THE GIRL AT THE FESTIVAL

Knox, the artist, sitting at the far end of the bar at The Last Mile Lounge (it’s his usual perch), drinking coffee for a change — bad coffee, he’d say — feels a breeze at this back. The side door has flung open. A breeze, a spring chill. More like a wind has blown it. Deano, the bartender, goes to close it.

“No,” says Knox. ” Leave it.” He’s turned on his stool, hands on his knees. “The sun is out. It’s spring. The wind won’t last. There’s no such thing as May wind. But here’s a May wind. Let’s just enjoy it…it probably the only wind out there. And it’s probably already blowing out to sea.”

Everybody thought about that.

“It’s the middle, too” he says. He meant the middle of the month. It was May fifteenth.

“It’s the middle of not just any month, but the month of May.” Knox turned on his stool to look at us all. “I’m thinking and seeing Spring. Flowers. Girls. I knew two girls born this day. May Fifteen. Exact beautiful middle of the month. Frank Sinatra died on this date,too. End of the last century. He sang a lot about spring, and girls”.

Someone — not many people at the Mile, middle of a Friday on a May afternoon — someone got up, a guy nobody knew, dug down deep for a quarter and played ole Sinatra on the juke box. Frank was soon singing something that made it feel like spring. I’ve heard so much Sinatra in my life, all those love songs run together. But it was good, just flowing out at us.

“Too bad he never cut a song called “Spring Wind” to go with “The Summer Wind, ” somebody said. It could go, “The spring wind, came blowing in…”

“Blowing in summer,” somebody said.

That was another guy, sitting by the door over his burger and beer. He was done eating, just sitting. I didn’t know him, either. That’s when I realized we were all guys that afternoon –and, except for Deano and Knox and me — all strangers.

“Wind like that, at this time of the year blows in memories,” some guy by the other side door said. From the way the new leaves on the few trees out on the street were fluttering in the muted sunlight outside that door, he must have been feeling the breeze, too.

“That’s my thought,” he said, sitting over a glass of red wine.

“Don’t we always wish it would stay May?” I said. I was glad at that moment I’d stopped into The Mile. It was a good time and place to be having thoughts like that.

“How old are those girls now?” Deano asked Knox about the girls he’d known whose birthday it was. “Are they still — alive?”

“Don’t know,” he said. “They’d be seventy-seven, I believe. Can’t picture that. They were beautiful. One in particular. probably still is.”

“Depends on how you define beauty,” Deano said.

“Was one of them your Maltese hairdresser?” I asked.

“No,” Knox said. I guess Knox had lots of girls on his mind, and, on this May day, lots of memories. He looked like he was seeing this one girl and he was going to paint her soon as he got back upstairs in his studio — from his May memory.

The song ended. Silence. Sinatra, dead May fifteenth way back in 1999, was dead at that moment on May 15, 2026 at The Last Mile Lounge. But, as some lyric or other must say — the song lives on. Then, the silence goes on.

“This one in particular, I dated for quite a while, Knox said, breaking the silence. “We met at The Festival.”

Everybody, maybe seven people, wondered, what festival Knox was talking about? But nobody asked. It was strange, but nobody asked — yet I’ll be we all could see a festival — just pictured a festival somewhere, some festival in their lives.

Just imagine seven guys with memories of a festival. And a girl at that festival.

“We had a beautiful time at The Festival,” Knox said.

It was 2:01 p.m.. May 15. The middle of a spring month in the middle of our lives.

A roomful of silent drinkers and dreamers — dreaming of a girl.

The girl at The Festival.

THE BUGGY GRAY BEAST OF MAY

May day. Gray days.

First there was May 1st, now, May 2nd, 2026

Twenty-eight days will follow (I pray, I truly pray)

Reminding me of what Macbeth, in a despairing mood, said:

Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow…

Too bad. In May, I think of flowers. But here comes gray. Then there will be heat. We are in the middle of a drought here in the Tampa Bay area. So, with the gray, everyone is hoping there will come rain. No such luck.

