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In The Year 2025

~ aviewfromthiswilderness ~ Leave a comment

For some years now I’ve spent time toward the end of December thinking about the significant moments of the year, which can often include some tragedy, of course. But I quickly became a fan of this wide-lens scan of the previous twelve months. It helped me focus on moments that meant something instead of memories just bouncing around my brain, turning them into little more than some passing haze between other, seemingly more important hazy thoughts. It didn’t take long to figure out that those five significant moments truly were the most important days of the year, and they deserve a more intense recollection. So I listed them for myself and thought about them, focusing, concentrating, then almost reliving them. Yes, even the sorrowful parts.

These are the five that emblazed themselves into my mind so that even just a brief touch of an aroma might bring back the day with complete clarity.

Gwynn’s Island, Virginia. Michael submitted a few pieces to a juried art show at the Island’s museum, and as a result he had to make several trips there to drop off the work, to go to the opening, and then to pick the work up after the show, so I joined him. We hiked the beach one time and ate at one of our favorite Mathews County places, Richardson’s. It is always relaxing when we go on one of our hikes through the trails or along the various coastlines of the area. On that day we dropped off his work and discovered the hidden gem of a museum with artifacts dating back to John Smith’s sojourn there and his storied subsequent swim in the Chesapeake not far from here, where he was stung by a stingray, giving the point its name. But the second trip there was most memorable as the turnout for the art opening was excellent, and they set up an excellent table of food and wine, while the artists and guests admired the work. An art historian and teacher sat as judge, and Michael’s work won first place. Her explanation of her choice was touching and as an art appreciation professor myself, I truly admired how well thought out her choices were (this isn’t Dad speaking, really). One of his rewards for first prize was a gift card to the popular local joint, Hole in the Wall, where we ate on our third trip down. This all seems fast and so local to rank as one of the five moments of a year, but it is hikes like these, combined with the display of his work, that brings such peace I cannot find many other moments during which I’d rather spend my time.

Curious Men: Lost in the Congo. While the official release date for my new book is not until January 4th (as that is the birthdate of the subject of the book), it is available already and receiving the copies in the mail meant more to me than my other works. This one was very personal, and it had been a monkey on my back for forty-five years. The work has been through so many versions, I cannot honestly tell you the final version is the best one, but it is the one that I believe works best for me now. In the end, I discovered the book was not about me and not about my friend. It is about trying to figure out life when out on your own for the first time, and what we choose to pay attention to and choose to ignore. What is most significant about this work and the release of the book is this one is the first book I’ve written which was done so entirely for me. I wasn’t thinking about audience, about others who knew the story, not thinking about critics or publishers, editors or bookstore owners. It was for me. It is the most honest thing I’ve written, and I still could have taken five more shots at it and not been completely satisfied. Releasing this book has more significance than I could ever possibly convey (and it is doing very well thank you very much).

Spirit Lake, Utah. Okay, so this one is special. We drove up in June to an area where snow still drifted across the trails and the temps at night fell into the low forties at best. No running water, no electricity, a wood burning stove in a cabin the size of an SUV, with a firepit off of a porch out front. Our cabin was “Sacajawea,” and we left it often to walk down the hill to Spirit Lake, lay on the dock and watch the stars, or more often to hike some of the trails climbing above 11K feet, where a few times we saw moose. Rarely in my life have I been that relaxed, that detached from everything which causes stress, and able to say what I wanted and talk for hours without any thought about how it came out. I was never so present. How often do we find ourselves so much in the present moment that all matters of concern slide away? It happened that entire trip.

The Netherlands. The only tense moment of this trip was at the end, when I was returning the car to the rental lot at the airport, and I accidentally left the airport and found myself on an interstate headed back to Amsterdam, and a sign which read, “Next exit 14 miles.” I texted to say I’d be really late getting through security, then I sped, spun about some cloverleaf, slipped into the rental lot thirty minutes later and tossed the keys to a man who wanted to inspect the car. I took off running and panted my way through security. The rest of the trip was perfect. To walk the fields where Van Gogh walked and painted, to stay in an Airbnb just a mile from where he lived with his parents in Neunen, to dodge bikes and cars in Amsterdam and stumble upon a festival in Volendam. I will say here that I had a blast, laughed endlessly, remained silent for hours without worry of the quiet, and wondered

beyond words what circumstances found us there with such presence of mind. There was the small village where a stroll into someone’s backyard yielded a take of water buffalo cheese and yogurt, and I met my new friend, Sparky the Water Buffalo. An old woman in a housedress came out to her own barn where we looked in cases at water buffalo ice cream and other items, to sell the goods without a word of English. By far, however, the highlight of the trip was a small ceremony for Staff Sergeant Edward L. Miller of Pennsylvania who died on December 17th, 1944, at the Battle of the Bulge, and where I stood silent while his niece rubbed sand from Normandy in his name, made an etching of his stone, and met the family who has taken care of his grave since the war. While they spoke to each other, I looked about these grounds of the American Cemetery at Margraten, at the more than 8000 fallen soldiers, and said to one of our hosts, “These men were no older than my students,” and the weight of war, of the Miller family’s loss, of this memorial journey across four thousand miles settled in my chest. What an honor to be part of this in a small, outside way. I can still smell the freshly mown grass as they were cutting it while we stood nearby. I can still hear the voice of the young woman at the park who spoke with such respect and honor. What a day. What an incredible trip. I’ll leave off the part about driving in Delft.

Mom. On April 12th my Mom, Joan Catherine Kunzinger, died at almost 92 years old. Joanie was the smartest, most honest, most caring, most loving woman I have ever encountered. Her strength as a young girl who had to take care of her siblings, as a young bride with two and then eventually three kids, as a wife taking care of Dad when he was not well in the last years of his life, and as a widow who hauled herself around absolutely always laughing, appreciating the fact she was simply alive and grateful. That is the word for Mom: Grateful, for everything, She could make friends with a lamppost and everyone I’ve ever met who met Mom, loved her. Her solidly Irish and Italian background came through strong, and she was forever a New Yorker. But Mom was at home wherever she was. I was fortunate enough to make more than fifty short videos of her talking about her life, but I cannot watch them without breaking down. Still, here’s the significance of her being on this list this year: She wasn’t expected to die. Not when she did. The day before I left for the Netherlands, I made a video of Mom in which she recites a poem about tulips, and laughs. I promised her I’d

bring her cheese, and she was very excited (despite her predictable “oh please don’t go to any trouble” comments). Two days after I returned but was still at my sister’s home in Pennsylvania, Mom fell while getting up from Bingo, and she hit her ribs on the chair. She never recovered as her paper-thin lungs were already beyond strained. I made it home in time for her to look in my eyes while she lay in her bed. Her eyes swelled a bit when she saw me, but she quickly fell back to sleep. She died that night after I had driven home.

