Weather Most Foul: What We Saw/What We Didn’t

[The six to ten foot waves of the Adriatic Sea taken through the sea-splashed window of our stateroom aboard the Windstar’s “WindSurf”. Photo is mine]

Here I am sitting in a room of the Welcome Hotel on the Boulevard Saint-Germain in the 6th Arrondissement of Paris about to write a blog post on Milan, Italy. Not too many days ago I sat in a suite in a hotel in Como, Italy and thought about writing a post about Paris.

What does all this mean, my dear readers might ask. It means that a great deal has transpired since my last post, which was written in Como. Okay, fair enough. Bloggers have to plan ahead, don’t they? If this is as clear as the view from our window (shown above), then you can see things that I can’t.

We made two visits to Milan. The first lasted three nights. We wanted to explore the city but more importantly, Mariam was determined to see Da Vinci’s “Last Supper” which has been undergoing restoration for many years. (Leonardo had made a bad decision on how to apply certain pigments which he wanted to adhere to the plaster wall. It failed. The masterpiece began degrading within a few years.) It continued to decline in quality for several centuries (and even survived the bombing of WW II.) Now it has been restored as much as modern techniques will allow. I knew about the painting in a superficial way. But our tour guide pointed out aspects the Master used…and they took my breath away.

[The Last Supper. Photo is mine]

The painting depicts the moment when Christ said: “One of you will betray me.” Everyone of the twelve apostles has a different facial reaction. The figures are arranged in groups of three. The Vanishing Point is right behind Christ’s head. I won’t name them all (you can Google it) but I will say two things:

~~The man (first from Christ’s left arm) has his finger pointing upward. That is “Doubting Thomas”.

~~Judas (third from Christ’s right arm) is doing two things. He’s reaching for a piece of bread and he is clutching a small bag containing the thirty silver coins.

I’m not a very religious guy, but these details absolutely fascinate me. Perhaps I should have been an artist…but I can’t draw a stick figure without a guide.

After we viewed the painting, I decided that I could indeed make the walk back to the hotel. Besides, our route would take us past the famous Duomo.

Now, I had visited the majority of the English cathedrals over the years, but nothing prepared me for the detail, of the this Italian masterpiece of architecture. I was put off by the hordes of tourists (it was worse than Times Square after every Broadway play ends). Probably worse than a Taylor Swift intermission at Madison Square Garden.

[The Duomo (cathedral) in Milan. There are cathedrals…and then there’s this. This is not merely eye-catching, it borders on miraculous. Hyperbole? Perhaps, but I tend to avoid hyperbole. But I will note that my astonishment was so great that my head would burst open like a watermelon and all my brains would spit out my eyes. {This was borrowed from Maya Angelou.} Photo is mine]

We continued onto our hotel.

The following day, May 22, we took a tram ride just to feel like locals. We stopped feeling like locals when the #19 stopped so far away from our hotel that we needed yet another Uber. (Note to self: Buy a transit map).

On May 23, we boarded a train for an hours ride to Como. We found a small hotel with a great view:

[The view from our hotel in Como. Photo is mine]

The first thing we did was ride the funicular to the top of a local mountain. The view was very hazy so the photos are not worth showing here.

The next day we took a boat ride to Bellagio.

[An ascending stairway to additional shopping in Bellagio. Photo is mine]

Back to Como we found our hotel and its restaurant closed (no one told us). A thunderstorm broke. We made it across the square and dined at the Vintage Jazz Food & Wine. We both had Sea Bass.

The next morning we took yet another train back to Milan. We needed to do this because it was where the Paris train would depart at the ungodly hour of 6:25 am.

I was awake at 4:00 am.

All this brings us here to Paris where I’m sitting in the aforementioned hotel writing this.

Last night we attended the 9:00 pm show at the Moulin Rouge. It was quite a spectacular performance that included amazing costumes, a contortionist, two men who did the impossible act of one man holding the other on his head. I could feel his C1 and C2 cervical bones being crushed. I enjoyed a rousing rendition of the Can-Can, but I barely noticed the bare breasts of the dozen or so dancers. I was too busy rubbing my sore neck. Mariam had to tell me about the beautiful semi-naked dancers in the Uber on the way home.

Something Is Missing

I need to go back to mid-May and tell you one more part of our cruise on the “Wind Surf”.

The highlight of the Adriatic segment of the cruise was to visit the beautiful city of Dubrovnik, Croatia. And this is where the lead-in photo at the top of the blog comes in. The sea was so rough and the rain so heavy that the Port Authority would not let us dock.