There is both gray and sun today. Not sun. I prefer the gray.

‘Hello, Gray, my old friend…’

Seems like just yesterday I was saying hello to you.

You come slouching again, May, a rough beast this year, your hour come round at last

Time flies. And speaking of flies…

The lovebugs (Plecia neartica) are here, climbing the restaurant window. They fly conjoined, the female dragging the male who must walk backwards everywhere. And, like all insects, the female would seem to walk aimlessly. Which might explain why the male insect could care less. His fate is not going to be a happy one. He is dragged until the females lays her eggs, whereupon he dies.

The Myth of Sisyphus has nothing on the reality of the poor love bug. The mythical character pushes a rock only to have it roll back down the hill; the male lovebug has no worth life after mating — only to walk backwards and die.

Somedays, I feel like I’m walking backwards.

At least the female lovebug flies and takes the male with her. Do they both flutter their wings for maximum lift? Does the male get to tell the f emale, “hey, I’m sick of walking, this is pointless. Let’s take flight, babe.” (Can you hear Sinatra? “Come fly with me, come fly, come fly awayyyyy….”)

I wonder what they eat? Or do they just get eaten? (Can’t you just hear the male screaming, “hey, idiot, you’re headed right for that Toyota’s front grill!” Maybe in flight, he get to pull her around. But, as with all living things, the female’s probably the only one who knows where she’s going? But — where do they go, on land or in the air, that makes a damn bit of differnce. Do they have parties, these Airborne Pilgrims of Pointlessness?)

The lovebugs swarm over Florida every May and September; small, ant-resembling. I first visited Florida in May. Moved here the following September. The lovebugs greeted me both times.

They are my friends, therefore, these black (rather than gray), reviled, unwelcomed members of earth’s lowest class of living thing.

Yes, they welcomed me. I guess I should welcome them. Too bad they aren’t beautiful, which is what you would expect from something called —a lovebug.

Love can be ugly. But I’d expect a bug with peacock majesty. No such luck.

At the restaurant…

I ate an egg cooked medium. Outside, no flowers anywhere. They say it’s a good time to plant petunias.

SO LET ME SUMMARIZE ..AND RHAPSODIZE:

The lovebugs swarm/ the lovebugs smear/ the lovebugs swarm and smear

Which means May’s for car washes.

Rain and thunder come, briefly, at 2 p.m.

Soak the Florida Room carpet.

Briefly interrupt the drought.

So we hope for rain, we hope for flowers.

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

Hello, May. Hello, Lovebugs, so many living and soon to die.

(I saw one, all alone, very lost, crawling across the restaurant floor, having flown in through an open door.

Looking for a mate, that bug, no doubt.

A very bad place for that.

I gave that bug very poor odds.

Too many shoes, no mate in sight.

I wished it luck. Speaking of which

Golden Tempo won the Kentucky Derby in May ritual as certain

as lovebugs coming to Florida.

Golden Tempo.

Which reminds me

Of time’s Leaden Tempo

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,

Creeps in this petty pace…

I think I’ll plant a petunia.

BRIEF APRIL FLIGHT

There is a bird outback, species uncertain, pecking at seeds that have fallen to the ground.

Where will that bird sleep tonight? A nest, of course. Birds make nests, though we rarely see them. I rarely see them, anyway. Will they sleep in the sand? Bob Dylan, you recall, became famous, asking in song, in that high nasal tone of his, How many seas must a white dove sail…

Sail, not fly. Interesting choice of words. It works, actually, being eupamistically better than “fly”.

And Bob goes on to ask where the white dove’s flight will end…

…before she sleeps in the sand?

“She”. Better than “it.” Better, too, than, “he”. Plummage or other characteristics can give away, to the trained eye, the sex of a bird, and this is no less so with a dove, but we don’t know about Dylan’s “white dove” and, I’ll bet, neither does Dylan — but the word “she” has a softening, peaceful touch — that female touch (though, in suggesting thus, I risk being declared “sexist” in the year 2026).

So much about words! But words –on their flight — can land smoothly, or crash.

