sitting in the rocker just
looking out the window at a hawk
flying over the yard and
beyond that to the river.
He seemed sad.
She thought of a rhyme...
Eighty two and nothing left to do.
Did he have regrets?
Were they his own or for his son?
Were they because he had no grandchildren?
Were they because his friends kept dying?
Or was it just a peaceful moment after breakfast
and nothing much was wrong?
She shared the same life.
It was a beautiful Saturday morning in March
looking down at the Hudson River.
Nothing much was wrong...
[Hear Steve Goodman in your head, singing Mike Smith's The Dutchman. Margaret and Henry Beukema have been together over sixty years. They live on the banks of the Tappan Zee.]
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More info on History of Norfolk/Volume 3 Wikis
When the madness comes in the middle of the nite
Your dreams are lost, your heart turns cold
When the water gets deep and the waves get high
You search for a rock something to hold
Don't let them tell you that you're not alone
No preacher no teacher goes along on your ride
It can take many years it can take many miles
But someday you'll know that you have it inside
Sometimes I think
We're stronger than we know
Some we get at the start
Some we find as we go
I've never been one
To give or take much advice
God knows it's true
As I look at my life
But one thing I know
And it's right and it's whole
You can misplace your life
But you hold onto your soul
Rudiger Safranski - Martin Heidegger - Between Good …
Early years. Canyon life in the chilly hills off Mulholland. Mystery and magic and hazardous waste. A racket on trash day with all the barrels rolling down steep driveways. Multinational gardeners rushing to wrangle the strays. Shining neighbors tucked away in the charmed branches clouding the facts correctly. The great chaos beneath glorious stories. In the dark when that hill grew too steep to climb, a boat in the harbor to sleep on. On deck the immutable stars. "The greater the fame the smaller the universe," he said.
The history of Heidegger's life and thought is, yet again, a Dr
Reply author: BarbraG
Replied on: 10/28/2009 21:38:05
Message: The funeral procession advanced slowly into the cemetery
where he was to be buried. What a life he had lived !!
The celebration had just begun. He had brought so much
joy to everyone he had met, taking nothing and giving
everything. He was a man of the modern West, but he had
always dreamed of living in the days of Bill Hickock and
Wyatt Earp, with both guns blazing to stamp out those who
would take from others and who would kill to get it.
His hearse was painted like an Indian pinto pony. Friends
thought him a bit eccentric. Family adored him, knowing
that the man in the pinto hearse was the best man, husband
and father in the world. His legacy was the good he had
done with the fortune he had amassed over the years. He
had been a driving force in the lives of so many who had
started out with nothing... His family was so proud of
"The evil that men do live after them ; the good is oft
interred with their bones."
Time would tell, as the celebration of his life began to
unfold on that snowy afternoon.... just a week ago today.
Out of the twentyfour books of the Iliad, ..
Edward the Third began his reign, on the 20th day ofJan. in the year 1326, 7, and was crowned five days afterat Westminster, by Walter Archbishop ofCanterbury, he being then of the age of 14 years; at whichsolemnity Queen Isabel, his mother, made show of greatsorrow and heaviness, but as Daniel observes in his lifeof this prince, was afterwards pacified by the enlargement of herjointure, which took up three parts of the King's revenues, andamong other things, she had an annual pension of a hundred poundspaid her by the bailiffs of this city out of the feefarm rent thereof; which at this time amounted in the whole to126l. 11s. 5d. and the other26l. were assigned to Sir John de Montgomery, sothat the city were responsible for 11s. 5d. ayear only, out of their whole fee farm to theExchequer.
(in the memorable words of Marlowe's Dr
Baile and Ailinn ~ A Legend
~1380 Book of Durrow~
Baile of the Honeyed Word, heir to Ulster, and Ailinn daughter of the King of Leinster are appointed to meet at Dundealgan. Baile arrives and is greeted by the Spirit Messenger. "What news do you bring?" asks Baile. "Ailinn of Leinster was setting out to meet her true love but the men of Leinster held her back. Her heart broke then and there from grief." When Baile hears this, his own heart breaks and he falls dead on the strand. The Spirit Messenger flys on wings of wind to the house of Ailinn who has not yet left to meet Baile. "Whence come ye?" she asks. "From Ulster by the shore of Dundealgan where I saw men raising a stone over the one who has died there, and on the stone I read the name Baile. He had come to meet the woman he loved, but it is destined they not see one another again in this life." At this news, Ailinn too falls dead and is buried. An apple tree grows out of the grave of Ailinn and the apples bear the likeness of the face of Baile. A yew tree springs from Baile's grave and takes the appearance of Ailinn. The two trees are brought down and made into wands which the poets of Ulster and Leinster cut the love songs of their two Provinces. Two hundred years later, Art the Lonely, High King of Ireland orders the wands to be brought to the Hall of Tara. As soon as the wands find themselves under the same roof they spring together. No force can part them. So the King commands, "Let them be kept like jewels in the treasury of Tara." And so it comes to pass. Around the peat fires of Ireland today this Legend is told. The belief is these two spirits prevail with each telling for those who hear and tell it. And now I have told you...
ON-LINE WRITING CENTER RESPONSES AND ADVANCED …
Reply author: Ailinn
Replied on: 10/29/2004 21:21:26
Message: They wanted the "Quintessential Southern California Experience." Brother of a guy Stu was in the Army with over 35 years ago. Retired now. On a trip traveling the USA. From Rhode Island. "So let's not do beaches," they say. Okay. We just lost the essence of quin. Took them to the Escondido Library. To see THE celebrity, LC. LC for Library cat. Eight years old and there as long as we've brought the kids to Story Time. LC's social. Not aloof. Rolls her shoulders and acts like life's a bowl of caviar. Sleeps on the warm photo copy machine. Kids grab her tail and pull her whiskers. Wear her around their shoulders like a shawl. Carry her by her neck. Feed her cheese crackers (goldfish?) and sticky gummy bears. She's been snuck home a couple of times but always finds her way back to the stacks. Became famous for scratching a dog. No- because the dog's owner sued the Library and lost. LC has her own Fan Club. And because we're in harmony with our Karma ~AND~ we're wearing our special Beanie Propeller Protector hats, a movie crew was right there filming it all for posterity. "Doesn't get much better than this," Stu says with Cam up on his shoulders. Very nice people. Haven't been around little kids in a loooonnng, long time. Here's some handi-wipes for that peanut butter and jelly. "We LOVE your climate," he says. "Yeah, but the tarantulas are big as dinner plates, right, hon...and the ground moves a lot more than they show you on TV." (God loves this man.) Taking them to Old Town tomorrow. Near the Gas Lamp area in San Diego. Twenty-five miles from the border. Cold Margaritas. Hot spicy black bean salsa. Blue corn chips and guacamole. Strolling mariachis singing Rancho Grande. When they get home they'll write letters telling us how much they loved Mexico. Memory puts them there. Sunday it's make the popcorn, carve the faces, toast the seeds. (I was hoping to slide on that one. The seeds. A slimy mess.) "But, remember last year!!??..." Cameron does. Happy Trick-Or-Treating to all. Hocus Pocus.
PS: The tarp's still on the roof and we're waiting for Santa Ana.