Monday, October 7, 2019
The Eerie Season
October--prelude to the end of the year, and of other endings as well. October 30 will soon be here, and my mind drifts to thoughts of that time and the happenings before.
We were raised not to be dramatic or superstitious, but even when Dorothy was little, she confided that she had unusual feelings connected to the supernatural and the House we lived in. One of my early memories is of pre-school Dorothy standing on my parents' bed and reading from the holy picture hanging over it. She read word for word the inscription about Guardian Angels, and we never understood how she learned to read it. She had a life-long admiration for angels. When the love of her life died, she announced she had seen a message from his own angel predicting what was to come for him. And it did.
Helen came to live with us and she too loved angels, and saints as well. In her later years in the House, she heard angel voices singing, I think mostly in the middle room, and she had a vivid recall of an angel appearing to her in the corner of that room, surrounded by light, she would say.
I know the House had been in the family for several generations, and I never really knew the sequence. My father's sister Kate and her family lived in that house, Peter Barrett running a bar in the adjoining structure. Evidently Patrick Madigan, Kate's father (and also our grandfather) had come to live with Kate's family in his final year or years. He died in 1930. We kids never asked about anything even when we were told something, though now I so wish we had. I remember my father saying that his father had cut a branch off the big pine tree, that was still in the front yard when we moved in, as a Christmas tree for Lizzie. I remember my father gesturing toward the middle room and saying that his father had died in that room. He rolled off the cot he was lying on, dead.
As far as I knew that was the only soul released in that House, but it was not to be the last. While I was living in the House, our father died there in 1966, in the room off the kitchen. I heard the sound of his last breath. Uncle Joe died upstairs in the bedroom at the top of the back stairs in 1964(?). And early one Sunday morning our mother died in the living room, in 1983. I heard her last breaths.In a sense I think of the House as a tomb for the lives who ended there.
I never had the imagination or insight or spirituality that Dorothy had, but after Uncle Joe died, and we reclaimed his room, I felt an "aura' that Dorothy and I both shared. I was the only one of the 3 of us living home by then, so I was glad, for the first time, to have a closet of my own. I decorated the room as a type of office, with a desk and a cot and a shelf for books. Ma and Helen and the foster kids were still in the house, so I would retreat to my new office to do some work. But after a short time there, alone, something happened inside my head; it felt like it was expanding and I would run downstairs to be with others. I was too young then to be afraid of illness or brain tumors or impending seizures or such. I just knew I needed to get out of the room. Dorothy was in her own home then, but we talked about it and she said she had the same sensation. We called it our "big-head" feeling. Some thought it was amusing, but not us.
We were raised not to be dramatic or superstitious, but even when Dorothy was little, she confided that she had unusual feelings connected to the supernatural and the House we lived in. One of my early memories is of pre-school Dorothy standing on my parents' bed and reading from the holy picture hanging over it. She read word for word the inscription about Guardian Angels, and we never understood how she learned to read it. She had a life-long admiration for angels. When the love of her life died, she announced she had seen a message from his own angel predicting what was to come for him. And it did.
Helen came to live with us and she too loved angels, and saints as well. In her later years in the House, she heard angel voices singing, I think mostly in the middle room, and she had a vivid recall of an angel appearing to her in the corner of that room, surrounded by light, she would say.
I know the House had been in the family for several generations, and I never really knew the sequence. My father's sister Kate and her family lived in that house, Peter Barrett running a bar in the adjoining structure. Evidently Patrick Madigan, Kate's father (and also our grandfather) had come to live with Kate's family in his final year or years. He died in 1930. We kids never asked about anything even when we were told something, though now I so wish we had. I remember my father saying that his father had cut a branch off the big pine tree, that was still in the front yard when we moved in, as a Christmas tree for Lizzie. I remember my father gesturing toward the middle room and saying that his father had died in that room. He rolled off the cot he was lying on, dead.
As far as I knew that was the only soul released in that House, but it was not to be the last. While I was living in the House, our father died there in 1966, in the room off the kitchen. I heard the sound of his last breath. Uncle Joe died upstairs in the bedroom at the top of the back stairs in 1964(?). And early one Sunday morning our mother died in the living room, in 1983. I heard her last breaths.In a sense I think of the House as a tomb for the lives who ended there.
I never had the imagination or insight or spirituality that Dorothy had, but after Uncle Joe died, and we reclaimed his room, I felt an "aura' that Dorothy and I both shared. I was the only one of the 3 of us living home by then, so I was glad, for the first time, to have a closet of my own. I decorated the room as a type of office, with a desk and a cot and a shelf for books. Ma and Helen and the foster kids were still in the house, so I would retreat to my new office to do some work. But after a short time there, alone, something happened inside my head; it felt like it was expanding and I would run downstairs to be with others. I was too young then to be afraid of illness or brain tumors or impending seizures or such. I just knew I needed to get out of the room. Dorothy was in her own home then, but we talked about it and she said she had the same sensation. We called it our "big-head" feeling. Some thought it was amusing, but not us.
Beware "The Voice"
Back in our Main Street apartment, we had unavoidable contact with a woman, subsequently identified at that time as "mentally ill." She was well-off, well groomed and apparently well, but she spoke in different voices. Sometimes her tone would be ultra gentle and sometimes far to the opposite extreme.
She, and those around her, had problems which, suffice it to say, did not end well.
I am now brought back to that dark time when I hear the leader of our country speak in different tones. Especially concerning is the soft, unctuous inflection which he apparently uses in trying to solicit understanding. It is unnatural , and even more threatening than his shouting in anger.
She, and those around her, had problems which, suffice it to say, did not end well.
I am now brought back to that dark time when I hear the leader of our country speak in different tones. Especially concerning is the soft, unctuous inflection which he apparently uses in trying to solicit understanding. It is unnatural , and even more threatening than his shouting in anger.
Sunday, October 6, 2019
Woolrich Time
Some years ago, Dorothy changed the color scheme in her bedroom and gave me her green Woolrich blanket. "Inspired by the Outdoors" reads the label. It is heavyweight and queen size. I mostly use it in a twin bed, doubled over, so even heavier. Even in the hottest weather , I can't sleep unless I have some cover over me, even if it's just a sheet, or a towel, anything.
But my preference is for something heavy. That might stem from my memory of the patchwork quilt Helen made for us when the power company finally agreed to run electric poles up their road. The first purchase was a refrigerator, then a television, and finally a sewing machine for Helen. She sewed patchwork quilts from scraps of recycled clothing and other cloths. She lacked the suggested fill of cotton batting, so she substituted bedsheets. That made the quilts super-heavy.
Dorothy and I shared a bed, and when Ma came to tuck us in, really to say good-night, on those cold wintry nights in our unheated bedroom, she would loft the patchwork quilt up and over us. The weight of its landing almost took our breath away, but we welcomed its warmth. The Woolrich blanket does not offer the same sense of love and caring, but at least it's warm.
But my preference is for something heavy. That might stem from my memory of the patchwork quilt Helen made for us when the power company finally agreed to run electric poles up their road. The first purchase was a refrigerator, then a television, and finally a sewing machine for Helen. She sewed patchwork quilts from scraps of recycled clothing and other cloths. She lacked the suggested fill of cotton batting, so she substituted bedsheets. That made the quilts super-heavy.
Dorothy and I shared a bed, and when Ma came to tuck us in, really to say good-night, on those cold wintry nights in our unheated bedroom, she would loft the patchwork quilt up and over us. The weight of its landing almost took our breath away, but we welcomed its warmth. The Woolrich blanket does not offer the same sense of love and caring, but at least it's warm.
Kilroy Was Here---Again
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