Flight of the Feather

 “What would happen if the entire world were silent at the same time? For like, twelve minutes or so,” was the line that woke me up in a reading someone was sharing to begin the Days of Awe.  I was stunned by its simplicity and yet piqued by its power.  Everyone? Everywhere?  In every corner of the world, and every way of being human? Diverse people of all shapes, sizes and colors stopping what they are doing, and silently embracing quiet together, while the planet still spins.  It’s a distracting thought for someone literal, and especially when considering the logistics.

Silenced radios, phones and TVs; quieted cars, planes, boats, tractors and escalators; hushed villages,  cruise ships, stores, stadiums, trains, movie theatres, Ferris wheels, subways; people perfectly still in offices, airports, and on mountains, islands, motorcycles, buses and streets.  Quietly feeding chickens.  Silently birthing babies.  An entire human race muted while making love.  Muffled mid-crime, in war and as terrorists.  Twelve minutes of a world completely quiet in the universe because all its people agree to give it a try, and seek out its unknown result.

It seemed a compelling and yet ridiculous thought.

 

It was then I remembered him.

   

Something about the silence, and overwhelming ridiculousness of it all at once, and the way my mind wanders seeking patterns, is when he came back to me:  Peter.  A man I never met but to whom I was connected in silence, for three years.

His memory floated in front of me, suddenly out of nowhere after forty years. Caught somewhere between one moment of listening and the next in memory.  Disconnected from its source and out of place with its purpose. Like a feather, simply falling from the sky. Mesmerizing me with its flutter and gentle dance downward from the past.  Teasing me to pluck it out of the air, remember and take it home.  For safe keeping.

Peter Shoeffel.  The man I never met who was in a war I barely understood.

Cmdr. Peter V. Shoeffel, the name I was randomly given when I ordered my Vietnam POW bracelet to wear in 1970. 

It’s entirely possible I read this Navy commander’s name on my wrist a hundred times a day, for those three years:                                                                                                                                                                     Glancing down while grabbing things, getting dressed, driving, reading, eating, and gesticulating my way freely through everyday life. Feeling the engraved letters absent mindedly when I was bored.  Being in silence a few minutes every night before slept:                                                                                                            

Reflecting in earnest to let him know he was not alone. Always asking the universe to keep him alive, the Vietcong to spare him, and this war to end soon.

Life went on and my bracelet never came off.  I graduated high school and wore it into college.  After a good while it was a regular part of me.  No one noticed anymore.

Until March, 1973 when the POW in the Hoa Lo were set free.  Peter had been in what was cryptically known as the Hanoi Hotel or Heartbreak Hotel.  It was announced on the evening news that newspapers would publish the names of these POW survivors soon.  I checked the paper every day until I finally found it.  The Boston Globe simply posted it on the flip side of the obituary page in an ironic reflective placement. Today my old, yellowed original copy creates a surreal, macabre reflection of content.  The article simply states, “the 108 to go free tomorrow” in lower case and underneath is a modest list of names in very small font. They were in alphabetical order from Andrews to Zuhoski, with a civilian named Bobby Kneesee thrown in as 108. At the time I skipped right over the unfamiliar name John McCain who was number 58 on the list.

I stopped cold on number 70:  Peter vanRuyter Schoeffel.  He was alive, and now free.

The intention of my three year silent support and our national vigil of hope for their survival were finally over.  But I hadn’t a clue what I was supposed to do next, except simply take some jewelry off. These men had been tortured prisoners for over five years and the ridiculous reality was I had worn what seemed a stupid bracelet, thinking it would help.  I began to imagine them coming home, reuniting with family, carrying the pain of war and horror they endured.  His courage and survival in silence were mindboggling.  It left me feeling inadequate with a gaping, humble hole of helplessness and rage at the atrocities of war.  I was lost.

