tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-40222439403334157042024-03-13T04:04:16.589-04:00Media InterceptA blog about those images that linger on in the heart and the head, long after the experience moves on...Pat Walshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12770886198996983680noreply@blogger.comBlogger78125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022243940333415704.post-7386310865624899462015-12-07T11:36:00.001-05:002016-12-07T14:20:51.443-05:00Remembering My Dad on Pearl Harbor Day<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>by Patrick J. Walsh</b><br /><br />I'm taking a moment today to remember Pearl Harbor, and all that happened there on December 7, 1941.<br /><br />The events of that day changed the course of our history as a nation, and the history of the world.<br /><br />The commemoration of "Pearl Harbor Day" each December 7 is imbued with a solemn dignity in ceremonies throughout the United States, and remembrances of the day often serve as a "teachable moment" that connects new generations of Americans to a particularly crucial turning point in the nation's history.<br /><br />The day has always held special significance for me, because my Dad, John E. Walsh, was stationed at Pearl Harbor as a member of the U.S. Navy on December 7, 1941.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN5WxNILfeRePcVdUqNPoPnFb7uXBFR_V6xdXY4Igbz-eaOe9v_Jpeip1RBAJnZcctMf0ZVopxUmLbz45D6eX492-Ms3bRBs9QysAoWm6NzITfL3p0-m_3HBfnpIrT5x3MEDHAH_gXOCS2/s1600/Pearl+Harbor+1941.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN5WxNILfeRePcVdUqNPoPnFb7uXBFR_V6xdXY4Igbz-eaOe9v_Jpeip1RBAJnZcctMf0ZVopxUmLbz45D6eX492-Ms3bRBs9QysAoWm6NzITfL3p0-m_3HBfnpIrT5x3MEDHAH_gXOCS2/s320/Pearl+Harbor+1941.jpg" width="320" /><i></i></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>John E. Walsh and friends at Pearl Harbor, 1941.</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Just twenty years old, Dad was enjoying Navy life in Hawaii that Fall — snapshots from the days before December 7 show him and his buddies, many from his hometown area of Peekskill, New York, smiling and obviously happy to be among friends when so far from home.<br /><br />In those days before everything changed, Dad taught Sunday school to some of the local kids. It was a big deal to have some pineapple for dessert, or a beer with the guys when he wasn't in class, training to be an airplane mechanic.<br /><br />Then, on a Sunday morning at the end of the first week of December, there was a strange hum in the sky, and within minutes, the air was thick with smoke. Within hours, a heavy smell of death hung in the air, and the harbor was transformed into a graveyard for many U.S. servicemen.<br /><br />The sights and sounds of those hours stayed with Dad for the rest of his life, but he rarely spoke of them unless asked. Knowing him as well as I did, I suspect that he held those things sacred — as you might honor the final hours of someone close to you — and as a result only felt comfortable discussing them in the reverence of an appropriate time and setting.<br /><br />In the chaos of that morning, as everyone scrambled to do what they could to get planes in the air and mount some sort of response to what was happening, Dad at one point fell or was knocked to the ground, receiving a cut to his knee. The moment allowed for no attention to anything less than major injury, though, so he simply got up and went on to his next assignment, just as so many others did that day and in the following weeks, despite the shock and confusion of injuries large and small.<br /><br />The days following December 7 were as grim and serious as the days before had been joyful and carefree. The idylls and innocence of youth were replaced with grave, exhausting attention to detail and a determination to honor those who had been lost.<br /><br />Dad always felt blessed to have survived December 7, 1941 at Pearl Harbor. He sometimes referred to it as his "second birthday" that year — the start of an entirely new time in his life. He was grateful to have survived that day, and proud to later be part of the support apparatus for the Battle of Midway, which historians point to as the turning point in the war of the Pacific, and the United States' answer to the attack on Pearl Harbor.<br /><br />I feel blessed today to honor my Dad and to remember all those who have served with honor, in pivotal moments like Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941 and throughout our long history as a people of courage and determination, and joy and innocence, in war and in peace.<br /><br />© Patrick J. Walsh</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Related posts:</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">• <a href="http://mediaintercept.blogspot.com/2014/08/peace-importance-of-pow-mia-resolution.html" target="_blank">Peace: The importance of POW / MIA resolution</a></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">• <a href="http://mediaintercept.blogspot.com/2013/06/a-first-anniversary_26.html" target="_blank">A First Anniversary</a></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">• <a href="http://mediaintercept.blogspot.com/2013/11/monsignor-francis-j-ansbro-full-life.html" target="_blank">Monsignor Francis J. Ansbro: a Full Life, and a Full Heart</a></span></span><br />
<br />Pat Walshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12770886198996983680noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022243940333415704.post-50278638738372804372015-04-29T03:40:00.000-04:002015-04-30T02:03:20.701-04:00Poem Time: The Magic of Words<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>by Patrick J. Walsh</b><br />
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For those who know me primarily from my <a href="http://amazon.com/author/patrickjwalsh" target="_blank">books</a> or <a href="http://echoesamongthestars.com/PatPortfolio/Contents.html" target="_blank">journalism</a> or <a href="https://www.youtube.com/user/patwalshvideo" target="_blank">videos</a>, it might come as something of a surprise to find out that I'm also an avid poet.<br />
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Then again, if you ever heard me lecture about literature or dug around in the <a href="http://echoesamongthestars.com/PatPortfolio/PatPLM.html" target="_blank">archives</a> at my undergrad alma mater, my fascination with poets and poetics will probably make perfect sense.<br />
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And for poets, spring is a special time of year -- and not just because of all those blooming flowers and similarly inspiring symbols of the ethereal dimensions of life.<br />
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It's also the setting for National Poetry Month, which each April focuses attention on the art of poetry and its significance to our culture and history.<br />
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Founded in 1996 by the <a href="http://poets.org/" target="_blank">Academy of American Poets</a>, the National Poetry Month event inspires many individual celebrations across the country, and acts as a sort of yearly punctuation mark in the ongoing process of growing as a writer and reader of poetry.<br />
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In my particular case, the past two National Poetry Month celebrations have meant participating in the "Poem-A-Day Challenge" led by Robert Lee Brewer at his blog, <a href="http://www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/poetic-asides" target="_blank">Poetic Asides</a>.<br />
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The challenge format provides poets with a prompt each day as a starting point for molding a new poem. And while it can be a bit daunting to commit to writing a new poem every day for a month, it's also a great way to quickly generate a sizable lot of new drafts, which can then be hammered into finished work as time and circumstance permit.<br />
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Whether you're writing or reading, as part of the national celebration or just for your own pleasure, I hope you'll find a little time to focus on poems and poets. It's a great way to celebrate the remarkable magic of words, and all that they inspire in us each day.</span></span><br />
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<!-- start LinkyTools script --><script src="http://www.linkytools.com/thumbnail_linky_include.aspx?id=255477" type="text/javascript"></script><!-- end LinkyTools script -->Pat Walshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12770886198996983680noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022243940333415704.post-41111966171521392742015-04-22T05:21:00.000-04:002015-04-22T05:50:31.005-04:00Green<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyepGbayNgVc0ky-MrQJ_D_sJcmK2_l6mOz2X1rxLi7lZ2Y7mmmeouChfPlYy9ZuD0KYuOimTcJFPs-OuCYXxOIJ_I8Vy_mmeB4Qr_pn7c_HT2SFDX2-o2nAxL9RxrDLKH0vBd7edqtYTJ/s1600/Earth+Day+pic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyepGbayNgVc0ky-MrQJ_D_sJcmK2_l6mOz2X1rxLi7lZ2Y7mmmeouChfPlYy9ZuD0KYuOimTcJFPs-OuCYXxOIJ_I8Vy_mmeB4Qr_pn7c_HT2SFDX2-o2nAxL9RxrDLKH0vBd7edqtYTJ/s1600/Earth+Day+pic.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>by Patrick J. Walsh</b></span><span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">In the light of winter sun</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">the gray stillness of the empty field<br />seems bigger<br />than the memory of days<br />when the grass grew freely<br /><br />A wrap of dying leaves<br />enshrouds the early fall<br />sealing away<br />any chance for new growth<br />as the black winds turn chill<br /><br />And summer, lusting red with heat<br />in sodden, sweaty steps<br />stomps down<br />the flooded patches<br />with an angry trail of mud<br /><br />But spring, its secrets hidden<br />in the lush fertile soil<br />deep below<br />renews the promise of green<br />and its hope for a better world</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">© Patrick J. Walsh</span><br />
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<br />Pat Walshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12770886198996983680noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022243940333415704.post-41193820073426131212015-03-08T22:19:00.000-04:002015-03-08T22:48:03.765-04:00A Saturday in March<b><span style="font-size: large;">by Patrick J. Walsh</span></b><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">It is a sunny Saturday afternoon in early March, in the first tentative warmth of one of the first days of less frigid air, near the end of a long and trying winter. There are memories here, as I indulge in the routines that characterized my childhood, now decades past.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">There is homemade soup on the stove, its aroma dreamily evocative, transporting me backward to those days of my youth when my Mom spent hours preparing and cooking so we could all share in the hearty warmth of the meal.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">And in the memory of the motes that dance in the sunny beams, there are those times in the past when the softness of the winter or the earliness of the spring allowed my Dad and I to begin our work in the yard in the early part of the warmer season.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I remember the keenness of the anticipation we felt, as we looked eagerly forward to the warmer days of greenness and growth that would, later, transform the square patch of land around our home into the idyllic suburban dreamscapes of the summertimes of my youth.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJrzzalEpa3ubuzTWUujWmYEAe7KeiG0DVSxfa3MJ3C4BipKO0q5qU5FTcKFjuleJoz9GXMOzQ8yEuxvePWRDvX9AfRepeS4N6_TCd7EiUyuTugOBykvsqqNt1E16qw7GZG-uFLBF5jy3j/s1600/new+bikes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJrzzalEpa3ubuzTWUujWmYEAe7KeiG0DVSxfa3MJ3C4BipKO0q5qU5FTcKFjuleJoz9GXMOzQ8yEuxvePWRDvX9AfRepeS4N6_TCd7EiUyuTugOBykvsqqNt1E16qw7GZG-uFLBF5jy3j/s1600/new+bikes.jpg" height="228" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">As the light shines and I ponder the outline of all of these things, the TV is lit with the antics of the animated characters of my childhood, who remain as sweet and innocent as they were when I first encountered them, many Saturday mornings ago.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Most definitively present in the cheer of the afternoon beams slanting across the couch and the carpet, there are the moments I shared with my family, particularly those who have since passed out of this life.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Those times when we laughed together, or ate together, or worked on some project — or shared a visit with friends and relatives, or ventured out on some errand — these are all present in the sunlight.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I feel the warmth of the sun today. And I am blessed.