SunsetAll was lost. What work on possibility he thought necessary had been spent. Even the ocean appeared tired. Not a wave rolled, not a ripple showed all the way back out to where the sun was lowering herself below the horizon—perhaps, she too was tired. Small gurgles of water barely touched against the rocks, retreating even before an effort was made to climb over them. Nor was there a seagull in the air. They too refused to sail on such a listless evening. Best wait for a change in the weather.

Some things happen with intent. One hoped in life that all things  come with intent, and if not, then whatever unfolded would be of a positive nature. A neglected mind assumed such things; a feeble mind hoped for such things; a mind that ran with the tides and sailed on the winds knew well that life was an exactor of pay for the time given. And so the irony of the sultry ending to the day was not lost on him.

The colors of a color fascinated him, had always done so, none more so than the differing shades of orange that draped in over the ocean to where he sat. A more informed eye might see many colors, and describe them as such: orange, yellow, red, and multitude of other possibilities, like a sommelier describing some wine. He cared not to think about the many colors possible, only the one with hues that needed no naming, only the drinking in of its nature and purpose. She was still so bright he had to squint, or cast his eyes down a bit. That would go quickly to where he could look where she had gone.

Other things were not so simple. How was it possible to lose something, have it disappear and then find it was all that filled the mind? Whatever happened to “out of sight out of mind”? Of course it had not happened yet. But it would. It no longer mattered as to when. He reached out, almost expecting her to be there. That touch so special, one lass kiss. What a silly notion. She had offered both. He had taken neither.

When he returned in the morning, she would be gone.

He could look directly at the setting sun now. A small cloud had drifted in to cover her as she put on her night dress. A chill hit his soul. Where it came from he could not tell. As she dipped to a full goodnight the band across the expanse dimmed.

She would be gone by morning. That was what they had agreed. He had not really agreed, more he nodded and walked away. The rocks and the water were becoming the same color. The sun dipped totally away from the day. He disappeared into the darkness.  

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Interesting Life Moments


I was thinking of some of the more interesting things I have done along the way; by interesting I mean frightening. As a child I was ship-wrecked on a costal boat in Newfoundland. The boat was named the Northern Ranger and she was one of the few ways to get about in Newfoundland in the fifties. That was an interesting night that I still remember even though I was only seven or eight. Of course children have lots of things to be afraid of, so I looked more to my adult years.

I got my pilot’s license somewhere in the eighties. I commenced my flying out of Nashua, NH with a young instructor who was very much a “hands off” type guy; meaning he wanted you to fly, and him be there only if HIS ass needed saving. He also had another special trait; he told a story that back during the Second World War, pilots were expected to solo after ten hours of air training. That is not a lot of time, as the first five hours is getting over him telling you a dozen things to do while explaining the idea of aviate, navigate, communicate as a means of staying aloft. I did most of those hours in daylight, with him there to save against any of my abnormalities.

One late autumn day at about five, when the hours in my log said ten, he had me land, taxi to the terminal; he got out, and said, “Take her up, around, and land. See you back here.” He shut the door and walked away.

Now, don’t get me wrong. He had put me through my paces, both in the air and on the ground. He was no slouch. He knew his stuff, and he made sure I did. But, I was now alone.

“Nashua, this is (I forget my real tail number) November, Echo, Charlie, 1775. Permission to taxi from the main terminal to the active 32, for takeoff.”

“NEC1775, permission granted. Proceed to the active and hold.”

Now, what the hell do I need to do? A little power and left ruder and I taxi towards the active.

“Nashua tower, this is NEC1775”

“Roger, Nec1775.”

“It is my intention to stay in the pattern and land immediately.”

“Roger, NEC1775, take a right turn on takeoff and announce your attention again.”

“Roger, tower.”

Okay, what next? I look out as the runway lights pop on. Oh dear God, it’s getting dark. I’m screwed. No, no, lights will be good. I’ve done this before. The lights make it easy to see, and lineup. Ya, I’m good.