But it was the silence that carried me and brought me home.  The three years had taught me something I couldn’t put in words and yet could feel.  I hold immeasurable gratitude for Cmdr. Shoeffel’s sacrifice of silence which connected him to us all. In reality, this silent vigil with a bracelet and a name had marked my own coming of age in a time of war and into the human race. 

“What would happen if the entire world were silent at the same time? For like, twelve minutes or so.” I am simply in awe of its endless possibility for peace.

"In bitter times a whisper came,

That seemed an easy thing to say,

But was to us a guiding flame

To light a long and weary way:

"Have faith, hold fast..."

Excerpt from "The Creed," by Peter vanRuyter Schoeffel

(Creed source:  Matt Soergel, Florida Times Union, 3.23.08)

"Pete Schoeffel wrote poems, tales of home and hope and despair that, for years, existed only in his head."

Photo:  Don Farrall

93 Miles

Ninety-three miles.  That’s it.  Cuba is only ninety-three miles away from the United States.  If we were on land, you could drive there in an hour and a half.  Why, some people drive that long in this country just to get to work every day. 

Ninety-three miles. That is virtually the same distance as a round trip between Martha’s Vineyard and Cape Cod.  

Ninety-three miles and fifty-four years of two countries being a world apart.  Until now.  This week Secretary of State John Kerry went to Cuba to raise the American flag above the U.S. Embassy for the first time in 54 years.  History just shifted, an embargo was lifted and we all came back into view.

My own lack of knowledge about Cuba and its history is astounding. I learned about the Cuban Revolution, Fidel Castro and the Missile Crisis as glibly as I absorbed Life magazine photos of Cuban cars and cigars.  Back then we were a nation of children watching adults watch the news, in a world of black and white. I was seven years old.  Parents talked late into the night in hushed tones about the Cold War, Kennedy and Castro. Children were to be seen and not heard.

I lived in the state that bred the Kennedy monarchy, in a time determined to sell us a post war bliss.  We were fed a new normal surrounded by TV dinners, potatoes flakes in a box, Soupy Sales, PF Flyers, Romper Room, puppets and clowns.  Dads were meant to go off to work in the tall buildings in the city and Moms could stay home in the burbs, wearing pearls.  There were cocktail parties, convertibles and terraces in a time when magazines had full page ads for Winstons and whiskey.  It was a world right before stereo, plastic, pill box hats and pantyhose.  Meanwhile, in Cuba, a mere ninety-three miles away, there was a revolution, a dictator and families were being torn apart.  Children were seen but some never heard from again. 

My understanding of the Cuban people and its rich, beautiful culture was never in my history books.  I can’t remember one course in school that chose to dive deep into it.  There were no people of Cuban descent in my world and no stories shared. A plethora of Cuban talent and important people never made it to my privileged, packaged, political world.  The Cuban culture came to me only through the stereotype of Ricky Ricardo from I Love Lucy.  And that Havana scene in Guys and Dolls.   Ninety-three miles away became out of this world, merely forgotten and forbidden.  

Flash forward to the custody and immigration status battle of Elian Gonzalez in 2000 in Miami, Florida and that about covered my deep dive into experiencing the politics of Cuba.  Sprinkle in a few vacations to Miami for some Cuban culture and that was about it. 

Until last year.

Last spring I got cast in the play Sonia Flew by Melinda Lopez.  We were a cast transported back to Cuba 1961 as seen through the fictional family experiencing Castro’s Cuba.  I played teenage Sonia’s mother, Pilar.

Researching and preparing for this role became a Cuban crash course in the history I never received.  The political pain and fear from which I was protected was at the heart of these characters and the world in which they survived.  But truth be told:  Sonia Flew was the first time I had ever heard of Operation Pedro Pan.  It was nothing like the Peter Pan from which it translates.  It seems Never, Never land lasted 54 years.