But here’s the thing about this: I have in front of me a picture of the family the morning after the funeral, and we’re on the boardwalk in Virginia Beach, clearly and appropriately enjoying each other’s company, just as Mom would have wanted. My sister made a comment when captioning the picture about this being “Mom’s legacy.” That hit me well. There is her life, right there, in the three kids, the five grandkids, the five great-grandkids, and it’s only just starting. Mom taught me through example to appreciate just the reality that we are alive now, but not for long, so we must love. I never got to tell her all about Amsterdam as she was very excited about me going and was looking forward to hearing about everything. Instead, I ate her cheese. She would have laughed at that.

The days Michael and I spent at New Point Comfort before the art show, the narrative of Curious Men and why it means so much to me, Spirit Lake, the Netherlands, Mom—all of these are the most significant moments of the past year because of the people; only because of the people.

    I hope from now on when I recall events from my past, I recall them solely because I had the chance to love and be loved and let that always be what I remember.

    Love

    ~ aviewfromthiswilderness ~ 2 Comments

    I never like starting a piece with a quote. It feels too simplistic and yellow-journlismesque. But here goes:

    “Sometimes it is the artist’s task to find out how much music you can still make with what you have left.” This comes from the famous incident when Itzhak Perlman, the polio-stricken, world-class violinist, who during a performance at Lincoln Center, snapped a string at the beginning of a concerto. Rather than stop and move awkwardly backstage to replace the string or the violin, he simply nodded to the conductor to continue, then immediately adjusted his playing on just three strings, not missing a note. The quote had as much to do with his own life as it did that singular performance.

    It seems to me that no matter how much we make the best of those holidays which follow a significant loss, the loss is still present; it has to be. To pretend everything is normal, or worse, that annoying pandemic-born phrase, “the new normal,” is a foolhardy act. No, it’s not normal. There’s a hole in the world right in the middle of the gift-giving, the conversations, the Christmas dinner–especially the dinner. We adjust, of course, we work the best we can off of the three strings left, everyone shifting slightly to accommodate the newly-needed positioning. But it certainly can be the elephant in the room.

    My mom died in April, and it wasn’t exactly expected. Certainly at nearly ninety-two with already compromised health, I would not call her passing a shock, but when I left for the Netherlands a week earlier, she was fine, even jovial. While gone we bought cheese, and my intention was to share it with Mom. But she died just two days after we returned. Dad’s death was much more anticipated, and at the risk of sounding cold (Merry Christmas Everyone!–nice topic for today, don’t you think?), his death was almost immediately accepted. He had declined so far over the course of the previous two years, and in the one brief moment of lucidity he had while I was present, he told me he supposed he only had a few days left–said it as a matter of fact, an acknowledgement of something he almost welcomed. But Mom had no intention of going anywhere yet.

    So we adjust more now than we did back then, though in both cases, the change was noticeable. Dad’s also because his passing was just two months before Christmas.

    But here’s what I noticed: I’m paying way more attention these days to those that are here. Hanging onto the conversation longer, thinking more about the gifts I give–are they personal enough and not some last minute purchase to “get it done.” I’m listening more this year–to my son, to my siblings–I’m aware of the spices in the dressing, the timing of the dessert. It’s as if those of us who remain have made the music by filling up the empty spaces with what love we have to give, no longer assuming any of the rest of us will be here next year.

    Perhaps I am more focused. The more loved ones exit, the closer attention I pay to those still here in the play, on this stage. Oddly, I can nearly pinpoint the exact moment my adult life began, and someone gave me a present this Christmas which reminded me of that time back then, and two essential truths emerged: That really happened, and I’m still here. We waste so much time not talking to others; we have mastered the art of euphemism and avoidance. We figure that we have time to figure things out, plenty of time to tell them what we’re feeling. And then often without warning they’re gone. So why not turn to those who are left and say, “Listen, I need to tell you what you mean to me…” Being able to still do so just might be our departed loved one’s greatest gift to us. We don’t have everyone we started out with, but we have those who are left, and we have the truth of us in each other’s lives.

    I believe the holidays which follow the passing of a loved one, while difficult, just might be the most honest, the most open and transparent. I missed Mom today, and always I miss my father, but this year too I missed, again, Letty, Fr Dan, Dave, and so many more who left in the last sixteen months, left without me taking the time to say what I would have said had I known I’d never get the chance to say anything. No more. That’s their gift to us, right there. This year instead of their absence being only sad, it is also motivating. It’s like they’re still in the shadows silently telling me to love, to just love. And like Virgil’s personified Death, they twitch my ear and whisper, “Live. Live now…I am coming.”

    Merry Christmas.

    Flowers in the Dirt

    ~ aviewfromthiswilderness ~ Leave a comment
    St Nicholas Cathedral (one of the rare churches to never close during Soviet days)

    I’ve been thinking a lot about Russia lately, about how so much these days reminds me of my time there. Over the course of more than twenty years, I came to know the backroads and alleys of St. Petersburg, Russia. I found the coolest little cafes and late night jazz joints, made friends in shacks serving Georgian wine and shashleek—a kind of shish kabob—in a small room with low ceilings and dirt floors, the Gulf of Finland pounding at the sand outside. I returned again and again to long embraces from friends like Igor and Dima and Valentine the crazy man and brilliant artist.

    I taught American culture at the college, endured endless people wanting to practice their English, celebrated Victory Day on Palace Bridge year after year, mourned the losses of people during the siege with veterans who sat telling me their stories all the while holding my arm, connecting to me through touch.

    I prayed with old nuns in shrines, climbed the rubble of the ruined St Catherine of Alexandria Catholic Church with American priest Frank Sutman who raised enough money to rebuild this first Catholic Church in all of Russia back to its glory from the ruins of the storage facility it had become during the Soviet Era. I met musicians in old bars—Gypsies—and played music with them until the sun came up, read my own work at the famed Stray Dog Café surrounded by the ghosts of Anna Akhmatova and Trotsky and Brodsky.

    What a time it was.