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">© Patrick J. Walsh</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>You may also like</b>: </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">• <a href="http://mediaintercept.blogspot.com/2014/01/when-geese-dream.html" target="_blank">When Geese Dream</a></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">• <a href="http://mediaintercept.blogspot.com/2013/03/a-walk-in-park-patience.html" target="_blank">A Walk in the Park: Patience</a></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">• <a href="http://mediaintercept.blogspot.com/2013/06/a-first-anniversary_26.html" target="_blank">A First Anniversary</a></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>Pat Walshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12770886198996983680noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022243940333415704.post-15796128301695750122015-01-01T04:41:00.000-05:002015-01-01T04:41:05.006-05:00Goodbye year / Hello year<span style="font-size: large;">Happy Bright and Shiny New Year!<br /> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I spent a little part of New Year's Eve 2014 at the "New Year's Eve - Bar Napkin Poetry" event. Here are the results:</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Goodbye year</b><br /><br />every moment of kindness<br />lingers in the shiny light<br />in these hours of leaving<br /><br />while every sad revealing<br />of base and brutal instinct<br />evanesces in the darkness<br /><br />go now, hand us over<br />to some new collection of days<br />colored more brightly with hope<br /><br />-- PJW, 12/31/14 </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3Q2N5vwreJ_nByTxmLScYwNR1ISOEImWjrj9IyvocsgmAL5wSh7u6snkWoO1wlJVj7zZnwCBoj2djb9r7HQNGp3eqWPNOsWAA4qj90mWrcxGhKrp2oS2nkV9HSEMgRmcgHtgXsu5Y4VdF/s1600/123114_Goodbye_Year.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3Q2N5vwreJ_nByTxmLScYwNR1ISOEImWjrj9IyvocsgmAL5wSh7u6snkWoO1wlJVj7zZnwCBoj2djb9r7HQNGp3eqWPNOsWAA4qj90mWrcxGhKrp2oS2nkV9HSEMgRmcgHtgXsu5Y4VdF/s1600/123114_Goodbye_Year.jpg" height="320" width="228" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Hello year</b><br /><br />well hello to you<br />you bright new story<br />your lines all loose<br />with possibility<br /><br />let's begin this thing<br />with a smile outside<br />and a silent prayer<br />for peace<br /><br />now come over here<br />while I wrap you<br />in shades of hope<br />and anticipation<br /><br />and we'll sleep late<br />as your hours begin<br />with the soft light<br />of morning<br /><br />-- PJW, 01/01/15 </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /><i>You may also like:</i></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">• <a href="http://echoesamongthestars.com/PatPortfolio/TStwPo.html" target="_blank">Write two poems and call me…</a><br />• <a href="http://www.mediaintercept.blogspot.com/2011/03/walk-in-park.html" target="_blank">A Walk in the Park</a><br />• <a href="http://www.mediaintercept.blogspot.com/2012/05/hawk_5591.html" target="_blank">The Hawk</a></span></span><br />
<br /><span style="font-size: large;"><i>and other PW poems:</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">• <a href="http://www.mediaintercept.blogspot.com/2014/11/gathering-days.html" target="_blank">Gathering Days</a><br />• <a href="http://echoesamongthestars.com/PatPortfolio/PLM-Gaw.html" target="_blank">A Further Adventure of Sir Gawain</a><br />• <a href="http://www.mediaintercept.blogspot.com/2012/10/why-im-staying-home-this-halloween.html" target="_blank">Why I'm Staying Home This Halloween</a></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>Pat Walshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12770886198996983680noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022243940333415704.post-28092817963174925982014-11-27T08:12:00.000-05:002014-11-27T08:12:19.676-05:00Gathering Days<span style="font-size: large;"><b>By Patrick J. Walsh</b><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>a sameness of days<br />lays on the weary afflicted<br />like a tarp over leaves<br />piled in the yard<br />waiting to be collected<br /><br />while idle we wonder<br />at the comfort of days<br />whose same sameness<br />lays like a soft blanket<br />in a cradle quiet<br /><br />the same sun shines<br />as the day begins<br />and sameness gathers<br />close around us<br />as we set out to pray</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">© Patrick J. Walsh </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSq2jtha-7aznmr4u-hB8Tnhn7XZPcezJfZfJyXgRz1sBgRkpfePU-dzt1YHOEg5MW31iHJHIftxm5OLs67XvgKW0R8oIq07rH8Q_3AuNkihlZcGWdhteRanSN0VGUNADL84GVvUG6tbES/s1600/DSCN8838.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSq2jtha-7aznmr4u-hB8Tnhn7XZPcezJfZfJyXgRz1sBgRkpfePU-dzt1YHOEg5MW31iHJHIftxm5OLs67XvgKW0R8oIq07rH8Q_3AuNkihlZcGWdhteRanSN0VGUNADL84GVvUG6tbES/s1600/DSCN8838.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="right"><td class="tr-caption">photo © Patrick J. Walsh</td></tr>
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<br />Pat Walshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12770886198996983680noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022243940333415704.post-9176321576609615772014-08-01T02:19:00.000-04:002014-08-02T01:44:29.440-04:00Peace<span style="font-size: large;"><b>The importance of POW / MIA resolution</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>By Patrick J. Walsh</b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />Peekskill, New York, July 31, 2014 -- Today, in the quiet warmth of summer in this picaresque city alongside the Hudson River, there is in the stir of memories and the milestones of history a moment to remember the journey of a native son.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYVnYTdFg6WLVcdFbFohyTCjuEOQ3ZWMwPmPZQJ4B2p0Ligo0nTOwNEEmAvTN_0NtX47bDlE-8hvSVjyPFdnMTsiIPMkxAjf49p9r0pMp75JDGA73jSks2k5oEhbnBUXOxB4N1If29_AgE/s1600/Peekskill+photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYVnYTdFg6WLVcdFbFohyTCjuEOQ3ZWMwPmPZQJ4B2p0Ligo0nTOwNEEmAvTN_0NtX47bDlE-8hvSVjyPFdnMTsiIPMkxAjf49p9r0pMp75JDGA73jSks2k5oEhbnBUXOxB4N1If29_AgE/s1600/Peekskill+photo.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Peekskill Bay - historic photo by William Henry Jackson, Detroit Publishing Co. (Library of Congress)</i></span></td></tr>
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<b>...in the quiet warmth of summer, some measure of peace...</b></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">On this date a quarter century ago, two nations that were once bitter enemies during a long and violent conflict oversaw the culmination of that journey, when the remains of Lieutenant Colonel Robert Harry Irwin, United States Air Force, were formally returned to the United States by the Socialist Republic of Vietnam.<br /><br />A 1956 graduate of Peekskill High School, Robert Irwin enlisted in the U.S. Air Force after college. He served his country throughout the entire course of the Vietnam War, until his death.<br /><br />He was 33 years old when his plane was shot down on February 17, 1972, about 15 miles west of the city of Vinh, in North Vietnam. By that point in his long and distinguished career, he had risen to the rank of Major.<br /><br />Flying with him that day was Captain Edwin A. Hawley Jr. Hawley was badly injured in the crash, but survived the shoot down and a subsequent year in captivity as a prisoner of the North Vietnamese. He returned to the United States in 1973.<br /><br />Two days after Major Irwin's plane was shot down, a North Vietnamese radio broadcast described the incident and claimed that both occupants of the plane had been captured. Captain Hawley was referred to by name during the broadcast.<br /><br />Major Irwin was initially listed as Missing in Action. In the period following his loss, he was promoted to the rank of Lieutenant Colonel.<br /><br />In 1978, five years after the end of U.S. involvement in the Vietnam conflict, Lieutenant Colonel Irwin was declared deceased. His status in official records was listed as Killed in Action, Body Not Recovered.<br /><br />The last official American wartime presence in Vietnam came to a close with the fall of Saigon in April, 1975. In the decade that followed, it was a difficult task for U.S. officials to get information about American service personnel who had disappeared during the war.<br /><br />For many Americans, uncertainty about the fate of those who had been considered Missing in Action was an intolerable consequence of the end of the Vietnam conflict. During the administration of President Ronald Reagan, support grew for negotiations that might lead to more information about those who had been lost.<br /><br />In February, 1986 -- 14 years after his plane was shot down -- U.S. officials were able to make a formal request for information about the fate of Lieutenant Colonel Irwin, during meetings with Vietnamese officials in Hanoi. Nearly two years later, in December, 1987, after a period of further negotiations, a report detailing the facts of the case was forwarded to the Vietnamese for their response.<br /><br />On July 31, 1989, 17 years after he was last seen alive, the earthly remains of Lieutenant Colonel Robert Irwin were returned to U.S. soil. Befitting his long service to his country and his heroic sacrifice, his remains were interred at Arlington National Cemetery later that year.<br /><br />And in the grateful memories of those who knew him, and with gratitude for the blessings of Providence on the part of those who know only the stark details of his service, there is some measure of peace, in the quiet warmth of summer in this city by the Hudson, where his journey began.<br /><br />© Patrick J. Walsh</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Source</b>: Library of Congress Vietnam-Era Prisoner-of-War / Missing-in-Action Database (http://lcweb2.loc.gov/frd/pow/)</span><br />
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<br />Pat Walshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12770886198996983680noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022243940333415704.post-17535544339378476512014-07-06T14:16:00.000-04:002014-07-06T15:41:33.432-04:00Baseball and Writing and Life<span style="font-size: large;"><b>by Patrick J. Walsh</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Here's something I'm particularly grateful for today: my video <i>Pitching Diamonds: Cy Young's First No-Hitter</i> (<a href="http://youtu.be/QNsFJ7cxVR4">http://youtu.be/QNsFJ7cxVR4</a>) has just passed the 5,000 views milestone.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I am so appreciative for everyone who has checked it out over the course of the past two and a half years, and I am grateful for all the views, comments and feedback I've received on all my video efforts.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I first posted the Cy video in the very early hours of April 6, 2012 -- the overnight following Opening Day of the 2012 season for my New York Mets. That day, Mets ace Johan Santana returned from shoulder surgery to pitch a masterful five innings while helping to secure a 1-0 win over the Braves.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Later that season, Johan would pitch the first no-hitter in Mets history. I watched both of those games on TV, with my Mom.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Looking back on them now, and reflecting on all that has happened since — to my team, and in my life — I cannot help but smile when I think of how lucky I am to have had so many great experiences as a baseball fan, and as a writer.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The Cy video marks my first step beyond the <i>Five Minutes in Space</i> series — the first time I've posted a video intended for a broader audience. I had originally launched my YouTube channel in January, 2011 as a way to communicate with like-minded fans of space exploration — the folks who might know me as the author of <i>Echoes Among the Stars</i> or <i>Spaceflight</i>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">When I started researching my baseball project about a year later, it was awesome to have the ability to transform one small slice of the research into an 'instant' short-form documentary that I could immediately share online. It allowed me to reach out to other baseball fans, and to give everyone who might be interested in my writing a chance to see a little bit of my work in progress.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Given the length of time it often takes to put together a big project, and the fact that I am pretty much always working on a whole raft of different writing projects at the same time (like pretty much every other writer I know), it's an especially good thing to be able to quickly, concisely, and continuously share a sample of my work with anyone who'd like to know, you know, "so what are you working on now?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">There were 10 years between the publication of my first book (<i>Echoes</i>, in 2000) and my second (<i>Spaceflight</i>, 2010), and that's a really long time to have to try to describe your current project, again and again, in a manner that's succinct and vivid enough to capture someone's interest. Especially when the project is constantly evolving, or as you shift your attention from one project to another.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Having a video sample helps me to honor the question, and to provide a meaningful answer for those who are kind enough, or interested enough, to ask about my work. I am always grateful for both the interest and the support, as writing can often be a fairly solitary pursuit, and it's important to stay plugged into those who care the most about your work.