Remembering My Dad on Pearl Harbor Day

by Patrick J. Walsh

I'm taking  a moment today to remember Pearl Harbor, and all that happened there on December 7, 1941.

The events of that day changed the course of our history as a nation, and the history of the world.

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.

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.

John E. Walsh and friends at Pearl Harbor, 1941.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

© Patrick J. Walsh

Related posts:

• Peace: The importance of POW / MIA resolution

• A First Anniversary

• Monsignor Francis J. Ansbro: a Full Life, and a Full Heart

Poem Time: The Magic of Words

by Patrick J. Walsh

For those who know me primarily from my books or journalism or videos, it might come as something of a surprise to find out that I'm also an avid poet.

Then again, if you ever heard me lecture about literature or dug around in the archives at my undergrad alma mater, my fascination with poets and poetics will probably make perfect sense.

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.

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.

Founded in 1996 by the Academy of American Poets, 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.

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, Poetic Asides.

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.

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.

Green

by Patrick J. Walsh

In the light of winter sun
the gray stillness of the empty field
seems bigger
than the memory of days
when the grass grew freely

A wrap of dying leaves
enshrouds the early fall
sealing away
any chance for new growth
as the black winds turn chill

And summer, lusting red with heat
in sodden, sweaty steps
stomps down
the flooded patches
with an angry trail of mud

But spring, its secrets hidden
in the lush fertile soil
deep below
renews the promise of green
and its hope for a better world

© Patrick J. Walsh

A Saturday in March

by Patrick J. Walsh

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I feel the warmth of the sun today. And I am blessed.

© Patrick J. Walsh
 
You may also like:
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Goodbye year / Hello year

Happy Bright and Shiny New Year!
 
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:

Goodbye year

every moment of kindness
lingers in the shiny light
in these hours of leaving

while every sad revealing
of base and brutal instinct
evanesces in the darkness

go now, hand us over
to some new collection of days
colored more brightly with hope

-- PJW, 12/31/14

Hello year

well hello to you
you bright new story
your lines all loose
with possibility

let's begin this thing
with a smile outside
and a silent prayer
for peace

now come over here
while I wrap you
in shades of hope
and anticipation

and we'll sleep late
as your hours begin
with the soft light
of morning

-- PJW, 01/01/15

You may also like:
• Write two poems and call me…
• A Walk in the Park
• The Hawk

and other PW poems:
• Gathering Days
• A Further Adventure of Sir Gawain
• Why I'm Staying Home This Halloween

Gathering Days

By Patrick J. Walsh

a sameness of days
lays on the weary afflicted
like a tarp over leaves
piled in the yard
waiting to be collected

while idle we wonder
at the comfort of days
whose same sameness
lays like a soft blanket
in a cradle quiet

the same sun shines
as the day begins
and sameness gathers
close around us
as we set out to pray

© Patrick J. Walsh

photo © Patrick J. Walsh

 

Peace

The importance of POW / MIA resolution

By Patrick J. Walsh

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.

Peekskill Bay - historic photo by William Henry Jackson, Detroit Publishing Co. (Library of Congress)

...in the quiet warmth of summer, some measure of peace...

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Major Irwin was initially listed as Missing in Action. In the period following his loss, he was promoted to the rank of Lieutenant Colonel.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

© Patrick J. Walsh

Source: Library of Congress Vietnam-Era Prisoner-of-War / Missing-in-Action Database (http://lcweb2.loc.gov/frd/pow/)

Baseball and Writing and Life

by Patrick J. Walsh

Here's something I'm particularly grateful for today: my video Pitching Diamonds: Cy Young's First No-Hitter (http://youtu.be/QNsFJ7cxVR4) has just passed the 5,000 views milestone.

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.

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.

Later that season, Johan would pitch the first no-hitter in Mets history. I watched both of those games on TV, with my Mom.

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.

The Cy video marks my first step beyond the Five Minutes in Space 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 Echoes Among the Stars or Spaceflight.

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.

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?"

There were 10 years between the publication of my first book (Echoes, in 2000) and my second (Spaceflight, 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.

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.

Which brings me, not coincidentally, back to the game of baseball.

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…

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.

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.

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.

That's baseball, and history, and life. And I'm grateful for the chance to share it with all of you.

Doing the Math: A Review of Keeping the Dream Alive

By Patrick J. Walsh

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.

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.

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 Keeping the Dream Alive, it's the distinctive nature of the sound that gives this collection of bluesy, driving roots rock its unique character.

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.

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).

"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.

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.

"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.

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.