    With friends I toured palace after palace, attended private concerts by quintets from the Kirov who played just for us before dinner at the Nikolaevsky, walked the halls of the Summer Palace and wondered about the infamous Amber Room, learned every crevice of the Winter Palace and its five building complex that is the Hermitage Museum. Had drinks in the basement of the Yusopov Palace where Rasputin had drinks just before he was killed for the fifth time. Walked the grounds of Galinka Palace, the Church of Spilled Blood, St Isaacs, St Nicholas, Trinity, and more. I climbed to the top of the tower of Smolney from which St Seraphim supposedly fell the ninety feet to the ground when he was ten but landed softly and got up and ran toward canonization.

    I learned where to buy vodka and where not to sip it at all. I found the best places for authentic borsch and had Beef Stroganoff at the Stroganoff Palace.

    I ate at McDonalds, Pizza Hut, Kentucky Fried Chicken, and more western joints filled to the gills with Russians all in love with the taste of America, drinking in the swell of western culture, surrounding my friends and me trying to fit more English into their Cyrillic mouths.

    We took canal rides and saw folk shows where more than a few times I was dragged on stage to dance with the Russian women and men as balalaika music filled the packed arena. I’ve seen Swan Lake at the Marinksy Theatre more than a dozen times and have seen Hamlet in Russian.

    I’ve made friends with former Soviet Naval Captains, countless professors, writers, and artists. I’ve become friends with translators and more than a few vets of the Chechnya War who would have rather stayed home and continued their studies in Engineering at St Petersburg University than return with no legs, one arm, half a face blown away, leaning against the Metro Walls, cap in hand—handicapped, hopeless.

    I’ve sat on the rocks of the Gulf of Finland drinking champagne during the White Nights while one of Russia’s finest flautists performed privately for us, laughing, making us cry with Tchaikovsky and Bach. I’ve sat backstage at the St Petersburg Conservatory with a dear friend who is a choreographer, and his teacher, who used to dance with Baryshnikov, and watched them practice.

    We’ve had food from an Uzbekistan Restaurant, and I came to understand the plight of the refugees from Azerbaijan after the slaughter by Armenians. I’ve read at the flat of Dostoevsky with an original volume of Pushkin on the table next to me and one of Fyodor’s own manuscripts two feet away. We have wandered through the massive marketplace next door and carried home to our apartment bags of fresh vegetables and chunks of meat cut before my eyes off of a carcass.

    I’ve battled with border patrol over textbooks, bribed cemetery guards to let us wander sacred grounds, sat in the cell that held Dostoevsky and other dissidents, and watched the ruble gain strength, take a beating, then recover, then fall. I’ve sat on benches with women who were survivors of the siege during the Great Patriotic War and talked about family, talked about poppyseed rolls, talked about the flowers that grow in the dirt.

    I was there when they reinterned the remains of Czar Nicholas II and his family, including Anastasia and Alexi. I was there for the celebration of the 300th anniversary of the city that Peter the Great called the Window to the West.

    I watched as Marlboro came to town, then Clairol and every Russian woman suddenly had bright red hair. Adidas showed up and all the men wore warmup suits. I’ve walked past too many men in cheap three piece suits holding semi-automatic rifles guarding some boss’ SUV as money exchanged hands—all cash, USD, in suitcases.

    I had just turned thirty-one when Communism fell and two years later I went to St Petersburg. The city streets were dank and barren, not a single neon sign, not a single advertisement, nothing to see or do. I toured the lab of Pavlov where dogs are still used, and I stood on the Field of Mars next to the eternal flame commemorating those lost during the siege. I met then-Vice Mayor Vladimir Putin. I met ambassadors. I met Sophia, who was a young teen when the Czar was still in charge, who lost her husband and son during the siege, and who sat in the shadow of the Smolensky Shrine and told me they can take anything they want from her, but they’ll never take her faith from her again. She blessed herself in the large Orthodox way and held my arm with her ninety-something year old transparent hands. She could tell me whatever she wanted. I could talk about anything I wished. I watched this country I was raised to fear fixate on all things west, becoming a strong and welcome presence in world culture and exchange. Every person I brought returned home amazed at the life that was Russia, hoping to return, knowing they had friends there, and dozens did return with me for a second, some for a forth or fifth time. Russia was addicting.

    I’ve brought dozens of US faculty, hundreds of college students, a dozen cousins, pilots, performers, writers, and a four star Army General, twice.

    Now, exactly half a lifetime since my first trip, I’ve watched it all go full circle. The little western influence that is still there can’t be changed, but the welcome presence has faded away—no more McDonalds, Pizza Hut, or KFC. No more Starbucks. Open readings are tolerated only if no one, no one, absolutely no one uses the word “War” in reference to the Ukraine.

    After the invasion, I sat by hopelessly four thousand miles away as friends wished me well and hoped we’d someday meet again. I told them, my friends, including those now in Germany and France, a few in Norway, that I cannot wait to see them again, perhaps in New York, or Paris. Maybe Oslo. Not Russia. Those who had left or since left Russia, I talk to, but too many to mention I can no longer get ahold of, and I have no idea whatever happened to them. Many were men in their twenties and thirties. All had terrific senses of humor and the hopes young artists and engineers who knew only democratic principles their entire lives. Gone.

    I have taken a train from one end of that massive empire to the other with my son, creating memories to last all our lives, spent late nights drinking shots of vodka with Siberian businessmen. I’ve sat in the home of tour operators and laughed and became brothers with them. I have mementos on bookshelves, on walls. I’ve written three books about my times in Russia, and more than fifty articles. I’ve developed three college courses about Russian Culture and mentored more than two hundred students who received Study Abroad credit. I miss the beauty of the architecture, the beauty of the people, and the mystical way history bathes me when I walk the streets at night. I miss my friends. I miss laughing with Valentine and talking about butterflies and angels. I miss sitting alone at this one café I love drinking tea, making notes, listening to contemporary folk music and enjoying this impossible life I’ve had the chance to live that brought me more than two dozen times to a place that until I was in my thirties, I never thought I’d ever see. I miss the people very much.

    I miss the way old women swept the streets with birch brooms. I miss the Hermitage and the Hidden Treasures Collection, and that time I helped spread the ashes of my artist friend, James Cole Young, in the crevices of one of his favorite paintings. I miss counting stripes on the wallpaper and chasing pigeons in the park.

    I miss the hope that was Russia. I miss that hope. Even now, here, I miss hope. 

