Terra Cotta Warriors

I'm certain people think we are odd. We don't travel much, at least by many of our friends' standards, but when we do, we pack in the places we want to see like a tightly-matrixed metamorphic rock. This past weekend in Washington, DC was no exception.

We left Tampa first thing Friday morning, arriving at National airport just before noon. Travel went smoothly the entire trip, with the exception of one or two minor, somewhat expected snags. Even traffic in and around the city cooperated for the most part. We rented one of the smallest cars we've ever driven, at least in the States. It was no 3-cylinder Peugeot, but that's about all you could say, except that driving it was like dropping back twenty years, with hand-crank windows and completely manual door locks. The things we take for granted are amazing. But a basic car was all we really needed. Big enough to haul four people to dinner without having to fold anyone quite in half.

We dedicated the first day to a pair of game stores. The first was an old haunt from our days in Maryland. Still in business but in a new location. That one was kind of hurting, not much real traffic, dusty stock, more floor space than merchandise. A shame to see an old friend slowly decaying into demise. Our second stop was much more vibrant, a game store we'd found in Virginia on one of our last excursions into the area. This one was more alive, both with customers and a great variety of stock. It was kind of nice to eavesdrop on a trio of guys not much younger than I am, playing some sort of figure based WWII tactical game at one of the gaming tables while they bantered German tank trivia back and forth. I do miss that. We ended up picking up one game and one expansion while we were up there. The game is called Revolution: The Dutch Revolt 1568-1648, my anniversary gift from Karen. Such an atypical historic simulation, I had to have it. It appears to be a strategic simulation similar to Avalon Hill's Machiavelli, though I haven't cracked it yet. Thank goodness for iPhones and BoardGameGeek.com. On the fly reviews right in the store. I love the world we live in.

Saturday we got a lazy start, heading to the National Mall around 11 in the morning. The DC Metro is an easy, convenient form of transport for getting in and out of the city without having to worry about parking. Of course, the Metro card we had leftover from our list trip wouldn't work. No big deal. The tone for the day was set by the tea party demonstrators, complete with obnoxious t-shirts ("Torches and pitchforks, keeping politicians in line since 1792"), flags and hand-inked poster board signs, arriving from the hinterlands of Virginia. The station was as mobbed with people as we've ever seen, most never having used the metro before and asking us for advice. We didn't even direct any of them wrong, though it was tempting. (As an aside, there is a huge piece of irony watching the these budget slashing tea-baggers swarm the FREE museums on the National Mall after protesting on the capital steps. Something about a failure of education in this country regarding putting two and two together. But I digress.)

Our first stop was the National Museum of the American Indian, which opened sometime after the last time we were up there. I like this museum almost as much as the National Holocaust Museum, though for very different reasons. When we first arrived in DC (was it really 24 years ago?), we went to the Museum of Natural History. Wandering through, it struck me how wrong the section on Native American felt with its old 50's era abstract, anthropological presentations rather than the history of a still living, breathing people. The NMAI is just the opposite. It tells you not to take everything you read and hear at face value, it challenges you to argue with it. The great thing about it is that it allows the different peoples to tell their own stories, some of which were denied by the US Government until very recent times. There are a lot of videos and audios, a lot of creation myths and stories, as well as a lot of modern perspectives. We only spent a couple hours poking through as we didn't want to suffer museum burn out. I highly recommend this museum and look forward to going back, especially on a day when there aren't a few hundred tea-baggers with their patriot flags crawling through the lobby.

From there, we dodged across the mall to the National Gallery, were we did a cultural drive-by on Thomas Cole's Journey of Live series (where we caught additional details we'd never seen before), then up to the Vermeers and Dutch still lives, over to Dali's Last Supper (where one of the volunteers was pointing out some of the less known aspects of the painting) and finally through the Boticellis, Raphaels, Titians and lone Da Vinci for good measure. We picked up a CD with information on some 600 pieces in the National Gallery collection. We are both looking forward to hearing/seeing what the professionals have to say about some of the works that move us so much.

After that, we trekked over to the WWII memorial, another debut since our last visit. An attractive, open space that had a ton of people, many of whom were jockeying to get photos taken in front of their home state markers. A very well-constructed monument and public space with a nice mixture of stone and water. Though I must say, it doesn't have the same impact as either the Vietnam Wall or the Korean War statuary when you stumble through them. Diagonally across from that was the impromptu memorial to the dead soldiers from the Iraq War at the base of the Washington Monument bordering the Ellipse. A moving counterpoint.

