Category Archives: Myth and Mythology

Uneasy Walks

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

~~Anon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Image credit: Google Search]

Down By The Sea

[Photo is mine]

I knew the man’s story. I had read his many blogs but the campfire was the place where he untied his cachet of stories. There would be no campfires in Florida, not this time of year. Instead, I would have to find shade beneath a palmetto palm to study his photograph. I stretched the screen of my iPhone. Yes, it was him. I compared the picture to the one he sent me seven years ago. It was the same lighthouse over and behind his right shoulder. The mask and snorkel were the very same. His bracelet was different. The cheap ones he was inclined to buy had been replaced many times over. His pale shoulders were the same, no sign of a slouch. His beard seemed a tiny bit grayer as did his hair.

We all had been caught in the great Pandemic but he seemed to be emerging from its shell like a newborn chick. A new wrinkle? Sad eyes? I couldn’t get a good look because of the snorkel but I suspect they were present on his face. After all, it had been seven years since he stood chest deep in the waters of the Gulf of Mexico. Some things change with terrifying speed. Some things never change Some things change so subtly that it’s hard to see the years.

I knew him well enough to see the partial smile on his lips. He was happy, happy for the first time in years. At least seven years anyway.

He failed to notice me behind the palm observing him. He thought he had sent the photograph to someone distant friend but I was usually physically closer to him than he knew. I noticed his head turn toward the twenty-something in a toxic pink bikini. Ha, I thought, he still remembers some of the important things in life. I saw him turn to his wife as she handed him the bottle of ice water. He smiled in his contentment. He looked westward toward the horizon and stared for many minutes.

He rises and walks to the water’s edge.

He thought himself Poseiden, but he was really just an old man standing on the shore.

Winter

Old Nan: Oh my sweet summer child, what do you know about fear? Fear is for winter, when the snows fall one hundred feet deep. Fear is for the long night, when the sun hides for years and children are born and live and die, all in darkness. That is the time for fear, my little lord, when the white walkers move through the woods. Thousands of years ago there came a night that lasted a generation. Kings froze to death in their castles, same as the shepherds in their huts. And women smothered their babies rather than see them starve, and wept and felt the tears freeze on their cheeks. So is this the sort of story you like?

—Old Nan referring to the Adirondacks

—Game of Thrones [George R. R. Martin]

The Mermaid

[Source: Google search.]

I shall always remember how the peacocks’ tails shimmered when the moon rose amongst the tall trees, and on the shady bank the emerging mermaids gleamed fresh and silvery amongst the rocks…

–Hermann Hesse The Journey To The East

Once upon a time, I traveled to the Seven Seas…to take a swim in all the waters of the earth. It was in the sixth sea that I chanced to meet a mermaid. Few men get to meet a real mermaid…and few men get to walk away from the mystical, magical and forbidden aura that these fantastical creatures and the spell they can weave.

“Come, swim out to where the sea is truly blue…as blue as blue can be,” I said.

“I can’t swim that well,” She said. “I’m afraid of how deep one can sink.”

“I’ll show you new lands,” I promised.

“I’m in a new land,” She said.

So we lived on an island. I took her to places she only had dreamed of. We had a son who rose from the waves and grew to be a pure and a strong soul.

Then, one day, she swam to where I dangled my feet in the cool water.

“I have to go away,” she said. “I need to see the sunset one more time.”

“Will you ever come back to me?”

“No,” she said. “Did you forget what happens to a mortal man when he falls in love with a mermaid?”

I had forgotten.

She swam away. I never saw her again. She met her last sunset.

[Google Search.]

 

{Nancy Dunn Egan}

{November 22, 1953–May 11, 2020} 

{Good night, Nance}

 

 

The Troll Of Barnum Brook Bridge

[The only known photo of the Barnum Brook Bridge Troll. Photo source: Google search.]

I stood in my kitchen staring at my Costco weather monitor. Mariam was busy looking for a container of low-salt broth. For twenty-two minutes I glared at the humidity reading. It was our eighteenth day of self-isolation. Except for a small incident involving two garbage bins, I hadn’t left the house. I was hoping something would happen with the humidity that would excite me, but it stayed on the Very Dry mode. I turned away in anguish and went downstairs to use our stationary bike. I plugged in my iTunes, put on my earphones and listened to Elvis Costello for ten minutes. The left peddle began to wobble. Not wanting to let it loosen too much I decided that ten minutes was more than enough.

