How Do I Love Thee?

[Love me do. Source: Google Search. dreamstime.]

But there is love that makes a cup of tea

Love that loves both who you are and who you want to be

Love that waits for you when you fall behind

That’s the kind of love I hope you find.

~~Gretchen Peters

Like all well-behaved bloggers, I am attuned to the seasons, the quickly changing weather and the hopping about of a true Robin, red breast included. I saw the solitary avian plundering a small portion of the massive lawn leading up to the Library of the New York Botanical Gardens. The bird was feasting with impunity. Yes, he or she had food and nearby water. But once the little tummy is filled, there are other challenges ahead. I’m assuming it was a male, and being male his every fiber, right now, should be trying to find a mate. I hate to say it, but that’s what it’s all about, this time of year. The tidal hormones are raging all around us… Procreate! Build a nest and live happily ever! You’re a bird, you know what to do…(or does he?).

And therein lies another tiny problem. How does he get a date, much less a mate? I taught science, so I would say to the Robin: Use color. Lots of it. Sing. Loudly and seductively. Two out of five senses isn’t much of an arsenal, but one has to use what one has.

Just now, I looked up the scientific name for a Robin. It’s Turdus migratorious. With a first name like that, this bird already has a few strikes against it. I had a fairly normal name, Pat, and I had plenty of trouble finding a mate. Good luck, Turdus. You’ll need it.

So where am I going with this? I should be sitting in the warmth of the sun, on our patio, reading Ulysses. Something light and easy on the eyes. Instead, I tried to find some examples of how someone, in a relationship, expresses their love for their partner. Specifically, some little action, pose, remark, touch or kiss that is often unexpected. But endearing in a major way.

[Here he is. Turdus migratorious. Source: Google Search]

I was propped up in bed, comfortable against the four pillows that kept my back from hitting the solid wood of our headboard. The weather prediction was for clear and sunny conditions, but I found myself pulling another blanket to my chin and stifling a shaking chill. In five minutes, the rain would begin to fall. My iPad sat against my knees. I checked the progress of the book I was reading. There it was: I was reading Demon Copperhead by Barbara Kingsolver. I had to chuckle to myself, I was making serious progress. I had been reading for about three hours, and I was 2% further along than I was when I picked up the book.

I needed a break from reading, so I went to the Amazon App. I was just about to make a final decision on our window treatments when I felt the need to close my eyes for a little Ocular R & R. My mind drifted back to something I read on Reddit about three months ago. It was a question: What are some endearing actions that your partner does that are quirky and are meant only for you.

Some of the responses were thoughtful and interesting… [These comments are reconstructed from my memory. One of them is my own contribution.]

-My wife came up to me from behind. She put her hand on the nape of my neck and then kissed me. I haven’t come back down to earth yet.

-She had long black hair. Straight. It came down over her face, obscuring her cheeks. She rested her chin on her hands and stared intently at me. Her eyes were large and deep green. She listened to me.

-The way she used to gather her hair to make a pony-tail. She was holding the small band in her lips and she had to look at me from an angle. It was such an adorable gesture (she didn’t have any idea how her eyes affected me. I can’t get that little glance out of my head.

-No one ever gave me a surprise party. When I was a young boy, I asked for permission to give a party. Someone said: Smarty gave a party and nobody came. I lived in terror of that happening for decades. Until my wife gave me a true surprise party. It was for my 50th birthday. I will be forever grateful for this gesture for years. Never really forgetting.

(My Favorite)…

-My wife is normally quite introverted. She never likes to be the center of attention. But at home, she is a different person. She can’t sing, but that doesn’t stop her from walking around the house singing, at the top of her voice, how much she loves me. She makes up the words as she sings. I am dumbfounded about how much her heartfelt and simple songs have enriched and enlivened my life.

Yes, it all seems so very delightful. But things were about to change for me. In a very big-time kind of way. I’m sitting, propped against the headboard with my five pillows, and staring out at the patio. I was trying to calculate the sun’s position in the sky and how it lined up with the angle of the solar panel atop our umbrella over our picnic table. It was all looking good. My list of daily complaints was down by one. I was smiling over the fact that I correctly aligned the solar panel so that when and if warmer weather ever arrives, we would have an array of LED lights to brighten our dinners. That, along with my Wonder Boom playing Johnny Cash or Old Crow Medicine Show. Nothing like a quiet evening. As I was reaching for my adult coloring book with the Magenta pencil attached with Velcro (I decided everything in the drawing should be Magenta), Mariam came into the bedroom.