I move the single-engine Piper Cherokee into position and hold. I have already done my run up.

“Nashua Tower. NEC1775 in position for takeoff and holding.”

“NEC1775, you are cleared for takeoff. Right turn on takeoff; rise and maintain 1500 feet.”

“Roger NEC1775. Right turn, climb to 1500 feet.”

I start the roll down the mile long runway, lots of room; at take off speed I pull the nose up and I’m air born. Straight ahead until 1500 and I make my right turn.

On the right turn I make contact. “Tower, NEC1775, requesting right turn downwind and permission to enter on the 45(degree), and land on the active 32.”

I’m all set to get my ass on the ground, and go have at least two cold beers.”

“Negative, NEC1775. We have an inbound. Please leave pattern. Turn left, climb to 2000; contact us when you are on the inbound.”

What the hell just happened? I leave the pattern and go to 2000, wondering where I will go, or how I will find my way back. In the pattern I was safe: right turn on the downwind, fly parallel to the runway; take a right when pass the runway, another right, and straight in, on the lights; even I could do it.

But now I’m 2000 feet up, moving off to the left, towards Manchester, where I do not want to go; my little airport is being left behind me. I need a visual. This is not a planned flight where I could use my instruments to navigate. I was supposed to be going nowhere, and here I am moving off onto the evening.

Aviate, aviate, aviate. Okay, I’m level at 2000, I not going to hit anything.

Navigate, navigate, navigate. The airport’s behind me. What’s ahead? Oh yes, Anheuser Bush Brewery. It would be lit up like a Christmas tree. Where is it, where is it. There, off to my left. So I was only a few miles from my airport and more important I knew how to line up with my landing run way.

I navigated north, west a bit, up over the Brewery and then made a long turn and head back the way I came. I wave (I like to imagine I did. I’m positive I did not) as I pass over the plant, not because I like the beer, but it has saved my ass. The last thing I wanted to do was have the tower vector me in like a lost puppy.

What seemed like hours had only been minutes. I maintain 2000, move on pass the plant and then the air strip off to my right comes into view.

A few miles out I make my turn and I contact the tower. “Nashua Tower, NEC1775.”

“Go ahead NEC1775.”

“NEC1775 is five miles out on the 45, requesting permission to land on the active 32.

“Permission granted NEC1775. Cleared to land.”

I landed and made my way back to my instructor. He is holding a hand set where he had listened to everything. His only comment is, “I guess you want me to tie her down while you go clean your pants.”

Mission accomplished.

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How do we find substance in a fleeting moment? Silly to think that even a grain of purpose should nest in any such tidbit of time; yet the rekindled Mantra of life is to live in the moment, perhaps accepting without analysis that a string of such moments should add up to purpose and value—great memories—bad memories.

Happenstance is an interesting character. She comes along at her whim, and casts her net on events. Or is it her spell? No matter, you all have felt her presence: a wonderful meal, a most unbelievable meeting, a glorious sunset, any day at the ocean, downhill bliss on skis, a hug from someone special, a new puppy, purple flowers in spring (one of my favorites), and the list goes on and on. And of course there is her dark side; she brings disaster in equal form. Let’s not list those, the events of our days and our news will feed us many.

So, as we live in our moment and deal with what happenstance has to offer, we tend to ferret out those things we consider  right, and shake our head in disbelief those things that are wrong. We have a need to link what is fair with what clearly cheats some other precious soul of a long life. We have a burning desire to understand how calamity could be part of any God’s plan.

It might just be that the answer has little to do with God and much to do with connection. Maybe our focus is on but a small piece of what we are, albeit, a most important one, as it makes up this new chapter—our birth to our death. And so our focus should be on that moment, that chapter. But perhaps chapters are connected to other chapters.

Connection. As any event unfolds, be it important or mundane, be it good or bad, it makes a connection. It is a natural process; the sunset connects me to evening, the passing of the day, the stars to come. A good meal connects me to family and friends, sharing, bounty, conversation. Everything and everyone is connected in some way. The more our scientists probe the universe, the more the great minds probe our purpose, the more we learn that it is all connected. Even my genes carry information from my ancestors: how they lived, was it feast or famine.