Finally, we street hiked to a professional bookstore I'd been to once before, on a business trip, up on K Street. As we passed the White House, an anti-war rally was just breaking up (after 5 arrests). As we continued on, we wondered if they were going to encounter the other protestors on the Metro and how that was going to turn out. I'm guessing they weren't going to share a quiet cup of tea. We passed the Federal Reserve (which had an exhibit about the meltdown that we didn't go into), the World Bank and the IMF (both of which have bookstores in their lobbies!). If we'd had more time, we definitely would have gone into all three. Instead, we took the opportunity to poke through the professional bookstore for an hour. I found a great book in the psych section titled "Science Fiction and Philosophy." You know that one came home with me, along with an introduction to game theory. I was seriously lusting after several titles in the EE section, including one on Bayesian analysis in signal processing. Just couldn't justify the $100+ after the 25% moving sale discount to satisfy my curiosity. Another Metro ride put a wrap on Saturday.

Sunday, we headed out to Great Falls National Park, and hung out by the Potomac for a couple of hours. It was a delightful day, warmer up there than down here at home. The water was high, but not the flood stage that Karen found pictures of this morning. We sat on the rocks, listening to the rushing water as the warm sun and cool breeze kept the temperature ideal. The day was a near perfect balance of the ancient elements of earth, air, fire and water. When we were driving around on Friday, both Karen and I commented on feeling like strangers in a strange land again after so long away. By the time we left Great Falls, we felt as though we were leaving a piece of home behind. So much up there that we miss. Though not the people. The park was crowded on that second day of spring.

From there we made the type of abrupt transition only possible around DC, and drove over to an immense two story Barnes and Noble in Tysons Corner. We poked through their stacks and aisles for an hour or so before collecting the books we didn't think we'd see at home and headed out. We made a brief stop in the LL Bean store, and both wished we had access to the variety of stores that one mall contained. We could have spent a couple hours poking in specialty stores, but didn't have the time. Worthwhile if only to browse the selection in a DC area bookstore (especially armed with a couple gift-cards from my birthday). Very little down here can compete.

Monday was the one day with inclement weather, cool and raining. Fortunately not the initially predicted 54 for a high, but a more temperate 66. We drove the rental back to the airport, parked in daily parking and jumped the Metro back into the city. This was the day we had our appointment with the Terra Cotta Warriors at the National Geographic museum. We arrived just in time to take in a free movie on the history of the First Emperor of China (who had the Warriors made). Not a nice individual. Though like many despots, one who modernized and standardized China in ways that remain today. We ate a light lunch at the museum cafe, toured a photographic exhibit called Sacred Water, then queued up for our appointment. The exhibit was impressive, with a nice mix of Warriors and other artifacts from the Warring States period. The most fascinating piece of information I picked up was that in the Warriors tomb, they had found several bronze swords in nearly pristine condition. That was because in 200 BC, the Chinese were using a chromium anti-corrosion alloying system that was not replicated until modern times, only with steel. I mean, you could still see your reflection in the blade of this sword.

Of course, the highlight was the warriors themselves, of which they had an impressive selection. Some individuals they had on display were one of only 8 of a given type they'd found. The detail and artistry was amazing, down to shoelaces, hair, and buttons of the backs of boots. They think at least 8 models were used for faces, augmented by different noses, ears, mustaches and beards so that each soldier guarding the emperor's tomb looked unique. They also had examples of statues of acrobats and entertainers found in another area of the tomb complex, along with some of the water birds they'd found in a river simulation there. Completely fascinating and immersive. I was curious how the Chinese government would choose to portray this piece of their history. I was presently surprised. Definitely a good excuse for an excursion to DC. And a great conclusion to our trip. Karen even got a pair of silver earrings and a necklace with embossed with a Chinese character as her anniversary present from me.

