Tag Archives: fear

Forever I’ve Dreamt Of Sailing Away

BurlingtonSailBoat

One day, several decades ago, I sat down with a book by Captain Joshua Slocum.  It was titled “Sailing Alone Around the World”.  Capt. Slocum published the book in 1900–it was a bestseller–and it made him a Superstar of the Seas.  His boat was named Spray.  Nearly ten years later, Slocum disappeared aboard the Spray.  He was never seen in this world again.   I feel assured as I can that Joshua Slocum is sailing his way through the dark reaches of space and time, aboard his little boat, the Spray.

I finished the book in just a day or two and since then I’ve been fascinated by the sea and solo sailing.  Later I read an account of a man who was attempting a solo crossing of the Atlantic.  This was back in the days when such trips carried risks that made each voyage an item in the headlines of the world’s newspapers.  When I got to the end of his story and thus the end of his trip, the last pages described something he did that transfixed me with amazement.

He had departed from some former whaling port in New England, Gloucester maybe.  I can’t even remember the name of his boat.  But, I seem to remember that after he made a final navigational fix on his position–about a day from the west coast of Ireland, he did something that I totally understood.  While his wife and the press corps were waiting for him in Cork or Galway or wherever he was to dock–he took a long hard look around his world, the world that had been his home for several weeks.  He saw water, he saw the sky and he saw his boat.  And, he saw himself as a tiny speck in this vastness of the North Atlantic.

I would imagine he began to weep.

Yes, he loved and missed his wife.  Yes, he would garnish a ton of publicity from his trip.  But…

I truly believe he wept because he had become such a part of the elements of the sky and water that he couldn’t bear to lose it.  He supposedly took his sail down, and delayed his arrival by one day.  One more day when his whole world–his whole existence–could still be his alone.

As I write this, I cannot remember his name, any book he may have written or any record he may have set.  I sometimes wonder if I had made the whole story up in my own dreams.  I can’t provide any evidence this really actually happened.

I hope it did.

I’ve aways wanted to make a solo crossing of the Atlantic.  Several problems stood in my way, however.  The first and most important issue was the fact that I simply have no idea how to sail–anything.  I put a sheet up on a canoe on the Susquehanna River once when I was a kid, but that was all the sailing I had ever done.   So, I went out and bought a book on how to sail.  I never finished it because I had no real access to a really large body of water not to mention a sailboat.

I lived in New York City where one can take lessons down at a sailing school near Battery Park.  I never did.  Now, I live about forty-five minutes from Lake Champlain.  There are sailing schools in Burlington and probably Plattsburgh.  I always find something else to do.

Maybe I’m afraid of facing those elements that seem to draw so many men and women to the sea.  In truth, I don’t even like to swim.  The water is always too cold in the Adirondack lakes.  I can’t imagine the chill of the Labrador Current.

But, I’m a very restless soul.  Perhaps I have a bit of Romany (Gypsy) blood in my veins?  Perhaps, from my bedroom near the railroad in Owego, New York, I heard too many train whistles blowing and heard too many clickety-clacks of the steel wheels on the rail joints when I was a child.

So, I’ve learned to put my sailing solo dream on that dreaded shelf alongside all the other dreams I have grown to accept will never be fulfilled.  I lost the golden ball that I was born with.  I will never climb the Matterhorn, stand in the hard frozen air of Antarctica, hike the Pacific Crest Trail–or sleep with the Prom Queen.  I’ll not be given the Nobel Prize for Literature.  I will never speak at the 92nd St. Y in Manhattan.

Deep inside, I believe that I can rediscover that golden ball that made my childhood so full of magic.  The little ball exists somewhere–maybe inside me or out there alongside the less-driven roads.  I will drive the highways of Virginia and watch the Kudzu creep up the trees and engulf them.  I will pass plantations in the Deep South, pass over the brown water of the Mississippi River and I will squint into the late afternoon sun in West Texas.  But I know that somewhere, sometime, the Dark Irish in me will rise and I will begin to see shadowy clouds building on the horizon.

I’m channeling my wanderlust right now by pulling a small RV behind our Ford and heading to Florida for two months.  Our sextant is a GPS we call “Moxie”.  Our Gulf Stream will be I-95 (some of the way).  I will not be returning to the cold and ice until the Springtime arrives at Rainbow Lake, New York–sometime in April.

My boat is an r-Pod.  My alone-ness is replaced by my wife, Mariam, whose company is delightful and engaging.

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I won’t be talking to the sea or the stars–hearing nothing but wind, waves and my own voice.  Oh, I will park our r-Pod in the desert sometime in February and stare at the countless galaxies–count the shooting stars–and listen to a coyote or a song on the wind sung by the wandering ghost of a long-dead cowboy.  But I won’t be alone.

I once romanticized that kind of isolation and I still seek it, to a point.  But, in truth, there’s something about the vacuum of loneliness that frightens me very much.

I’m afraid of the dark–but that’s for another blog.

Do You Really Want To Go There?

Dark Lane 4 Blog

It’s early Autumn.  The air is crisp.  The broad leaves of the oaks and maples are sharp and bright in the sun.  Against the darker conifers, the reds and yellows are more muted–less distinct and less joyful.