So, we missed this:

[Dubrovnik old town city walls aerial view in a sunny day. Photo source: Getty Images]

A few days later, when were were scheduled to visit Capri, Sicily, we had chosen to visit The Blue Grotto. The cruise line cancelled that excursion (for reasons that are not totally clear to us).

We missed this:

[Capri Island’s Blue Grotto. Photo source: Getty Images]

The last night on board the “Wind Surf”, some crew members put on a Talent Show. This is the only photo I took and shows our breakfast/dinner server joined with another server and performed a traditional Balinese dance.

[Suti, our server from Bali is on the right. Photo is mine]

What more can I say about the first major leg of our two month journey except that I’m in a hotel in Paris, hoping for the ice machine to be fixed, shopping at Shakespeare & Co. books and looking into booking an evening dinner cruise on the Seine. After all that sea adventure, why should I get on another boat?

To celebrate my birthday, of course.

Rome: Antiquity, Beauty & Faith

May22

Men did not love Rome because she was great. She was great because they had loved her.

~ ~ G. K. Chesterton

[One of the iconoclastic images in the world. The Colosseum of Rome. What is not so famous is the construction equipment in the foreground. Photo is mine.]

Part One: The City As A Museum

I cannot find a street, a tiny alley, a lane or a shady sidewalk in Rome that will not lead you to yet another street, alley, lane or sidewalk. Modern buildings abut broken columns, capitals and archways that are thousands of years old. What do I need? A history book? A Michelin Guide? A hotel map of the city? A brochure that is titled “Things To Do And See In Rome? An iPad with Google maps?

All five items would help. But it wouldn’t help enough. This is a city that needs to be walked and you would need the time to digest what you are walking near. Your well shod feet will touch the very pavement of rock that sandaled centurions, slaves, craftsmen and beggars walked upon two millennia ago. If history excites you and the proximity to affairs that changed the course of human events, then this city is a feast for you. But it’s an elixir that must be taken in small doses, otherwise your mind will likely explode with the thickness of the past. True, there are other places on this small planet that can have the same effect; Stonehenge, The Great Wall of China, The Pyramids. But for millions of people, Rome connects with us because there are so many commonalties of culture that we, today, share with the ancient Romans. Religion, language and the foundations of democracy to name a few. Films such as “Ben-Hur”, “Spartacus” and “The Gladiator” have become part of our culture.

The incomparable Shakespeare found inspiration in Roman history.

“E tu, Brute?” (‘Julius Caesar’ Act 3 Scene 1.)

I stood near the Colosseum and watched modern-day laborers and masons make necessary repairs in places that seemed twenty stories up. It made me dizzy.

To see a Corinthian column laying its side in the grass, thirty feet below street level makes me marvel at how anyone could possibility put the pieces back together again. The way it was in 200 BC.

So, if history is of little interest to you, Rome would be just another major center of modern day fashion, most likely like it was back in the day.

Part Two: The City Today and Our Time Here

I supposed it’s possible to experience Rome without a thought about religion. But, frankly, I don’t see how you could to that. Rome and Christianity are bound together like fraternal twins. And, what would Rome be without the Vatican City, the smallest city-state in the world. It’s only 400+ acres. I think my grandmother’s farm was just a little bit smaller. There are probably Walmart parking lots somewhere that come close to the size of Vatican City.

It is within these walls that the Popes have shepherded a billion Roman Catholics. Decisions made here affect lives of uncounted souls. The present Pontiff, Francis I is a congenial man from South America. He used to love to dance the Tango with his girlfriend before he was called to the priesthood, then becoming a Cardinal and then, upon the death of John Paul II, was elected to be the next in line to a long chain of men (and not a few woman, but that’s another blog) dating back to St. Peter himself.

I am not a practicing Catholic but I confess it was a thrill of sorts to watch him pass three meters in front of me (in the Popemobile) before he read his messages from the steps in front of St. Peter’s Basilica. He has a gentle and kind face. It is said that he cooks his own meals.

The art inside the Vatican is nothing short of astounding. To get to the Sistine Chapel you have to walk through many galleries of large tapestries, paintings and sculptures that are worth more that the GNP of many countries. I’m not one to judge the Churches vast wealth. You might as well complain about the weather or the setting of the sun.

It is what is it. Change? I’ve read years ago that any progress or modernization of Church policy moves at a glacial pace. I don’t doubt that for a minute.