From the museum we wandered back down by the White House, taking our first opportunity to see it from the front side. Without realizing it, we passed right in front of Blair House. From there, we headed to the tidal basin to check the status of the cherry trees which we'd never managed to see in bloom. They were tightly budded, probably emerging next weekend, but none were out. At least until we crossed in front of the Dept. of Agriculture on our way to the Metro. There, a lone tree was adorned in bright pink flowers. Beautiful. Remind me to send a thank you note to Secr. Clinton for planting that tree as First Lady before she left in 1999. By the time we got on the Metro, it was raining steadily and about to come down harder, so we opted to defer a tour of Arlington National Cemetery for another day. We turned in the car, checked our baggage, had a filling dinner of Five Guys burgers, relaxed a little with our books and headed home, where Mara and Nyala were waiting by the door.

After all that, you are probably wondering what we did at night up there. One of the best part about the trip was our accommodations. Friends we hadn't seen in a long time graciously put us up in their beautiful colonial home in Virginia. Their guest room had a delightful view of sunrise through the trees and hills each morning. Martha and Christopher were the epitome hospitality, including being very adaptive to our schedule. They prepared two delicious suppers for us, including the evening of our anniversary. They provided perfect breakfasts to fuel us through our days of exploration. We engaged each other with intelligent and entertaining conversation, though it probably helped that they had good alcohol always at hand, including a wonderful sparkling wine they served on our anniversary. Even their cats were accommodating, kindly supplying us with requisite rubs and purrs until we could get back to see our own. We thoroughly enjoyed their company, and remember how much we've missed them. It was very kind of them to share their beautiful home with us for an extended weekend.

Another successful adventure, one we would consider repeating for many years to come. Maybe next time we will be able to build in enough time to spend some with our other set of friends in the area, up on the Maryland side of things. Hopefully.


© 2010 Edward P. Morgan III

Spring Equinox 2010 (two days early)

Spring Equinox 2010 - a reading (on YouTube)

Today, the world divides into two equal parts, light and darkness, day and night, hemispheres. Patterns ripple and flow between the two across a twilight bridge where reason and emotion intertwine, a thoroughfare for dreams.

At eventide, the faeries make their presence known. They fight a proxy war beneath the banner of the Green Man to change the world from dun and gray to verdant, vital and marked with color.

At dusk, they lead a procession with tiny torches, flickering on and off, tempting restless wanderers to explore the realms of Nyx and Nott. Garments woven with threads of silver, sapphire and garnet twinkle against the indigo fabric of night. Their gossamer congregations sometimes mask the moon.

At dawn, they daub bare branches with sponges of chartreuse and burgundy that float just above the wood like a colorful haze. Each morning they experiment with palettes of purple, pink and red, preparing unique mixtures to swirl and stain fresh blossoms, applying vivid splashes based on a secret color theory whispered across the wind by the idyll masters of each pastoral, floral guild.

Betwixt, they flit and flutter on capricious yellow wings, surveying frivolous domains. Tiny harpers call the tune for a battle in song between the secular and religious, divisions whose champions are plumed in steely blue and Cardinal red. Vagabond minstrels range behind the lines to gently mock each side.

There is purpose to their chaotic motion. They seek to lull a chthonic deity into releasing his vestal maiden captive so they might initiate her into the Eleusinian mysteries and crown her Queen of Spring.

As the coronet of supple snowdrops settles upon her flowing midnight tresses, her parti-colored entourage celebrates with bawdy songs and brimming cups of nectar. The long sleep of winter has ended. Let the dreams of summer begin.

© 2010 Edward P. Morgan III

Imbolc 2010

Imbolc 2010 - a reading (on YouTube)

Some days I want to start again. Days when petty, niggling events build up until they seem overwhelming, a to-do list where items never get crossed off, only added one by one. Today is just such a day.

But today is also Imbolc, the festival of candles celebrating the first local signs of spring. The first indication that nature has set her schemes in motion to repopulate the world after the long, bleak setback of winter. The day the ancient Celts marked that the ewes began to lactate in anticipation of welcoming new lambs into the world.

When does life begin? That question forms a crosscurrent rift in our society today. I think the question is framed all wrong. Life doesn't begin so much as continues. Cells consume resources, divide and die. Organisms do much the same only on a grander scale. But the fundamentals of life propagate from one generation to the next without pause. What we think of as a new life is just a synthesis of two sets of genetic code from two existing organisms that merge to create a new individual, albeit a completely dependent one in our mammalian and avian cousins. From the moment that two fuse into one, all the information is present to forge a new creature. Switches are poised for explosive growth when thrown in the proper order. Experience is ready to be gathered, stored and processed. The organism awaits only the stamp of a symbol for humans to consider it unique. An individual with a name.