Back upstairs in our living room, I stood at the picture window and waited thirty-three minutes for the Blue Jay to land on my suet basket. Nothing.

Mariam came to the door and said:

You need to get out. Go for a walk.”

As I layered up, my thoughts drifted to Coney Island. The sand, the surf, the hot dogs and the bikinis. One can still dream. I’m not dead yet, I thought.

I drove over to the Paul Smiths College’s Visitor Interpretive Center (VIC) and went to the start my favorite short walk, the Barnum Brook Trail. I reminded myself to stay at least six feet away from anyone I met, but the parking lot was empty. I was on my own.

Part of the trail is a boardwalk with several bridges. I crossed the first bridge in fine spirits, my head was clearing. I was almost in a good mood, considering. I slowed as I approached the second bridge. This is not going to be pleasant, I thought. Sure enough, as I stepped onto the wooden crossing I heard the voice. It was louder than usual, rougher and more ugly than usual. There was true anger this time. From beneath my feet I heard:

[The Barnum Brook Bridge. Photo is mine.]

“Who’s crossing my bridge?”

It was the Troll of Barnum Brook Bridge. We’ve met before. He pulled himself out from the underside of the crossing and stood, blocking my path.

“Oh, it’s you. Well then you know what the deal is. You must answer my riddle or face a horrible death.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Okay, Troll, ask away.”

“Right then. First question is:

A boat is filled with people yet there was not a single person aboard. How is this possible?”

I pretended to ponder the posed puzzle.

“Because they were all married,” I finally said.

“Humph. Too easy. You must answer another one.

“Whatever.”

“I have branches, but no fruit or leaves. What am I?”

“Are you kidding? That’s easy,” I said.

“Answer!”

“A bank,” I said. “I need to move on.”

“Okay, those were easy, but you must answer one more question.”

“So ask, already,” I said.

“The more of this there is, the less you see. What is it?”

This was a new one so I had to pause. But I paused too long.

“You’ve lost! Now you must suffer a horrible fate.”

Then the answer came to me. “Darkness,” I said.

“Too late,” the Troll growled. “I will now grind your bones and have you for dinner.”

“You’re not grinding anything, except your green teeth. Order take-out tonight.” I squeezed past him, avoiding his fetid breath. “Besides, you’re not real. You’re just a bit of Norse mythology.”

As I walked off the end of the bridge I suddenly felt sorry for my final comment. We’re supposed to be kind to each other in these unreal crazy days. I turned around and said:

“Stay safe, Troll. See you when times get normal again.” He gave a small wave and climbed under the bridge, presumably to self-isolate.

When I walked into our kitchen, Mariam was busy preparing Tortellini and Zucchini Soup. I poured myself a glass of Chardonnay.

“I have a riddle for you, Mariam.”

“Hmmm.”

“What has to be broken before you can use it?”

“Oh, please. An egg of course. Now hand me the rosemary, please.”

I felt grateful that we were in self-isolation together. So many people are alone. Sad. But I felt so lucky to be in lock-down with such a smart woman.

“Baby, you’re the greatest,” I said as I handed her the jar of the herb. Then I went back to look if the humidity level had changed. It hadn’t changed a bit.

Staring Down at 72

[A post card image from Inkognito.]

As I write this post the weather here at Rainbow Lake is unsettled.  Windy with thunder in the distance.  I fell asleep in the screened-in porch last night listening to heavy rains falling.  I’m staring at a calendar (The kitchen wall calendar…this year: Japanese prints).  I see that I have eleven days until I turn 72.

[My photo.]

72!

When I was a young boy of perhaps nine or ten years of age, I used to play Wiffle Ball with my older brother, Denny.  After many swings and hitting little or nothing, I asked him something that worried me:

“Denny, how many fouls make an out?”

Without hesitating he replied: “72”.

I had no reason to not believe him…I was young.

But that number, 72, kept echoing in my mind over the many years since I sat in our backyard with my older brother. I decided to do a little research.  Google was smoking for me two nights ago as I found many references to that magic number.

The fact is, that number is VERY significant in many ways…mostly to Numerologists.

Here’s a small sample of what I found:

–It is known in esoteric numerology as the Master Number.

