turns to dust, but don’t lose that long black coat.

I remain, 

your fan and I will remain in awe…

Patrick