If you ask a Daoist, he'll tell you all life, from the simplest to the most complex, is interconnected. If you ask a Buddhist, she'll tell you all life, from the simplest to the most complex, is sacred. When Buddhist monasteries develop what we call "a pest problem," they tend to get overrun. There are no Buddhist exterminators. Convincing ants or rats or termites into accepting another home is a delicate negotiation at best. Much like their human counterparts, each colony has its own agenda that it abandons only reluctantly, usually under duress.

If you want to impress me with a pro-life stance, don the saffron or orange robes and take orphaned tigers into your care against the protests of your community.

I don't say this to be confrontational. Or maybe I do. Maybe, like most life, I am just staking out a territory and preparing to defend it against all rivals. Do you think you can take it? Do you feel lucky?

Life, like birth, is messy, full of blood and bodily fluids, conflict, struggle and pain. Anyone who doesn't believe that needs to watch a hunter kill its prey. Do you feel sorry for the baby rabbit struggling in a cat's jaws? Then ask yourself whether you could dispassionately watch a kitten slowly starve to death. If so, congratulations: you might be ready to start a new career as a serial killer.

When I was younger, I kept a garter snake in a dry aquarium in my bedroom as a pet. Snakes are fundamental predators, cold and emotionless. We don't endow them with the nobility of lions. We don't envy their abilities like birds of prey. More we loathe and fear them, on a good day pity them for having to slither across the ground. Perhaps that's why they earn so much derision in our culture and religion. We have no mutual language or admiration, no points of commonality to establish empathy. They are alien to us.

Like any pet, a snake needs to be fed on a regular basis. Unlike other carnivores we entertain as houseguests, snakes don't eat anything predeceased. They only consume live prey.

So every few nights, I trolled the neighborhood with a flashlight, looking for toads on the sidewalk. Toads were as plentiful as a plague, and more importantly, easily caught. I didn't have any grand strategy, any method or formula to choose the lame or infirm or least likely to be missed by toad society. I was completely egalitarian. To me and the snake, one toad was as good as the next. So the first unlucky soul that stumbled through my light became the designated sacrifice for that night.

The hardest part of keeping a snake is feeding it. More specifically, watching it eat. This snake's aquarium had dirt in the bottom, some branches for topography and a screen across the top. With nothing else to distract it, the snake focused immediately on any new visitors dropping in. The toads, on the other hand, knew there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, though they always did their best to defy the odds. Few creatures accept their position in the food chain willingly. Each was eventually caught and eaten, some forwards, some backwards, some with more or less struggle as they were consumed.

In the end, I gave the garter snake its freedom. I had too much empathy for the toads to watch them die and felt too responsible for my pet to turn away. I decided we both would be happier if it played its part in the cycle of life out of sight in the yard, where it had lived before someone else had trapped it and given it to me.

On days like this, I feel like we as a species are involved in a series of similar life or death confrontations. Each discussion, each decision, each disagreement becomes the ultimate question of right versus wrong, my way versus yours. No compromise is possible, no quarter asked or given. A battle to the death over whose colors are brighter, whose claws are sharper, whose teeth are stronger, as though death won't ride our way soon enough. While we need not fear that pale horseman, I see no reason to wish him Godspeed by laying winter offerings at the feet of his companions of famine, plague and war.

Days like this, I struggle to remember that even in midwinter, the fields are not dead but sleeping. Soon enough, the crocuses will wake beneath the bed of snow and push it aside as they seek the sun to warm their brightly colored heads. Until they do, we'll light candles against the darkness, huddling together for comfort and protection, listening intently for the footfalls of the Green Man as he dances our way again.


© 2010 Edward P. Morgan III

Dear Bright House (an open letter)

It's been 3 days since message 2A2010VXZAAGP and I have heard only silence. A full month since I first reported the problem with my cable.

A month of football inspired by Picasso in his cubist phase. A month of television broadcast by Salvador Dali. A month of dramatic dialogue interpreted by Porky Pig. A month of psychedelic pictures affecting one end of this node to the other.