There is a lane.  It seems to possess a faint voice calling for you to follow to wherever it leads.  The fair-haired, blue-eyed woman beside you urges you to take a few steps into the forest.  Her white hand suddenly is gripping your right forearm.  Without words she is telling you to not take another step.

“We don’t know where this path leads,” she says with her eyes.  You brush a red leaf from her soft hair.  You look down the lane again.  Something is urging you to explore–to follow the trail to its end.  On your left, a woman with dark eyes and pale flesh takes your hand.

“Come,” she whispers in your ear.  “We can’t keep them waiting.”

You look to your right.  The fair one has a distressed look as she stares down the lane.  Her hand trembles.

Turning your head, you see your car parked miles away.  How can this be?  You’ve only taken a few steps into the woods.  A breeze picks up a few leaves and stirs them at your feet.  The branches of the trees begin to weave and roll and shudder.

There is a tug at your right arm.

“Let’s go back,” the fair one says.  “I don’t like this.”

“Let’s move on,” your pale lover says.  “It’ll be good.  I’ll see to that.”

You are unable to move.  You stare into the distance and wonder where it will end and how far the walk will be.  Will there be a pool of clear water?  A bower of red and scarlet leaves?  An old farmhouse?  Does the backdoor–the screen door, bang in the wind?  Is the spring rusty?  Are the rooms empty?

Is there a house at all?  If not, why the road?  All roads lead to something in this forest.

You’re frozen with indecision.  You want to go forward and you want to run back to the car.

What about your lovers?  You look from left to right.  There is no one there.  Was anyone ever there?  Are you awake?  Is this a dream?

You look back at your car.  It is not in sight–there is no car.  Looking down, you see there is hardly a path.  It’s all overgrown.

A woman’s voice calls to you.  It’s a song–so very sad.  You’ve heard this lament before.  Nothing good can come of this, you’re thinking.  Nothing good.

It’s never good when you’re alone–in the woods when the sun begins to set.

Waiting For All Hallow’s Eve: XVII [FINAL POST]: “The Pumpkin Hall of Horror”

Skelton&Moon

I can often be found in dark corners of old libraries, pouring over ancient dusty tomes of arcane legends, forgotten lore and collections of 1950’s issues of Popular Mechanics and Playboy. In my researches of things unusual and macabre, I once came upon a large volume of images most horrifying to look upon.  To see them with your own eyes was like staring into the bright full moon, looking down the barrel of a cat-teasing laser or gazing into one of those weird instruments in the optometrists office.  Some of what was included in that book were early plates of mid-career Madonna’s wardrobes, or late career images of Cher, Ozzy Osbourne and Keith Richards.

In the bibliography section, I came across references to ancient Halloween customs.  Further research led me to rare and out-of-print books of popular costumes.  There I found references to the famous Tor Johnson mask, the Vampire dress (oddly indexed under “C” for cleavage) and early clay studies of Wayne Newton’s face for a possible mask.

When I got to the chapter on pumpkins, I uncovered an unusual fact.  There seems to be two schools of thought about pumpkin carving.  One school suggested that happy faces were the only way to carve pumpkins.  The other school stated that scary images were more in keeping with the true essence of All Hallow’s Eve.

By nature, I tend to gravitate toward the more ghoulish visages. How else are you going to scare the stuffing out of children who come to your door begging for candy? I mean, what kid is going to be frightened by a pumpkin face of Porky Pig or Casper?

Only kids from Connecticut would.

So, I googled the address of the school that held to the idea of “scary is better.”

I drove down the leaf-covered lane just outside of Amityville, NY. and pulled up to the gate.  It was late in the afternoon.  The sky was darkening and the sun was beginning to set.

“A strange coincidence,” I thought to myself. “Getting dark this late in the day may be a prelude of something sinister awaiting me. Gosh this is scary.”

An old wooden sign swung in the suspicious breeze.  It made a strange and haunting creaking sound.  It read: THE BATES SCHOOL, in perfect Times Roman.

“Needs a little WD40,” I said to no one.

Once inside the main building, I was struck by the awful quiet.  It appeared to be deserted.

“Was it vacation?” I asked myself. “Where is everyone?”

Then I noticed the directory mounted on the ancient maple wainscoted wall.

I looked at the names.  They seemed to come straight out of a gothic novel.

Prof. S. King     Room 531 Suite 47

Dr. Pangloss     Room 420

Dr. Vibes     Room 74

Prof. M. R. James     Room 221b

Dr. J. T. Ripper     Room 666

Dr. Who     Room BBC

Dr. John     Room d’Orleans

Hall of Scary Pumpkins     Basement (Don’t go down there!)

I descended the stairs, wiping away the cobwebs.  The rats scurried underfoot.  I stopped at the bottom step.  This was it.  An ancient stone hallway lit by 13 candelabras lit the way forward.  I saw something on the floor, a head. Along the walls were small shelves.  On these shelves were a series of the scariest pumpkins I have ever laid eyes upon.