A Dream Comes 'Round at Last

by Patrick J. Walsh

Fragments from a life-long friendship with the
artist behind the new CD "Keeping the Dream Alive"

• • •

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, Keeping the Dream Alive.

I had heard some of the songs he was talking about, and they sounded great. Exasperated, I gave him my own advice:

"Just get it done and put it out there."

That was about two years ago.

• • •

Lately, as I've been working toward the reboot of my portfolio website EchoesAmongtheStars.com, I've had occasion to revisit the large amount of music journalism that I've written over the years.

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.

At the heart of all those details, though, it is my personal memories of the people and places and music that remain most vivid.

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.

• • •

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.

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.

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.

Kelly (right) always seemed a lot cooler than me...

• • •

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.

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.

Even then, when I had yet so little of it, I was borne back into the past as surely as Fitzgerald's Gatsby.

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.

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.

Years later, Kelly would take his own young family camping at the very same spot.

• • •

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

• • •

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.

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.

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 Keeping the Dream Alive.

• • •

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.

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.

He approached the task of recording and producing Keeping the Dream Alive 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.

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.

From dreamer to doer, taking ownership of his own music...

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.

He has now set that outline in stone, and set those dreams to music.

• • •

In addition to being justifiably proud — or at least, well satisfied — as he enjoys the initial reaction to Keeping the Dream Alive, 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."

At least until he starts work on the next one.

© Patrick J. Walsh

 Keeping the Dream Alive, 06.01.14

Available at Amazon.com

For A Good Time, Call Scoot Horton

by Patrick J. Walsh

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.

Scoot Horton at The Peekskill Coffee House.

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.

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.

In a recent opening slot for Fred Gillen Jr. at the Peekskill Coffee House, 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.

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 Chicken Pot Pie.

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."

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.

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.

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 Life and Hope, where he slyly confesses both aspiration and limitation:

"I've got hope / that I hope stays strong /
I don't sing / I just talk really long"

Even deadly serious material like Horton's Billy McGill — 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.

He closed his Peekskill set with Broke Man Blues, another take on the singer-songwriter life that, like Life and Hope, inverts the whiny cliches that often characterize compositions in this genre.

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.

And that's a feeling that is, thankfully, difficult to resist when encountering Scoot Horton, live or via his recordings.

• Find Scoot Horton at Bandcamp: http://scoothorton.bandcamp.com/
 
© Patrick J. Walsh

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When Geese Dream

By Patrick J. Walsh

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.

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.

He dreams of her now, only dreams, in the long time of sunshine in the slowness of the warm afternoon.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.
 

With all the little ones they had had together, she had always been there, leading. Always leading.

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.

She was there, and it was good.

© Patrick J. Walsh

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Monsignor Francis J. Ansbro: a Full Life, and a Full Heart

By Patrick J. Walsh

My friend Francis has died.

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.

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.

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.

Monsignor Ansbro saying Mass for my parents' 25th wedding anniversary, June, 1973.

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.

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.

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.

His humility and kindness were evident in every interaction I ever had with him, over the entire course of the time I knew him.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

In this time of mourning our loss and celebrating the gift of his life, I pray for him, and for all those he loved.

© Patrick J. Walsh

A First Anniversary

by Patrick J. Walsh

Today is the 65th anniversary of my parents' wedding.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"How was the game?"

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.

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.

"We celebrate life," Mom used to say.

Today, and every day, with gratitude and joyous memories, I celebrate their life.

© Patrick J. Walsh

This is a Moment: Julie Corbalis at MTK Tavern, Mount Kisco

By Patrick J. Walsh

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.

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.

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.

Such is the warmth of the moment, and the benevolent mix of performer and venue on this cool night in spring.

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.

 

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.

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.

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.

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.

On this night, though, the triumphs and travails of the games overhead are lost in the friendly, informal, inviting atmosphere of the place.

Julie Corbalis is an ideal performer for such a venue.

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.

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.

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.

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").

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.

•   •   •

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 www.mtktavern.com; 914-218-3334.

For more information about Julie Corbalis, see her official website at www.juliecorbalis.com.
 

•   •   •

Also by Patrick J. Walsh:
• Fred Gillen Jr.: Live in Peekskill and On Disc
• That Every Mouth Can Be Fed: Remembering the Extraordinary Desmond Dekker
• Earth Day Memories: Greetings From A Small Planet
• The Perfect Dive

About the Author:
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• Pat's Official Site: Echoes Among the Stars

The Cicada Song

By Patrick J. Walsh

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.

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.

 

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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...

© Patrick J. Walsh

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