She said: “How would you like to have that Mexican dinner you’ve been begging for?”

I said: “What tonight?”

She said: “Yes. And I have another suggestion. Shall I get tickets to Amateur Night at the Apollo?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Okay,” she said.

I said: “Why?”

She said: “It’s our 31st Wedding Anniversary.”

“I know,” I said.

A few hours later, we were sitting in a cozy restaurant on Broadway & 125th Street. We looked at the menu. Something was wrong. This wasn’t the menu we viewed online back home. It wasn’t the menu because we were in the wrong restaurant. We went next door, and I was soon in Taco Heaven. The show at the Apollo was great fun. I think I had a tiny crush on the tap dancer. Her name was Liberty Stiles. Her style was energetic and soulful. And she had a great name.

So where does all this leave me? One priority is for me to make that final decision on whether I want to improve my jawline definition. I think I’ll hold off a bit on this. It involves Botox, and that has something to do with cattle (I think. If it isn’t cattle, it’s something just as strange).

Amidst all my personal turmoil, the state of the country, the horrible killing in the Middle East…I was a happy guy on that first day of May 2024.

The only thing left is to get through my birthday at the end of the month.

Maybe I should redefine my jawline?

Is My Enchiridion Indulgentiarum Account Balanced?

[Purgatory. Credit: Shown Above]

Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Heaven–Unattainable.

Hell–Too Scary.

Purgatory–Negotiable.

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

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

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

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

[Purgatory. Source: Google Search.]

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

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

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

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

Or did it?

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

Only time will tell.

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

Anemonia Keeps Me Awake

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

~~Richter

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

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

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

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

And there was the photo. The Berlew Family Reunion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.]

The Gravity of Manhattan: Three Worlds

[Upper East Side Buildings. Photo is mine.]

Do you know what the sounds of this city are? Screams. All those buildings are gray with sadness.

~~ Soji Shimada

As I walked down the street from Broadway, I paused to listen…

When I secured a teaching position in New York City in the very early 1990s, I was working as a temp at IBM in Endicott, NY. I did not like the job testing circuit boards very much, so I was quite pleased to be moving to the City. I shared my news with a fellow temp, expecting a “good luck” or “good for you”, but instead I saw him scowl and heard him say: “Do you know how many people were murdered in that cesspool last year?”

I walked away from him and his rude remark. But I took solace in the fact that in a few months, I would be living in the Big Apple. And, months later, I was looking south toward the WTC and the Empire State Building from my 26th floor studio. I was lucky.

I never did find out how many people were killed.

Yes, I paused to listen. The truth is that I didn’t hear any screams. But the buildings are gray and there is a certain sadness inherent in this city. It’s not new. It’s been here since the Dutch had a colony. (Some people I’ve talked to over the years held a firm belief that the WTC, Ground Zero, the Freedom Tower seemed to have a certain negative energy. Cold, malevolent. I’ve felt it myself.)

The city exerts a certain gravity that is more profound than many of the world’s densely populated centers. I’ve heard a woman crying in the building where I first lived. I’ve seen angry people on the streets, in the subways and in the parks.

Furthermore, I’ve listened. There are three different (maybe more) levels of life buried in the city’s quiet roar.

Dawn. The sun, rising over Queens, sometimes reflects off windows and makes it appear like multiple sunrises. It’s quiet. A few Uber’s picking up couples, head east to JFK or LGA. Students are heading to the nearby schools, are not loud yet. They sip lattes and gently jostle one another. It’s quiet.

In the brightness of the day, the taxis roar up and down Broadway. The school kids, loud and rough with each other (boys) or reaching a high C with their exuberance (girls). The smell of cannabis drifts along the avenues. The rap music blares too loud for my seventy-six-year-old ears.

On chilly nights in January, when the mists hang over the Hudson River and the sun sets too early, a special melancholy pervades the air. Sometimes I fear it. Sometimes I enjoy and absorb the quiet world of the dark streets and empty alleys. Cats screech. Distant dogs bark. A siren.

But what else does one expect in mid-winter? Scarves of wool, coats of down, can not hold back the river winds. The survival mechanism is to be found in the heart and the belief that spring is not far away and a new cycle of hope and joy. Love, forgiveness, warmth, laughter and a kiss or two can do wonders to hold back the shadows.