Big deal! Well yes. It is a big deal. I have no notion of any grand design of connectivity, any more than I understand the dynamics of the Big Bang, or how a life grows inside the womb. ( NO that is not some acclamation for “right to life.”) But, I have made connections. Most of those are still in my realm of being, yet many have passed on. Still, the connection with what has passed on is no more tenuous than the connection to everyday people and events. I firmly believe I am connected to a greater happening, beyond cosmic, beyond and before the Big Bang.

There are those who refer to the Akashic Records; a place where all is written that might be tapped into. The gospels of Matthew as translated by Thomas Moore refer to the Sky Father, an interesting coincidence to a name perhaps referred to by Native Americans. Many accept that prayer heals, even from a distance. There are those who find connection with past lives, and many who retain a connection with those who have passes on, even animals who had so very much touched their lives.

Yes, I dare say the spider web helps explain it: I might find myself somewhere on the web were what touches it on the far side is distance and not at all within my view; still I feel it. Perhaps the web is connected to other webs, parts of itself, different plains. It is forever in my awareness, and so my web grows as I grow and make more connections; I will never remain the same, but I will stay connected.

All of life is precious, meant to be respected and held sacred. Happenstance will have her way: some life will be short, some will be long, some will be with bliss, some with trial and tribulation. We should not take up any one day to try and discern the value of a full life; nor should we examine any one life to discern a plan that might just include infinity.

My soul tells me all of this, yet it tells me nothing that should be uttered as it is more a feeling, a knowing. So putting it into words will offer it to misrepresentation and meaning I did not intend. All I intended to say is that we are all connected. That connection is for eternity.

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Ah shit! Why did he have to go and start talking about the saint I was named after. It was bad enough I had a bayman accent and was three inches shorten that any other boy in the classroom.

And of course he went on to pepper what would happen next, by pouring the blood of who I was and where I came from, into the classroom of hungry bullies who operated like a school of sharks who had just caught the scent—except the sharks did it because they were hungry; these school chums were just plain fuckin’ mean.

The great wrap-up by the blind eyed Christian Brother was to explain that I was head of my class in the cove I came from; the entire class chuckled here—my fate was sealed.

My dad had died ten months ago; a month before I turned by tenth birthday. I had left my best friend, all my friends, barely two months before. My cove was no more for me. Back there my school had all grades, people I knew; this school had all boys, all strangers, and now a roomful who knew full well the bayboy was as good as dirt.

Mom had given me a baloney sandwich in a brown paper bag, and an orange. The brown paper bag said it all. No one would be asking to trade what I had in my bag. They had their lunch boxes of Superman, Batman, Spiderman.

All I could do was keep my head down and hope he would not ask me to speak. But the Brothers were all about full cooperation and inclusion. So, I would be expected to cooperate, and my classmates would ensure I was included in the ridicule that baymen were required to receive. Every word, a snicker. The dialect of an imbecile.

Ya, they were waiting as I got two feet outside the school fence. “Hey, Bayman. Show us how smart you are.”

It was a six block walk home. No way I was getting there. Jesus, where was my big sister? She would throw a rock at anyone in the cove picking on me. She was nowhere about.

A push. A shove. Someone tried to trip me. There was nothing to do but turn and take it. And there he was the kid who was a foot above me, arms that could circle around me before they whacked me in the face. I put ‘em up. My fists provided poor defense.  The circle laughed.

“You have a girlie name.”

After the first whack, it didn’t hurt so much. That pain was so small compared to the real pain.

The cove was so far away. I would not feel that safety again for a long, long time.


The Chipmunk and the Ponytail

My wife is special. Yes, you would say; anyone who could live with me would have to be special. No, more than that, much more than that. She retains the youth and vigor of a woman thirty years her junior, yet she is an old soul. She sees the world very different than most, and holds animals to have an equal place on our planet. No, she understands the idea of kill and be killed, but in there is a profound respect for animals.