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Which brings me, not coincidentally, back to the game of baseball.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">In baseball, as in writing, as in life itself, there is so much joy to be found in being part of something larger than yourself: a team, a city, a sport, a life, a history…</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I like to think that my own experiences of that feeling of joy, however personal or humble, have given me some small idea of what it's like for those who are at the heart of the greatest moments in the history of the game.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Just as time passes and those moments are transformed into memories, all the little joys we experience first-hand remain as near as our connections to the times we shared, and to the people who shared them with us along the way.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">And as we remember and record and pass along the stories of those moments, we also pass along a little bit of each of us. Clapping, cheering, breathing right along with our favorite team or favorite players, we all take our seats in the stands as the game rolls on, helping to shape some small part of a day, or a season, or a lifetime.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">That's baseball, and history, and life. And I'm grateful for the chance to share it with all of you.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>Pat Walshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12770886198996983680noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022243940333415704.post-9932121916333062332014-07-04T10:38:00.000-04:002014-07-04T11:01:28.963-04:00Doing the Math: A Review of Keeping the Dream Alive<span style="font-size: large;"><b>By Patrick J. Walsh</b><br /><br />Bob Dylan once said writing songs is mathematical, intimating that at its highest level, songwriting is mostly a process of working out how things go together (or come apart) to create a finished work that makes sense. And in some ways, figuring out why you like the music you like is a pretty similar process.<br /><br />When you look back at the music you've liked for a long period of time, you'll probably find some little surprises among the big hits and well-known artists. Looking ahead is always a bit trickier, though, when you try to project how you'll feel about a current favorite somewhere down the road.<br /><br />In many cases, the common denominator will be pretty simple: the music that sticks around is the music that sounds best. And in the case of <i>Keeping the Dream Alive</i>, it's the distinctive nature of the sound that gives this collection of bluesy, driving roots rock its unique character.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The opener, "Lotto Dust," is a classic blues parable about the power and peril of dreams gone wrong. The narrative draws poignancy from the counterpoint of Walsh's strong, quiet tenor and the warm chorus of backup vocals — a good example of how the mix supports the theme and coloring of the songs.<br /><br />As the signature song of the group, the driving uptempo instrumental "Keeping the Dream Alive" is a good summation of the artist's influences and interests. While carefully controlled, in keeping with the overall production, it also gives free rein to elements of the classic and progressive rock that permeate a great deal of his musical heritage, and which are also evident in his live performances (where he's been known to roll out deep-catalog covers such as Jethro Tull's "One Brown Mouse," for example).<br /><br />"Hurtin' Up My Heart" features a bright multi-tracked rhythm vamp and the sort of heavy lead guitar that distinguishes classic funk and soul. The song's simple blues structure anchors a retro tone that's accentuated by its "old soul" lyrics, and the buoyancy of the rhythm creates an end result that is actually dance-friendly, in an old school reggae sort of way.<br /><br />For me personally, as familiar as I am with the artist and his musical interests, the most revelatory song of this collection is the instrumental "Aloft." Straying from the core blues of the other compositions in the group, this foray into a sort of short form progressive rock is a definitive statement of sophistication and maturity by someone with a deep understanding and appreciation of the influences that have shaped modern popular music, and which have also informed his own musical journey.<br /><br />"Every Day She's Gone" is another straight blues, and also serves as a good example of how the artist's careful attention to detail, in lyric and melody, helps to fully express the intended sentiments of the song. There is a stony finality to its theme of accepting loss while still remaining connected to the emotions that make memories meaningful in the first place, and as such, it serves as a fitting, dignified valedictory to the collection.<br /><br />In each particular expression of its overall themes, and particularly in the careful crafting of the distinctive sound of the recordings as a whole, this long-awaited collection is every bit the compendium of musical styles and technical skill that fans have come to expect, and to cherish, from this excellent singer songwriter. It is music well worth having, and quick to join your short list of favorite recordings.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>Pat Walshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12770886198996983680noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022243940333415704.post-53149361838883722092014-06-20T17:28:00.002-04:002014-06-20T17:28:33.735-04:00A Dream Comes 'Round at Last<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>by Patrick J. Walsh</b><br /><br /><i>Fragments from a life-long friendship with the<br />artist behind the new CD "Keeping the Dream Alive"</i></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I remember talking with my cousin Kelly when he was in the midst of seeking out expert advice to help him achieve the sound he wanted for what would become his first CD, <i>Keeping the Dream Alive</i>.<br /><br />I had heard some of the songs he was talking about, and they sounded great. Exasperated, I gave him my own advice:<br /><br />"Just get it done and put it out there."<br /><br />That was about two years ago.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Lately, as I've been working toward the reboot of my portfolio website<a href="http://www.echoesamongthestars.com/Home.html" target="_blank"> EchoesAmongtheStars.com</a>, I've had occasion to revisit the large amount of music journalism that I've written over the years.<br /><br />As I read through many of my old clips, I realized that I am afflicted with the reporter's occupational hazard of being able to recall the circumstances of virtually every interview and performance that I've covered, as well as the particulars of how I went about writing each article.<br /><br />At the heart of all those details, though, it is my personal memories of the people and places and music that remain most vivid.<br /><br />Interestingly, at the same time that I've been experiencing this musical and emotional rewind, I have been listening to some new music — the first CD released by my cousin Kelly, who I've known for virtually my entire life.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Separated in age by just a handful of months, each the youngest in a family of brothers, each having fallen in love with rock and pop at just about the same time — that moment when psychedelia first began to show up on "classic rock" playlists, and the first mention of the term "punk" as a music genre began to show up in the media — my cousin Kelly and I got along famously from the first moment we met, and have ever since.<br /><br />Although our family situations were different when we were growing up, we were never at a lack of words or welcome whenever we saw each other.<br /><br />Kelly always seemed a lot cooler than me, but in a way that never made me feel bad. He dressed cooler; his hair was longer; and he was easy to talk to, even for me, as quiet as I often was as a child.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb2OTeDWBgwpbFQd_QOPszKdPcD3me1sXSrxRfzsp2JZ_Q_goWkTjuL15Guhj-SKWO-LXpeOS1D6EPF4PvyWsiAoF-otjLYbKuSKvOjPk1dCDZAc3DSTzhjPai2_ADakr85yi7-deH7vFw/s1600/Pat+&+Cousin+Kelly.tiff" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb2OTeDWBgwpbFQd_QOPszKdPcD3me1sXSrxRfzsp2JZ_Q_goWkTjuL15Guhj-SKWO-LXpeOS1D6EPF4PvyWsiAoF-otjLYbKuSKvOjPk1dCDZAc3DSTzhjPai2_ADakr85yi7-deH7vFw/s1600/Pat+&+Cousin+Kelly.tiff" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Kelly (right) always seemed a lot cooler than me...</i></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">When we were little, our dads took us on a camping trip: Kelly and his two older brothers, and me and my older brother. Back then I was overwhelmed by being in the woods. Everyone seemed to know more about camping and fishing and cooking out than I did.<br /><br />I remember being glad to find that our campsite had a wooden platform where we were to put up our tent — not for fear of what otherwise might find its way into our sleeping quarters, but simply because it reminded me of the platform my Dad had made in our backyard, where we had already spent so many happy times.<br /><br />Even then, when I had yet so little of it, I was borne back into the past as surely as Fitzgerald's <i>Gatsby</i>.<br /><br />For his part, Kelly seemed relaxed and at ease, enjoying the quiet of the woods and the company of his Dad and brothers and his beloved uncle and cousins. Gradually, I grew less anxious.<br /><br />Ultimately, it was one of those experiences that form up in your heart and mind years later like a series of Monet landscapes, providing a window into the best parts of your connections with people you love, as those relationships evolve over time.<br /><br />Years later, Kelly would take his own young family camping at the very same spot.</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">When we were a bit older, Kelly and I were at a party — one of those gatherings that would, over time, attain a sort of mythical status among my friends and family. It was the kind of get-together that resulted in people looking through the bushes in the yard the next day, trying to locate a misplaced family member who hadn't quite yet found his way home.<br /><br />I have a friend who to this day delights in the memory of a discussion he had with Kelly at that party. He remembers how the two of them started up a flight of stairs while Kelly was deep in the midst of a point-by-point exegesis of the then-new Jethro Tull album, as a means of exploring the merits of progressive rock as a whole.<br /><br />On a step about halfway up, Kelly suddenly stumbled and fell to one knee; then, hardly spilling his beer, he steadied himself, regained his balance, and continued upward — still calmly discussing Tull, and Ian Anderson's place in the pantheon of great rock songwriters.<br /><br />By current standards, it was a crazy time. But as I look back, I realize that it was probably that period in the lives of our parents' generation when the last possible dreams of youth were still swaying just at the edge of the horizon; tantalizing, maddeningly close, but still just far enough away to cause even the wildest romantic to wonder if maybe, just maybe, those dreams would never slow down enough to be touched, or to be made real.<br /><br />And for our generation, still so young, it was a time when all dreams still seemed on the table, just waiting to be put into motion.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Over the years, Kelly and I have shared similar career paths, a deep gratitude for (and devotion to) our family and friends, and a deeply held creative impulse that we each recognized in the other early on.<br /><br />I became a writer, and I've been blessed to have been able to make my writing a key part of my life and career, as well as an outlet for my creativity. At the same time, I have also always loved music — whether I'm just listening, or composing, or writing about someone else's work.<br /><br />Kelly has been a successful professional for a very long time, regularly expressing his creativity through the technical expertise and business sense that he puts to good daily use for the benefit of others. But he has also always loved music — and in his case, his long-held passion for writing and performing music has now resulted in the release of <i>Keeping the Dream Alive</i>.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Recently, as we chatted over dinner, getting caught up on family and friends and careers and yes, reminiscing, Kelly and I got talking about some of the technical aspects of music recording and production.<br /><br />He tends to chide himself for having taken so long to finalize the recordings that have now become his first CD. In truth, however, it is the careful attention to detail that he devoted to their production that provides the finished work with much of its beauty and power.<br /><br />He approached the task of recording and producing <i>Keeping the Dream Alive</i> with the same quiet, good-humored expertise that has long made him a successful professional: reaching out to family and friends for support and advice, seeking the help of experts where necessary, enlisting other creative artists where helpful.