–72 x 12=864…the diameter of the sun. (www.netfind.com)

–The average human lifespan is 72 years.

–December 21, 2010 (Winter Solstice) was the date of a total lunar eclipse which lasted exactly 72 minutes.

–The human body is 72% water.

–The Zodiac has 12 constellations and 72 secondary ones.

–72 is the par on an 18-hole golf course.

–There are 72 spaces on a Parcheesi board.

–72 Hz is the frequency commonly used to examine the emotional spectrum.

–In the Old Testament, God destroyed the Tower of Babel and divided the people by 72 languages.

–Jesus died for 72 hours.

–Muslims are awarded 72 virgins in heaven.

–The Pentagon in Washington has 5 angles, all of which are 72 degrees.

–WWII lasted 72 months.

–And, in numerology, 72 = tolerance, philanthropy and intuition.

And there is so much more.

So, what does all this mean for me?  That’s a good question.  All I can say for sure is that I’m not anticipating that day…a week from Friday.  There are so many more years behind me than in front of me.  Have I done right in all those years on this planet?  Have I always made the right choices? (No).  Have I lived a moral life? (Mostly).  There are so many more questions but so few answers.  My only real hope is that I will be here to write about the significance of the number 73.

My dreams at night are those of a young man, not with white hair but merely salt and pepper.  I have no aches in my legs and back…in my dreams.  The young women in my dreams say to me: “Yes, I could love you tonight.”

In the brightness of day, those same young women think: “He looks just like Grandpa.”

“If I’m here in the morning, baby, I’ll know I’ve survived.  I can’t believe it.  I can’t believe I’m alive…but without you it doesn’t seem right.  Oh, where are you tonight?”

–Bob Dylan

“It is hard to do justice to old pleasures that cannot be revived–we seem half to disown our youthful selves, who loved and treasured them.”

–Alan Hollinghurst The Sparsholt Affair.

[Vitruvian Man. A sketch by Leonardo da Vinci. Source: Google search.]

[Full disclosure:  No humans or animals were harmed while writing this post.  The facts listed above have not been verified by me.  They were found during a Google search.  And, most importantly: This post is in no way a shameless and gratuitous plea for LIKES on my Facebook page on May 31. But, don’t let that stop you…]

 

 

 

 

The Glastonbury Tor Blog: The Excursionist XII

[The Tor at the start of our climb. St. Michael’s Tower crowns the hill]

Glastonbury is an ancient town nestled on a broad plain near the Mendip Hills in the county of Somerset.  It comes with a reputation, like that guy that sat in the last seat of your school bus.  You can shop for anything in Glastonbury, but you probably won’t find it.  What you can find is esoteric bookstores, more than one crystal shop and places where you can purchase a Druid-style cape (purple).

I love the town.

On my first visit, back in 1984, when I was an exchange teacher in Dorset, I found myself wandering the High Street.  After climbing the stairs to the second floor of an antique shop, I saw something I really wanted.  It was the part of the jaw bone of St. Basil.  There was even a Bishop’s seal on the glass box indicating its authenticity.  Best of all, it was reasonably priced at £50.  I didn’t buy it and I regret that to this day.

Now, I’m here with Mariam on our second visit.  We dined at the George & Pilgrim Hotel which dates back to about 1452.  It has three ghosts (according to some).  I never saw anything except a fantastic Steak and Ale Pie.

[The well-worn floor of the George & Pilgrim Hotel]

But our real goal that day was to climb the famous Tor.

The Tor has a ton of lore and myth that connects it with the figure of King Arthur.  Did the man ever exist?  Some say yes and some claim he was a combination of several of war-lords in the Saxon days.

[Nearing St. Michael’s Tower]

Whatever.  I love mythology and I love the Arthurian legends.  And, it was the Tor that made it all so real and believable.  According to legend, Glastonbury was the mythical Avalon.  This is where Arthur was taken after he was wounded in his final battle against his own son.  He is said to be buried, alongside his wife (?) Guinevere.  He is awaiting the call to bring his army, once again, to save Britain.

[Mariam contemplates the landscape]

[Parliament is voting as I write this on the Brexit…is Arthur stirring in his grave?).