Away from the Vatican, Rome is chaotic, noisy and seemingly out-of-control. I risked my life crossing a side street. Traffic rules are mostly general guidelines. But the people are friendly and tolerant of non-Italian speakers.

Pasta shops are three to a block. Cannoli is everywhere. Beer mugs the size of a Buick are gripped by men in nearly every street side cafe. The coffee is strong and the pizza toppings are as abundant as a typical produce section of a Whole Foods Market in Manhattan.

Unless you run an official marathon to work and back each day, you will gain a lot of weight in Rome.

But life is to be enjoyed, is it not?

Part Three: My Photo Gallery

My iPhone photo storage cloud must be responsible for all the rain we’ve had on this trip. To make a long post manageable, I’ll simply put a few of my favorite photos below. I hope you enjoy them.

[A typical alley. Intriguing and moderately clean. Taken a few blocks from the Colosseum. Photo is mine.]

[Pope Francis rides by me. At first I thought he pointed at me and said: “You’re the man”, then I realized his eyes were closed. Photo is mine.]

[Near the alter of St. Peter’s Basilica. Photo is mine.]

[In a gallery leading to the Sistine Chapel. Title: “Fortuna restrained by Cupid” by Scoula di Guido Reni. Photo is mine,]

[The Pieta. What more can one say? Arguably one of the most sculptures in the world. Photo is mine. The sculpture is by Michelangelo.]

[This is not in the Vatican but no photo collection of Rome can exclude The Trevi Fountain. This was used in Fellini’s “La Dolce Vita”. Some trivia: In the film “Three Coins in the Fountain” (1954), the legend of the coins was born. If you throw one coin, you will return to Rome, if you throw two coins, you will fall in love with an attractive Italian. If you throw three coins, you will marry the one you met. (There’s no mention of a fourth coin but something tells me it likely involves a divorce lawyer.) Photo is mine.]

Kind of like a modern dating site only using water.

~ ~ ~

I certainly hope you enjoyed this romp through the history and culture of Rome. There are many famous quotes about Rome. My favorite is from a Three Stooges movie.

One stooge: Rome wasn’t built in a day.

Second stooge: Neither was Syracuse.

Et tu, Brute?

Rovinj & Split: Olive Oil, Cobblestones, Thrones and Holy Bones

May12

[The closest to Dubrovnik, Croatia that I will get on this journey.]

I’m sitting at a desk in Suite 137 on board the Wind Surf (Wind Star Cruise Lines). The level of the mineral water in a glass next to my mouse pad gently tilts, back and forth, like I am playing with a level against a wall. We’re rocking and rolling. Every few minutes the light in our room darkens. I hoped it was not a light about to go out. Instead, it’s a wave breaking with passion and violence against the portal windows. The sea is rough, very rough. I’ve eyed the little tube of Dramamine (Original Formula) more than once. But I do believe that I’ve “found my sea legs” at last. My stomach and inner ear are another another story. When I get up at night (like every man my age) to pee, I clutch at objects that aren’t there. I bang into walls and feel for handles of doors and sills of any kind. I head for a chair to regain my balance.

But I’m not sea-sick. Really. But many of my readers have already been where I am now and don’t need to be reminded of the vagaries of ocean travel. Enough of my issues. Let’s go back a few days and I’ll will tell you a few stories. I think you’ll love the sarcophagus section a lot. I did.

ROVINJ

[A side ‘alley’ off the cobblestone street. A woman writes. In her diary? A letter to her son? Husband? Daughter? She seems content and she has a beautiful quiet little space to do whatever she needs to do. Photo is mine.]

Since setting sail (actually motor power) from Venice we made for Rovinj, Croatia. I confess that I had scant foreknowledge of the little city. But as the day progressed, the beauty, the history and the architecture came to me at first in morsels, then in a wholeness that was pure joy to experience. It seems that the entire Dalmation Coast is limestone. The ancient buildings are built of limestone, the cliffs are limestone and the narrow streets and alleys are limestone. Because my lower back continues to plague me, walking uphill will likely be my life’s burden. But here it gave me a chance to sit on a step, a bench or a low wall. Sitting and twisting my back I looked closely at the pavement. Limestone has an interesting property that granite and marble lack. It gets polished with the ages. I sit and stare and the smooth almost ice like smoothness and reflect. How many sandaled Centurians from Rome walked, two millennia ago just twenty inches from where my left foot rested? How many fishermen helped to polish these stones? How many barefoot servant girls left their damp footprints on these stones? How many slaves in chains? How many regal and royal feet trod in front of me? How many booted soldiers during the Bosnian Civil War? How many Nike sneakers of neoprene worn by the tens of thousands of tourists?