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And then — now — he has taken the final step in the long creative process, moving from dreamer to doer, taking ownership of his own music and sharing it with the world.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>From dreamer to doer, taking ownership of his own music...</i></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Both the process and the result represent a great deal of what is important to him, in music and in life. And in a very real way, the finished product honors all those moments through the years when any of us felt that little creative spark inside, calling for a pen and paper, a guitar, a microphone, to document the bits and pieces that form the first ragged outline of a dream.<br /><br />He has now set that outline in stone, and set those dreams to music.</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">In addition to being justifiably proud — or at least, well satisfied — as he enjoys the initial reaction to <i>Keeping the Dream Alive</i>, I'm sure he will also be relieved to not have to deal with the impatience of those who have long encouraged him to "just get it done and put it out there."<br /><br />At least until he starts work on the next one.<br /><br />© Patrick J. Walsh</span></span><br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Keeping-Dream-Alive-K-Walsh/dp/B00KS3FY6Y/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1403255877&sr=8-3&keywords=K+Walsh" target="_blank"><img alt="http://www.amazon.com/Keeping-Dream-Alive-K-Walsh/dp/B00KS3FY6Y/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1403255877&sr=8-3&keywords=K+Walsh" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmIbMrKKkcDq4Tk5EYZjeuKJupp-at4tIX9sYsdeOy9fhyphenhyphenN8N2c_Pr04pUvMIQKdgYLkgRBXgbd0k6TOyezI0bXJdP0l5UshsujNFnHlyj2yTMw4aYgU37L2DB7dtiInYwxN348HJ4sDhj/s1600/Kelly+Keeping+CD+Cover.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span><i>Keeping the Dream Alive</i>, 06.01.14 </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Keeping-Dream-Alive-K-Walsh/dp/B00KS3FY6Y/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1403255877&sr=8-3&keywords=K+Walsh" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: small;">Available at Amazon.com</span></a></span></span></div>
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Pat Walshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12770886198996983680noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022243940333415704.post-11991061310423089262014-02-04T14:04:00.000-05:002014-02-04T14:09:19.878-05:00For A Good Time, Call Scoot Horton<span style="font-size: large;">by Patrick J. Walsh<br /><br />As folksingers go, Scoot Horton is decidedly old school. His songs are smart and tight, and his straightforward stage presence puts listeners at ease even in the busiest venue.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><i>Scoot Horton at The Peekskill Coffee House.</i></b></span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></i></b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">It's easy to have fun when Scoot is on stage — even if you don't normally enjoy singer-songwriters, or folk music, or stories with quirky characters and unexpected twists. All you need is a keen ear and a close listen, and you'll find yourself smiling and tapping along.<br /><br />With the basic tools of the trade — an acoustic guitar and simple, unadorned vocals — and a batch of wonderful new songs, Horton is gathering fans from audiences liberally salted with his fellow artists as well as 'civilian' listeners, in venues local to his home area of Westchester county, New York.<br /><br />In a recent opening slot for <a href="http://www.fredgillenjr.com/" target="_blank">Fred Gillen Jr.</a> at the <a href="http://www.peekskillcoffee.com/" target="_blank">Peekskill Coffee House</a>, Scoot showed off his quirky take on the singer-songwriter genre with a short set that had to feel as good on the stage as it did throughout the house.<br /><br />Simply put, you have to know you're doing something right when you've got the cook keeping time with a spatula and the barista singing along with your paean to <i>Chicken Pot Pie</i>.<br /><br />And in truth, it is just damn difficult not to like someone who quietly begins his set with "Hi. I'm Scoot. Thanks for coming out tonight."<br /><br />As amiable as he is on stage, though, there is a special magic to listening to his songs before or after seeing him play live.<br /><br />The chance to follow along with every word as each song unfolds is sort of like watching a sculpture emerge from a block of granite, as Scoot the storyteller emerges from the hooky rhythms of his catchy tunes.<br /><br />Again and again his writing displays a wonderful knack for simultaneously coining a phrase and turning it on its head — as, for example, in the song <i>Life and Hope</i>, where he slyly confesses both aspiration and limitation:<br /><br />"I've got hope / that I hope stays strong / <br />I don't sing / I just talk really long"<br /><br />Even deadly serious material like Horton's <i>Billy McGill</i> — a first-person set piece about love gone murderously wrong — becomes engrossing when meshed with his spare musical approach and straightforward earnestness, where a more elaborate rendering would likely push the song into maudlin territory.<br /><br />He closed his Peekskill set with <i>Broke Man Blues</i>, another take on the singer-songwriter life that, like <i>Life and Hope</i>, inverts the whiny cliches that often characterize compositions in this genre.<br /><br />Both songs feature a protagonist whose impish, understated exuberance leaves the impression that he is happy in spite of his circumstances — and that you should be, too.<br /><br />And that's a feeling that is, thankfully, difficult to resist when encountering Scoot Horton, live or via his recordings.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">• Find Scoot Horton at Bandcamp: <a href="http://scoothorton.bandcamp.com/">http://scoothorton.bandcamp.com/</a><br /> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">© Patrick J. Walsh</span><br />
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<br />Pat Walshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12770886198996983680noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022243940333415704.post-51599754207520072532014-01-29T18:08:00.000-05:002014-01-29T18:08:37.282-05:00When Geese Dream<span style="font-size: large;">By Patrick J. Walsh<br /><br />Warmth, in the sun; warm and water all-encompassing. The slightest of movements in the air, a slight stirring, and the smallest waft of scent, redolent of the most vivid moments of the past.<br /><br />The day is quiet. The water spreads out, still, warm, flat from breast to shore, even and calm. She swims nearby in his dreams, and the days of the little ones remain before him as though painted on the air.<br /><br />He dreams of her now, only dreams, in the long time of sunshine in the slowness of the warm afternoon.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">At the rear of the line, the soft squish of the mud beneath; plodding behind the little ones, comical in their blonde tufts of cover. She at the front, always, showing the way for them. And for him.<br /><br />The brightness of the afternoon, the lull of the sweet aroma in the heavenly scent; quiet, still. And no need to move. The water clear, and still.<br /><br />As in the seasons the warm brings the cold and the cold the warm, the quiet of the afternoon returns him briefly to the busy time of the crèche, in that one season when she and he grouped with the others to care for all their little ones together.<br /><br />It had been a time of great noise. There was frequent excitement, with the little ones sometimes quarreling over bits of things, and occasionally the others quarreling, too. But it had been a good time overall.<br /><br />It had been a good time, and it was good in his dreams. The time seemed to have moved quickly past, but now, in his dreams, it seemed as though it may have passed more slowly.<br /><br />In the warmth and the brightness, now, he saw his own little ones back then as distinct from the others; they moved along together, in a small bunch that only she and he could immediately see as separate from the others.<br /><br />They were the third group that she and he had had together. It had been early in their time together. There were many little ones, over all the time they had been together. That time was the only time they had joined with the others.<br /><span id="goog_184546762"></span><span id="goog_184546763"></span> </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">With all the little ones they had had together, she had always been there, leading. Always leading.<br /><br />Again in the soft warmth of the afternoon, with the sweet moisture in the air, she was there, as he dreamed. He dreamed in the warmth of the sunshine, with the water all-encompassing, and together they saw all the little ones, one group after another, and it was good.<br /><br />She was there, and it was good.<br /><br />© Patrick J. Walsh</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></span>Pat Walshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12770886198996983680noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022243940333415704.post-12340416415968905082013-11-13T01:53:00.000-05:002013-11-13T16:30:08.821-05:00Monsignor Francis J. Ansbro: a Full Life, and a Full Heart<span style="font-size: large;">By Patrick J. Walsh<br /><br />My friend Francis has died.<br /><br />After 87 years on this Earth, 47 of which he spent in service to the Roman Catholic community of Peekskill, New York at the Church of Our Lady of the Assumption, Monsignor Francis J. Ansbro has entered into eternal life.<br /><br />Along with the large number of those whose lives he impacted as a priest, I mourn his loss, and marvel at the results of his ministry.<br /><br />It is heartening to realize that even in this time when the average person doesn't hear a whole lot of praise for the priestly life, there are those whose example makes it easy to see and celebrate the virtues of the humble Catholic clergyman. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Monsignor Ansbro saying Mass for my parents' 25th wedding anniversary, June, 1973.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">But even as I ponder his achievements — so evident in the tender recollections of his fellow priests, and the fervent admiration of the parishioners he served — I cannot help but think of him, simply, as my friend Francis.<br /><br />In my recollections, he is still the bright, innocent-looking young man who seemed more like an older brother or youthful uncle when I was a child; the wise, gentle friend chatting with my Dad and Mom across the dinner table when I was a young man; and finally, my dear old friend in those increasingly rare moments when we ran into each other in later years, as he struggled with ill health and I dealt with the usual preoccupations of approaching middle age.<br /><br />Other than my beloved aunt, who is a Dominican Sister, Monsignor Ansbro was the formative inspiration of my understanding of the religious as warm and welcoming individuals with full lives and full hearts.<br /><br />His humility and kindness were evident in every interaction I ever had with him, over the entire course of the time I knew him.<br /><br />Although his understanding of life was far advanced from my own, and by virtue of his profession, education and experience he was far superior in wisdom and understanding, he approached me always, simply, as a friend.<br /><br />When I was a child, he delighted in chatting about baseball or talking about my favorite foods, or making silly puns. In the midst of a conversation with my Mom and Dad and I, he would nonchalantly refer to himself as "Ancis Fansbro" — and then slyly sneak a look at each of us to see how long it would take for us to realize what he'd said.<br /><br />In my mid-20s, when my Dad was preparing for his own rapidly approaching death, at an age that still seems far too young for all those who knew and loved him, Father Ansbro shared the experience with us as deeply as any family member.<br /><br />Looking back in recent days, I've come to realize that he and my Dad had been friends for some 22 years at the time of Dad's passing — fully a third of my father's entire life. And I remember vividly the gentle priest's words of admiration for the way in which Dad dealt with his final illness, when he said he'd never seen anyone approach death with such faith.<br /><br />As an adult, I'd like to think that I was always on my best behavior whenever I was in the presence of my friend Francis. He did after all inspire the best instincts in me; and yet his casual good humor and gentle manner never failed to put me at ease, and I always felt free to express my thoughts with him as I would with any other close friend.<br /><br />For all the familiarity that he engendered, however, he was still first and foremost a dedicated servant of God. I consider it a great blessing that I was able to personally witness his extraordinary devotion to the church, even in trying or difficult circumstances.