    



    

    on Nevsky Prospect in St Petersburg
    

    			
    
	
    

				
					

    
	
    
			
    i am antifascist
    		
    
				
    
						 ~ aviewfromthiswilderness			 ~ Leave a comment					
    
				
    
		
    

    

    



    




    




    I am antifascist
    




    And just so we understand each other, fascism is:
    




    “A far-right, authoritarian political ideology emphasizing extreme nationalism, militarism, a strong dictatorial leader, and the subordination of individual rights to the state, often involving forcible suppression of opposition, economic regimentation, and national rebirth through controlled unity and traditionalism. Fascist movements, like Mussolini’s Italy and Hitler’s Germany, use propaganda, cults of personality, and violence to create a unified, powerful nation, often targeting minorities and foreigners as scapegoats for national decline.”
    




    Yeah, that’s not me. Not a fan of Hitler. Not a fan of Stalin. Not a fan of the Father of Fascism, Mussolini. Never have been. 
    




    I don’t believe: 
    




    In an infallible leader who never makes mistakes 
    




    That the democratic ideals of freedom and equality are a threat
    




    in rampant sexism or the need to control mass media or consider it dangerous for telling the truth
    




    in sustaining a false sense of “victimhood” or that the nation is under attack
    




    in questioning reality and verifiable truth while at the same time encouraging myth and false narratives
    




    So, yes, I am anti (“opposed to, against”) fascist (see above). If someone prefers to drop the “scist” from that title, that’s fine. I’ll go with Antifa
    




    as would: 
    




    Ronald Reagan, who said that fascism “glorifies the state and denies individual liberties.” He suggested that fascism would be most evident because of liberals, not knowing, of course, that the current president makes Reagan seem like an MSNBC junkie. 
    




    Primo Levi, who said that fascism wants everyone to be the same
    




    FDR, who said that fascism was ownership of government by an individual
    




    Henry Wallace, who said “if we define an American fascist as one who in case of conflict puts money and power ahead of human beings, then there are undoubtedly several million fascists in the United States”
    




    Upton Sinclair, who said that fascism is capitalism plus murder
    




    Eric Fromm, who reminded us that. “When Fascism came into power, most people were unprepared, both theoretically and practically. They were unable to believe that man could exhibit such propensities for evil, such lust for power, such disregard for the rights of the weak, or such yearning for submission. Only a few had been aware of the rumbling of the volcano preceding the outbreak”
    




    The desire on the part of some to define “the Antifa movement” as anti-American is ridiculous, uneducated, and blatantly contrary to the very American “values and ideals” those same sound-bite-driven complainers propose they protect. Nearly all of this country’s forefathers were Antifa, which is why they left Europe and why they tossed the tea in the bay, why they said, “no more.”
    




    So, to all of this country’s new accurate-information-deprived streamers, No More. Not only were the antifas like myself here first, this country still exists because of them. To not support anyone who is anti-fascist is to in turn support North Korea, the Soviet ideals of modern-day Russia; it is to be against all Americans who fought in World War One, Two, Korea, and Vietnam. If your instinct is to don a swastika or raise the confederate flag, then, yes, we are enemies and I’m on the right side of history, you’re not. But if you are just repeating the shouts of the ignorant masses and never took the time to think this through, think it through now and then turn and proudly declare, “Of course I’m against Fascism. Duh.”
    




    I AM ANTIFASCIST                                                                                                                              NOTHING ELSE MAKES SENSE
    
			
    
	
    

				
					

    
	
    
			
    Extended Metaphor
    		
    
				
    
						 ~ aviewfromthiswilderness			 ~ 1 Comment					
    
				
    
		
    

    

    



    




    




    I suppose my parents were the original plunger to my pinball life. From the time I was born they slowly pulled back on that spring, maintained that illusion of safety and determination. “We’ll move him to the Island,” they said. “We’ll go out to a quiet village,” they said, “where he can grow up in nature with friends.” I think their hands got sweaty and slipped a bit when they said we’d all move to Virginia, but they recovered just fine.
    




    But then it happened.
    




    Release.
    




    Suddenly I moved about life bouncing from one influence to another, bouncing and tumbling from high scores to near elimination, and all my parents could do was keep their fingers on the flippers so if by chance—and a slight chance it usually was since I mastered the art of bouncing around—I moved anywhere close, they could try and catch me for a moment in metallic suspension, then send me in their chosen direction, or at least back into some middle-ground where I was safe from an early exit.
    




    The thing is, others got their hands on the flippers too. Advisors, sometimes friends, sometimes lovers, holding me out on the end of the bar, deciding which way and how hard to send me on. Too gentle and I’ll tumble right out of the game; too hard and I’ll inevitably come back to haunt. That happened a lot.
    




    The thing is when I was at the height of my ricocheting life, I was in my prime, in my element. I liked not always knowing where I was headed and what might happen. It kept me perilously in the moment, so blatantly aware of the “now” as I kicked off one bad experience and bulleted toward hopefully something better, a tiny cannonball without any ability to steer. Yeah, that was me for a long, beautiful and exciting time.
    




    Then something game-changing occurred: I had a son, and I found myself pulling back on that plunger, looking ahead at the same time wondering if I could help him score the most points by spinning him toward a certain destination of my choosing. I remembered what that was like to not simply be without control, which has its own benefits and limitations, but to be at the mercy of others with their fingers on the flippers. A coach told me I needed more discipline and I could compete at a higher level in tennis, but the parental plunger pulled back a bit more declaring a difference of opinion. I decided not to go to college for a while and I really thought that plunger would let me go in any direction I chose, but no, as a year later I was tucked nicely away in the safety of a university chamber. Truly, my parents weren’t the best in letting this loose cannon follow my own lack of control, but it was to their credit they recognized in me that carelessness. Ironically, life went very well for me because of their foresight, their ability to look ahead, having played the game before. Sure. But it was their game. Not mine. In subsequent years they handled the flippers just fine, often helping me get back on the course I had chosen. So with my son, I wanted so desperately to simply let go and watch that ball of a boy rip out on his own. But I’d been around the block by then, and while I thought I could help by holding the plunger as long as possible, I let go earlier than I wanted, maybe even earlier than he wanted, and he’s found the right bumpers to play off of in his life.
    




    But the point is I’m bored again. Certainly I’m too old to just richochet about hoping to bump into something good, but I’m too young to leave the game. So I looked at some maps and noticed places I want to go and haven’t yet been, and I can’t remember the last time I put myself out there, risked embarrassment in hopes of chance. If I remember correctly, I always got five balls when playing pinball, and when I got to that last one I needed to savor it, and the tendency was to try and manipulate and control those flippers as much as possible, create some illusion I can make this last longer than possible.
    