Yes, how many?

[The cobbles on a street in Rovinj. On the climb to the Cathedral of St. Ephemera. Photo is mine.]

As we ascended the hill to the Cathedral, I stopped to rest. On a partly rusted iron rail fence were several pad locks with messages and names engraved or written with a Sharpie locked to the rail. I took a photo of one. It read: MITCH & SARAH. Only later did I discover that I had my iPhone set on video. So you won’t see the lock.

But I wish Mitch and Sarah the best in life. I hope they’re still in love and still together. Their lock is still intact. Are they? One of life’s little mysteries.

[The hill and the Cathedral of St. Euphemia.]

We entered the church. The silence was welcoming. I’m not a very religious guy, but I put 1 euro in a slot and lit a votive candle. It was for a flame for my family and for my best friend. They know who they are.

Behind the altar was the room I was seeking. It held the large limestone sarcophagus of St. Euphemia. This is truly a holy site for many and her story deserves to be told. Euphemia was a 4th century Christian. The Romans prosecuted these early believers. So what did they do to this unfortunate young woman? They threw her into an arena…where the lions awaited. The mural on the wall depicts what happened. Scattered about the sand were the remains of other Christians. Apparently, their faith wasn’t as pure or true as Euphemia because there she is, petting the bloody-mouthed lions as though they were her pets.

Her remains were inches from my hand. I touched the stone, polished of course, and uttered a prayer of sorts, from a flawed human who harbors a few doubts about anything I may say that would be heard by anyone.

[The Sarcophagus of St. Euphemia. Note the mural on the far wall. If you have a swipe screen, zoom in for the interesting (bloody) details.]

We left the Cathedral and made our way slowly down the cobbled street and back to the shops at the dock. I sat at a cafe in the shade sipping a mineral water. Mariam went off to buy me a bathing suit. I wrote two postcards, one for my son and one for my daughter.

If I had a third, I would have written it to Euphemia. She was probably someone I would like to have had a conversation with. Unfortunately, a mere two thousand years separated us.

We boarded the tender and returned to the ship. Me? A little holier, perhaps.

SPLIT

The surprises that this bustling city had in store for me were not at first apparent. That being said, let’s get one little fact out of the way. This is the location of Kings Landing in Game of Thrones. Inside the palace (more on this in a few moments) is where many interior were filmed. There’s even a GOT museum. No, we didn’t have time to go there. We were on a walking tour and walking tours stop for no man or woman.

This stop is one that we chose to take an excursion. After boarding a small coach (with no bathrooms!), we were off for a half-hour ride to Klis & The Stella Croatica Ethno Village, a small family run farm that produced traditional Dalmatian delicacies, olive oil and bread among other items.

It was in the tasting room that I failed a major test.

[One of the most awesome Olive trees in the world. Photo is mine taken from an display on the wall of the olive farm we visited.]

I thought I knew a thing or two about olive oil. After, I can make it to a Whole Foods on 97th Street and Columbus Avenue.

Was I mistaken. I flunked out with the first sip.

[A botanical poster of an olive plant. There is no need to know anything else about olives than what you see here. Photo is mine taken from a wall display.]

The first tiny cup we were presented with had a half-teaspoon of cherry liqueur. Different but nice. Then after a brief PowerPoint lecture about the positive and negative traits of olive oil, we were give two tiny cups of 1) An extra virgin oil, and 2) A low quality of oil referred to as ‘lamp oil’. Now this isn’t what you think. There are no petroleum products involved here. The name comes from a low quality of olive oil that has been used for centuries for lamps. This was before the use of lamp oil as we know it today. There were seventeen people from our boat that were in the tasting room. We all sipped, first the one on the right and then on the left. We were asked which one was the extra virgin and which one was not. I was among three people who chose the left sample. Of course, that was the lamp oil.

So what’s my excuse? I had mis-read the PowerPoint illustration about the desirable traits. The little girl in the drawing looked to me like she was gagging. In reality, she was coughing (a totally acceptable reaction to a very good extra virgin oil).

Foiled again.