“Operation Pedro Pan was the largest recorded exodus of unaccompanied minors in the Western Hemisphere…a joint operation by the U.S. government and the Catholic Welfare Bureau, Pedro Pan secretly airlifted to the United States more than 14,000 children after warnings began to surface that Fidel Castro’s government would soon be taking children, against the wishes of their parents, to military schools and to Soviet labor camps.  Once in the U.S. some children were united with family members who had immigrated earlier to the U.S. but others were sent to live with foster families, to boarding schools or orphanages in as many as 35 states.   Parents who made the decision to send their children to Operation Pedro Pan probably figured that the Castro regime wouldn’t last long and their children would soon be home.”  (Source: JTB program) 

However, many never saw their parents again. Like Sonia in the play when she is ripped from her parents to suddenly leave for America in the dark of night.  It’s was a final scene in a beautiful script that implores us to remember and never forget.  The children, the parents.  The beautiful country, its culture and people.  

Ninety three miles away this week two countries met again in the middle, and raised their flags in peace.  

I watched it on the TV news, in color and wept.  

Holding the Prescription

"How ARE you?" I asked the familiar woman in the aisle while shopping at Target. Several life chapters ago, this woman used to be a fixture in my life. Today, we were merely anonymous consumers, discreetly holding our obvious purchases. I was trying to carry all mine but they kept inadvertently slipping out of my hands as I spoke, one by one and onto the floor. Over and over again, up and down, as I swung to catch one and then grab another from falling. It was like Cirque du Soleil for Bathroom Supplies. It was ridiculous, and I was regretting not getting a cart.

While I was busy juggling, it seemed she was clutching. The pharmacist had just handed her several prescriptions, and she grabbed them tightly in a fist and then held them all extremely close to herself. They seemed a confidential shield between us, despite the fact that all the labels were facing out. The conversation began as normal, but when combined with the props and staging it was all teetering on being oddly discordant.

"Wow, it's been like ten years since I've seen you - how is your family?" she asked kindly. I caught her up quickly, and pulled out my Smartphone for the quintessential photos. There were ooo’s and ahh’s as well as both of us reflecting on how we were now older, and aging.

I was trying to remember her daughter’s name. "How's your daughter? She went to medical school, right?"
“Yes.”
There was not one brain cell that could recall this child’s name, but I could picture her vividly. As a young girl, she seemed extremely shy, quiet and very studious. She had skipped a grade and was always into academic pursuits, as were her parents. She had been destined for a PhD or more. “She’s a doctor, now, right?”

"Well, actually, not anymore. She just left the profession, after all that training and all those years in practice.”
“OH. Really? Wow...Well, what does she do now?”
“She’s a country singer.” Thud went the toilet paper.

"I'm sorry? What?" I said as I tried to hold it all together.

"A country singer."

This seemed the very last thing one would ever, ever, ever, ever have thought this quiet, reserved child would choose to become, or genre of music I would imagine they might ever have played at home. This news immediately made me irrational. I fixated on the stage personas of Dolly Parton, Loretta Lynn, Winona Judd and Faith Hill and placed them onto this young woman I knew. Like a virtual paper doll in my head. None of them fit.

“Wow…" I said to myself but realized it was out loud.
I eventually rallied with, "Is she happy?"

"Happier than we ever imagined! Who knew she could sing?!!!!!" She gesticulated freely now every time she spoke, with her bags of prescriptions sounding like medicinal maracas.

“Yeah, really. Huh. Who knew…”
The Noxema now fell from my grasp, and was rolling away so I skipped around the corner to pick it up. "Have you actually heard her sing?" I said while on the other side.

"Nope, not yet."

I was regrouping my purchases as well as my reaction. "So…a country singer…Huh. Well, I guess she moved to Nashville, Tennessee then?"

"No, no, no, she still lives in New York with her husband."

“Oh. Well, I suppose New York City is a really good choice for a singer, too!”

"Actually, they live in Scarsdale. Scarsdale, New York.” She shuffled the white bags of prescriptions as if she were putting them in order. I shuffled my feet.

“Is there a lot of work for country singers in Scarsdale?" And just as I began to slip into judging, her words guided me back.