The smell of beeswax from the candles permeated the room along with other odors most foul.  I detected sulphur.  I sensed brimstone (then I realized they were the same thing).  I felt dampness.  I smelled urine.  I looked down and realized I had wet my pants.

If you, dear blog reader, have a delicate constitution and are faint of heart or suffer from a slight inner ear inflammation or dandruff, then go no further with this post.  I won’t hold it against you. Send your children to a dark room and put “The Rocky Horror Picture Show” on the DVD.

But, whatever you do, prepare yourselves!  You have been warned.

Be afraid! Be very afraid!

Here, my friends, are the few photos I was able to take and email before they found me…huddled in a corner, my jet black hair had turned white as a Swede.  I no longer bore a strong resemblance to George Clooney.  I looked very much like that guy you see in the Mall.  A guy who looks a lot like that writer, Patrick Egan.

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[THIS IS THE LAST OF THE “WAITING FOR ALL HALLOW’S EVE” POSTS.  HALLOWEEN IS UPON US…A TIME, ACCORDING TO TRADITION, WHEN THE VEIL LIFTS AND ALL MANNER OF DEMONS AND SPIRITS ARE ALLOWED TO ROAM THE EARTH.  LIGHT A CANDLE. HANG OUT THE GARLIC. BREAK OUT THE HOLY WATER. CHECK ALL THE WINDOW LOCKS…ESPECIALLY IN THE BACK OF THE HOUSE…WHERE YOU DON’T USUALLY GO. LOOK OUT AT THE QUARTER MOON. BOLT YOUR DOOR. STAY AWAKE AND WAIT UNTIL THE SAFETY OF THE RISING SUN. THE ONE EXCEPTION: IF YOUR DOORBELL RINGS OR YOUR KNOCKER THUNKS AGAINST THE FRONT DOOR…OPEN IT CAREFULLY. BUT BE STERN: MAKE THE LITTLE CHILDREN ASK: “TRICK OR TREAT’, MAKE THEM SAY WHO THEY ARE DRESSED AS AND THEN MAKE THEM SAY: “THANK YOU.”]

ANOTHER IDEA: IF YOU WANT TO READ A FEW GHOST STORIES, GET MY BOOK “IN ALL THE WRONG PLACES” ON KINDLE (OWEGO FRIENDS…GO DOWN TO JOHN AT RIVERROW BOOKS AND GET A COPY).  SETTLE BACK AND READ THE TWO GHOST STORIES SET IN OWEGO, NY….if you dare!

I’M ADDING ONE LAST IMAGE THAT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH PUMPKINS.  IT HAS TO DO WITH LIFE.  LOOK AT THE PAINTING…my wishes to you who have followed these posts: Live your life to the fullest…every minute, every second. Live your life the best you can, love to the limit of what your heart can give…because you never really know when the bell will toll for thee……

Clock&Grave

John Tumbledown’s House

Brian&JohnTumbleDownHouse

I pushed the button on the camera and heard the shutter snap.  I captured my son midway through his pirouette in the field, in the field in front of the old farmhouse.

Something caught my eye just as the mirror flipped up in the camera.  Something in the farmhouse.

I lowered the Pentax slowly from my head, keeping my eyes on the house.  Whatever it was…well, it was probably nothing.

My son turned toward the high shrubs, toward the house.

“Brian,” I said. “No, don’t go over there.  It’s not our house.”

“But, Dad, nobody lives there!” he said with honesty, and he was right.

“Doesn’t matter, it’s not our property.  Come on, let’s go find some berries.”

We walked away.  After two steps, I stopped and turned to the house.  Brian was already intent on messing up a milkweed pod.  I looked at the house.  We called it “John Tumbledown’s House” when we spoke about it.  It was just at the edge of the property line of my father’s thirty acre wood lot.  The place had been abandoned for quite a few years.  There was some story about the old place, but no one I talked to could provide any details.  Something about the man we had begun calling John Tumbledown.  Something about how and when and where he died.

We found a berry patch alongside the wood lot, at the edge of an old field.  Was this John Tumbledown’s cornfield?  I sat and stared at the old wooden frame, the weathered wood, the sun-burned roof, the bleached siding, the broken steps and the pane less windows frames.  A bird flew out of an upstairs window.  A shutter banged against the outside wall when a slight breeze passed.  The season was early Autumn.  The trees were leafless.  The high clouds made the sky milky.  The air was cool…perhaps chilly.

I thought about fear.  I thought about why the house made me uncomfortable.  I thought about why the house didn’t seem to have any effect on Brian.  You hear stories that children (and dogs and cats for that matter) often exhibit a sixth sense sometimes.   Young people have less clutter, less static in their brains than we adults.   A child sees and hears things we don’t.

But that wasn’t happening here.  Brian felt totally at ease.  I, on the other hand, felt odd and off-balance.  Disturbed.  Worried.  Wary.  Protective.

Something about the house…something about John Tumbledown.

The shadows grew longer.  The air turned colder.  It was time to leave.

Only when I had the film developed did I notice something.  Was this what caught my eye when I snapped the picture?  There, on the first floor…there is something standing there…in the doorway.

Do you see it?