Category Archives: Real Personal History

Gallery 636

[The Woman. Photo is mine.]

We sometimes encounter people, even strangers, who begin to interest us at first sight. Somehow suddenly, all at once, before a word has been spoken.

~~Fyodor Dostoyevsky

I’d seen the El Greco, the Tiepolo and the Manet. But, what I really needed was a bench, so hard to find sometimes in certain rooms of a certain Museum of Art on Fifth Avenue in New York City. It was three weeks and a few days since I came home from the hospital following a spinal fusion. I was taking a risk by wanting to walk through a few galleries of the newly reopened European Paintings 1300–1800. Mariam and I strolled through the rooms, I’d stand for as long as I could, then I would scout the terrain for the much-needed bench. And that’s what brought me to Gallery 636. I positioned myself opposite a large canvas. I soaked up the art. Furthermore, I did what I usually do when I’m viewing a pastoral landscape–I put myself in the scene. I would walk the leas, sit beneath the Lombardy Poplars and listen to the brooks and the birds and the laughter of distant souls. I leaned slightly (my back, remember) to look beyond a woman who has stepped in front of the painting.

Then it happened.

She turned to me, her red hat breaking the monotony of the white walls, and smiled. Not a “sorry, am I in your way?” kind of smile. It was something different. A knowing smile.

Whoa. At this point, I need to interject something in this narrative. I am seventy-six years old and walking oddly, even funny. Grey hair. Scruffy beard. I could be her grandfather. Let’s go back… There was a time, in my mind, not so long ago, when I was datable. (I’m happily married, so this is a memory of a life I lived prior to 1990).

All those years ago… I would have followed her, stood next to her, talked to her, bought her a wine, sat beside her on the steps of the MET, gone somewhere with her. In my present life, I rarely, and I stress, rarely get a compliment from a woman, a stranger.

Crossing Amsterdam Avenue sometime in the 1990s. I stood on the curb. Light changed. I walked out. A woman turned to me and said: “Excuse me, but you have beautiful hair”.

I happened to look to my left, toward the exit. She turned and smiled. Mariam saw the whole thing. “She certainly noticed you,” she said. “Guess so,” I said.

Which brings me to my whole point. Why did she smile at me? Did she recognize me? I have taught hundreds of New York City kids in my twenty years of being an educator. A former student? Perhaps. Someone I once dated? No, she was too young.

Rested. A gallery away. The El Greco. Storm Over Toledo. One of my favorites. There she was. And, and she smiled again. Again, the knowing smile. The faintest hint. The tiniest hint…of what? She saw Mariam. Maybe her smile was for her too. She saw Mariam, so it wasn’t a flirty smile. It wasn’t a come hither kind of thing. So, what was it? Why was this young, attractive woman smiling at me through several galleries of the MET, on a bustling Friday evening. I noticed that she didn’t smile at anyone else.

Only me. Or maybe that’s what I let myself believe. That a woman saw something in me that made her comfortable enough to acknowledge my existence. Many men live for that sort of attention, especially men at my age. Our faded charms are now erased by wrinkles and furrows and a stooped posture. Once we were heroes, knights, mountaineers, doctors, lawyers, walkers, poets and writers. Now, we are old men who sit and think.

Just before the final door that would be our exit, our way back to the real world of a chilly February evening and taxis, buses, and people. But, did I want to lose this moment? I snapped a quick photo of her contemplating a Vermeer-like woman, in oil, on a 20″ x 30″ canvas.

I turned and walked to the Grand Staircase. The steps that would return us to the evening.

I knew I would never see this woman again. That’s a strange thought when you look closely. You see another human. A connection of sorts is made. Then back into nothingness.

As I made my way down the stairs, I tried to find something in the encounter. Is there such a thing as meaningful coincidences, serendipity and chance encounters that aren’t really chance? Why did our paths cross? What did she have to say to me that was left unsaid?

We settled into the taxi and I braced myself for a bumpy ride through Central Park and up Broadway to our apartment. I thought about the woman, and I wanted to keep this memory (it was becoming a memory as soon as I walked down the granite steps to Fifth Avenue) fresh and in my mind. I thought about the woman.

I thought about a red hat.

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.]

Better Late Than Never: A Fairy Tale of New York

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

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

~~Edward Bulwer Lytton

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

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

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

“You should hear this guy,” he said.

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

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

“Bob Dylan,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do enjoy and have a great New Year !

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

https://www.youtube.com › watch

The Persistence of Memory: Chris, Bill and High Adventures

Where’s my high quality mug?

~~ Bill Zeller

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

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

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

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

“Where is the “0”?,” he asked.

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

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

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

That’s over fifty years!

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

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

[The Dunbarton Cemetery. Photo is mine.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

See you in Maine…

Dark Night/Dark Happenings

[A British tabloid. Photo: Google Search]

I can’t Imagine…

~~ Patrick Egan

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

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

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

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

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

Them–“Oh, thank goodness.”

Then the darkness descended…

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

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

Me–“Yes, of course.”

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

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

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

Father-“I most certainly will.”

My mood darkened…

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

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

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

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

I said: “Lead the way, Jeff.”

And things got even darker…

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

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

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

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

“John Lennon has been pronounced dead.”

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

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

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

It doesn’t really matter, though.

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

We’re all sorry.

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

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.]

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]

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]

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.

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.