"I don't know, good question! All we know is she is very happy and finding her way. We are so proud of her.”

“Well, that’s beautiful. She must feel, well, so free now. It sounds like she has a new calling. Good for her!” At this point I finally had a good handle on what I was holding.

“I just knew you would understand! After all, both of your adult children chose to be artists!”

“Yes, indeed. They sure did. Right. ”

A few minutes later, we hugged goodbye, holding the basics between us. My old friend seemed at peace as we stood between the hedgerows of feminine products, incontinence pads and hemorrhoid ointments. It seemed an important place to honestly bear the truth and reckon with all that keeps us humble and real.

This may be the creepiest photograph I have ever taken.  It surely is the oddest.  Definitely creepy.  Might even the weirdest.  It’s downright artistic, though, and for that reason I love it.  It was a one in a million shot taken in my office in a moment of complete serendipity. All I really know is I will forever need to explain it.

At face value, you may have figured out who it is.  Was.  Is.  Or isn’t.  Yeah, he’s dead now. Well, not dead in this photo, but died after this plaster face mold was made.  Well, he didn’t die from the making of this mold.  He died in 1993, the plaster mask was made in 1990 and I shot the photo in 2014.  Hell, this really will be about explaining forever.

This is a plaster face mold of the famous actor Vincent Price. 

It’s not mine, but one morning suddenly it was in my office.  I was merely doing e-mail from my computer seconds before and sitting quietly at my desk.  The disconnect was palpable.  TV Land, cue: “Lucy, you’ve got some ‘splaining to do!”

Ok, let me rewind just a bit.  Vincent Price was famous for a career starring in campy horror movies, many of which were directed by Roger Corman.  I have since learned from my cheap late-night date, Mr. Wiki Pedia that “Roger was an American independent film producer, director and actor. From 1960-1965, Roger Corman released eight films that were billed as being based on the works of Edgar Allan Poe and all but one of them starred Vincent Price.”

So now go ahead, take a closer look at the photo. It’s ok, he won’t mind, he’s dead. Yup, that is Roger Corman’s autograph signed on the forehead of Vincent Price, done years after he died.  A downright macabre autograph decision which Vincent himself probably would have loved.  If you top it off with the fact that I think this face mold was made during the filming of Edward Scissorshands, which was directed by Tim Burton and not Roger, then it makes this an art mystery of myriad proportions.

It seem my colleague Joel Washington bought this gem from a famous Hollywood make-up artist named Tom Savini when he was in Louisville, Kentucky.  One day Joel came into my office and ever so casually took it out of a small, plastic bag to show me, which then scared the bejeezus out of me. Just another work day in paradise.  And people wonder why I never get bored at work.

So, on this early morning Joel had gone out of his way to find my office which is not typical to our daily routine as we do very different jobs, have overlapping hours and just work in the same building, floors apart. Joel is a well-known freelance painter for whom I have much respect.  His works are commissioned all over, even by dignitaries, half way around the world.   For almost twenty years we have had an early morning chit chat routine, crossing paths downstairs.  We often pause to talk about painting, theatre, family and photography.  We check in with each other to learn what the other is working on these days, or what shows we might have coming up.  Sometimes we talk so much the elevator opens and closes several times before I ever get on it.  Joel and I have a concentric respect for all things art and all souls artistic.  But this moment was different as it wasn’t about his work.   He wanted me to see this piece as he knew I’d really appreciate it, and all the theatrical layers it held.  He was right.

It seems that holding a replica of a dead man’s face conjures up a lot.  It has depth, and way too much realism. It’s a new way to see art, and a ghastly reality check.  A moment that seems too intimate, almost a violation of some kind and yet draws you in with how it is so tremendously accurate.   There are wrinkles and sagging skin, eyes not opened and words not coming out. It’s mesmerizing and magnetic.  Repulsive and seemingly wrong.  Artistic and amazing.  Deathly, ghoulish, chilling.  In a way it seems to have an artistic life of its own.