    But it is in that way that we lose those very years; we slow down, play it safe, find comfort in the flipper that holds us a moment before deciding which way to propel the time that remains.
    




    You know what would be really interesting? Pull the plunger all the way back, and even beyond back, then let it rip. Yes. Maybe go to the Islands, bounce about the South Pacific, perhaps walk the Pacific Coast, maybe train through India or take a river cruise on the Danube. Whatever. But that’s my new plan: I’ll let my imagination control the flippers and see what happens.
    




    Maybe I’ll just go back to Spain
    



    

    

    			
    
	
    

				
					

    
	
    
			
    Wait. Loss.
    		
    
				
    
						 ~ aviewfromthiswilderness			 ~ 2 Comments					
    
				
    
		
    

    

    



    




    In my youth Dad always walked down the small staircase on Christmas morning to plug in the lights while my siblings and I waited. Mom would have stacked our gifts in separate piles under the tree, and after the three of us exchanged our own gifts earlier that morning in my sister’s room, we’d gather on the steps and wait. When the tree lights lit, Dad would call out “Okay, you can come down now,” and we would, each of us steered toward our own third of the presents. 
    




    Mom was our Santa back then, waiting in lines for the right gifts, hoping she doesn’t ever again buy my sister the wrong album, trying to get it right, not knowing of course that she couldn’t possibly get it wrong. She’d be in the kitchen as soon as the presents were open so she could make the stuffing and prepare the pies for the relatives coming that day. And then later, after everyone had gone home and the five of us were again alone, Dad would emerge from his closet with books for each of us. This was special as it was common knowledge that Mom did all the shopping, but in the case of the books, Dad shopped himself, wrapped them himself, always picking out the perfect one for each of us, and would “surprise” us with them that night. It is a tradition I continue with my own son. Those days of “Dad’s Books” happened it seems just months ago, and the times that Mom worried she used too much spice in the dressing seems to have occurred weeks ago, but it could not have been. They both made it seem as if we had hundreds of holidays together with just the five of us, but it wasn’t even two dozen. That’s what time does when you’re complaining about the cold or the crowds or the difficulty finding just the right thing to give someone–it passes. Fast.
    




    October 2015
    




    I remember sitting in the uncomfortable recliner next to the hospital window and thinking, “If I’m here a few more days, I might take down the clock; laminate the list of television stations he will never watch; ask to fill in the information on the empty whiteboard I’ve stared at for four days, note the nurse’s name, cross off the faces from frowny to happy to indicate his pain tolerance. If he had more time, I might move his bed closer to the window.” Three times I moved his food trays, trice-daily reminders he hadn’t regained consciousness, into the bathroom. I can still smell the aroma of onion soup he never knew existed.
    




    Most certainly I would move the two boxes of blue latex gloves from the wall inside the door to the wall outside the door. Nothing says “If I touch you, I might die” like blue latex gloves. I would silence the incessant beeping from the health monitor above his head.
    




    I didn’t mind the wait. As sure as I knew his blood pressure, blood oxygen level, and pulse, I will miss the wait, the slim possibility, the sliver of “just maybe.”
    




    The text from my brother read, “He’s gone. Come back over.”
    




    I dismissed class just after 8:30 and left for the hospice center a few miles from the college. I forgot to tell the students it would be a few weeks before I returned. I drove to see my suddenly late father.
    




    We took turns saying goodbye again, this time after the fact. He looked gone—as if he’d been dismissed, like he transferred or simply dropped out. I held his bare arm below the sleeve of the green golf shirt they provided. I wondered if all the patients had the same shirt. The entire building had a sense of oneness, of warm togetherness, like all the nurses should have the same name, and all the patients looked like my dad.
    




    I kissed his withdrawn face. I thought he might feel cold, but his arm felt warm as if from the sun during all those days at the field coaching my brother in Little League, and from sitting all day in the baseball stadium bleachers, buying me hotdogs, letting me keep score as he showed me how to fill in the small boxes.
    




    When I took his folded hand in mine, it felt stiff, but not from some medical transition; no, more like his muscular grip back when he took my infant son in his arms and laughed, his eyes wider than space, his laugh deeper than love, just moving his grandson up and down as they laughed and my son reached for his nose, for his glasses. I reached for those glasses now, unused on the nightstand, and held them.
    




    A week earlier I stopped at the hospital to check on him, expecting another day of quietness after a week of unconsciousness. But I walked in to see his eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling, then at me.
    




    “Well hello,” he said in his baritone voice.
    




    “Hey Dad, how are you?”
    




    “I’ve been here since 4:30 this morning.”
    




    “You’ve been here for four days.”
    




    “Four days! What hotel am I at? Ha! Hotel! I wish I was at a hotel! What hospital?”
    




    He could have been thirty years younger. After a long, slow year-long erosion from dementia, I had not heard Dad so lucid in several seasons.
    




    “You’re near home, Dad. You’re at the hospital right near home.”
    




    “It is serious, then?  Tell me.”
    




    “You have pneumonia, Dad.”
    




    “So I probably don’t have much longer, do I?”
    




    And that nurse came in and Dad checked out, turned his head and closed his eyes one last time just days before he died. That night I rode in the transport ambulance to take him to hospice.
    




    If I had more time I might tell him about my failures, my shortcomings. But there is never enough time.
    




    April 2025
    




    We were in a cheese factory shop in Volendam with baskets of cheese wheels to bring home. I held a bag of four wheels and thought about who I can give them to after I separate them. “I’ll give one to Mom,” I said.
    




    Stateside, I stopped at my sister’s home in Pennsylvania when Mom’s nurse called to say she had fallen while rising from her chair at bingo, and she hit her ribs on the chair, bruising the bones around her already-weak lungs. Her nurse, Max, held the phone so Mom could talk. “I’m so confused,” Mom said to my sister and me, and I said I’d be home the next day. A while later another nurse called. “Your mother is transitioning.” She’s becoming a man? I momentarily wondered, not trying to be funny; I truly had never heard anyone reference the stage between being not at all dead and about to die as a “transition,” but I suppose it is as good a euphemism as any. Certainly, “Your Mom is dying,” appears a bit colder, but I still think I’d have preferred such directness over the “I’m so afraid to say what is happening that I’m going to wrap it in obtuse verbs.”
    




    The next night I leaned over her sleeping body and she opened her eyes and they welled up, and I said “I love you, Mom” and she fell quickly back to sleep. Later that night my brother texted. Mom was gone. That was either eight months or eight years ago. 
    