Back on the bus. Back to downtown Split. We removed ourselves from the vehicle and gathered on a broad and busy public (carless) plaza. We were standing outside the wall of the chief Roman, Diocletian. After a short speech by our local guide, We entered an arched gate and found ourselves inside a small town, warren-like in its maze of lanes, streets and plazas. We paused outside a very impressive octagon building. Now, this person really disliked Christianity and was not afraid to order a fair number of that group to be execute in the most gruesome manner. One of his victims was a Bishop (probably St. Dominius). He was beheaded sometime in the 4th century AD. In general, Diocletian was quite unpopular. He died at the ripe old age of seventy, he was buried in a sarcophagus in the octagonal temple. It surprise no-one that after Christianity began to be accepted by the Romans by Constantine, his stone coffin was removed (and vanished into the mists of history) and replaced by the remains of St. Dominus.

What goes around, comes around.

[The Diocletian Palace. The octagonal church is the original tomb of Diocletian. His sarcophagus is missing…never found, forever gone. It is believed that the saint he had beheaded, St. Dominius, rests there today. Photo is mine taken from a public display.]

Inside the Palace/town, I once again stared at the polished limestone pavement. I thought of all the human feet that walk those very stones for two thousand years. What were their lives like? Did they love and laugh like we do? Did they have affairs? Babies? Loving sons and beautiful daughters?

I think they felt cold in the winter and sweat in the summer. I think they were just like us in many ways. Perhaps they worshipped other gods. Perhaps they murdered a best friend. Perhaps they starved during droughts and got fat during the good years.

And I feel they looked up on moonless nights and saw the same stars, the same moon and asked themselves the same questions about death and life.

In those days, like the days of our lives, destinies could go either way.

[NOTE: This blog post was written and published under more duress than usual. The church bells are tolling outside The Square Pub where Mariam and I are sitting…with a strong WiFi signal. Mariam did the proofing. I take full responsibility for any errors, misspellings or other mistakes. I hope you enjoy it!]

A Brief History of Kimonos

Dec1

To be fully alive is to have an aesthetic perception of life because a major part of the world’s goodness lies in its often unspeakable beauty.

~~Yukitaka Yamamoto

[An old triptych of three women wearing kimonos. Source: Google Search.]

Recently, my wife and I spent an afternoon at the Metropolitan Museum of Art (MET). She wanted to see the Tudor exhibition. I went through it quickly…I love English period decorative and portraiture art but that interest peaked with the final season of Downton Abbey. The newly restored (and painted!) ancient Greek and Egyptian statuary was where I wanted to spend more time. So we did both. We then visited the Asian art wing and saw the Kimono Style exhibition. From there we retired to the Member’s Lounge for a glass of white wine ($17.00) and a bottle of Pellegrino. While eating our Hummus and Pita plate, we discussed what we had seen and I mentioned that I would like to revisit the Kimonos once more before it closed. We finished our visit to the Hall of Medieval Art to see the Christmas Creche.

The Kimono Style (which closes in February) was more than fascinating. Within three minutes of entering the gallery, I realized that my concept of Kimonos was, to put it mildly, somewhat simplistic. The background, styles and fabrics were intricate and beautiful. So, I did what every good blogger does in such a situation…I ran straight to Google to find out as much background as I could. And, like yours truly, I fell asleep before I could get to the Edo Period. I awoke after a brief nap, shoved my laptop aside and headed for the bed. I slept the sleep of an opium smoker.

My dream came quickly. There were cherry blossoms everywhere. I was standing at the edge of a Dark Forest. “Don’t go in there”, I was told. “Those who do often end up as suicides. It was the Aokigahara, where the ghosts of Japanese mythology are said to dwell. I was not alone. Her name was Akari, which translates to ‘vermillion red’. Her beauty was heavy with gravity. A deep, peaceful and somehow alluring aura made the air around her radiate a golden light. Her face was as while as the first snowfall of winter.

She was a Geisha. But unlike western stereotypes, she was not for sale. A Geisha is not a prostitute but instead is a highly educaated woman trained in the Art of the Tea Ceremony, music, literature and calligraphy. She was one of about 1,000 active Gheishas in Japan today.

In my unenlightened world, I thought she would take care of my every need, even before I knew I had it. She took my hand and led me to a low desk. She mixed the ink and began making brush strokes. She made me try to copy her bamboo leaves. My attempts were embarrassing. She smiled and led me back to edge of the forest. I took a step toward the trees…

I woke up.

I’ve digressed.