There are no screams, unless you really, really listen. But they are voices from a history that began so many yesterdays ago and extend back in time. The sounds, the voices, the humanity can, if you put your ear to the pavement, can take us back to the forests and farms of a pre-colonial Manhattan. Keep listening, and you will find yourself back to the primordial sea, from which we all were born.

I’ve heard the surf at Coney Island. I wonder how intense the quiet was on the shores of that ancient sea.

{A postscript: A few hours ago, I walked out of the 5th Avenue door of Mount Sinai Hospital after a routine endoscopy (I’m okay, thanks). We hailed a Yellow. The ‘hired’ light on the roof was not lit. He pulled up and asked Mariam where we were going. I thought he was going to pull to the corner and let the woman out. She was sitting in the backseat. Then he would take us to the west side. Mariam opened the back door. I stood back for the woman to get out. I was not a little shocked to find the seat empty! But I saw her through the window. Inside, I told Mariam about the woman as we crossed Central Park. I anticipated her comment. It was not a reflection of you, I said. You have a red parka. She didn’t show any red. Besides, I said, you were at the wrong angle for a reflection to be possible (I was a science teacher for years).

So, who was this woman? I did see her. I have an idea about this, but that’s another blog for another day.}

[Nighttime cityscape. 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.]

Twelve Days With A Sad Little Tree

Ho ho the mistletoe

Is hung where you can see

Somebody waits for you

Kiss her once for me…

~~Burl Ives (Lyrics by Johnny Marks)

[The sad tree. Photo is mine.]

Once upon a time, I was sitting in a small inexpensive apartment in a city quite far from where I’m writing this, and I was sad.

The holidays were approaching too fast for me. I stood in the cracked-glass window and looked out at the street, the houses and the city beyond. The Yuletide Spirit filled the air. The malls were crowded. The taverns were full. The beautiful teenage girls wore red coats with red Santa hats and white mittens. The handsome teenage boys carried hockey sticks and toboggans. Der Bingle sang White Christmas from the radio behind me as the children on the sidewalk threw snowballs at one another. So much joy.

And I was still sad…so sad that I began to cry.

I looked around my living space. In an empty corner of the living room the TV sat silent as a Christmas night. The sofa had my blanket and pillow where I slept last night.

The room was too bare. I needed a tree.

On day one, I walked to the nearby Dollar Store to buy matches. There, by the entrance, was a tree. A very sad tree. I stood and looked at it. It seemed to say: Buy Me! So I did. (I always listen when a tree talks to me). It was now my tree. I paid cash and dragged it home. No need to worry about a proper stand and water. The tree wasn’t real and no needles would be dropping on my shag rug. I also bought a small string of white pin lights for $.99. I had three bulbs that I once placed on my family tree, back in the day. Better days. I stood back and studied the plastic pine. You’re pretty lame, I said to no one. You’re pathetic, I said to myself. You’re an embarrassment, I said to the tree. I can’t let anyone see you.

Darkness had fallen on the street.

On day two, I heard something on the front porch. The bell rang. Carolers.

I opened the door to six adults and their six children. I stood as they sang Silent Night Oh, Little Town of Bethlehem and three more lively carols. I wanted to kiss them all, the fathers too, but I failed to buy the Mistletoe. They stopped and someone said Merry Christmas. Same to you all, I said. They hesitated a moment and left. I had left the door open all this time.

On day three, I heard an unexpected doorbell ring. Not that I was expecting anyone. I opened the door to an adult and a little girl, who was bundled in fleece and faux fur. Mister, she said, I sang for you last night. I remember, I said. Well, sir, I peeked in and saw your pretty little tree. But, I thought you needed one more piece for the top. She pointed with her mitten. Then she reached in a Macy’s bag and pulled out a little golden star. Here, and Merry Christmas, she said. How much do I owe you?, I asked her. Oh, nothing. Gifts are free. Thank you, I said. The mother nodded to me and a tiny, ever so small and sweet smile moved on her lips.

I placed the star on top and stood back. Funny, I thought, the girl saw the tree pretty and I saw it as scrawny. But, you’re not so bad after all, I said with a smile. What shall I call you? I have to give you a name. After all, my UkuleIe is named ‘Maybellene’. I thought it over. I know, your name shall be Tiny Tim, now and forever. I poured myself a double of Snapple Unsweetened Iced Tea and placed eight Tater Tots into the toaster oven. The bell went ‘ping” and, with a generous dollop of ketchup, I was good to go with my dinner. The Travel Channel is something of my default setting so on it went and we watched a documentary on the Migratory Habits of the Musk Ox. “In the spring, the mother musk ox takes her young…” I dozed, off but not before commenting to my tree: “Watch this, it’s so cool”.