A month of customer service Machiavelli might describe as Byzantine and internecine. A month of each call being treated as a new problem rather than an ongoing issue. A month of problems so layered that a diagram would look like an onion with no apparent center. A month of right and left hands not exchanging handshakes. A month of interdepartmental Darwinism.

By the time you get a tech out again, it will have been another week with no one addressing the problem, no one ensuring it's been resolved, no one taking ownership.

Soon, it will no longer be my problem. And I won't wait another month.

© 2010 Edward P. Morgan III

Myakka River State Park

To cap off Karen's extended holiday break this year (after missing Thanksgiving), we took a two night diversion down to Myakka River State Park, about an hour and a half south. After enjoying stays in the more modern cabin accommodations at Saint Joseph Peninsula State Park, we've been wanting to see what the cabins here were like. We stumbled across two open nights on short notice.

Each of the five cabins in Myakka was built in the 1930's by the Civilian Conservation Corps, one of FDR's most successful and enduring recovery programs from the Great Depression. The cabins are small, rustic, palm log construction that have been added on to at least once and modernized to include a fully-electric kitchen, an indoor bathroom and a window unit air conditioner. Kind of like camping with hot water and a microwave. Our cabin had a fussy fireplace, perhaps meant to cook in originally, where the firebox and opening were just a fraction too large for the length of the chimney.

We arrived around 2:30 the first day but were able to get into the cabin early without a problem. Normally, check-in is at 4. We wandered around a bit, finding a trail by the river that we followed for a while before the light started to fade and we headed back. We watched a spectacular sunset over Big Myakka Lake from the frigid birdwalk that evening before heading back to warm up and make dinner, then settled in for the night.

The days were cool by Florida standards, the nights cold. Highs were in the 50's, lows somewhere near freezing. We brought enough wood for the fireplace, though it was a bit less seasoned than we'd been led to believe. As I mentioned, the fireplace was fussy. Even before we lit a fire, the room had a smoky scent to it. We learned why when we inadvertently set off the smoke detector that first night. The trick, we learned, was to keep the fire small, very far back and have the screen in place to provide just that tiny bit of extra draw. Otherwise, smoke tended to just roll out under the mantle. Personally, I think a stonemason could close in the sides and drop the opening about eight inches to fix that problem, but given the budget for parks in this state, that is unlikely to happen any year soon. So, mostly, it was fire for effect.

Both nights, we ducked out onto the back porch to look at the stars, which were bright and clear to the horizon, something I haven't seen inland in this state for almost 30 years. In the clearing behind the cabin, we had a beautiful view of Orion, Taurus and the Pleiades. Betelgeuse was a noticeable orange-red, as was Aldebaran in Taurus. Sirius was an almost arc-welding intense blue as it rose. Mars, also on the horizon, was just as fiery. Karen spotted a green meteor that first night, which had us both thinking this would be an ideal spot to reserve for any of a number of meteor showers throughout the year. There was a nearly clear horizon to horizon viewing spot just up the road by the river, with a pull off just perfect for some chairs.

Even with the fireplace going and the heat on full, we could only get the temperature inside the cabin up to 55. Not a problem as we'd brought sweaters, hats, gloves and other warm clothing. Luckily, we also brought warm bedding, too. The cabin came with sheets, towels and light, light, light blankets. Each morning, the temperature inside the big room was 40 degrees at dawn, 37 in the bathroom. The second morning, we could hear the frost/ice from the trees melting and dripping onto the roof. The second night, we could hear owls calling to one another in the nearby woods. Until the moon rose around midnight, the inside of the cabin was as black as a cave.

We spent the second day hiking around the park. First, we did the canopy walk and nature trail, both of which we'd visited on our previous day trip. The canopy walk and tower were chilly as it was still in the 40's and windy, but a pretty view out over the river, lakes and prairie. The adjoining nature trail has a secluded boardwalk, conveniently in the sun that morning, where we could sit, watch the marsh and warm up. Later, we hiked a loop out of several of the numerous hiking trails which mostly run through the open prairie beyond the oak and palm hammocks closer to the river.