Sea, sand and time. A dove. An answer “blowing in the wind.”

Beautiful, evocative thoughts, images, words.

But not necessarily, at least where white doves are concerned, ornithologically correct.

But such things don’t matter where song lyrics or poems are concerned. Poems and lyrics have their own flight path. I see what the songwriter is saying. The poet, too, when Wallace Stevens writes of the “gold-feathered bird”.

But it occurs to me to ask:

Do birds ever sleep in the sand? I read that some species do sleep in the sandy shallows — to avoid predators. The white dove (the symbol of peace), apparently must, like all of us, fear her enemies and is probably subject to battles and all-out wars that erupt among avian species. I know that bluejays, lovely as they are with those layers of blue, have been known to raid nests (not, I’ve read, a constant practice; just a survival strategy when food is short. And isn’t that what causes many wars? Shortages?)

How far does a white dove fly – or sail – on any given day?

I’ve read that a carrier pigeons can fly as much as 400 to 600 miles in a day. In 1982, the skeletal remains of a carrier pigeon were found in the chimney of a home in Bletchingly, Surrey, England, believed to have been among the 250,000 carrier pigeons trained by volunteers of the British National Carrier Pigeon Service and provided in World War II to the invading British armies during the 1944 D-Day invasion. Attached to it (we’ll say “her”) leg was a red cannister containing an encripted message believed to have been intended for a Royal Air Force Bomber Command. She likely had flown from the heart of Nazi-controlled Europe on her vital mission carrying her messager when other forms of communication between armies were deemed less reliable.

The message in the cannister was addressed to XO2. Whoever that might be. It was, as noted, encripted and has not, to this day, been de-coded.

(One could only wish it had said….Commander, how about you lay down your arms, and, for God sake, don’t send over any more bombers. These German guys told me they’re damn weary of war. When I left them, they’d flocked — like birds of a feather — into a beer hall./ The last I heard them, they were singing psalms, getting loaded..

Unlikely, of course.

We know no one at that point was weary of fighting. Pace, Bob Dylan, they weren’t about to ban any cannon balls. Who uses cannon balls anymore? Rockets, missilnukes, missiles, drones….those are our modern weapons of choice.

The poor bird never completed its mission. One can, of course, fantasize that during her long flight over the North Sea or maybe over the White Cliffs, her little pigeon’s heart grew dispondent with advancing the purposes of war; that the white dove in her longed to sleep in the sand. No telling why she died, ( broken heart? homesickness? –or why she chose a chimney for her final rest carrying her final message. Perhaps, despite her presumed keen sense of direction, she’d become lost. Lost and despondent.

And somewhere, a bomber commander, code-named XO2, stood waiting at the aerodrome for a message from the front that never arrived. He probably died wondering why he never saw that small gray-feathered spector winging toward him out of the blue.

But, of course, I’ve gone from orthonological reality to bad poetry here. Skylarks, Nightingales, Crows, Flamingoes, Mockingbirds, Wallace Stevens’s “gold-feathered bird” whose “fire-fangled feathers dangle down”. They’ve all had their turn as poetic motifs in the hands of real poets. Why not the lowly carrier-pigeon, service her country? Or even just those wobbly-footed, head-bobbing urban dwellers devour peanuts in every park, now and then summoning enough motivation to take flight and deposit white streaks down office windows, earning them the derogation “flying rats”?

How long does any bird live?

I’ve read three to ten years, depending on all those factors one can imagine — weather, predation, disease, hunters. (I once failed to save the life of a cedar waxwing that, drunk on some purple variety of berry, crashed into a store window, maybe seeing itself, thinking she’d found a companion, or mate, and rushed toward it. End of story.

I could go on about birds. Continue my flight.

But I won’t. And you should be glad.

Except to say — how blessed it would be to be able to fly!

But how blessed to know we are likely to live more than ten years.

Wallace Stevens gets to close us out, for he wrote, “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird” A)mong twenty snowy mountains, and among many other places. And he gave to the lowly pigeon the honor of concluding his famous poem, “Sunday Morning,” writing how at evening, casual flocks of pigeons make/Ambiguous undulations as they sink,/ Downward to darkness, on extended wings.