With Vincent in hand, it occurred to me that I never met this world famous man and yet now “knew” parts of him in ways most never will.  What do you do with that sort of cognitive dissonance?  I just stared and stared, in quiet.  After a bit, I gingerly placed him down on the table between us.  It seemed the least I could do.  His eyes were closed so it was like he was napping, sans the body.

All three of us quietly were together as the morning sun streamed in.  The work day was now here and staff outside my office were beginning to clatter into place.   Joel and I chatted about Vincent’s face and the artistic intricacies of it all as he shared the story of how he bought it.  I kept glancing down at Vincent, as if at any moment he might open his eyes or have a cryptic line to share.  I began to remember his distinct voice from movies and its melodious, smooth delivery and low register. 

Then I saw it.  The sunlight coming in and forming shadows onto the table. Slowly they moved, ever so slowly.  I kept watching in fascination and meditation. It was changing form in every new second and yet we kept talking.  Then I realized what I saw.  Vincent was now perfectly framed in a shadow that looked like a window frame.  The most cogent moment of art imitating life.  Vincent was in the window as if from another dimension while we were sitting here.

I leapt up and apologized to Joel as I stopped the conversation, while rushing to find my phone camera as my 35mm was at home.  “I’m so sorry, just a second… sorry, this’ll just take a minute…” I began taking several shots as the light changed with each one.  Joel understood.  “I see an amazing photograph here and just have to take it! Keep talking Joel, I’m listening, but I just have to get this shot or I’ll regret it.”  A photographer’s forever lament.  Then moment passed as quickly as it came.  Vincent was put back in the bag, and we casually went back to work.  Three artists took a break that day and one forever changed.

That’s a wrap.  Thanks, Vincent.  Got it.

“The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?” Edgar Allan Poe

 

Leaping From Buildings Can Be Hazardous to Your Health

As I watched the last episode of Mad Men I kept thinking about my generation's real life version of all these pieces of the puzzle we watched unfold around Don Draper. The series left off where we caught up in real life as young adults. In 1971 we were burgeoning into a world filled with the Vietnam war, and having survived way too many assassinations. It was a time of trying to desperately shift anew. Thank you, Mad Men for making it so real. It's been a poignant ride, to... say the least.

Peace and love, not war and product. This final episode wove in the hippie commune, yoga, meditation, the EST-like group therapy movement (look it up!), women's rights and even that famous Coca Cola commercial. The origins of so much we forget didn't start today. What on earth is it like to see that last episode when you don't remember these things? Did it even make sense? Did it seem trite and comical? Fake and ridiculous? All I know is that for me it was tactile. I could feel it all over again.

Watching Mad Men all these years has been a bizarre way to do time travel. A place where I could see, touch, feel and relive my younger life, down to the every little set piece, outfit, décor, mindset, political snafu and shaping trend. A time of Yoga and meditation: brought to us purely by Paramahansa Yogananda, not marketed en masse by Lululemon.

This may have been an entertaining show for some to learn history through fictional characters, or dissect its art form but for others of us - well, it felt like home. It was the life perspective lens from which our generation formed our values and chose the path of our future. The 50-60-70's. Painful, dysfunctional, naïve, oppressive, simple, hopeful, horrible, thrilling. A post-war juggernaut speeding us forward to the unknown.

The unknown better known as Now. What a ride.

Coming and Going

"Swimming with dolphins! That is definitely one of them.” I was flipping through the pages of a magazine and dreaming out loud in response to seeing a dolphin in an ad. “If I made a Bucket List, I think swimming with dolphins would be near the top."

“Huh.” said my husband who smiled at me, but seemed to be half listening. I know that place. It's possible I perfected it. The I-am-not-listening-to-one-word-you-are-really-saying-as-you-have-said-all-this-so-many-times-in-40 years- I-know-all-the-details-already, sort of listening. It’s an art actually. Couples who have been together for decades often master the technique. We just need to hear the topic, vocalize a sound, and let the other know we have all the details, on file. Merely indicate we are still here. Still here, 40 years later listening to all those dreams and catching each other with casual conversation.