This story is true. It happened but a few days ago. I do not mention names (ok one dog) as Cheryl felt her dogs might get a bad rap for what they so innocently caused. She is a special lady; I exaggerate nothing.   

Cheryl & ShadowThe Dane and the Rat enjoyed being outside.

She opened the door and, as quick as Batman can slap any sense into Robin, the two are all over the yard, critters scurrying everywhere. Even birds decided to take refuge in some tree. It’s the usual way the dogs greet the day. Perhaps it was preordained that this one day would go somewhat different.

The Dane’s tail was high, curled over his back; he bounced along the ground from tree to tree, attempting to reach what has gone up the trunks at lightning speed. The Rat Terrier had his front paws on an above-ground root, begging whatever was up there to come down, or maybe telling it to stay up; she has never discerned the true objective of their exercise, and doubted the dogs had thought the whole thing through.

Both dogs had a deep pleasure in leaving the house with the exuberance to awake a deaf frog sitting fifteen miles away next to a cascading waterfall. Most animals probably laughed at their feeble attempt to surprise them.

The game appeared not to involve catching anything. The dogs were well fed, and liked special food. One might say they were spoiled. So, the idea might be to make everyone climb a tree, and then have them stay up there until the two have finished looking around and marking everything for the umpteenth time. After all, it was their property.

This morning the garden was more alive than usual. There were robins, bluebirds, and an assortment of other winged creatures pecking on what they could find in the grass, while a few preferred what they found on the bark of the tall pines and oak. She heard a Peliated Woodpecker somewhere close; but he was not going to be part of any dog nonsense.

The beavers were not around, so, the dogs ignored the ponds; the grounds, before The Dane and Rat appeared, contained grey squirrels rushing about, their tails fluttering with every move, and chipmunks bobbing in and out of holes, some in and out of the crevices in the rock wall. They too, had found refuse.

A stump sat about twenty feet east of the deck. The Dane and the Rat had migrated there, and their excited barking told her they had a situation they were not used too. The stump was about two feet off the ground and about three feet in circumference. And there on top was a chipmunk who clearly had ran up the wrong tree.

The Dane grabbed him first. She rushed from the deck screaming for the Dane to let go. The Dane knew to do what he was told, and the chipmunk dropped free. But, before she could say, “Good Dog,” the Rat jumped in and grabbed the little chipmunk. Dear god, no. “O’Reilly, let him go, now.”

The chipmunk dropped free, landing on his back. He lay there on his back, no blood, his little legs poking at the air, totally frozen in fear. “Oh, dear God, let him be ok. She moved in and put her arms in a circle that the dogs would not enter. They still lunged outside, hoping the chipmunk would jump up and move outside the circle she has created. For them the game was still on.

“Get away, both of you.” They would not move against her, but at the same time, they could not back away. It was the first successful hunt of their lives.

No blood, thank God, and all his legs are moving like pistons. She held one arm out to what was now a half circle, and gently touched the chipmunk with her other hand. He flipped over, jumped into her hand, and onto her leg where she had bent down. He sat there, not sure what to do next. She dared not stir. Slow movement, one furtive step at a time. He is perhaps assessing his situation. He migrated to her side and slowly crawled around to her back, and then up. She could feel every small paw as it grabbed the next stitch of clothing. She stayed still as a mother watching a baby sleep. He finally stopped at some place he had discerned to be safe, underneath her ponytail.

What the hell to do now? If he bites me, then I will have to get a rabies shot, if I pull him out my dogs will finish him off. I have to get the dogs inside.

She stood up slowly. She barely felt him behind her neck. He had tucked in. The dogs just stared at her, perhaps wondering where their new found squeeze toy has gone.

“Come on boys, inside.”

They stared at her some more.

“Now, let’s go.” They follow her to the deck and inside the house, the little chipmunk still tucked underneath her hair.

Now, what next? If he jumped out inside the house it might create more problems than it solved. Was he hurt? She had to get back outside. First, put the dogs to the back of the house to prevent their barking.