I stood in the doorway of St. Michael’s Tower and looked out over the countryside.  I thought of the history that is so ancient, it’s sobering.  For more than 1,000 years people who climbed the Tor, worked the fields, herded the sheep, drank the ale, sipped wine, smoked old pipes with old tobacco, kissed in the churchyard, held firm to a quartz crystal, loved someone, lost someone and eventually died were all within my field of vision.

If you are a cynic, that’s okay.  But, if you read history, study myths and let your mind travel, you won’t be the same after a visit to Glastonbury.

[Me. Thinking about ancient times and myths]

[All photos are mine]

 

 

 

 

At The Museum…For Decades

[I loved this Alaskan canoe when you could see the people in it.]

The more things change, the more they stay they stay the same…

-Anon.

I never understood the above quote, except to say that I think it means that history repeats itself.

I certainly can get that…considering the Trump Era.  You can figure the rest out for yourself…if you believe in reading history and science.

But’s that’s not the point of this post.  No, I want to go back when I was about ten years old and my parents took me to the American Museum of Natural History (AMNH).  It was decades ago…long before The Night At The Museum.  

When I was a child, I saw the dioramas of the ice ages, the history of farming along the Hudson valley, the mineral crystals as large as a park bench and, of course, the dinosaurs!

Over the years, when I was a teacher in NYC,  I had chaperoned so many trips to the AMNH that I think I should have been on their payroll.

What is amazing is that some of the building on Central Park West and between 81St and 77th Street has changed dramatically…and some of the exhibits haven’t changed since I was a child. The beautiful old Hayden Planetarium gave way to a giant glass cube.  More ‘state of the art’ but less architecturally beautiful.

[Hill of skulls…I don’t know what skulls they are.]

Is that good?  Shouldn’t museums remains in a state of stasis or should they “change with the times”?

Want my opinion?

I want both.  Up to date science about climate change (yes, it’s real) and astronomy (there’s so much new stuff out there, it will blow your Star Trek Mind).

Take me to the old galleries that haven’t changed in decades and let me dream about how I fell in love with science, anthropology, evolution, minerals and the stars when I was a child.

And, take me to the Hall of the Native Northwest Americans.  Show me the ceremonial mask that is supposed to

be ‘haunted’.  Night staff won’t go near it.

[Is this the haunted mask? I don’t know.]

 

Then, tell me that science and myth don’t blend in a beautiful and mysterious way. And, I’m praying to whoever may be the god of myth and history and childhood, I would love to walk my grandson, Elias, through the halls of history and myth and childhood.

It meant so much so me and I wish I could pass it on to my grandchildren.

That’s what Natural History (and family history) is all about.

 

Kissing The Moon

[Source: Google search.]

So, there is a story.  It goes something like this:

A certain Chinese poet, Li Po, was said to have tried to kiss the reflection of the moon from his boat.  He leaned to plant the kiss…fell overboard  and drowned.  What is the moral of the story?

I am fascinated by the moon.  The werewolves, in legend, were dictated by the full moon.  The moon’s 28 day cycle has been linked with the monthly cycle  of a woman.

The moon.

I may have had my first kiss on a night of the Full Moon. I just don’t remember…I was moon struck. I walked home from a date one night when I was in high school.  My readers will know who the girl was.  I stepped into the playground of the elementary school where I attended for eight years.  It was a Catholic school.  There was a cross on the peak of the ‘tower’…I don’t know what else to call it.  I aligned the cross with the full moon that was rising over the Susquehanna River.  I looked across the street where, earlier, I had been sitting with my girlfriend on a stone bench…still there along Front Street…watching the moon rise over the ripples of the slow-moving river.

But, after my session with the moon and the cross, I walked home strangely altered…how? I can not say, but the experience stays with me.

Did we really walk on the moon?  I gaze at it often and wonder how, when a laptop crashes, we mustered the technology to go all the way there and come back…a dozen times.

As a science teacher,  I once had a plexiglass disk with a moon rock in my hands.  It was unreal.

I used to talk to my fading sweetheart, when I was in college, from a pay phone…I could see the moon through the glass…I asked her if she would look out of her window, 1,200 miles away to see the same moon.

The same moon that shed it’s light on all of history.

So, what is the real story I’m trying to tell?  I’m not sure, I guess it’s about dreaming, night and desiring something that may be the last fatal desire.

Don’t try to kiss the moon…kiss the one you love…or love the one you’re with.

The moon.

[A Full Moon in Paris. My photograph.]