“Swimming with dolphins. Going on a whale watch. Seeing horses run wild. ..”

“….Going on an African safari…”

“YES! Going on an African safari!!! Right?! That has always been my number one, thanks. Huh. I don’t think I ever realized 'til right now just how many of my dreams involve animals.” My mind began to wander as I flipped the pages of the magazine and saw another ad.

I paused on a photo of a woman doctor, in her white uniform holding a stethoscope and talking to a patient with gray hair. A young doctor serving an elderly patient. It was an ad for some kind of heart medicine but before I cared to learn more, my mind had begun to think differently about what I saw.
“Now there something I’ll never do. Be a doctor. I am finally too old to think I’ll ever have time to be a doctor.” I said emphatically as I turned the photo for my husband to see. As if seeing it made it personal.

“You never wanted to be a doctor! How can that be upsetting?!”
“Well, it’s not upsetting. I’m just sayin. Even if I wanted to do it, at this age - it’s now officially off the list. It’s not even possible. Like .. playing tennis professionally. Becoming a French chef. Or biologically having more babies.” These disparate choices sounded so bizarre that even I began to recalibrate toward finding a point. “Ok, there are things you just can’t even pretend are possible anymore. Know what I mean? You age out, or your body can’t do it. People may have Bucket Lists of dreams they still want to do but no one talks a lot about the list you suddenly can't do anymore. They just start fading away as being anything remotely possible. Maybe that's why we create Bucket Lists."

My husband gently put his book down and turned his body a wee bit to his left, to face me. It seemed I was wading in murky territory now and he may need to throw me a line sometime soon. If I’m not careful I might get all melancholy or cynical about dreams lost and careers never crafted.
I decided using him as an example might help my point. “It would be like you becoming a professional baseball player. Right? Or being in the Olympics! Or walking the Appalachian trail!!"
"I did walk the Appalachian trail!!!"
 
"Oh. Yeah. Well, you know what I mean. Ya know? All that kind of fantasy stuff that keeps you thinking you might someday, even though you never really could, or would even want to."
We both quietly paused and looked away. Far away into that safe place where older people meet their younger selves and take a wistful look around. It was a short trip, as now I saw the comparison.
 
“Ok, so:
If all those dreams you still want to do before you die is called A Bucket List, then what do you think THIS list is called? The opposite of a A Bucket List is called…”

“A F*ck It List.”

Yes!!! Love this man.

Breaking Away

It took one second to happen, a few minutes to focus and days later before I realized the meaning.



Late, last Friday afternoon in a small parking lot on campus there was a loud, thud sound in the side street beside me, which made me look up as it was simultaneous to a speeding car driving by.  I remember thinking it might have been a muffler backfiring but then I became distracted by my own judgements.  It had been a black, very shiny Hummer-like brand new car speeding by which found me weighing in narrowly on students of privilege.  It was Little 500 weekend, and apparently it was starting off with a bang.



Just then I saw it.  In the middle of the street.  It was gray, oval shaped, really large and sort of rocking back and forth.  Part of me didn’t care to find out what it was while another part of me got very curious.  A third part froze, as for some reason it now looked to be a huge hornet’s nest.  A gigantic hornet’s nest, rocking in the middle of the road immediately after that car from another planet drove by.  It was like a quiet emergency with no one around to witness, but me.  Soon it seemed it would find its balance and be still.  A quiet emergency of a rocking hornet’s nest, ready to explode with potentially more disgruntled hornets inside from hell than any sci-fi movie could conjure.  A hornet’s nest from … wait a minute.  Why would students be throwing out a hornet’s nest from their car? How does a Hummer get a humungous hornet’s nest inside it in the first place? Should I be calling 911?  It was then that my left brain took over and gave my imagination a time out. 