    I miss the waiting, especially this time of year when I’d be waiting to give her some gifts—probably flowers and a gift certificate to take her to a nice lunch. She reached the age where those gifts of time spent together were the most valuable.
    




    I miss making videos of Mom, and how for every one video I recorded I deleted four or five because they were too ridiculous to publish. I miss those outtakes now.
    




    I miss seeing Mom in the foyer of her home waiting for me to drive up the circle to pick her up, a wide smile followed by an “Oh, it is so good to get out for a bit! You know?” I knew. She didn’t care if we just drove around. I’d park the car at the market and she’d wait for me as I ran in to get her bananas, fudge stripes, and flowers.
    




    That last time I saw my dad before he entered the hospital he had sank a twenty-two foot putt on the practice green and looked at me with such a proud and excited reaction it’s as if my entire life collapsed into that moment—the golf when my brother and I were young on the Island, that time Dad and I went to see Jaws when it first came out, or when he and I went to Disneyland in California; our lunches every week after he retired but before Mom had. Strangely, I think I felt the loss of my father before he even died because of his ebbing mind and misunderstood timeframe. Loss comes unexpectedly and often out of joint.
    




    The last time I saw my Mom I told her I’d be in Amsterdam and we were going to Keukenhof to see the acres and acres of flowers, and would she like me to bring her some tulips. She stared at me a long time, and I waited, and more time passed, with my phone video playing, and still I waited wondering if I had lost mom right then, until finally she smiled and recited a poem from her youth.
    




    It was worth the wait.
    




    Merry Christmas Mom. I’ll put on some Christmas music for you—some of your beloved Andy Williams. And Merry Christmas to you too Dad. I’ll plug in the lights Christmas morning and later that night I’ll give Michael a book, and I’ll be thinking of you. 
    




    

    

    
			
    
	
    

				
					

    
	
    
			
    Video: Curious Men: Author Reflection
    		
    
				
    
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    A View from this Wilderness author, Bob Kunzinger, reflects on his early college years and his new book, Curious Men: Lost in the Congo. See the links below to order for immediate delivery:
    




    Please indulge my brief ramble here, then please share: 
    




    

    

    




    




    




    It say’s “preorder,” but shipping is immediate from the Publisher:
    




    https://madvillepublishing.com/product/curious-men/
    




    and at Amazon (click on the cover):
    




    

    

    




    




    




    

    

    




    
			
    
	
    

				
					

    
	
    
			
    Soundtrack
    		
    
				
    
						 ~ aviewfromthiswilderness			 ~ 3 Comments					
    
				
    
		
    

    

    



    This will work better if when you come to a song you click the link and listen to it. Please. 
    




    I’ve put away all my notes, maps, pictures, and other paraphernalia surrounding the life I led when I was nineteen-years-old. I had much of it hanging on my back for decades as I wrote, rewrote, trashed, rewrote, destroyed, started over, ripped up, burned, buried, and then rewrote one more time my newest book, about when I was that age and spent time with a friend of mine at the time. The book will never be what I wanted it to be, but it is finally about what I had envisioned–it isn’t about him, it’s not even about me. It’s about that hope you carry with you, often blindly, when you are first on your own and you still believe you can do anything. 
    




    At the time I listened to a song by Dan Hill which to this day reminds me of him and back then, “If Dreams Had Wings.” I listened to it tonight one more time. 
    




    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NCtI4bJyeyE
    




    I’ve been immersed in music since I’m a child. My mother always had the radio on, and she was always singing. If she didn’t know the words she would make them up, but singing, dancing, that was Mom. I most definitively inherited my love of music from her. Even now I remember the words to nearly every song from my youth, from the late sixties when I was still in single digits through the seventies and right on into the now. So when a song from then comes on the radio–yes, I still listen to the radio so I keep track of memories and stay up to date on what’s new–I not only can sing along, much to the disappointment of those around me, but I can usually tell you exactly where I was and what I was doing when I first heard the music. And I can always associate a person with the song. 
    




    Early on was the Beatles (my sister) or teen idols like Bobby Sherman (my sister) or British invaders like Herman’s Hermits and the Dave Clark Five (my brother). But when we moved further out on the Island and I spent most of my time in nature along the Great South Bay, the music changed with the landscape. It was John Denver most of the time, and later when hiking with my friend Eddie through the trails it was anything by Neil Diamond or Harry Chapin and the Fab Four. When I hear “The Long and Winding Road” I think of Eddie. The Beatles had just broken up and we sang that one to death. 
    




    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fR4HjTH_fTM
    




    Then I learned guitar. That, combined with a move south and new friendships, most notably to my still-dear friend, musician Jonmark Stone, considerably expanded my knowledge of music. We had the same taste in writers and performers, but he knew of people I hadn’t heard of. When I went to college with my guitar, I brought along John and Neil, but also Dan Fogelberg and Dylan, CSN and Dan Hill, and in a way, Jonmark. 
    




    http://jm@jonmarkstone.com/mp3/people.mp3
    




    Music takes me right to places he played back in Virginia Beach, right to Eddie’s side, right to Mom in the kitchen as she made dinner and sang something nonsensical to make me laugh. It always worked.
    




    Over time we formulate a soundtrack that transports us to a particular person or place, and especially a unique time. Obviously, environment is everything with this; I know the lyrics to a slew of songs from the forties and fifties because of my mom, and while I was too young to catch most of the sixties folk music the first time through, my sister’s interest fell squarely on my shoulders, as did quite literally her guitar.
    




    Unfortunately, music can blindside us when we least want it to. I am having trouble listening to some particular songs because of association. Dan Hill destroyed me tonight. It has all been too much. But other songs are currently banned as well. I can’t deal with “The Waters of March” (Letty) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sa2kuAYOpBE, “Bookends” (Dave S) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sovVYInjHjw&list=RDsovVYInjHjw&start_radio=1, “Singing Skies and Dancing Waters” (Fr Dan Riley) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H014dRyG3uU&list=RDH014dRyG3uU&start_radio=1, or “Beautiful Boy” (Cole) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1BZkYfqa4Fs&list=RD1BZkYfqa4Fs&start_radio=1 because life really is what happens when you’re busy making other plans. 
    




    I have shelved a few of my favorites, including “For A Dancer” (Roberta) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BQPvdCWZWzE&list=RDBQPvdCWZWzE&start_radio=1, “Dust in the Wind” (Dave W) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tH2w6Oxx0kQ&list=RDtH2w6Oxx0kQ&start_radio=1, and “Sky Blue and Black” (Joe) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZaT04YFgAIY&list=RDZaT04YFgAIY&start_radio=1
    




    Because sometimes I still look for people I love who are gone, and I needn’t turn any further than a song. 
    