<br /><br />In that light I recall the time we spent together in the early 1980s, when Father Ansbro accompanied Dad and Mom and I on a vacation to my parents' summer cottage in Maine. I remember how he delighted in saying Mass each day, sharing the Eucharist with us at a makeshift altar in the modest cottage in the remote Maine woods.<br /><br />He faithfully brought us to the Lord's table each day during our sojourn together, despite having badly cut his foot while swimming in the lake on the first day of the trip.<br /><br />We shared the blessings of faith and family and friendship, then and throughout the years, and I feel blessed to have grown up with such a positive role model for my Catholic faith, and with such a good and kind friend.<br /><br />In this time of mourning our loss and celebrating the gift of his life, I pray for him, and for all those he loved.<br /><br />© Patrick J. Walsh</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>Pat Walshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12770886198996983680noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022243940333415704.post-89324308173638268912013-06-26T15:06:00.000-04:002013-12-03T13:56:30.431-05:00A First Anniversary<span style="font-size: large;">by Patrick J. Walsh<br /><br />Today is the 65th anniversary of my parents' wedding.<br /><br />They celebrated 39 anniversaries together, and after Dad passed away, Mom and I marked the day together for 25 more years, always with some little celebration and many happy memories.<br /><br />Those memories resonate with a special poignancy today, as I mark the occasion for the first time since my Mom passed away at the end of last year.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I remember Mom's description of the young couple driving up Route 9 through Sleepy Hollow and Ossining in their tattered little "Willys" — the compact sedan manufactured by the company that was more famous for producing Jeeps during World War II.<br /><br />Tired after a long week at work, driving along on their weekly pilgrimage from their apartment in Brooklyn to visit Dad's large Irish family in the suburbs, they would sing at the top of their lungs to keep themselves awake. The fact that they "couldn't carry a tune in a bucket," as Mom used to say, only added to the delight they took in being silly, and being together.<br /><br />Then there's the day Dad graduated from Saint John's. Having spent the entirety of World War II in the U.S. Navy, Dad went to college in his 20s and worked hard to earn his degree. By the time of his graduation, he had been married for years, and Mom had become seriously ill with tuberculosis and was in the hospital.<br /><br />Graduation day was also visiting day at the hospital, and Dad opted to skip commencement to spend the day with Mom instead. "I wouldn't have gotten through school if not for her support," he explained to his own Mom, gently breaking the news that he wouldn't be attending the graduation ceremony.<br /><br />And then there's the day Dad and I went to the Mets game together and ate at the park. Dad was on a diet at the time; Mom would carefully select low-calorie items when she was shopping, and prepared meals designed to help him trim down.<br /><br />The day of the game, Dad and I hadn't eaten before we got to the ballpark, so we each got a hot dog and a soda. He grinned, "Don't tell your mother," while we ate; and then we watched the game and enjoyed a terrific afternoon together. Hours later, when we got home, Mom greeted us with a big smile.<br /><br />"How was the game?"<br /><br />Dad, suddenly looking for all the world like his eight year old son, shrugged and glanced sheepishly at the floor: "I ate a hot dog." And together, they laughed.<br /><br />That was how they were: innocent, kind, thoughtful; and brilliant. They always thought of each other first, and they dealt with problems with a gentle good humor and a simple devotion — to their children, their faith, their family, their community, and their country. And of course, most of all, they were devoted to each other.<br /><br />"We celebrate life," Mom used to say.<br /><br />Today, and every day, with gratitude and joyous memories, I celebrate <i>their</i> life.<br /><br />© Patrick J. Walsh</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>Pat Walshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12770886198996983680noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022243940333415704.post-89002113781782519962013-05-15T03:42:00.000-04:002013-05-15T03:42:20.585-04:00 This is a Moment: Julie Corbalis at MTK Tavern, Mount Kisco<b><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;"></span></b><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;"></span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;"></span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">By Patrick J. Walsh</span>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">Little flashes of images
spark like photos tossed across a table, and sounds mix awkwardly as I try to
focus on the topic at hand.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">On the stage at the far
end of the room, there is a vision, a voice, a melody; at a nearby table, the
chatter and clatter of a small party enjoying a late dinner is punctuated by
vigorous applause at the conclusion of each song.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">At one point, an
inopportune cheering erupts in response to a goal scored in an NHL playoff game,
which is transmitted to the revelers at the bar via an overhead television
screen. The spontaneous celebration is quickly cut off as abruptly as it
begins, out of respect for the live performance taking place a mere few yards
away.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">Such is the warmth of the
moment, and the benevolent mix of performer and venue on this cool night in
spring.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">And, after a long while
in which I have found it difficult to write about music, I have found my way
back to one of my favorite subjects.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">The occasion: a string of
special bookings, the "Women and Music Spotlight Series" at MTK
Tavern in Mount Kisco, New York. On this particular evening, the artist is
singer-songwriter Julie Corbalis, a long-time favorite in the local area.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">The venue's furnishings
bespeak its casual elegance: to the left upon entering, there is a long row of
square shiny tables, each accompanied by four tall stools, all adorned with a
gleaming ebony finish.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">To the right, the long,
fine-grained wood bar stretches from the entrance to the stage area; and above
and behind the bar multiple large TVs are displayed like living fine art
prints, each opening a window on a different sporting event.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">One screen over from
Sidney Crosby leading the Penguins past the Islanders in the NHL playoffs, the
Yankees are winning early on the West Coast; on the set above the near end of
the bar, my beloved Mets are losing at home.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">On this night, though,
the triumphs and travails of the games overhead are lost in the friendly,
informal, inviting atmosphere of the place.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">Julie Corbalis is an
ideal performer for such a venue.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">In her selection of songs
and the smoothness of her presentation, she is well equipped for the challenges
of the 'home crowd' context that characterizes intimate settings like MTK
Tavern — a milieu that simultaneously ensures respectful support and the
expectation of a first-rate performance.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">The result is a winning
mix of classic rock, folk standards and deep-catalog covers, all wrapped within
a leavening blend of Ms. Corbalis' own original songs.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">Her wide range of musical
fascinations, so well expressed in her choice of songs to cover, is also amply
displayed in the breadth of interest and diversity of approach that
characterize her songwriting.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">The emotional content of
her own songs runs the gamut from sardonic admonition (the cleverly written
"Should've Stayed Away") to flat-out protest ("Shame on You,
Verizon") to loving pastoral ("Belgian Countryside").</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">Delivered in warm,
resonant tones that invite friendly interest, in a setting conducive to active
and attentive listening, these are the kinds of songs that shape those moments
that brighten the spirit and offer a real hope for a vibrant, sustainable
nightlife in these often-quiet suburbs.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">•<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>•<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>•</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">Located at 30 East Main
Street in Mount Kisco, MTK Tavern features a daily lunch and dinner menu and a
wide variety of beverages. The "Women and Music Spotlight Series"
continues on Wednesday evenings at 8:30 pm, featuring Kris Cambria on May 15;
Ams Palmieri on May 22; and at 7:30 on May 29, a double bill featuring the Knox
Sisters and Alison Shearer. Find the full schedule at <a href="http://www.mtktavern.com/">www.mtktavern.com</a><span id="goog_726247801"></span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/"></a><span id="goog_726247802"></span>;
914-218-3334.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">For more information
about Julie Corbalis, see her official website at <a href="http://www.juliecorbalis.com/" target="_blank">www.juliecorbalis.com</a>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">•<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>•<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>•</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Also by Patrick J. Walsh</b>:<br />• <a href="http://mediaintercept.blogspot.com/2011/05/fred-gillen-jr-live-in-peekskill-and-on.html" target="_blank">Fred Gillen Jr.: Live in Peekskill and On Disc</a><br />• <a href="http://mediaintercept.blogspot.com/2012/03/that-every-mouth-can-be-fed-remembering.html" target="_blank">That Every Mouth Can Be Fed: Remembering the Extraordinary Desmond Dekker</a><br />• <a href="http://mediaintercept.blogspot.com/2012/04/earth-day-memories-greetings-from-small.html" target="_blank">Earth Day Memories: Greetings From A Small Planet</a><br />• <a href="http://mediaintercept.blogspot.com/2011/03/perfect-dive.html" target="_blank">The Perfect Dive</a></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>About the Author</b>:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">• <a href="https://www.facebook.com/PatrickJWalshWriter" target="_blank">Like this Author on Facebook</a></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">• <a href="http://www.youtube.com/user/patwalshvideo" target="_blank">Videos by Patrick J. Walsh</a></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">• <a href="http://www.echoesamongthestars.com/" target="_blank">Pat's Official Site: Echoes Among the Stars</a></span><br />
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<br />Pat Walshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12770886198996983680noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022243940333415704.post-68163107426240819212013-05-01T21:57:00.000-04:002013-05-01T21:57:05.528-04:00The Cicada Song
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--</style><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">By Patrick J. Walsh</span>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">Walking in the park near
twilight in these early days of Spring, when the shadows stretch deeply onto
the far bank of the pond, it is difficult to miss the odd humming sound in the
air.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">The unmistakable murmur
of cicadas in the midst of their mating ritual, the droning buzz rushes out
across the surface of the water like a swarm of bees passing through a hollow
log.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">It is an evocative music,
the cicada song. For the wanderer in the park, it recalls magical nights of summers
long past, and the hidden joy of sudden encounters with the living presence of
nature in the midst of a warm summer's evening.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">In the case of the
insects themselves, however, the humming represents the soundtrack of a brief,
remarkable cycle of life that bespeaks both the wisdom and the wonder of
nature's strange logic.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">While "annual"
varieties of cicadas appear every year, the particular insects now in the park
are most probably of the Magicicada genus — the so-called
"periodical" cicadas.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">These cicadas live
underground for a period of 13 or 17 years, and then emerge in
massive numbers for a brief mating period before they die, leaving their
progeny to begin again the long cycle of nurture underground.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 15.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">The sound of the cicada's
song is produced by the rapid vibration of membranes on the insect's abdomen.