By now the swaying had settled and the large gray, oval shaped object was finally still.  There it sat, in the middle of the street, like a meteor landing from outer space with no one around to see it.  It was then I decided I needed to learn more.  Carefully.



I walked slowly toward it, very slowly. Rushing over in any way seemed synonymous with a death wish. As I got closer, I could see there were layers to it, and was imagining all the small hornet nests I had seen in my life which always have struck me as being a magnificent insect papier-mâché project.  Each step brought it more into focus.  It was like being at the eye doctor when they put a round lens in the slot and ask you if you can see better now.  How about now?  Now?  Well, now it was clear it wasn’t a hornet’s nest after all.  It was the head of a Buddha. 



A head of a large Buddha statue had landed in the middle of the road on a Friday afternoon in front of me during Little 500 Weekend in the land of Breaking Away.  I’ve seen a lot of crazy in twenty years of the Best College Weekend so, to be honest, this was just silly.  Until my heart caught up with my head.  A Buddha statue is sacred.  It is considered one of the most important parts of the body of the Buddha as it represents infinite knowledge as the Awakened One.  A headless Buddha statue in the middle of a road is wrong, on myriad levels. Everything got very quiet and I wished I wasn’t alone. 



There aren’t any employee manuals for this one. No lessons to learn on how to make decisions when the head of broken Buddha statue is suddenly randomly in a street, and needs to be removed.  Or needs to find its home.  Or body.  It’s a moment gingerly balancing comedy and tragedy, piety and purpose.



I was frozen in place in the parking lot pondering these deep thoughts when a young man slowly began walking down the steep steps from his porch on the other side of this small street.  We were both in this moment together and yet he didn’t see me at all.  He stepped slowly forward, but then bravely onto the sidewalk, then eventually into the street.  I had decided he was the chosen savior and me, merely the elder to someday tell the tale.   This youthful soul stood over the beheaded Buddha and did nothing, for a long time.  Or a few seconds, which is an eternity when you experience universe perplexity.  He seemed to be gathering information as well, and then took his foot and nudged the head gently.  Then again, as if to wake it up.  Then he glanced right, then slowly left and back down but never forward to see me.  Finally, he tenderly picked it up.  It took a bit for him to find the balance of it all.  Then he simply carefully carried it back up the stairs and went inside.  
  

I left.  I regretted it, but I left.  I told myself it seemed better left alone and held no real information.



That weekend I almost went back to knock on the young man’s door to find out what he had actually done with it.  Maybe it was stolen and needed reporting.  Something I can’t quite frame seemed to make me want to ask, but something equally urgent immediately stopped me. By now it may have been recycled as a footstool, a beer bong holder or a kitschy knick-knack.  It would all seem no big deal to most but I was struggling with the responsibility and meaning of it all.  In all likelihood, it may simply have just gone into the trash.  It was a busy college weekend and I moved on to other much more important things. 
 
Days later the parallel hit me like a thud.  I had spent the week seeking out news stories and photographer’s captures regarding the earthquake in Nepal, which had happened early Saturday morning of Little 500 weekend.  Thousands had died, and millions of sacred pieces were destroyed. It seemed we were a world in mourning a tragedy a lifetime away.  Then I saw it.  These stunning captures showed temples in ruins, people in shock, homes demolished and lives lost. It was heartbreaking. 


The streets were filled with people, its culture, faiths and traditions in shock.

And statues of broken Buddha’s all around. 

(Photo: A Buddha statue is surrounded by debris from a collapsed temple in the UNESCO world heritage site of Bhaktapur in Nepal. Image: Omar Havana/Getty Images)

I grew up in a small street, on a hill which overlooked the city of Boston skyline. We were a street of almost entirely Irish Catholic families, most of whom were first generation, some of whom spoke with a brogue. My childhood was surrounded and forever influenced by these newly immigrant families.