ON THE BACK PORCH AND …”IN EDEN GARDEN”AS SPRING ARRIVES ONCE AGAIN AT THE LAST MILE

Spring, or nearly spring. Nearly Easter. Nearly the Holy Season. Once again.

I popped into The Last Mile mainly to say hello to Deano at the bar. It was nearly 5 p.m. today. There was a scattering of people at the tables, oddly no one I knew. But Deano informed me that PipPa Goldflower was having drinks on Knox the artist’s back porch upstairs. You get there through a side door and up a stairway off the side street. Knox’s door was open and I could see through his cramped dining area — full of leaning, half-finshed canvases and other junk — that he was, in deed, out there on his back porch with Pippa. I joined them. They gave me welcoming hellos. Pippa was in a long shift, florid, almost tropical (for spring, I presume). Knox was in jeans and a black shirt open at the neck, having a kind of priestly air — the black highlighting his gray, trimmed beard. They sat in cheap folding chairs I’m sure Knox picked up at Walmart.There was one more leaning against the wall and I took it. Down below were remnants of the winter’s fierce, unending snowfalls. It had been some winter. Of course, this being New England, it isn’t necessariliy over yet. But, spring seemed to be approaching at last… the temperature, the extra daylight, a certain smell of vegitation as it emerged from the ice and snow….

Also down below in the dirt lot that was parking for Knox, Deano and whoever worked at The Mile (everybody else parked on the street). It’s also where Joe Barron, owner of The Last Mile, held an occasional outing. Knox’s old 1994 Volvo was down there pulled up against the lone tree. That car barely hangs together to get him around (for those trips to Walmart, etc.) . It is burgundy red. Out ahead were the trees and the rooftops of the neighborhood and Knox had always hope he could get a peek through those roofs and trees at the blue ocean at Revere Beach. He claims you can do that when things line up (like he’s saying the trees and rooftops move aside for him???Maybe after a couple of Blushing Monks). Dean says in winter, when the trees are bare, you can see the ocean from the roof of the building. I haven’t been up on the roof. Maybe someday. Maybe not. (Maybe someday Joe Barron will stage a party up there. Oh, how dangerous!)

“So, a little change in the weather,” said Pippa. She had turquoise beads and a pendant hanging down over her shift. Her hair is dyed a kind of maize color and was pulled back behind her ears and flowed down her back. She has a wonderful smile that illuiminates a face that has been Botoxed to a vinyl-like smoothness. I could only guess at Pippa’s age — and I won’t. She’s an attractive women, will never age.

I thought these two might make lovers someday — but, no. Just friends. Good friends. Loyal patrons of the world of The Last Mile that Knox had graced with his mural art, making the place — from time to time –attractive to, believe it or not, tourists who happen to consult a guide to local “interesting” joints.

“The snow was eye-high out there,” Knox said. And right now, the air was mild enough for us to be sitting outside without jackets. The occasional breeze reminded us that that could change as the sunlight drifted west. Perhaps that breeze came from the ocean Knox hoped to see — like Balboa when he found the Pacific. Knox would discover the Atlantic.

“The war is driving me nuts,” Pippa said. I didn’t want to bring up the war. Who can do anything about the war who hangs around The Last Mile?

“All this reminds me of favorite poems,” said Knox, shifting quickly away from war.

Of course it did — whatever “all this” was — and something was always reminding Knox of poetry. He named the poems. Things by Keats, Shelley, Byron. Knox is a romantic.

“The world gets renewed by art and poetry,” he said.

“So, renew us,” I said. What he proceeded to give us wasn’t one of the Romantics. Even I, the old English major, knew that. But I thought I recognized it.

In Just-spring when the world is mudlicious, the little lame balloon man whistles far and wee…

That was how the poem went, spilling out in Knox’s deep baratone. He recited the whole thing from memory. It was by e.e. cummings. I did recognize it — Strang little thing, but nice. Yes, I liked it. I know e.e. cummings. He’s fun. He’s good for spring.