Kimonos were first reported in the Kofun Period (300-538 CE). Over the centuries, the style has changed in many ways. The first Kimonos were of Chinese design. The trade between Japan and China brought new styles to Japan. In 718 CE, the Youo Clothing Code was enacted. This determined who was eligable to wear one, the kind of material and even the fact that the robe opening was to be Left to Right. The opposite closure was reserved for the deceased.

During the Edo Period (1603-1867), the obi was added. Length of sleeves and multiple layers were common.

By the early 20th Century, many class distincions were abololished. Western clothing came into style. But the Kimonos remained popular. After an earthquake in Kanto in 1923, a shortage of fabrics became available from unused clothing. In recent years, the Kimono has grown in popularity. Men are wearing western suits to work and changing into a Kimono robe in the evening.

[A present-day mother and child with modern Kimonos. Source: Google Search.]

What follows is a gallery of Kimono photos I took at the MET. I regret that I can not give you the style name, fabric or historical context of each one. Just marvel at the subtle striking beauty of this small sample of Kimonos:

[My personal favorite.]

A few days later we returned to the MET. I headed straight to the Kimono Style exhibit. I took a few more photos and went further into the Asian Art wing. I wanted to sit in my favorite place. It’s a replica of a Chinese (or Japanese) Courtyard. I sat and listened. In years past, there was a small trickle of water from a fountain. I loved the tranquility of the murrmering water.

It was silent in the room. For some reason the fountain had been turned off. I was disappointed. But, if nothing else, I am a resourceful guy. I pulled out my ear buds and plugged into my iPhone. I went to my Calm app and found “babbling brook”.

I think you can work out the rest of the story…

[Sources: the historical material is from Wikipedia. All the MET Kimono photos are mine. The rest are the result of Google Searching. And in the spirit of full disclosure, I did not have the aforementioned dream.]

A Spadeful of Earth

Jun12

Grief is the price we pay for love.

–Queen Elizabeth II

In the end, it’s not the years in your life that count. It’s the life in your years.

–Abraham Lincoln

When I stand before God at the end of my life, I would hope that I would not have a single bit of talent left, and could say, ‘I used everything you gave me.’

–Erma Bombeck

The photo above is the High Peaks of the Adirondacks. My friend, Greg Stella and I used this beautiful region as our playground. Every peak, every valley had our boot prints in the mud and the rocky summits felt the back of our heads as we daydreamed away the hours after an ascent. After the ascent. Such a misnomer. It implied a “last ascent.” There was never really a last ascent. There would be another, and then another…and another. In the area shown in the photo were the majority of the oft-mentioned ADK 46. Other peaks were found outside the frame. There were 46 peaks (according to the original survey) that were 4,000′ or higher. If one climbed all of them, he or she would be eligible to join the “46 er’s” and get a patch to proudly wear on your parka or rucksack. Greg and I climbed about twenty or twenty-five of these peaks. We decided, sometime in the 1980’s that ‘bagging’ the summits wasn’t what we were searching. It became less about the numbers and more about re-climbing our favorites…some many times over.

The room in the funeral home in Owego, NY, set aside for the service was filling up fast. I was going to give the eulogy, but I had to wait until a full military service was complete. Then the priest said the words that were so often spoken at funerals. He spoke of God’s mysterious ways and equally mysterious reasons to bring down upon us congregants the unspeakable grief of an unbearable loss. Then it was my turn. I positioned myself at the podium, away from the slide show of my friend’s life. If I looked at them, I knew in my heart I would not be able to string two sentences together without a box or two of Kleenex or even better, Angel Soft. I had to focus on my note cards and pretend my heart was still whole and not cracked open with grief.

We climbed in the rain, the snow and the sleet. We slept in lean-tos when it thundered like an angry Greek God over our heads. We curled up in our cheap sleeping bags when the ambient air temperature was -30° F. And, yes it’s true. If you left your hot chocolate out beyond the roaring fire, it would freeze over in about four minutes. We slept on bare rock summits on balmy summer nights. If it was during the New Moon, we would drift into sleep under unnumbered, uncountable myriads of stars and distant planets that made the midnight hour almost bright enough a time to read a book…or a poem. But hiking wasn’t our only shared experience. We rock climbed in the ‘gunks near New Paltz, NY, entered and competed in the General Clinton Canoe Regatta. Cooperstown to Bainbridge on the lazy Susquehanna. For that we were given a small trophy and a patch for our anoraks. This was in 1976 and we came across the finish line 74th out of a field of over two hundred. Not bad for two canoeists with no training.