    You’re the color of the sky
    Reflected in each store-front window pane
    You’re the whispering and the sighing of my tires in the rain
    




    You’re the hidden cost and the thing that’s lost
    In everything I do
    Yeah and I’ll never stop looking for you
    In the sunlight and the shadows
    




    And the faces on the avenue
    That’s the way love is
    




    There is hope, luckily. Not all music reminds me of dead people. Some music reminds me of now, of the people who have been in my life forever and still are. Like “Along the Road” (Sean) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ywx6CIw3RIA&list=RDywx6CIw3RIA&start_radio=1, and most significantly,  “House at Pooh Corner” (Michael) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hH8MzXPK29A. 
    




    And because there are some friends who go and then come back as if they had never left to begin with, just like there are memories which go and come back as if I am young again, standing in the kitchen watching my mom dance to some tune on the radio, because my life is riddled with repeats and reappearances, the one song which seems to define it all is “Circle.” Some music I can’t listen to much anymore. It is too real or too recent. But Harry reminds me, as music has always reminded me, that “we’ll all be together again.”
    




    Honestly, if you’ve skipped all the other tunes until now, at the very least listen to this one: 
    




     https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fW0vjZiu_rw&list=RDfW0vjZiu_rw&start_radio=1
    




    No straight lines make up my life;
    And all my roads have bends;
    There’s no clear-cut beginnings;
    And so far no dead-ends.
    



    

    

    			
    
	
    

				
					

    
	
    
			
    Out Like a Lamb
    		
    
				
    
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    “Mary had a little lamb
    




    whose fleece was white as snow
    




    and everywhere that Mary went
    




    her lamb was sure to go”
    




    Which in reality was a small schoolhouse in central Massachusetts where Mary Elizabeth Sawyer walked each day from her farm, followed by the lamb.
    




    I’ll come back to this.
    




    I worked for some time at a quaint inn in Sterling, Massachusetts. The restaurant with a small lounge and several rooms upstairs sat just near the Wachusett Reservoir, at the bottom of a hill in the village. It was owned by the Roy family, and Al Roy had studied cooking in France. His son, Mark, ran the restaurant and inn, along with his wife Patti. The staff consisted of about ten of us. Dave was a chef, Tom the bartender, Rich—a student at the time at the Culinary Institute of America—assisted Dave, and the wait staff. We were like family and shared each other’s lives.
    




    I’d go hawk watching at the Quabbin Reservoir an hour west with Dave and his wife, and often Cathy and Stacy and others would come to my place—an old yellow house just down the shore of the reservoir a few miles past the cider mill—and sometimes after the dining room closed we’d sit around and have a drink and talk. There were funny times, like when I went out one cold winter night to put the trash out and the only other person left was Cathy who was placing the fine China plates out for the next evening’s guests, but I locked myself out. I went to the back windows of the dining room which faced the wooded hillside, standing two feet deep in snow, and knocked on the window. It scared the crap out of Cathy and the stack of plates sailed out of her arms and crashed to the floor. She screamed. I laughed. It was an accident, truly. Or when a couple from Quebec came to dinner just as the dining room closed and kept just Tom and me there for hours, well past midnight. Dave had closed up the kitchen after their meal and went home, but they still had wine and dessert. At about 1 am they left and when I opened their bill folder to see what kind of tip they left on the $40 tab for keeping us there so late, the credit card receipt showed no tip at all. I cursed loud enough for Tom to laugh and say, “No tip, huh?” and when I picked up the folder, a $100 bill was underneath.
    




    Some tragic times as well, mostly January 28th, 1986, two months to the day after Thanksgiving, and just about a week before I moved to Pennsylvania. Most Americans will never forget this day, but it was particularly poignant for those of us in New England since Christa McAuliffe had lived just across the border in New Hampshire, and on that morning and afternoon, the inn was packed with people—many friends of Christa’s—to watch the Challenger launch on television. I was tapping a keg of Budweiser and looked up as Patti said, “Oh wow, that doesn’t seem right.”
    




    It was completely silent, followed by cries. I can still smell the beer, hear the dishes from the kitchen, Cathy saying, “What’s going on?” and Tom behind the bar quietly repeating, “Holy Shit. Oh wow. Holy Shit.”
    




    But today I remember a happier time there. Thanksgiving Day, 1985. Forty years ago next week. We had a limited menu of Turkey, Scallops, or Prime Rib, and we were booked for all three seatings. The last guests left about 7 that night, and after we cleaned the dining room and the kitchen, we all sat around a bunch of tables pushed together and had a full meal with all three entrees, bottles of wine, pies, and stories, constant and hilarious stories. It was a beautiful time in my life and I loved where I lived, what I did, and the people I spent my time with.
    




    But something had to change; I knew this. I did not know what needed to happen, but something else needed to be next. I had graduated from college, traveled through Mexico, lived in Tucson, managed a health club, and was happy, but stagnant, and this state of being, albeit pleasant, contradicted my very nature. It would not be long before I would turn in my notice and move to Pennsylvania, but on that Thanksgiving where a dozen misfits all sat around the table together laughing and drinking and wishing it could be like that forever but knowing it had to change—and would, for every single one of us—I got up to open another bottle of wine but instead walked out the front door to see that even more snow had accumulated on the couple of feet we already had.
    




    I walked to the center of the village just a half block away and found a statue I’d never seen before. It was of Mary Elizabeth Sawyer’s lamb. Mary is the young girl in Sterling, Massachusetts, who had a small lamb that followed her everywhere, including school. It was a big event in the small school, and the next day a classmate of Mary’s, John Roulstone, a year older than Mary, handed her a poem he had written about the event. The poem had three stanzas—the first of which is at the top of this page.
    




    Some years later, a poet, Sarah Hale who lived not far from there, published a small book of poems which contained a longer version of the poem, but Hale insisted it was original and based upon imaginary events. The controversy lasted for some years, well after both Mary and Hale had died. Until Henry Ford—yes, that one—investigated the incident and not only sided with Sterling’s own Mary, but purchased the schoolhouse from the village of Sterling, moved it to Sudbury, Massachusetts, and then published a book about Mary.
    




    Back to me.
    