“I know the others,” Pippa said. “I know what you’re going to give us. Cummings is your only modern guy. Next you’ll recite some Romantics. Try to impress us with your memory.”

Knox laughed.

“But let me get one in there edgewise, if I may, “Pippa said.

I knew Pippa liked Edna St. Vincent Millay. How did I know that? Well, this sort of thing — these quirky patrons of the Mile sitting around, musing –had happened one day last spring when it was still chilly out and Knox and Pippa and some guy she’d linked up with, an arty type, were sitting around a table and Knox had his Blushing Monk in front of him. (This day, up there on his porch, he and Pippa just had half-drunk cups of coffee.)

“So, what have you got for us, Pip?” I said.

Nothing is so beautiful as spring,” she said. That was the beginning of her poem. It wasn’t her lady Edna S.V.M. It was someone and something else. A strange little poem, which continued…into spring…

When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush;         

   Thrush’s eggs look little low heavens, and thrush         

Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring         

The ear, it strikes like lightnings to hear him sing;

   The glassy peartree leaves and blooms, they brush         

   The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush         

With richness; the racing lambs too have fair their fling.         

No, she hadn’t memorized that. She was reading off her iPhone. But that was quite some poem.

“Gerard Manley Hopkins,” she said.

“Ah, the old Jesuit,” I said. “Sprung rhythm,” I added, summoning a memory of English class.

“There’s more,” she said.

“Well, by all means, let’s hear it,” said. Knox.

And we did, in Pippa’s velvet voice. (I believe she been on the stage at one time.)

What is all this juice and all this joy?  she said, reading.

Juice. Joy. Yeah, That sounded like Hopkins. Really — evocative, the way he writes. Odd rhythms. Odd diction. (I was really channeling Literature 101 now.)

Pipa went on…        

   A strain of the earth’s sweet being in the beginning

In Eden garden. – Have, get, before it cloy,         

   Before it cloud, Christ, lord, and sour with sinning,         

Innocent mind and Mayday in girl and boy,         

   Most, O maid’s child, thy choice and worthy the winning.    

Wild, wierd stuff,” said Knox.

“Not unlike your paintings,” said Pippa.

“I liked it,” I said while Knox was still laughing. “I like Hopkins. It’s religious, of course. He was a priest, after all.”

“Religion, poetry–we’ve had it all out here,” Knox said, sipping his cooling coffee –which, I’d wager, had a drop of brandy in it. “I’d call it sufficient. Enough! Enough with words! Words, words, words….

Now,” he said, stood, plainly a little stiff from sitting — and a little “juiced”, though he’d greatly moderated lately. He went to the porch rail which I hoped could take his leaning weight, ” let me see if, just for once, I can see the sea out there.”He stared, in silence — as if “on a peak in Darian.” (I was channeling poetry now, too. Channeling Keats. Phrases popping into mind.

“Yes! I see it,” Knox said exuberently. He meant the ocean.

I’m sure he did. I’m sure at that point, old Knox, flush with springtime and in the presence of Pippa his warmest inspiration, his “juices and joys” flowing — I’ll bet he could see all the way to England.

And if we stayed out there long enough, he’d be seeing all the way to the moon.

Yes, there were more poems.  And some repeats, the world down below us, the mudlicious, the little lame balloon man’s whistles far and wee… (Pippa said she could hear it on some nearby street) … We were with old G.M. Hopkins …In Eden garden.

I stayed with them until the early spring dusk set in.

ST. PATRICK’S DAY WE’LL ONCE AGAIN BE WALKING THE GREEN MILE AT THE LAST MILE LOUNGE

Soon it will be St. Patrick’s Day and there will be the usual little buffet with chafing dishes on card tables at the back of the room at The Last Mile Lounge — and a green laurels over the bar back mirror, carefully put in place by Deano who claims multi-racial lineage. Corned beef and cabbage will be served. There’s usually a turnout of all-season, all feast regulars, and loyal once-a-year regulars. Parades up the TV….a fair amount of song from the first or second generation sons of Erin who inividually pop in for a “pint” now and and then, but, as I say, the regulars and the now-and-thens mingle happily festooned in green. Some will come early, but most will converge, in keeping with tradition, at noon on The Day.