My Irish Feeney Boston family and mother Claire were known for spur of the moment piano playing, poetry reading, dancing, singing out loud, playing cards and drinking hearty. ...Needless to say, my childhood was unique. St. Paddy’s Day was like a national holiday – the beer was green, the pubs were packed, the parade important and we all blessed the corned beef and cabbage on the way down.

Actually, the Irish friendly city of Boston goes much further south than most know. The Cape Cod Irish restaurant pub was alive with dancing and music where we lived all summer when I was growing up, late into the wee hours of the weekend. I remember packed rooms with the fiddles playing to the Celtic beat, and all the musicians singing with a thick Brogue, and patrons joyously joining in. My parents danced the night away on Saturday nights while I was given an education of a lifetime. It was loud, raucous and lovely. My childhood was unique, indeed.

In time, I eventually lived on Cape Cod myself every summer with a roommate here and there. By now I was working side by side in restaurants and motels with others my age who had just come over from Ireland. Year after year so many came, as the Irish restaurants made sure to faithfully host and employ them, like family. We all had summer jobs together, went out to the pubs on the weekends to sing and dance, and spent our days on the beach in the sun. 
 
Then on Labor Day weekend, we all headed home. Us to Boston and them to Dublin. My last memory of those Irish days long ago and far away was as I sat at laundromat in West Harwich, Cape Cod. It was late, it was hot and I was tired. My clothes were inside drying while I was sitting outside on the bench taking in the starry night and watching the occasional car drive by. I was sad to see the summer come to an end. Suddenly my friend Kathleen drove up to say goodbye. She was leaving to go home to Dublin the next day and my roommate told her where I was as she just didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye. It never quite occurred to me that someday I would never see her or most of my Irish family again. 
 
“Have you ever been to Ireland?” she asked as she got into her car ready to drive away, forever. “You really should come visit someday. Look me up, ok?!." She reached out and grabbed my hand, and squeezed it, "You always have a friend in Ireland,” she said with a lilt and smile.
Indeed.

“May the road rise up to meet you, may the wind be ever at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face and the rain fall softly on your fields..”
 

Ode to a Squirrel: Tremendous Apology to the Poet Robert Frost and "The Road Less Traveled"

There was a road not taken by a traveling boy who diverged in a yellow wood.  It was early, dark and cold.  Our dog was leading the way to the neighbor's yard, slowly pulling, as I stood.  Alas, he is old.


His nose rustled through the frosty leaves with the moon and sun above, as this winter day began. This dog of ours would stay there long, and burrow through each smell. I chose to stand alone in peace and take it in, as well.  Then I looked upon the street to where it bent in the undergrowth ahead and saw the brothers two.


One had rushed ahead this morn, while the other was completely still.  It seemed the first had taken the road more traveled and quickly went in haste.  There were buses to catch and school to greet, and not one minute to waste.  This brother chose the familiar path, and off he quickly flew.  He never noticed the choice his brother made, in this morn anew.


The second boy has stopped his pace, his focus long and firm.  For at his feet a squirrel lay still, in a moment left to mourn. The boy's head was bowed, his neck all craned, his arms dangled by his side.  A backpack dropped and a heart stood still as this tiny squirrel began to die.  He stayed with him all the way, and never let him go.  His face was sad, and mouth did quiver as all things went to slow.  Time stood still among us three, on this path a child did make.  A silence lingered frozen still, until the wind and leaves did break.  He stared and stared until the very end, the day now bright and clear.  The squirrel long gone, the boy did bless as time moved on to day.  He sighed and found the moment now to leave and find his way.


I saw it all as paths diverged, a choice one chose to make.  To rush and run, or stop and care.  This young child did awake. My old dog and I now turned away, and moved ahead as planned.  I tell this with a loving sigh, as someday this boy will be a man.  His gentle choice seemed filled with grace and may never he regret.  When a squirrel and a boy crossed paths one day, he stopped to take it in.


"Somewhere ages and ages hence;
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I ~
I took the road less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference."