It was about 10:00 pm when the car slid on the icy snow-covered road. It went sideways into oncoming traffic. State Route 82 was a busy road, even on this terrible blizzard of a night. She’d left her home only minutes earlier to go crosstown to pick up her teenage daughter’s best friend. They say she died instantly as a full-sized Oldsmobile hit her small car broadside.

She never thought she’d not be coming back home. She said no goodbyes, made no calls to those close to her. Never arranged to have her children’s future secured. Never thought of what would happen to the family business? Never was able to thank her husband for all that he’d done for her and the children. Never had a chance to reflect on the life she’d lived.  (more…)

Well, there are people. But, I also love the spider webs that linger on my fence gate. I love this pen given to me minutes after I was shown an original 1st edition copy of James Joyce’s masterpiece “Ulysses” in Dublin.

I love my early mornings which slip into active afternoons, and then to reflective evenings.

I love the things I miss. I love the things that I can dream of while standing in the shower, or while staring off into space as people chatter on in business meetings of no consequence.

I love that I am here. Here, like here on earth, in Ireland, in Kilkenny, and in my home. I have no idea how I got here or why I’m here. Yet, I just love it. I love living. All of it, joy to sadness. Love and hate. Just love it all!

Woke up this morning feelin’ fine.
There’s somethin’ special on my mind.
Last night I met a new girl in the neighbourhood, whoa yeah.
Something tells me I’m into something good.
She’s the kind of girl who’s not too shy.
And I can tell I’m her kind of guy.

It was 1964 in Cleveland, Ohio. I was just 10 years old. And the group ‘Herman’s Hermit’s’ had just released the song, I’m Into Something Good.

We were living in a new housing projects in the middle of a mixed ghetto: whites, blacks and Puerto Ricans. It was full of all the things you’d hear about on the news: drugs, knives, guns, suicides, homeless bums, the smell of poverty, and fighting, everybody fighting. Wives with husbands, neighbours with neighbours, drunks with other drunks, children with children – a by-product of the stress and despondency that thrives in poverty stricken neighbourhoods.  (more…)