You could expect to see Terry “Tarps” Walsh (an old fellow house painter with Stickey Sammartino who sees to it Columbus Day is a big deal at The Mile –and wouldn’t miss joining his old friend “Tarps” in an Italo-American version of “The Wild Colonial Boy” on St. Patrick’s Day.)

And for all events that afternoon, for all purposes, there will Paulie O’Brien, Paddy Byrne, Jo-Jo Sullivan, “Tiny “Mullen (who tips the scale at about three hundred pounds), Joe “Red O’Hara ( a name that for me evokes the memory of my late brother-in-law of the same name, hair color and complexion), Dennis Patrice (the only Haitian-Irish American I know), Emmanuel “Manny” Fitzgerald, who is African-American but always turns out in homage to that Irishman somewhere in his family tree, be he slave-holder or liberator), Mickey Fahey, “Mutt” Kelly, Jeff Roach, Dave O’Connor, Pete O’Connell, “Sniffles” McHoole, Declan McNamara and each will bring a wife or girlfriend, though there will be some stags.

it should be crowded, given that The Mile consists of very modest floor space.

And the Reverend Gene Rooney will come to provide a blessing and a poem or two — and to remind everyone that the day is a celebration of an Irish saint who, against great odds and amid enormous hardship, converted the craggy, pagan peoples of the Emerald Isle to the faith and that the faith lingers, though severely challenges in that land now, as Fr. Rooney, a native of Limerick, will remind everyone. (He is, otherwise, a parochial vicar at some tony suburban church but grew up , after his childhood emigration with his parents to the hard scrabble neighborhoods of Lynn.

So there will be prayers and songs — and “Tarps” Walsh’s augmented version of the traditonal Irish prayer (i.e., “May the road rise up to meet you, may the rain fall soft upon your fields, etc…), and Paddy Byrne will, as always, predictably declare, “was that what happened to me the other night !?– I thought I fell on my face, but it was the road that rose up to meet me!”

And “Tarp’s prayer (I said it was “augmented” — or, at least, extended, or desccralized from its ancient tradition, as it often is in barroms from South Boston to Block Island:

Tarps will stand in the middle of the room and intone,” for ALL of you sons of Ireland and your guests — my prayer is that your souls be in heaven at least twenty-four hours before the Devil even knows your dead.”

Amen.

CRUMBS

The wall clock gongs inacurately. It might give you two gongs for seven o’clock. It just, at eight o’clock (which it is, or was a second or two, or three ago) gonged out the Westminster chime as a prelude, as it always does, but gave no gongs for eight o’clock.

It can’t be fixed. A clock repair person told me that.

But it’s a nice clock, so it will stay there on the wall, irrespective of innacurate –or no — gongs to count out the hour.

Who needs to be reminded of passing hours, of passing time? This clock doesn’t tick, either, like many old clocks.

Tick, tick, tick, tick….

No. Utterly silent.

But just hearing the Westminster chimes, as if in some beautiful sqaure in sunlight or fog, in London, or New York, or Boston, is enough — imagining time stopped eternally. This side of time is the only time we have to worry about time.

In 2023 I did a post, Last Day of February. I’m always conscious, perhaps too conscious, of passing time, of my failure to advance, to finish projects –conscious of getting older. Last night I was thinking how it was the last day of February again. The last hours. Three years later. Not a lot of progress in my life, as I see it. There is much that has been begun, but not finished.

Now it’s March 1st — again.

In 2023, my Last Day of February post began:

The short month. Two months into the new year. The kitchen butcher block rolling table always seems to have crumbs on it. 

Lost time. Nothing left but crumbs.

Time leaves crumbs — crumbs and memories.

I just checked the butcher block table. Still crumbs on it.