I completed the eulogy and held my composure better than I thought I was capable. I knew I had to be strong for his family and other relatives. I took several quick glances at Greg’s urn. It was beautiful. I wondered how they put his cremains and his spirit, talent and humor into such a small square container. If I sound like I’m bragging about all the amazing adventures Greg and I shared, nothing could be further from the truth. I felt humble and insignificant beside such a grand person, larger than life and now silent for a very long time.

We’re at the graveside. There are his parents. Over further are his neighbors. Further on are my parents. In between are our childhood friends who never walked off a plane after a tour of duty in Viet Nam. There were old girlfriends and so many others that we walked past on the streets of Owego in years gone by. Someday, I will mingle with the soil of this hallowed ground not too far from my friend. The priest said his final words. We all stood and began to slowly drift away to get on with our lives. Someone said my name. I was handed a shovel. The small hole was nearly half filled already. I scooped a spade full and let the earth fall on the top of the urn, covering two cloth patches. A green Adirondack Mountain Club patch and a red “FINISHER” patch that I had given to Patti before the service. Soon the grounds person laid the final sod clumps and tamped it down.

It was over, the ceremony that is. What was just beginning was the flood of memories so many of us spoke.

Good-bye my dear friend. I know we will meet again, on a new trail, in another place. This will happen sometime on a sunny day, when the clouds won’t be hanging so low and seem so impenetrably grey.

[Greg and I climbing a mountain in the High Peaks]

It’s the beauty that thrills me with wonder,

It’s the stillness that fills me with peace.

–Robert Service

[All photos are mine unless otherwise indicated]

A Young Boy’s Walk

Aug15

[Source: Google Search.]

My first eight years of formal education was at St. Patrick’s School in Owego, NY. Many former students of many Catholic schools will complain about horrid nuns with rulers and black straps. I had no such issues with the Sisters of Mercy who ran our school. Most knew our parents personally. I can’t blame the good Sisters for the lapses in my education (I don’t know the difference between a gerund and a participle). And it’s ultimate irony that someone who had virtually no science classes ended up being a teacher…a science teacher!

But I digress.

My forth grade teacher, Sister M., liked to take walks. Owego was ideal for school children to walk. The streets are mostly set on a grid sistem. Out the school, keep making lefts when you come to a corner and before you can say Susquehanna, you’re back at the school.

[Source: Google Search.]

Sister M.loved the autumn and there’s nothing like that season in Owego. The sidewalks fill with leaves and all is right with the world. She had the patience of a saint, so on the most perfect days of fall, we would go, as a class, on our ‘science’ walk. East on Main Street and a right on Ross. We’re at the corner of Ross and Front, ready to make the right back to school. I can glimpse my house. I wondered what my mother was doing. Which room she was cleaning or which fall flower she was picking. Our class did this walk, every year, with the particular nun who taught us. The ‘science’ part took place when we got back to school. In the back of the building was an unused room…our ‘lab’. There, using a hot plate and an old used pan, we would choose our favorite leaf picked up on the walk, and each pupil would carefully dip their leaf into the melted paraffin. The nun stood close by always thinking about the possible and the much dreaded phone call:

“What?! My daughter got scolded with hot, molten wax? It’s true. It’s true that you nuns torture our kids.”

On our forth grade walk, something odd happened to me. At the end of a two-block leaf walk, I had changed. I always enjoyed finding a colorful maple or oak, but on that ideal day, a day with a deep blue sky, the smell of leaves, the hint of crispness in the air and Halloween a week or two away…I saw the true colors shining through. The sky became a deeper blue and the thousands of leaves took on a brilliance I had never seen before. (This same experience happened years later when I was a freshman in high school. I recall lying on the grass in our backyard and staring at a budding spring flower. I never saw a flower the same since. My senses had made a quantum leap into a higher level of insight).

I looked up at Sister M. She had a slight smile on her nearly hidden face. I looked around at my classmates. Did they experience what had felt that moment? I believe for them each moment came at a different time. I had my moment. On their way to adulthood, they all would have their moment. I glanced again and my friends, this time i noticed a young petit girl with dark hair cut in a pixie style.

I began to notice many different things that day. It was a walk I will never forget.

NOTE: All the leaves are still green here in the North Country. But, seasons change fast and so here is my autumn blog.]

