East To The Sun.

 

I spent the best year of my High School life in this building although nobody goes to school there any longer.  Whenever I see a photo of that grand old building I see her face.

Every morning when I would walk into those doors as a freshman student I felt special to be there.  There was so much tradition there, so many grand ghosts about.  Ghosts from formals held 100 years before, of sports teams, of concert bands.  More than that though, I felt special because of her.  She was a Senior and she looked like a movie star.  Pretty face.  Thick honey-blond hair.  The way she carried her books about was ladylike as was the way she dressed.  In 1973 nobody schlepped their books around in a backpack.  In 1973 you would often see lady students in blouses or sweaters and skirts.  She had a few sweaters and blouses I remember still.

I noticed her immediately when I first saw her in the hallway on my way into the building.  I saw her walking the same way the next day too.  She looked at me and smiled.  That smile astounded me.  I do not remember if I smiled back.  I probably didn't.  I was lucky just to continue walking.

I attended that school for 270 days.  Every day I saw her she gave me that dazzling smile. Even though I was a ski racer then  I never worked up the nerve to speak to her but I did eventually smile back. I have no idea what happened in her life after May of 1974 when my family moved to sunnier climes.  Except for one thing.

In a very roundabout way I heard last week that she passed a few years ago.  I hope the report is wrong.  Somebody deserves to be the ongoing recipient of that amazing smile. For the better part of 270 days it meant the world to me.  If the report is true then she is a lovely addition to the ghosts that roam my old school.  As I will be also, one day.  And on that day I will have the courage to chat with her.  And we can walk the halls together.

Super

 

The Irish Readhead was a diehard Steelers fan.  I have blood that is Packers green.  This morning I saw something from Packers.com saying that on February 6, 2011 the Packers won the Super Bowl against the Steelers.

I remember that day very well.  She and I always watched the Super Bowl together and that Sunday was no exception.  Except that she had been in the hospital in Miami for a month and had experienced a nine hour surgery the day before.  

I was with her in her room watching the pre-game show and generally talking to her about what might happen.  The usual good natured banter of football fans when their teams are playing.  At least the good natured banter that occurs when the fans happen to love each other.  The hospital cafeteria had a "tailgate" set up that day with burgers, hot dogs, pizza and all the fixings.  She told me I had better get something to eat before the game so I went downstairs to the tailgate party.  The food was actually great and I pondered having a piece of apple pie with ice cream before returning to her room.  For some reason I chose against my nature and skipped one of my favorite desserts.

When I walked back into her room someone was giving her some pain medicine.  For a fleeting moment I thought this was odd because she had an extraordinary pain threshold [albeit being in a lot of visible pain from the surgery] and because she was already getting pain medication from a patch on her body.  We then watched the final pre-game predictions right before kickoff and I made some snarky comment about the Steelers.  Which elicited no reply.  Which was very out of character for the Irish Redhead.  I looked over at her and her face was blue.  And her eyes were rolled up in her pretty face.  And she wasn't breathing. 

Elsewhere in these chronicles I have mentioned that one thing which will surely get attention in a big hospital is walking out of a room yelling that your wife isn't breathing.  All hell breaks loose.  They throw you out of the room.  They throw everything else out of the room.  They bring in all this equipment.  They make the spouse wait in some other room down the hall.  Then you wait to hear whether you are a widower or not.  

Ultimately the Packers won the game.  I don't remember anything about it.  The Irish Redhead won another six years of life.  Another of her many thrashings of the medical odds.  Not much comparison there.

Memorial Day

From the First Five at Boston Common:

Crispus Attucks

Samuel Gray

James Caldwell

Samuel Maverick

Patrick Carr

To three of the most recent:

Humberto Sanchez

Dylan Merola

Ryan Knauss

From the rest of us.  Sleeping under the warm security you provided. Thank you so very much. Today, and always.

Little Miracles

 

Readers of The Epic will know that one of my core principles is the existence of miracles and joyous things all around us.  If we keep our eyes open we will discover many of these gems which will greatly enhance our lives.

This little bush is pretty ragged.  Just a group of sticks really trying to stay alive behind my mailbox. It has been there many years now and I haven't seen it bloom in a long time.  I am sure that some people would have wanted me to remove it long ago but I cannot do that.  You see, my wife the Irish Redhead loved to plant things in the yard and this is the only thing I can recall that remains from her annual efforts to redecorate outdoors. 

So, on Easter Sunday, I walked outside and saw these beautiful little flowers adorning the group of sticks.  I'm pretty sure that she was thinking of me.  I had a wonderful day Sunday and I hope you did as well.