The stove held a pot with the water now at a boil for her morning eggs. She turned it off; no telling when she would be back in.

Outside again; she needed to find the best way to free her not so wanting to be freed creature. If she tried to pull him from her hair, he might become more frightened, or even bite. The only thing she could think of was to lie down.

She lay down slowly, on her back, on the grass, no barks from her dogs which would surely see her posturing as something they should be worried about. She was happy they could not see. She undid her ponytail and spread her hair out. Don’t touch the little critter; it would frighten him.

No one is ever going to believe this.

 Minutes passed, and she sensed the movement, and then a flurry. He darted under the deck, not a look behind.

Be well, my little friend.


nan double

Moms, I love you. We need you.

I would imagine that everything there is to be said about a mom, good and bad, has been uttered thousands of time; and I would hope that all the good things said were well deserves, and that all the bad things were rare if deserved at all.

I believe for the past thirty years the role of mom has undergone great change in our western culture; I would not dare speak for what might have happened in the rest of the world. For a long time we linked mom with housewife, a sort of servant for the man and his family. Ya, I guess that’s a little harsh.

So, where are we now? Moms can be dads; two dads can be a part-time mom; extended/separated/divorced families can have multiple facsimiles of mom. It can be confusing for children, and hell for adults, or maybe the other way around.

I see it now as challenging. Back in the seventies I clung to the idea of mom and pop, even if my dad died when I was young; I was attached to the idea of family, and of course the media even then made sure to pound that connection into our buying habits. The change that took place was a good one; I won’t expound further on what to me is the obvious.

But it left a void of sorts. And along with that void came all sorts of situations real and contrived; so we are now locked into a system where a child cannot walk to school alone, forgetting altogether a bike ride to the park, or a sleepover with a new friend. And again I would concur that some of this precaution is founded in necessity.

The result is that it leaves our children living like cloistered nuns even before they have lived long enough to adopt the habit. (Yes, my pun was intended, sorry.) Every activity is planned, cloistered in some building or enclosed space, and heavily supervised. At least one of the parents, probably two, are very involved in making the money to pay for all the recreation and activities, but they have no time to mentor their children. I believe it only a few decades away that children will read a bed time story to their parents who are totally exhausted from their daily grind on the mouse wheel. A night care worker will then tuck the kids into bed.

Children need a mom. That mom has an incredible responsibility: to guide their children to be independent, alive, outgoing, responsible, and compassionate, even as the dictates of our new world require them to be consummate jailers of their children. Authoritative processes have been put in place, and they stack even more every day, institutions that might come near a child and have at their intention a myriad of rules to safeguard the child, some well minded, far too many stifling and destructive, rules often dealt out without the due diligence or the common sense of a responsible authoritative human being.

Moms need our support and understanding, more than ever before, and children need their moms more than ever before.

Give our children back their childhood. Give our children back their moms.

I love you, mom.

The Druid and the Flower

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Scroll to the top of this page. Click “Get the books,” choose The Druid and the Flower, and it’s all yours. Tell me if you like it, please.

The Guardians

Courtesy of Pinterest

The Guardians find their way into both my books, The Druid and the Flower, and Ashima. I have contemplated writing a book that deals exclusively with them, and might just yet. Perhaps their power is not fully realized by the reader until book three, The Dawn of Magic, the last book in the series, to be released late summer.

Only one universe to mingle his thoughts in; his training had allowed where ten or twelve universes were the norm; some of the elder Guardians were know to survey even more than that. Yet, he could not ignore the vastness of this one—Andesia; he loved the name. Sure, he only had responsibility in one universe, but he got to enjoin as many as his connection allowed. Having been assigned only one Universe said much about his newness to the system; he recognized that it was meant to ensure his influence was lighter than the gravitational pull of an atom in the galaxy Heracon on a similar atom in the galaxy Multiplana, the ladder being a good seven billion light years to the other side. He would have to look up both measurements. Then again why bother? Lessons were over.