Staring Down at 72

May21

[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

Apr1

[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]

Yesterday Afternoon And An Afternoon Thirty-Three Years Ago

Jun17

[The tomb of Joseph and Caroline Damer]

Thirty-three years ago I parked a VW Polo in a small space a short distance from the village of Milton Abbas. I was an exchange teacher at a school in Dorset, England. A teacher friend told me that I must visit an Abbey near Milton Abbas. I was open for any suggestions so off I went on a Saturday afternoon.

I can recall the day in great detail. It was crisp and clear and the air was chilly enough to slice like a razor through my new heavy wool sweater. I walked along a gravel path. There was (and still is) a private school on the grounds of the Abbey. I was told it was where “To Serve Them All My Days” was filmed. The movie was a sort of “Mr. Chips” kind of story about a teacher who spent his entire professional life…teaching.

But, I digress.

I wasn’t there to see the school. The Abbey was my goal. I can’t say it was an easy place to find. It’s basically located in the middle of an isolated part of Dorset. The roads were narrow and the hedgerows were brushing against my left rear-view mirror. If I met an oncoming vehicle, one of us had to pull over and let the other pass by.

[The fields near the Abbey]

After walking the path, I stood at the front entrance of the Abbey. The exterior was covered with moss and lichen. It was a cathedral on a small-scale. The flying buttresses were almost reachable.

I opened the door expecting to enter a typical English church. Instead, I held my breath and stood, trying to take in one of the most awesome sites I had seen so far in England.

To my left was a marble tomb. The ceiling had vaulting that would make an architect sigh.

[Vaulting]

That was more than three decades ago. Yesterday, I revisited the Abbey with my wife. I needed Mariam to see this place. Nothing had changed with the exception of the organ that was wrapped to protect it from the dust of some interior work.

People had worshipped on this site since 964 B.C.E. That’s over 1,000 years of prayers and funerals, weddings and quiet contemplation. I have a hard time wrapping my mind around a millennium.

The building I stood in yesterday is not the original. The first structure burned in 1309. Changes too confusing and complicated for this space occurred over the centuries.

In 1752, the Abbey and grounds were taken over by a Joseph Damer (Lord Milton). He had a wife, Caroline, whom he loved dearly. Death separated the two. She died young. Joseph commissioned a tomb of white marble-topped with an effigy of the two of them to honor their marriage.

I approached the figures. I reached out and stroked Caroline’s marble hair. I glanced up and saw Joseph staring into my eyes. His white marble orbs unnerved me.

“Take your hands away from my wife’s forehead,” he said with white accusing eyes. I ran my hand down her cold marble arm. I squeezed her delicate fingers.

All of it was cold white marble.

[A full view of the Damer tomb]

I still wear the heavy wool sweater that I had on that day, thirty-three years ago. Some things like well-made sweaters and Abbeys are made to last and last and last.

[Beauty and Death]

[The view from the entrance of the Abbey]

[Information source: britainexpress.com (Google search)]

[All photos are mine]

A Walk Through Lichfield Cathedral

Jun15

[Lichfield Cathedral]

Some people have life-lists of the birds they have seen. Some people have collections of autographs of rock stars or artists. A fair number of people pay a ton of money for signed baseballs; signed by Ted Williams, Goose Gossage or Ron Guidry.

That’s great. Many of these things can be framed and mounted on the wall of the hallway or the study in their home. Signed baseballs can be kept in glass boxes on an office desk of an attorney who is handling your divorce or settling your estate.

But some lists need special attention.

My particular list is visiting all the English Cathedrals that I can manage. I’ve not completed a “to do” a list yet, but I can add two for this trip.

A word about the “to do” list. This post is not about things. It’s about memories, faith, beauty of architecture, hope and thought. I’m not visiting these Cathedrals just to tick them from my list. I’m not visiting and photographing and saying…”I’ve been there and done that.”

No, I wanted to study the Gothic and Norman architecture of each place. Who is buried where? What Baron or Lord or Lady is buried against this wall? What Vicar is buried under our feet in the nave?

What farmer or mason worker lay beneath the grass outside, on the lawn, under the green grass…not invited into the floor or walls of the Cathedral?

But time was not on our side. Nor were many rules.

“NO PICTURES IN DURHAM CATHEDRAL”

So I discovered that I would be near Lichfield Cathedral. I knew this one was a winner from what little research I did before the trip. We went in and the size and structure of the nave and alters took your breath away.

Some images:

[The effigies of an older daughter and young son. William and Mary]

[The Nave of Lichfield Cathedral]

These are places that do not belong on an “to do list”

Places like this, of beauty and peace and contemplation can’t be kept in a photo file, only in your heart.