The vibration of the membranes, which are properly known as tymbals, produces a
chirping that is then amplified by chambers within the creature's respiratory
system. Male cicadas "sing" the song in large choruses to attract
females.</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">In accordance with the
science of the identification system devised by entomologist C. L. Marlatt in
1907, the insects in the park are most likely Brood II cicadas, of the 17-year
variety.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdWm3f4Rzs2Jj2iA1Mjed295EcqN7zdkCQ0sL2zc9n1-PTKr4teBBRDU-zC7hIe_iUiKqZA2E2to9xqMZYCed3zwz4xVAEnDlN92bpBNPZ3-a__pXHAI6kBJZS8Qk4yUXJ_dPIv7V5mUyQ/s1600/AWIPCicadaSongTWO.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdWm3f4Rzs2Jj2iA1Mjed295EcqN7zdkCQ0sL2zc9n1-PTKr4teBBRDU-zC7hIe_iUiKqZA2E2to9xqMZYCed3zwz4xVAEnDlN92bpBNPZ3-a__pXHAI6kBJZS8Qk4yUXJ_dPIv7V5mUyQ/s320/AWIPCicadaSongTWO.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">It is the poetry of their
appearance, however, that leaves a lasting impression. After 17 years
underground — a period in which the human world routinely sees the utter
transformation of leading personalities and technologies and societies — these
tiny creatures struggle upward through a foot or more of soil to emerge, all at
once, in the still-chilly air of the early hintings of summer.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">They spend their brief
time on the surface in the pursuit of a mate, in the interest of ensuring the
propagation of their species. Then, after a period of several weeks to several
months, their course is run, and their song withers to the last few chirrups of
those who remain at the end, like the sound of a valiant heart drumming its
last in the moments before death.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">As all falls silent, the
purpose of the cicadas' brief time on the surface is accomplished in the
production and hatching of their eggs, ensuring the promise of a new
generation.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">The newborn nymphs fall
like raindrops from the twigs where the eggs were laid, and upon landing on
grass or soil, they burrow downward, to begin another long cycle of life
underground.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">Meanwhile, their song
sung, the adult cicadas die off. The tone and timbre of their particular sound
vanishes once more from the landscape, hidden away in the dust of the Earth and
the promise of their descendants, not to be heard again until the first chilly
days of Spring, 17 years on...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">© Patrick J. Walsh</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">• <a href="http://mediaintercept.blogspot.com/p/httpmediaintercept.html" target="_blank">About "A Walk in the Park"</a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">• <a href="http://www.echoesamongthestars.com/EchoesAmongtheStars/Home.html" target="_blank">About the Author</a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">• <a href="http://www.youtube.com/user/patwalshvideo" target="_blank">Videos by Patrick J. Walsh</a></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">• <a href="https://www.facebook.com/PatrickJWalshWriter" target="_blank">Like this on Facebook</a></span></span><br />
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Pat Walshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12770886198996983680noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022243940333415704.post-16584957500548585862013-04-25T02:33:00.000-04:002013-04-25T02:37:21.126-04:00The Song of Summer<style>
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</style><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">By Patrick J. Walsh</span>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">Tentative, faint; echoing
in the sweetness of the memories they invoke and aching in the evanescent
traces of the comfort they promise, the sounds of summer are in the park these
days.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">This is the first of Spring,
in its early bloom, when the weather routinely betrays the best impulses of the
seasons.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">Surfaced from memory,
whispers of bright, gentle mornings and soft afternoons tug at my tired soul,
and I pull my jacket close against the coolness of the day.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">As I set out, the weak,
scattered sunlight shares only a hollow warmth. Farther along, I wander beneath
clouds heavy with rain, and crosswinds jostle at my arms and legs, indifferent
to my progress.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">In the open area near the
lake, the sputtering folds of wind recall the "hup-hup-hup" of a little boy
approximating a primitive flute by blowing across the neck of an open soda
bottle.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">On the far side of the
water, in the chill darkness beneath the cover of the canopy of trees, the
cicadas are fooled into an early burst of song.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">Their staccato melody
echoes across the windy surface of the lake like an invocation, bringing golden
remembrance of the hushed tones of quiet exchanges in the twilight of warm days
past.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">There is not yet the
flutter of leaves on branches touched by the tiny limbs of birds; nor is there
the bright splash of a fish struggling down the stream toward the lake; nor the
hum of insects flashing along the trail at the edge of the paved road.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">But there are the sounds
of ancient campfires: the pop and hiss of burning twigs, their tiny flames
nurtured by the coaxing breath of some long ago mother or father, while the
squeals of delighted children echo nearby.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">And with my eyes gently
closed, paused in my forward progress by some intimation of welcome, I hear the
murmur of the woods calling out through the sultry stillness of a summer night,
and the wordless yearning of a wish made in silence at the sight of a star
falling from the summer sky.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">In the park, on a chilly
day in Spring, the cicadas hum, and in the breath of the wind, I hear the
sounds of summer.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">© Patrick J. Walsh</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">• <a href="http://mediaintercept.blogspot.com/p/httpmediaintercept.html" target="_blank">About "A Walk in the Park"</a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">• <a href="http://www.echoesamongthestars.com/EchoesAmongtheStars/Home.html" target="_blank">About the Author</a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">• <a href="http://www.youtube.com/user/patwalshvideo" target="_blank">Videos by Patrick J. Walsh</a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">• <a href="https://www.facebook.com/PatrickJWalshWriter" target="_blank">Like this on Facebook</a></span></span><br />
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Pat Walshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12770886198996983680noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022243940333415704.post-65442421412614645262013-04-22T19:07:00.002-04:002013-04-22T19:08:40.110-04:00Celebrating Earth Day: A Moment in Light<span style="font-size: large;">By Patrick J. Walsh</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">On this day that we set aside to think about the Earth, it is instructive to imagine that moment, far back in the gray darkness of our infant civilization, when the first primitive human first became aware of a larger dimension to his or her own landscape.</span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO7KGj8ISPcTWQV5DNPMqZx7f2bAkdtv5sZHqXul5c3o1Qnn84pEUi7Dvb2dM0n01EMSXpy2oS0-HHz5PwrtsgHp_cN6Lu5iXsRmaWaS1BHZCklHWBjmKSjtxRypluNv3DYJ83sqkXzF7G/s1600/324327main_4_full.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO7KGj8ISPcTWQV5DNPMqZx7f2bAkdtv5sZHqXul5c3o1Qnn84pEUi7Dvb2dM0n01EMSXpy2oS0-HHz5PwrtsgHp_cN6Lu5iXsRmaWaS1BHZCklHWBjmKSjtxRypluNv3DYJ83sqkXzF7G/s320/324327main_4_full.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>photo courtesy of NASA</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: large;">In the thin, weak light of that moment — or, perhaps, that series of moments in which the idea came and went, until it ultimately took hold — there is the start of our collective yearning to understand our place in the cosmos, and to discern the mile markers on the road of our collective journey.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: blue;">Watch the video: <a href="http://youtu.be/Woy0tJBV1lQ" target="_blank">A Moment in Light</a></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">And it is instructive, as we try to enrobe that moment with details of time and place and person, to further imagine a subsequent point in the vast history of our living here — to try to imagine the distinct moment in our collective consciousness when humanity first thought of the Earth not merely as the place where we find ourselves, but also as the place that we call our home.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">In all that that transition implies, the Earth is after all the museum of our fondest memories of the past, and the canvas for the realization of our most cherished hopes for the future.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: blue;">You might also like...</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: blue;">Pat's video series <a href="http://www.youtube.com/user/patwalshvideo" target="_blank">"Five Minutes in Space"</a></span></div>
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/user/patwalshvideo" target="_blank"></a><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">As we imagine the primitive whose awareness was archetype of the perspective that has come to inform our modern understanding of the world, it is difficult to dismiss the responsibility that we now face in our sophistication.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Given the depth of our own awareness and the abundance of our blessings, it seems reasonable to assert that it is incumbent upon us to treat our Earth with the same sort of care that we each would, at our best, treat our individual dwellings, as we live out our lives in the best traditions of respect and honor for our neighbors, our community, and all the larger world around us.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Perhaps most importantly, as we mark this particular Earth Day and the grandeur of all that its celebration implies, maybe we can finally begin to learn to live as a family — aware of our differences in general, proud of our specific place in the group as a whole, and ultimately, all encompassing in our tolerance and kindness toward each other, wherever we may reside on this small planet.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">© Patrick J. Walsh</span><br />
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<br />Pat Walshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12770886198996983680noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022243940333415704.post-55166247046514973712013-04-18T01:12:00.001-04:002013-04-18T01:12:38.213-04:00The Hare and the Bear<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">By
Patrick J. Walsh</span>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">As
I walk by, unaware of their doings, a small group of animals gathers in an open
patch of grass in the woods, a short distance from the edge of the paved road
in the park.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">They
are discussing their upcoming spring play — a rollicking presentation based on
The Knight's Tale, from Geoffrey Chaucer's <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Canterbury
Tales</i>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The
largest of the group, obviously in charge of the production, is a small bear.