For our geologist friends, there is a great rock near the entrance with a memorial plaque for the park's dedication. The park was donated to the state by a rancher's family in the 1920's, which is pretty amazing since the pasture land by the river is considered to be some of the best in the country east of the Mississippi River. But the woman whose children donated it was known as an innovator and a maverick. The rock itself is about eight feet tall, just as wide and a mixture of limestone and quartzite with some interesting nodules, inclusions and fossils. No idea if it is local, but I suspect it is. I had to pull Karen and her camera away. Another geology note, the sand in the park, Myakka fine grained sand, is the official sand of the state of Florida. The visitor's center has a wide core going down just over six feet, which breaks down the layers that are amazingly similar to the ones in our backyard. Though their sand is definitely much finer.

For wildlife, we spotted deer, black and tan wild boar, osprey, red-shouldered hawks, kingfishers, wild turkeys, wood storks, flocks of swallows, Carolina wrens and blue-gray gnatcatchers, plus the usual herons and egrets. We had two memorable encounters, both on the last day as we made a final circuit through the park. The first was with a red-shouldered hawk sitting on a branch by the road. Karen has an uncanny ability to be able to spot a bird of prey from a moving vehicle whether at 15 or 50 mph. When we first pulled over, the hawk was still in the shade, but sat watching us as Karen snapped pictures until he was in a narrow beam of sun that had moved through the trees. We must have stood fifteen to twenty feet away for fifteen minutes as he posed.

Our second encounter involved playing tag with two pair of crows on a path by the Clay Gulch stream in the north of the park. Some time ago, we had heard a story on NPR about the different calls crows make, from warnings to friendly invitations. While we were out hiking the prairie the day before, we'd run across a murder in an isolated tree who called all manner of raspy warnings as we approached. Several members retreated to the nearby tree line before we passed and the lookouts called back an all clear, while occasionally squawking encouragement for us to keep going at our backs. That day, I heard the more friendly calls up on the trail and went to check it out. I found two pair of crows sitting in a tree overlooking the river. I know they saw us, but they continued with their friendly calls as first one then the rest moved past our position in the direction from which we had come, like they were playing tag. They played this game for fifteen minutes, one moving past us, the others following as we trailed behind until they settled in a tree astride the path where they could look down at us with curiosity. Not once did they issue a warning cry, just their friendly, playful calls. We sat for 5 minutes examining each other before they retreated up the trail laughing. That encounter made our trip.

Definitely a getaway we would repeat. The nice thing is these cabins are so much closer than the eight hour trek to St. Joe's. They are a bit more rustic, though less isolated at the same time. There are a number of other places we want to check out nearby, including the Gamble Plantation, the Mary Selby Botanical Gardens and the Ringling Museum. Who knows, we might even do the airboat or tram tour (where we spotted a group of Amish tourists?!), or rent a kayak one day. As the brochure says, this is the Real Florida, the one I still love, not the Disneyfied version you find along the I4 corridor.

© 2010 Edward P. Morgan III

Winter Solstice 2009

Winter Solstice 2009 - a reading (on YouTube)

Tonight is the Winter Solstice. Today we gather all our candles and prepare to set the house alight.

Each year, the day begins with preparations. Like the night before a camping trip, we review our equipment, noting wear and patching holes. We wash the glass covers, add oil to the lamps, trim the wicks and clean the candle lanterns. Some only emerge from storage for this one night of the year. There is the one my mother gave us, the one from my grandmother, the ones from Karen, her friends and her sister. The one we light whenever necessary to guide wayward souls back home.

We arrange candles in clusters on counters and on tabletops, hanging lamps and lanterns from the ceiling, gathering flames anywhere away from inquisitive paws and whiskers. Candles float in a bowl in the kitchen. A few cat-proof globes adorn the dining room, others are scattered across the coffee table. The surviving Wolford from our wedding is perched atop the stove. We stake candle sconces along the front walk, a trail of flames to guide any visitors to our door.

This night from dusk to dawn no incandescents will glow within our home. No lights, no television, not even the memory of a fire we have captured on DVD. The stereo is the only electronic compromise as it cycles through a cappella music from a darker, more medieval age. There is a haunting, simple beauty in an anonymous quartet giving voice to carols and motets, chants and polyphony in soprano Middle English and alto Norman-French.

We brighten this longest night of the year in the manner of our ancestors, with candles, flame and oil. Our tradition began just under a score of years ago on a whim, an idea adopted from a more creative writer in a book no one remembers. These days, Karen has become more orthodox, more militant, unscrewing even the bulb in the refrigerator. Women are the keepers of our faith, the enforcers of our traditions.