On day four, a friend dropped by. He handed me an unwrapped box. No need to wrap it, he said. You may want to use it in the days ahead. I opened it and pulled out a CD. It was Bob Dylan’s Christmas of the Heart. I put it in and played “Christmas Island”. I laughed. I smiled. I sang along. I first smelled the tree.

On day five, I played the song again. The Bob is having so much fun. I loved it. I grinned and sipped a Toddy. It wasn’t the toddy, but the tree looked pretty smart in the afternoon light.

On day five, I turned on my Weather Watch radio and listened as Dr. Bambi, the meteorologist, told us that a major snow event was coming our way. This made me sing out loud…Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow. I adjusted a bulb on the tree. Pretty smart, I said to no one.

On day six, I sat down and watched It’s A Wonderful Life on TCM. I always cry at the part when George tries to find Mary, his wife. But not sad tears, happy tears, if such things exist. I felt good as I wiped away the salt from my cheeks.

On day seven, I was back on TCM. This time I saw Sleepless in Seattle for the twelfth time. I cried, as usual, when Tom Hanks almost misses Meg Ryan on top of the Empire State Building. I smiled at the happy ending. I turned to my tree and said: Great movie. I know, I thought the tree had spoken to me.

On day eight, I stopped in at The Clarence Tavern to see an old friend. She had just put a dollar in the juke box and was listening to Honky Tonk Woman. Such a nice old song, I said. But a tad old, don’t ya think, Carla? I had a shandy and got up to leave. You know, I had a vision last night, she said. The Rolling Stones were going to have another #1 hit someday in the future. Ha, I said as I headed for the door. In your dreams, I said. Merry Christmas, she said.. Back to you, I said.

On day nine, I sat and watched the Evening News at Six. I had put a cup of water in the stand of my tree. Hey, some habits are hard to break. I smiled. The News showed a clip of cars in some city to the west sliding down a hill while the snow fell. They played Paul Simon’s Slip Slidin’ Away. It was funny. No one was hurt, just fenders bent. I tweaked a plastic branch on my tree and laughed.

On day ten, I heard that the New York Giants were going to be playing in the Superbowl. I laughed and smiled. Must be someone’s idea of a practical joke, I thought. I watered my tree again. While bending over, I noticed three pine needles on the shag carpet. Imports, I said, with a laugh.

On day eleven, the doorbell rang. It was the little girl and her mom. The child handed me a candy cane and the mother passed a bag over her daughter’s head. It was a bottle. I almost cried from pure joy. I closed the door and immediately the scent of pine and evergreen and balsam hit my nose. Must be the candy cane, I thought. I laughed. I hung the child’s gift on the branch below the star. The tree felt funny.

On day twelve, I brought a mug of Oolong tea into the living room to play the Dylan Christmas album again. The scent of pine was overwhelming. I went over to the tree…

A small miracle had occurred in my apartment. The plastic had turned into real needles and real wood. It wasn’t a small miracle, it was a mind-blowing major event. The doorbell rang. The carolers were there. I invited them in. My friend Carla stepped in behind them. My friend Bob was a minute late. I put on Dylan. We sang It Must Be Santa Claus, White Christmas, Silent Night and Deck the Halls and more than a few Hanukkah songs. I was out of tune but everyone else sounded like angels. We lit more candles. I lit my tree. A father helped his little very observant daughter lite the Menorah. We turned down the lights and sang until the end of time…which was ten o’clock. They all left me alone with my tree. I couldn’t stop laughing.

I can’t say my tree resembled the one at Rockefeller Center, but it was real and it was here. Still scrawny, but very real.

Everyone had a great time. I’m so glad they all got my invitation.

I turned out all the lights and walked in the near-dark to the sofa. I wanted to leave the tree lights on. I settled into my plush pillow, pulled my Irish throw over my legs and put my earbuds in. I couldn’t get enough Christmas music. I closed my eyes.

Softly, ever so softly, almost mutely, hushed, gentle and with sweetness, I heard my tree, my Tiny Tim Tree say “God Bless us Every One”.