He surveys the collection of dramatis personae and, in a quiet aside to his
assistant — a large hare — he begins to run down the list of roles and the
animals necessary to fulfill them:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"So
we've got the owl to play Theseus and the ground hog for Aegeus, and the three deer
for Palamon and Arcite and Emily —"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Yes,
yes," the hare replies, impatient. "But I've already told you, it's
not the character roles you have to worry about. I'm worried about the
background players — like for instance, who will play the magical forest
creatures who scurry away when the trees are cut down for Arcite's funeral
pyre?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The
bear replies with a sigh and a wave of his paw — a gesture that, while
unintentional in its effect, nonetheless causes the hare to dodge quickly out
of the way.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Not
this again — again with the trees?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Well
it's important," the hare persists. "It makes a huge impact on an
audience, how the background is constructed. If we're going to have magical
creatures and trees being cut down, we need to think about that."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"All
right, all right. So who do you want for the trees?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Well
it depends on what <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">kind</i> of tree
—"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Growing
impatient, the bear brings his paw down heavily on a small clump of wizened
sod, sending a loud ‘whump’ off echoing among the slanted rays of sunlight
scattered through the woods.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Okay
then,” he responds, obviously trying to stay his annoyance, “what kind of tree?
For instance?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">For
his part, the hare responds with the first small sign of a smile, the corners
of his tiny mouth quivering slightly as he asks:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Well,
a dogwood, for example. I mean, who can we get to play a good dogwood? What
sort of an animal will be willing to play a dogwood tree?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Utterly
unaware that he is being led toward a punchline, the bear wearily re-traces the
hare's rhetorical question in the sprightly wind of the lovely spring
afternoon:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"I
don't know… what sort of animal <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">would</i>
make a good dogwood tree?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Tittering
slightly while taking a beat — and carefully moving himself several steps away
from his much-larger friend — the hare responds:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Well…
a dog would."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">And
somewhere, some half a mile or so away, I stop suddenly in the midst of my
walk, certain that I hear something… something, oddly enough, that sounds sort
of like a large hare, laughing hysterically, and a small bear, moaning indulgently.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">As
the sounds fade, I wonder how I’ve come to think of Chaucer and his <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tales</i>, as I wander along the edge of the woods, eyeing the rough bark of the dogwoods on this fine sunny
afternoon in the park.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">*
* *</span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Did you know?</span></b><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">: The oldest existing reference to the dogwood
tree in an English language manuscript is found in “The Knight’s Tale,” from
Geoffrey Chaucer’s fourteenth century masterpiece <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Canterbury Tales</i> (although it is referenced therein in various
iterations by its earlier moniker, the archaic “whippletree,” or as “cornel,”
which is a variant of the scientific name for its genus, Cornus).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">©
Patrick J. Walsh</span></div>
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Pat Walshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12770886198996983680noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022243940333415704.post-90642584456210011432013-04-03T22:43:00.000-04:002014-01-09T04:46:49.724-05:00At the Side of the Road<style>
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</style><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span></span>By
Patrick J. Walsh</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Today,
as I trekked along my daily path in the park near my home, these days of Easter
week brought to mind one of my favorite stories from the Bible: the description
of the risen Christ walking with the disciples on the road to Emmaus (Luke 24;
13-35).</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The
park often inspires me to reflect on sacred things, as its beauty transcends
the effects of the heavy use it endures due to its location in a densely
populated suburban area.</span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">In
the brief struggles of its smallest living creatures, as well as the vast slow
turning of sky and wind and time that shapes even the largest of its sturdy
trees and stone slopes, the park does, after all, know the particulars of life
and death.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">As
I walked today, I thought of how Cleopas and the other disciple in the biblical
account were joined on their journey by the stranger who they initially failed
to recognize.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Making
their way forward in his company, they burst forth with vivid accounts of the
events that have led up to the Crucifixion, and they ponder the details of the
first reports of the Resurrection. All the while, they have no idea that they
are talking to the central figure of the events they are describing.</span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">In
the midst of my reflections, I stepped to the side of the paved road as a big
red SUV rumbled by, revealing in its rush a mere glimpse of the bike pinioned
to its rear door. A few minutes later, it rolled back down the road in the
opposite direction, leading me to again step aside.</span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Walking
the ancient road with their unknown companion, the disciples displayed an uncanny
exuberance while recounting the events at the heart of their disappointment and
sorrow.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I
sometimes imagine the vague outline of a smile on the Holy countenance, as
Jesus listened patiently to the worries of his companions before explaining to
them how his life and death fit into the pattern of religious prophecy and the
promise of human history.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">In
the park in these days of Easter twenty one centuries later, we speed past
those gifts that serve as expressions of a larger wisdom, as we pass every treasure
of wizened tree or turbid pond or clouded sky, lost in the frustrations and
sadness of our own modern journey.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">And
sometimes as I walk, I wonder at all we might be missing when we fail to
recognize the nature of all that accompanies us, as we make our way along the
road each day.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">©
Patrick J. Walsh</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span>Pat Walshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12770886198996983680noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022243940333415704.post-60219784692812385382013-03-20T05:36:00.001-04:002013-04-03T01:43:17.508-04:00A Walk in the Park: Patience<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">By
Patrick J. Walsh</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Cold
wet darts of ice lashed at my coat as I pushed a thick wrap of snow off the
hood of my car.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The
storm had come late to this long, weary winter, and its intensity seemed an
almost personal affront to those of us who have had cause enough already for
sadness and struggle during these difficult days.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Fortunately,
the sleet portion of the storm wound its way to exhaustion as the morning hours
faded into the afternoon, and I made my way to the park as the day neared its
end.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">And
then, as I walked in the sunlight, the glory of nature’s wise progress traced
its line on my mind and spirit.</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Reflected
off the clean carpet of snow, the light of the sun danced with a sparkling
radiance, like a sprite in a tale once whispered by the very old to the very
young.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">And
in an arc of water at the edge of the icy lid of the upper pond, the warmth of
the sun opened a dappled window on the life of the fish and flora of the murky
world below the surface.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The
chill of the morning had given way to timid, tentative warmth; and in every
yard of fading, melting snow there was witness to the passing of this long,
exhausting winter.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">As
I made my way along my usual path, thinking of the progress of the day — from
the sad, cold rain of morning to the hopeful, mild sunlight of the afternoon — I
could not help but be overwhelmed by gratitude for the unfailing mechanisms of
patience.</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">One
small soul grateful for the unanticipated mercy of a warm afternoon in March, I
make my way forward through hard days one short stride at a time.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The
larger life of the park, meanwhile, moves on with a majesty and radiance that
is amplified by the incongruity of weather out of time, and indicative of
nature’s stoic resolve, in the passing of day to day, and season to season.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">©
Patrick J. Walsh</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">• <a href="http://mediaintercept.blogspot.com/p/httpmediaintercept.html" target="_blank">About "A Walk in the Park"</a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">• <a href="http://www.echoesamongthestars.com/EchoesAmongtheStars/Home.html" target="_blank">About the Author</a></span></span></div>
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Pat Walshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12770886198996983680noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022243940333415704.post-84888345797933658722013-03-13T14:06:00.000-04:002013-03-13T14:06:28.809-04:00A Walk in the Park: Today
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">By Patrick J. Walsh</span>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Today I walked in the park.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">It has been nearly two and a half months since my Mom passed
away, and today was the first day since her passing that I have been able to
walk in the park.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Although I was by myself, I did not feel alone. It seemed as
though I might be walking a bit slower than I have in the past, but that may
have been an artifact of the emotions involved, or simply the result of my
lingering reacquaintance with the pleasantness of my surroundings.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAmAsEvAiD2Pn0T7-8GwoJiU5tKs8A1LTjTkcmDI0MmZEpghNSeukAZrQDMc7e9nptP2BubkKUOPgkq4SROTmCz-RJYGjyWpuP-1HEidVh17odgSl74F4xXTM7seyGDGesvVM_izTOSI9L/s1600/031313AWIPTodayOne(DSCN4791ed).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAmAsEvAiD2Pn0T7-8GwoJiU5tKs8A1LTjTkcmDI0MmZEpghNSeukAZrQDMc7e9nptP2BubkKUOPgkq4SROTmCz-RJYGjyWpuP-1HEidVh17odgSl74F4xXTM7seyGDGesvVM_izTOSI9L/s320/031313AWIPTodayOne(DSCN4791ed).jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">As I walked, my mind was awash in the notion of what it
would be like to live a life of pure spirit. Unencumbered by the infirmities of
age or illness or the limitations of this physical existence, the life of the
spirit could be open to the experience of all good things, immediately, without
reservation.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Following a physical life of faith and joy and the
preparation born of the sharing of one’s experiences and treasure without hesitation, the
life of the spirit seems a logical extension of a will well exercised in
gratitude and service.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">In recent days, the exhilaration of this line of thought has
helped to temper the sadness of my grieving, and given rise to the kind of hope
that sustains mourner and mystic alike.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">In this time of Lenten temperance, it is a hope whose
comfort is familiar to me, having been a part of all the Easters of my
childhood, and a defining characteristic of my Holy Week preparations as an
adult.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNbxfR4rrCU4Fcvy4XuQMPDg0qtnH4mL44Uj-pjeWcY88Tf319eliYy3MUZU47oxnSkQzyIzkPgIFfh0hpqQacMi74QoU8GNdw4PgT-ZMP8pdY6vyprUVmlwNizkV6vlVTePMfLWITHBc6/s1600/031313AWIPTodayTwo(DSCN4792ed).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNbxfR4rrCU4Fcvy4XuQMPDg0qtnH4mL44Uj-pjeWcY88Tf319eliYy3MUZU47oxnSkQzyIzkPgIFfh0hpqQacMi74QoU8GNdw4PgT-ZMP8pdY6vyprUVmlwNizkV6vlVTePMfLWITHBc6/s320/031313AWIPTodayTwo(DSCN4792ed).jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I walked in the park today. I was by myself, but I did not
feel alone.</span>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">It is nice to know that we can walk together again, free of
the limitations of age and infirmity and illness.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">My steps are a little slower than they once were, my
progress a little less than it will one day be. But it is good to walk again,