    I stood at the small statue watching snow slowly cover the lamb’s wool now truly white as snow, and waited in perfect silence, listening to the quiet of rural Massachusetts. I can feel that moment today, that sense of peace braided with a sense of restlessness. I had to leave. I had to stay. Back then for people my age riding the tail of the Baby Boomer generation, the urge to “change” something usually meant going to the liquor store for boxes, filling them with books I’d never read again, tying them up with string, and moving somewhere else. Boston was out of the question—geez, an hour to the east was too far. Staying meant improving my life where I was—figuring out how to take the best of my situation and improve it, and I stood in front of Mary’s lamb and knew I didn’t know how to begin to do that. I only knew how to pack up and leave; that I was good at.
    




    I went back in and grabbed the wine bottle and while I was opening it, Mark came in the kitchen.
    




    “Where the hell have you been? We’re a bottle a head of you!”
    




    “I was talking to the lamb.”
    




    “What lamb?”
    




    “Mary’s.”
    




    “Ha. Oh. Well…”
    




    “Mark, I think I’m going to have to turn in my notice, but, I don’t know, maybe January, maybe February. I need to find something else to do.”
    




    “Oh wow, well, okay. We can talk about this later. You’re here for the holidays, though?”
    




    “Yes, of course.”
    




    We drank wine. I suddenly felt a little out of place, more like a visiting cousin than immediate family.
    




    At the end of the night, everyone had left, Mark and Patti had retired upstairs, and just Cathy and I were left, she placed the dinner plates out for the next day, and I put out the trash, where I accidently locked myself out.
    




    I moved. Cathy moved. Dave opened his own restaurant. Tom died. And the Sterling Inn fell into disrepair over the next few decades, abandoned, with vines taking over the building, the parking lot cracked and covered with weeds. Someone bought it from the Roy family a few years ago with the intent of restoring it to its full original glory. Same red trim; same black shutters. But some town controversy has kept it from proceeding. I miss the place. I’m glad I moved but I’m sorry I left. 
    




    That was forty Thanksgivings ago. Some memories follow us around, waiting for us to notice them.
    



    

    

    			
    
	
    

				
					

    
	
    
			
    The Rain that Day
    		
    
				
    
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    There’s a scene in one of the Hunger Games films where Jennifer Lawrence and Josh Hutcherson are sitting in the doorway to their house. The shot is from deep inside the room and we can see them almost silhouetted on the floor leaning against the door frame looking outside where a heavy, steady rain is falling. It’s summer or fall. The door is open yet and they seem comfortable, and it is raining. 
    




    That image stayed with me. I want to call the director and say, “Well done,” you nailed one of the most comforting images I can recall–inside warm and dry away from the storm but close enough to appreciate it. 
    




    I loved sitting on the patio when I was a child, under the canvas awning when it rained, and I just assumed it was raining everywhere, which at eight years old was probably a three block radius. What did I know of everywhere? But that closeness of rain never left me. In Spain on more than one occasion we donned our raingear and walked out onto the Camino to keep going, a heavy fog sometimes filled the air, and on one day near the village of Cee on the way back from Fisterra to Santiago, we couldn’t even see ten feet forward. But here I am eleven years off the Way and I remember that day as if I just walked in the door from the path and set my walking stick against the fireplace stones. 
    




    What is it about the rain? 
    




    On a trip to Ireland, the only day out of ten it rained was the very day archeologist Michael Gibbons planned to give us a walking tour of the Renvyle Peninsula in Connemara just along the Wild Atlantic Way. We went anyway, along roads and across bogs for a half dozen miles, and sometimes it was only cloudy, but more often a steady Irish rain fell as more of a pleasing accompaniment than any nuisance of weather. In fact, when we walked near an abandoned home we stood under the eaves to wait out a downpour and during the short break we laughed and joked with each other about nonsensical things, but it is the time from the walk we remember most, the moment we all took pictures and realized how stunning the Irish Pete could smell in a rain, and how we didn’t mind, not in the least.
    




    I took a moment just now to look up the history of rain, already knowing the first evidence dates back 4 billion years, and the first mention of it in literature dates back to both Gilgamesh and The Iliad. What I didn’t know until just now is that raindrops are not shaped like teardrops but more like hamburger buns, that one inch of rain over one acre of land weights over 110 tons, that Mawsynram, India, is the wettest place on Earth with more than 450 inches of rain annually, and that rain really does have its own odor, called petrichor, caused by the wetness releasing the oils from plants and soil which then fill the air. 
    




    “The beauty of the rain is how it falls” 
    




    –Dar Williams
    




    I love the smell of rain, the feel of it on my back and neck, but my reason has little to do with any enjoyment of being wet, soggy, drenched; it is because I can, because I am here in nature still, well after so many I love have closed the door behind them, all of whom if they could would love to be drenched in the rain with me, and we would laugh at being here, alive, and I’d say how moist I am and we’d laugh even harder. 
    




    I love feeling alive and rain does that, even if I’m just on the patio at an old picnic table sixty years ago and the sound on the canvas above me and the steam off of the sidewalk nearby all kept me present, absorbing the moment before the next one came. How often in life can we be so acutely aware of a moment so that we can hear the nudge of the one that follows? Time is too swift for rain; life is too short for the subtle rise of mist from the pavement. 
    




    “Let the rain kiss you, Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops, Let the rain sing you a lullaby.” –Langston Hughes
    




    It’s the same with the sun, the feeling-alive thing. The heat and scorch on my neck and back  energizes me like nothing else can, and everything around me is hyper-present, like I can feel the molecules, the very atoms of the light, and too of the rain, like the coursing of blood. 
    




    It’s raining now, and I’m going to pour a cup of tea, put on a sweatshirt and go sit on the porch and listen to the rain in the woods and on the porch roof here at Aerie. I’ll let my mind wander and try and remember the last time I heard my father laugh and remember the last time my mother and I talked about nothing at all. I’ll think about Eddie and that time we walked all day in the rain through Heckscher State Park on the Great South Bay, just two fourteen-year-olds who suddenly owned the planet, and we spent all day out there and sang “The Long and Winding Road,” and now when I hear that song I think of rain, and Eddie, and how it always takes me a moment and a shake of my head to understand that day was fifty years ago, forty-five years before he closed the door behind him, and how that rain that day was like a third friend laughing along with us, singing along with us. When it rains now I can have that day again, and I like that. So I walked up here to my desk and settled into this chair and I’ll listen to the rain on the skylight before I turn out the lights. 
    




    “Some people feel the rain. Others just get wet”
    




    –Bob Marley