And what had all his lessons thought him about this piece of existence?  Nothing of value, in his estimation; it was all theoretical. It was good to be done with all of that, and out observing. Still, he had to admit, he loved all the mindsets he had encountered; such a vast array of being. But why did he have to know all the limits of light in the twists of time? Or was it twists of space? Who thought this shit up? Whoops, a throwback to his prior existence. Not the voice of a Guardian. But light speed was all about the species who lived in the gardens; it had nothing to do with how he traveled or what his purpose was.

He admitted he loved all the color; he could create color by moving one way as the contents of a galaxy moved another; better yet was the attraction power of the super systems as they hummed their wonderful songs; yes, lots to be part of: the swirls, the vast silence of the constant motion, the massive collisions were inexplicable; once, he tried to reach for the vastness of it all and only made his Soulwell hurt; greater still were the seeds, and how they somehow found a way to plant themselves in places where impossibility stood on top of infinite improbability. He was a master student of design. It was why he was chosen. Everyone should have a vocation that allowed them to evolve as they chose.

No, he could not deny it was wonderful to be away from the lessons—done with the formal training: How many gardens in Andesia? Siateria had named the universe, this universe he was assigned to, his first, a small one, only some fifteen billion light years from start to finish. Oh, my, he had done it again, from start to start was the correct observation; so easy to ignore that space and time merely curved back on itself, an impossible illusion to those who lived here; a nonessential necessity to a Guardian such as himself.

A Guardian. Yes, he was one. Oh, he was wandering again. His teachers had mentioned that he had a propensity to do that now and again. A few million gardens, yes that was the answer to how many gardens there were on Andesia. Gardens were the only exception to the total attributes of matter. Each new spark of life, an  expansion of the whole; not only an expansion, but a true addition, something totally unique and new—no wonder such gardens were so precious; and no wonder the need for expansion. Even the Collective had a task in trying to keep up. He should know the exact number of gardens. How silly. That kept changing too. He would look up the number none-the-less. Each garden had its own species, its own language, some with multi languages, each with a special set of survival skills, all bent on one goal: evolve—a flow from nowhere to forever.

He loved all the gardens he had visited so far. Of course he had merely been an observer; Siateria had taken the lead; it was she who guided his initial steps into this, his first responsibility—the expansion of Andesia. The last assignment was the last he would do under direct supervision. Siateria concluded it was time he undertake an assignment of his own. She had mentioned how impressed she was at how quickly he had pulled from the Collective to learn the language and culture of that assignment. She had not realized that to some degree it was a product of luck; that garden had come up in his studies, and he had been fascinated with the idea of a totally liquid garden. He should have told her.

A request from Siateria. He let go his observation link and went to facial. “What’s wrong? I can’t… no vis—”

“Take it easy. Let go the anti-matter. It has to be constant.”

“Yes, of course. Sorry.” He passed the anti-matter back to the void. And Siateria was there before him; or, he beside her. Well, not exactly. This was so different than his last existence. “I’m so sorry. I forget that nothing can be created or destroyed.”

“It’s okay, Peter. It takes some practice.”

“Peter? Will that be my name? Where am I going?”

Siateria smiled. And in that smile he knew the love she had for him was, so powerful and pure; even when he should have his ears clipped she delivered nothing but concern, understanding, and her gentle nature of teaching. No wonder she was set to move onto the Asendus Plane, he having no knowledge of what that Plane was all about; she accepted it was an essential part of her growth. She had been here even before Siateria existed, and knew every nuance of its expansion. Of course her responsibilities were much greater than his meager set. He had asked her many times what came next for her, hoping it would give some answer to his own longevity. She always answered the same way; we will see.


“They refer to their garden as Earth.” Siateria offered a visual for his inspection.” The disaster we envisioned has happened; total collapse with in excess of ninety-five percent of the population wiped out; and yes for a second time it did not end the growth there. It seems they are a resourceful lot, if a bit too skilled at killing themselves.”

“What’s my mission?”

“As always, to observe. Well, a bit more might be needed.”