and to not be alone.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">© Patrick J. Walsh</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">• <a href="http://mediaintercept.blogspot.com/p/httpmediaintercept.html" target="_blank">About "A Walk in the Park"</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">• <a href="http://www.echoesamongthestars.com/EchoesAmongtheStars/Home.html" target="_blank">About the Author</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">• <a href="http://www.youtube.com/user/patwalshvideo" target="_blank">Videos by Patrick J. Walsh</a> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span>Pat Walshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12770886198996983680noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022243940333415704.post-30716589366409832012013-01-02T11:24:00.000-05:002013-01-02T11:24:01.366-05:00In Loving Memory: Helen E. Walsh, Peekskill, New York<span style="font-size: large;"><b>FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE</b>: Statement from Patrick J. Walsh</span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0obLS9zWREPN0tOQrOcwKvFgueh7kYbk9TW0GB39rG9laTFLuwdWlQ0Mq0wgUzWXsZK0VRo6BsT_2MTNkhXvtuDN3c30vU2LQuO6tidkXDb-qp2_FS0kQqrLzXavAjD3n88jQ1aid6YEc/s1600/MomandPat052212.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0obLS9zWREPN0tOQrOcwKvFgueh7kYbk9TW0GB39rG9laTFLuwdWlQ0Mq0wgUzWXsZK0VRo6BsT_2MTNkhXvtuDN3c30vU2LQuO6tidkXDb-qp2_FS0kQqrLzXavAjD3n88jQ1aid6YEc/s320/MomandPat052212.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Mom and Pat</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I am sad to have to begin this new year with some difficult news...</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Those
who know me well will understand the magnitude of the loss I feel at
the passing of my Mom, Helen. All good things that have come to me in
life radiated through my wonderful family, and my Mom and Dad and
Grandfather remain always at the center of any good I have done or might
ever do in my life.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">As you may
have ascertained from my writing, I believe human existence includes a
broad spiritual dimension. That belief remains intact despite the
extreme, intense tragedy that has played out in my life in the days
since December 26.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Those of you who have first-hand knowledge of the
crushing experience of shepherding a loved one through a final crisis in
a hospital setting will understand the nature of what I have
encountered during the past week.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">From
my place beside the bed, the message of those long hours — observed by
some, but ignored by many — remains simple: Love above all, compassion
and care of spirit before any necessity of medicine or physical
limitation.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I
turn now to memories of my dear Mom, and as always, I pledge to fulfill
to the best of my ability the legacy she and my Dad and my grandfather
have passed on to me. Please pray for them.</span><br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Obituary:</span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Helen E. Walsh, Peekskill, New York</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Helen
E. Walsh, wife of former Peekskill City Manager John E. Walsh, passed away
Monday, December 31, 2012. She was 85 years old.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Helen
was born in Brooklyn, New York to James and Sadie Holsgrove. Her mother died
when she was 11 years old. After leaving high school to work at the Royal Globe
and Liverpool Insurance Company, Helen met John and they were married at
Assumption Church in Peekskill on June 26, 1948.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">In
the early 1950s, Helen survived a long battle with tuberculosis. After her
recovery, she was very active as a volunteer in the church and community for
many years. She worked as a religious instruction teacher at Assumption and at
Holy Name of Mary in Croton, New York, and served at the Salvation Army Soup
Kitchen in Peekskill for 11 years.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">She
returned to school in her 50s and received her GED diploma, and then attended
college at Mercy College in Peekskill.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">She
is survived by two sons, Michael (and his wife, Eneida) and Patrick J. Walsh;
and her grandchildren, whom she cherished, Kelliann, Michael Jr. and James.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">She
is also survived by her step-sister Dorothy Paul, of Merrick, New York; six
beloved sisters-in-law: Mary Jane Wietsma, Sister Margaret Walsh, Helen Walsh, Ursula
Walsh, Marie McKeon and Jean Ruh; and many nieces and nephews whom she dearly
loved.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">There
will be a Mass of Christian Burial on Saturday, January 5, 2013 at 10 AM at
Assumption Church, Peekskill. Friends may call on Friday, 2-4 PM and 7-9 PM at
JOSEPH NARDONE FUNERAL HOME, Washington St., Peekskill. Burial will be at Assumption
Cemetery in Cortlandt Manor.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">### 30 ### </span><br />
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Pat Walshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12770886198996983680noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022243940333415704.post-84671646424840618462012-12-28T15:27:00.002-05:002012-12-28T15:28:56.096-05:00Celebration<span style="font-size: large;"><b>There is an affinity among these leaves and this sky and these beasts for the flora of the Nativity, the glow of the manger, and the
story of the stable…
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by Patrick J. Walsh</div>
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In the coolness of the evening, in the bright lights of the
season, in the tableau with the lamb and the star, the night wind whispers a
promise to the broken heart:</div>
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He will bring us goodness and light…</div>
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Sometimes when I walk in the park, I feel like the shepherd
boy, listening, straining to hear the song above the trees, swelled to the
bigness of the sea by a chorus of angelic voices:</div>
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He will bring us goodness and light…</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQrDZkPkYO4buEzu_9yU2uIthIbGUiVJVPCmqyawAeZVRrUuxKdLGw6EV49YbHd9FwEDnMFR_BxHbIDWNwkYOAZ0gkbmzVAHZiSbD1o4lTWniTkSM0s5f-EdBP7r_NxJSIyrC88SDNjtPW/s1600/122812AWIPCelebration.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQrDZkPkYO4buEzu_9yU2uIthIbGUiVJVPCmqyawAeZVRrUuxKdLGw6EV49YbHd9FwEDnMFR_BxHbIDWNwkYOAZ0gkbmzVAHZiSbD1o4lTWniTkSM0s5f-EdBP7r_NxJSIyrC88SDNjtPW/s320/122812AWIPCelebration.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="right"><td class="tr-caption"><b>© Patrick J. Walsh</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<b>In the warm embrace of nature, knowing the trees as if by
name, I hear the words…</b> </div>
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As I walk I wonder if I am doing all I might do to bring
goodness to others. I think of the efficiency of earthly monarchs in reaching
people everywhere with the message for which I am but the merest conveyance:</div>
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He will bring us goodness and light…</div>
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And in the warm embrace of nature, knowing the trees as if
by name as well as by their botanical lineage, and aware of the animals all
around, I hear the words as they echo like gold and silver bells rung on the
wind, as precious as peace among men:</div>
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He will bring us goodness and light…</div>
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In the warmth of the bright summer, the fresh breath of
spring, the melancholy whim of fall, and, as now, in the aching grasp of winter
sadness, there is an affinity among these leaves and this sky and these beasts
for the flora of the Nativity tableau, the perpetual glow of the manger, and
the enduring story of the stable and the lowly animals that shared in that long
ago celebration of the birth that is renewed in so many lives each December:</div>
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The Child, the Child, sleeping in the night</div>
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He will bring us goodness and light</div>
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He will bring us goodness and light</div>
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© Patrick J. Walsh</div>
Pat Walshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12770886198996983680noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4022243940333415704.post-86648070970435066502012-12-21T05:18:00.000-05:002012-12-21T05:18:26.379-05:00Anticipation
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“The
bare branches of the trees cause me </span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">to think of the straw of the stable…”</span></span></b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">By
Patrick J. Walsh</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">There
are scant few days left before Christmas, and even fewer before the winter
solstice. Time is short for the short days of darkness, and it feels good to
anticipate the goodness and light that will arrive with the progress of nature
and the promise of the spirit.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">My
walks in recent days have been littered with “little worries” — items on my “to
do” list that are not yet done, for example; or last minute preparations that I
have stubbornly refused to let wait until last minute, as though worrying would
get them done sooner.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Today
there is a fresh, light wind stirring the reedy limbs of some sparse evergreens
near the edge of the road. The thin branches wave slightly, as if in greeting,
as I walk by.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4ojr5BGch3I_CeIqXsIYaHVLXfeuDjgSE63cxNqr0vssokcpUTuE36IUYdlKHvlp9rdsloDbeHs767bN-HupY-iNGf19oTPVMJa44MOluj8mP2-k5EXI2W_eePOjHZKR-PzuZgZ02kt6F/s1600/122112AWIPAnticipationv2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4ojr5BGch3I_CeIqXsIYaHVLXfeuDjgSE63cxNqr0vssokcpUTuE36IUYdlKHvlp9rdsloDbeHs767bN-HupY-iNGf19oTPVMJa44MOluj8mP2-k5EXI2W_eePOjHZKR-PzuZgZ02kt6F/s320/122112AWIPAnticipationv2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="right"><td class="tr-caption">© Patrick J. Walsh</td></tr>
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<i><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"...the reedy limbs of some sparse evergreens </span></span></b></i></div>
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<i><b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">wave slightly, as if in greeting,
as I walk by."</span></span></b></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">In
the traditions of my religious faith, this time of year evokes images of a
stable, and animals kept for domestic purposes by the keeper of an inn.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Cross-hatched
gray across the darkening blue of the sky, the bare branches of the trees that
surround the evergreens cause me to think of the straw of the stable, shuffled
into rough shapes of nests by the beasts in whatever time they might have had
free from their burden.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Not
yet touched by the presence of the family that would transform it into a signal
site of transformation in the course of human history, the stable was probably
typical of the modest accommodation necessary to the upkeep of animals, then
and now. And by all accounts of zoology and history, the inhabitants of the
stable were likely similar in most details to their modern descendents.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">As
I walk along the edge of the woodline, I think of the similarities and
differences between the animals of the stable and the creatures that inhabit
the woods around the park.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">They
are of course different types of animals; although there are horse paths in the
park, the large majority of its inhabitants are common wildlife — squirrels,
deer, ducks and geese — that has little in common with any version, ancient or
modern, of horse or donkey or oxen.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">And
yet they are all progeny of the development of nature, and they each play a
productive role in the ecology of their time and place.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">For
those who wish to infer a spirituality in the pattern and direction of their
progress, there is a winsome link of familiarity between the meek denizens of
the Biblical stable and whatever creatures might be encountered in the modern
nexus of metropolis and nature.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Thinking
of the straw and the donkey, and the sparse evergreen and the deer, the
distance in millennia and the far span of the earth from that time and place to
this very spot becomes somehow less distant.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">So
remote from the straw and the smell and the noise of those long ago animals,
yet blessed with the benefits of belief and tradition and history, I move
through the park as though on pilgrimage, thinking of the family and the birth
and the child that were, at this time so long ago, still on their way toward
the stable…</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">©
Patrick J. Walsh</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">• <a href="http://mediaintercept.blogspot.com/p/httpmediaintercept.html" target="_blank">About "A Walk in the Park"</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">• <a href="http://www.echoesamongthestars.com/EchoesAmongtheStars/Home.html" target="_blank">About the Author</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">• <a href="http://www.youtube.com/user/patwalshvideo" target="_blank">Videos by Patrick J. Walsh</a> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">• <a href="https://www.facebook.com/PatrickJWalshWriter" target="_blank">Like this on Facebook</a></span></div>
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</span>Pat Walshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12770886198996983680noreply@blogger.com0