We prepare the mead, anymore our lone batch of the year, mixing water with honey while it's still light enough to read the measures, adding the yeast before the night descends. For many years, we poured the ingredients in near darkness with only candles to light our way. Later, we will share a glass by the fire table, always sampling the fruits of the last year's tradition.

Even dinner is prepared and eaten before sunset. It was harder when we had to rush home from work to make the house ready. When we first started, we made sure we had something simple to prepare or reheat the moment we hit the door. Now, it's become a personal holiday, a festival, a feast, a celebration like any other. We roast a lamb shank with all the trimmings, a real holiday dinner, clearing off the remnants while it's still light enough to see.

At dusk we will wander out to the lake to watch the sunset. We will stand at the rail, comparing the sun's position to the other Celtic holidays throughout the year, reflecting on events that have filled the intervening spaces. We will head home at twilight, take up the matches and stick-lighter, and begin our ritual of candle lighting as soon as we return.

With all the preparations finished and the candles softly burning, we will finally have a chance to relax and reflect. A chance to breathe after another hectic year. Later, by candle-fire, we will exchange a single gift, always related to the holiday, a sconce, a lantern, something Celtic, something living.

Some time ago, we discovered that our neighbors of a more than a dozen years, who have since moved on, always thought we were Jewish. We are judged by our lack of Christmas lights, and the darkness of our home. We have no flashing icicles, no sparkling reindeer, no lighted plastic nativity, no inflatable Rudolph or Frosty or Santa. No tinny carols emanate from our yard. But every year, a wreath from Karen's sister adorns the wall beside our door. This year, another fragrant evergreen arrangement is ensconced on a table on the porch. For many years, a tree was visible in the library, lighted and shiny with antique tinsel, though it has since moved farther back in the house along with the all books. For half a dozen years, we donated our live tree to the community to be planted the park. Live, as in still living, not live as in freshly cut. And each year on the Winter Solstice, the blinds remain open as the house burns against the night.

Like every Solstice, eventually the darkness will return. One by one, the candles will be extinguished and we will be left with little but each other and the night. I do not fear the darkness; I embrace it in a way. I am more comfortable roaming thorough the house in winter than in summer, at midnight than at noon. The night is my advantage, the cloak of my disguise. I am used to seeing shapes and motion in place of clearer images. In darkness we are all once again created equal: none of us can see.

Some years, I sit down to write this message thinking I know exactly how it will end. Some years, something happens that changes that. This year it was a name, one resurfacing after more than a quarter century, one I hadn't heard since high school, contained in a brief message saying that a man my age had died, his family's holiday turned from joy to sudden grieving. All of our plans for light come to naught when a candle burns out prematurely.

Our kind thoughts to all of you no matter your holiday traditions, whether re-enacted in joy or private sorrow. However long the candles last, may they keep your Solstice warm and bright.


© 2009 Edward P. Morgan III

Earl Morgan, a final note

Earl Morgan - a reading (on YouTube)

Today, I feel alone and untethered, like someone has cut an anchor line and suddenly I'm adrift.

Last Sunday morning, I received a phone call, one I'd been expecting for some time. Charles Earl Morgan, Jr., my uncle, my friend, had died the previous evening around 8 o'clock.

How do you explain a life, an individual, in a way that will make any sense to someone who never met him? I could say he was a WWII veteran, that he treated the wounded returning from the front, that the experience affected him deeply. I could say he was once a steward for Eastern Airlines. That he had an interest in biology and genetics, and thought, one day, science might neutralize humanity’s aggressive tendencies. That he suffered from depression. That he was fascinated by our family’s genealogy. That he always wanted to visit the south of Wales and was so excited when we toured the north. That he read science fiction, Asimov and Herbert. That he liked Impressionist art. That he had a collection of African woodcarvings. That he enjoyed the Winter Solstice. That he fed the cats he found outside. That he was the kindest, most understanding, most generous soul I’ve known.

None of those things mean much out of context. They are just facts and information, pieces and fragments. They are pale pigments that only paint a watercolor of the individual I knew. They don't encapsulate a life.

In the end, I cannot introduce you to him. I can only say what he meant to me. I’m not certain I will succeed but at least I have to try. I wish I could paint a beautiful picture or utter some memorable turn of phrase. But I can’t. This week, the words have failed me.