I have not attended to The Epic or to my readers in a long time.  I will do better this year.  Thank you so much for still coming by.

Armistice

Vonnegut said that men who were on the battlefield at eleven that morning reported silence so deafening they were convinced it was the voice of God.  A voice that said "enough".

Enough of what Siegfried Sassoon described as "faces trodden deeper in the mud".  Enough of the new war machines...

Enough of trenches...

Just, enough.  Time for parades on 5th Avenue and kisses and prayers and hugs...

War was made illegal in 1938.  A year later it started again.  Here, everything is fast and new.  We mainly forget or ignore the old things.  The old ways.  Armistice Day was created to make sure we never forgot the very first World Soldiers.  And the millions that died.  Now, we merge them into the honor of more recent veterans, living and dead.  And the old ones have faded in the effort.  Other countries whose boundaries encompass the bloody soil have longer memories...

Shock someone.  Wear a poppy today.  Or a red ribbon.  Be thankful for those first overseas veterans.  And all the others who sacrificed after war became illegal.  Try to  hear God's voice.

The Annual Angler

 

I love fishing for trout with a fly rod.  Every year I get one chance to do so which tests my admittedly modest skills.  My favorite venue for this event is the Au Sable River in Michigan.  There are numerous parts of the Au Sable and I stay at the fabled Gates Au Sable Lodge.  Little rooms where you can walk out the back door, put on your waders and step into one of the most famous trout streams in America.  I have been visiting Gates for years. 

 Last year I fell victim to the dreaded fishing skunk.....I caught nothing during my visit.

This year due to an unfortunate atmospheric event I was able to stay at Gates two weeks instead of the planned seven days.  The weather was glorious, cold and clear.  Trout here are very experienced prey and they are not easily fooled.  That said, I managed to fool more than ever before using the classic English method of casting downstream and pulling a wet fly across the burbling current.  Another treat was the presence of my great pally JP who usually comes up from southern Michigan to join the sport.  It's the least he can do since he introduced me to this obsession years ago after we stopped being roommates in law school. JP is an actual fisherman, I only rely on dumb luck and my ability to read the water to guess where a trout may be hiding. 

Before the shrieking starts I must declare that this water is highly regulated and it is illegal to possess trout.  All trout we catch must be returned to the stream in good condition.  On what is known as the Holy Waters they are VERY serious about such things.  As am I.  

Another thing I love about this area is the great food.  They have classics like Pastys, the Cornish meat and potato pies, that with brown gravy are an outdoorsman's staple.  They have other hearty dishes too and they use lots of local ingredients and LOTS of fresh fruit.  One example comes from the final evening of the trip when I dined at the wonderful Gates restaurant and had a slice of maple cream pie with poached local pears on top.  I can't describe how wonderful that dessert was.  It even topped the fresh blueberry pie.  And the multitude of doughnuts from the incredible local bakery.

I played golf one day to give the trout time to regroup and strategize how to make me a sporting failure the rest of my trip like last year. I played terribly on a really fine course called Forest Dunes but I had a superb steak dinner there to make up for it.

As is always the case, the last day of any adventure must arrive.  JP had been required to return to work and I fished a couple of days after he left with no success.  The day before my departure dawned bright clear and crisp.  An autumn day worthy of any of the legendary trout fishermen.  And me too.  I admit to being pretty tired and I almost didn't return to the stream that day.  But I wanted to catch just one more trout before returning to the workaday world of well.........work......and weather related damage.  I chose one of my very favorite streams.  A place where I have always caught at least one trout.  

This particular spot requires you to park on the shoulder of a two lane paved road and then walk down some rustic steps to the stream.  As I parked I groaned seeing that another vehicle was already parked there.  I did not want to share my last stream visit of the year with anyone.  In the event, the driver of the vehicle was a very nice fellow who was merely standing on the bridge looking at the water.  As often happens we struck up a conversation.  During which I found another sporting brother.  He told me he had been married many years and has lost his wife only four months ago.  Hearing this I glanced at him.  And I saw myself three and a half years ago.  By myself.  Adrift.  Trying to figure out who the hell I was supposed to be.  Two middle aged widowers standing on a bridge staring at one of the finest trout streams you will ever see.  Suddenly not knowing what to say.  He ventured "its amazing how a great wife is a.........well a........a rudder for your life...a balance."  Yes.  I was blessed that way too.  

It is not a shocking revelation that most men don't share feelings or intimate thoughts very well.   But in the freemasonry of lost love it becomes a bit easier.  I ventured the thought that I felt just as rudderless and cast adrift three years ago as he does now and that despite that feeling it was a time of exciting opportunity to try and find out who we are now.  In the time after that time. 