By the time we met, half his life was behind him. By the time I could remember him, he would have been about the age I am now. The last time I visited him, I was a teenager. The last time I saw him might have been at my grandfather’s funeral, but I cannot say for certain. The last time I heard his voice was a phone call over the summer. The last time I heard from him, a letter just a couple weeks ago.

We kept in touch through letters. We didn't talk a lot about the past. We talked about war and peace, life and nature, people and the world around them. I shared with him things no one else in my family knows, no one but my wife. Some family secrets, some observations. That was the type of friend he was, the type you could confide in without receiving any judgement, the type who always had a word of encouragement or support. The type you could trade letters with every few months and still feel completely connected with, as though you picked up the conversation just where you had dropped it off.

Recently, I sent him the things I'd written, essays and stories. He was one of the first people I’d shared them with, and seemed to enjoy reading them a great deal. For the past three years, I sent him a packet after each of the Celtic holidays. I’m told he saved every one. He was one of a smattering of people I knew was reading what I wrote. Part of the reason I started posting daily lines was to have something to share while I was restructuring the novel. I wanted to have something to give back as I knew he had been going through a difficult time. The last package went out a week before he died. His sister read him the final essay, for which I am more grateful than she knows.

I have a stack of almost fifty letters that I received in return, dating back just over twenty years. In his last letter he told me how much he appreciated me sending the essays and stories, how they had helped him through some very hard times. That’s the highest compliment I’ve ever been given, being told that something I wrote had helped someone else in some small way.

Like his final letter, now he, too, has gone missing. In a similar way, I keep searching for that letter in the last place I saw it but in my heart, I know it's gone. Lost, misplaced, perhaps never to resurface again, though I desperately hope it will. Just like him.

Last night, I had a dream, a nightmare. I was with Karen in a doctor's office. The doctor, an older woman who reminded me of a close friend's mother, was going over her blood counts, commenting that they were the highest she'd ever seen. My biggest fear these days is that I'll find myself back there, sitting in that chair, holding her hand while someone utters that fateful word again as I stare back into the maw, not of my own mortality, but rather of the potential loss of someone I care so much about. I woke up terrified of having to continue on alone.

There are only a few people that I care that deeply for, companions I am that connected to on the journey though this life. My wife, an aunt I write to every day, a series of familiars. A handful of others once upon a time, most already lost to circumstance and distance. There are people you meet in life that you can't explain why you're drawn to. For me, Earl Morgan was one.

When many animals are born, they imprint on the figure taking care of them, whatever species that individual might be. Humans are just as instinctive, only slightly more complex. Some people are lucky enough to be born into a family that provides all that they need, love and support, acceptance and understanding. Others have to look elsewhere. If we don't find what we need in the people at hand, we continue searching. Sometimes that search lasts all our lives. Once that bond has been established, no matter how late, it is inviolate and unbreakable. When it is severed, it creates an emptiness, a void where something existed a moment ago that has suddenly been removed. Spouses know this, as do parents who have lost a child. And children who have lost their parents.

Last Saturday, I lost more than a man I called an uncle, more than a friend, more than a mentor and a kindred spirit. I lost an individual I'd imprinted on, an individual I'd come to see as a constant, like air or food or water, noticed only when they disappear. A man who was warm and supportive and wise, a man with unique experiences that somehow resonated with my own, a man with a unique presence in the world, and a view of it I often shared.

How can emptiness feel so heavy, so wearying to carry? But still I stumble forward, more alone now, hunched under the weight of the man gone missing.

There are people who say they know what happens after death. Some go so far as to declare it with certainty. I know that no one can be certain, at least until they stand ready to cross the threshold from this life to whatever happens after. That is why our beliefs are titled faith.

What I do know is what happens on this side of the veil. We grieve, we remember, we are saddened by our loss. All grief feels selfish. We mourn what we are missing, what we no longer have, and sometimes forget to honor the life that was lived.

Earl, I am honored to have called you my friend. Wherever your ashes settle, whether in a National Cemetery or in the waters off your home, I hope you will ease the way for those of us left behind who wonder what awaits us. Whatever you discover on the other side, I hope it brings you peace. Godspeed and good journey, my friend. I hope one day we will meet again to resume our conversation.


© 2009 Edward P. Morgan III