We swapped information and promised to keep in touch.  Then I made my way to the stream and tried my luck.  I worked carefully downstream and finally caught my one last trout of the trip.  But it was a little bit less than before.  Suddenly my legs felt all of their sixty-one years after two weeks in moving currents. After releasing the trout I sat on a big log in the stream.  And I stared at the running waters.  I heard some geese flying overhead calling for their leader to take them to Florida. I sat there and I thought of her.  A lot.  A lot more than in some time. And I smelled wood smoke.  And I looked upward and a torrent of red and gold leaves blew down over me.  She was happy about the trout.  I struggled up from the log and made my way back to the car.

Languid

It had been a very trying week.  At the start of it I was in full-on work mode, engaged in another of the competitive micro-elections for money in which I have been performing for the past thirty seven rather marvelous years. 

But then, through no fault of either mine nor my competitor, it all just ....stopped.  The proceedings halted and ultimately nullified.  Only to be replayed at some future date.  This sort of thing is deflating in the extreme.  You have nowhere to expend all of the build up energy and focus that were fueling you for the event.  Well, I suppose if one were a runner, or an exerciser, but I have sterling credentials as neither of those. 

What to do?  To quote one of my favorite characters from a movie long ago, "ROAD TRIP".  My favorite casino happens to be a modest drive away and I rapidly claimed a complimentary room, booked dinner at the excellent hotel restaurant, threw a small Italian leather bag into my trunk and drove west.  Feeling none the best for wear I might say.  I almost talked myself out of the trip.  But the dedicated Epic learns to follow his inner voice in such matters.

Upon arrival I got settled into my room and considered soaking in the large hot tub.  Apparently someone in the booking office was under the impression I was planning a much more complicated escapade that was the case.  Avoiding a bath that would have probably put me to sleep, I straightened my tie and headed downstairs to the caisse to exchange some money for chips. 

It should surprise no returning Epic that I was the only person on display on the casino floor wearing a coat and tie.  Nor should it surprise anyone that the feel of casino chips in my hand and the distinctive clacking noise they make when you riffle them against a green baize surface is a soothing influence to the my heart and soul. 

It had been some time since I last played Roulette but my weariness from the week's events and a three visit losing streak at Blackjack prompted me to a simple plan of action at the table of the spinning wheel based upon James Bond's system.  Which was based on John Scarne's system I believe.  A solid notion. With that firmly in mind I had a "half and half" martini in the cocktail lounge and headed to the steakhouse for dinner to further fortify myself for the evening ahead. 

I don't always have steak when I dine out but when I do I have steak au poivre.  It is another sad feature of the current era how difficult it is to find a great steak, crusted in peppercorns, with a brandy cream sauce.  A French bistro classic now relegated to the novelty list.  On one less than memorable occasion, I asked a waiter why the "steak au poivre" that had been perfectly cooked and delivered to my table had no flavor.  The horrifying answer was "People kept sending it back because it was peppery".  Good lord.  Why on earth would someone order steak AU POIVRE and object to it being steak au poivre?  I digress.  The casino steakhouse in question makes the dish perfectly.  I suspect that from the great beyond James Beard weeps with joy every time someone makes it there.  A large wonderful filet [I know, I know, the classic should be a strip steak but I occasionally allow myself a slight turn away from tradition] cooked medium rare, with a significant peppercorn crust and a perfect and silky pan sauce which served to slightly soften the heat of the pepper in the way the first chef to make the dish certainly planned.  Magnificent...

With a glass or two of a very good Pinot Noir the old life compass was slowly swinging to the proper course.  After that outstanding steak I celebrated the existence of at least a few chefs who can still prepare it properly by ordering what in that locale has come to be known as the M****** Sundae.  Simple but the perfect sequent to my entree....

Fully bucked for the remainder of the evening, I sauntered back to the main Roulette table where I whiled away several hours in the company of a couple of nice croupiers and a very attentive cocktail waitress.  I ended the evening happily ahead of the house.

Somewhat later, relaxing in that tub with a snifter of cognac, I considered the word "languid".  One of my favorite adjectives. I love the way the word sounds.  It is one of those words which immediately conjures up just the sort of evening I had experienced.  Or the look in the eyes of certain women at certain times.  It shouldn't surprise me that the primary definitions of languid are pejorative but I put this down to a cultural variant in the U.S. where the lack of "proper" [i.e. energy and goal driven] activities are usually looked at with a cocked eyebrow.  I prefer the alternative definition of languid which is "leisurely".  Sensual leisure.  The Epicurean definition of the word.  And of a superior evening.