I’ll wipe them away.

I’ll keep the memories.

LIFE’S YELLS (TWISTS) AND SHOUTS

There are all kinds of yells and shouts. Happy and sad ones, useful and necessary ones, warning ones.

It didn’t bother me in any way when I heard the guys out back of me briefly this morning find the need to yell. (In fact, I could barely hear this particular yell, or shout; I was just listening in fascination.) It was just one guy, in the course of his work; he was counting — counting, as in– one, two,three….

I’m surmising that he and his co-workers must have been lifting something, or lowering something. The one guy probably needed to yell so the other guys and he would be doing in concert whatever possibly risky task they were executing.

I had let the dog out and was filing the bird feeders. The men were at work beyond the parallell border of white PVC and chain link fencing and masking profusion of Brazilian pepper bushes.

I’ll bet those are hard working guys over there, though I don’t really know what they do. Move big things around., no doubt, laboring on this Thursday morning in some kind of warehouse whose function I’ve not yet — in six-going-on-seven years living here, bothered to ascertain. They ride around in bleating, rattling fork-lifts. It’s one of a million American workplaces where they perform some obscure but necessary function for the rest of us. God bless them.

Three times I heard yelled, “one….two…three….” Three times, something happened.

At the Space Center, when they work to lift off a rocket, they count in reverse….three, two, one….Lift Off!! Maybe they were lowering a rocket out back. Lift… Down!!

Just kidding.

I interviewed the retired editor of the Boston Globe and he recalled how, way back in the old days, a guy in the mailroom of the old Newspaper Row offices and presses announced the first press run of the morning edition by yelling, THEY’RE UP, THEY’RE UP, THEY’RE UP. (I don’t know if anybody was counting the papers as they rolled off. But everybody knew they were coming.

Jack Driscoll (the retired editor) sat in his wheelchair and repeated that memorable shout in the living room of his seaside New Hampshire home. It was almost as if he could hear the presses rumbling again.

I thought of that moment when I read of his death.

One of my earliest memories is a fleeting recollection of being on the streets of Boston’s North End with my parents and we were about to attend my late brother Bill’s graduation ceremonies from Christopher Columbus High School.

There was an Italian guy standing by a pushcart laden with fruit and vegetables and he was shouting.

I didn’t know what to make of it. Why was he shouting, and to whom? Of course, in time I’d know he was selling his produce, shouting for customers. Fresh tomatoes here!!!

My brother Doug worked after high school for the S.D. Warren Paper Company nestled in the heart of the city, very close to Boston’s primarily (in those days) Italian North End. He would come home and say how, every day, he heard some truck driver in the alley below –hear his echoing shout, Hey Wal-YO!”

I would learn from a history professor years later that this means, Hey, boy in Italian. It is apparently a common shouted Italian street greeting. In this case, it was probably coming from some Italo-American driver who made daily deliveries and needed someone to open a loading dock door –someone who knew their Italian. Just a guess.

Or maybe just one Italian fellow was greeting another as their round of daily work began. Shouting that greeting.

I recall being taken to my first-ever professional baseball game by my father. It was a Boston Braves game and there was a guy selling programs and, being very small and impressionable, still ignorant in the ways of theadult world (I was about six years old), I thought the guy was yelling up to the huge painted image of a feathered Indian brave on the stadium wall behind him — as if he expected the brave to answer him.

On November 9, 1957, I was barely eleven and was brought back to the same stadium, which, after the departure of the Braves for, first, Milwaukee, then Atlanta) became Boston University’s football home field . Today it is called Nickerson Field and retains some vestages of the old National League baseball venue, including the right field bleechers.

Of course, the image of the brave is long gone. But it was still on the stadium wall that November day in 1957, greatly faded. He had, in this frozen image, a feather still dangling from his hair and his mouth cupped with his hand — because he is supposed to be shouting, presumably an Indian war chant — just as he had been those four or five years before. Small wonder, in my six-year-old small and wondering mind, the program vendor and the massive Indian brave above and behind him appeared to be shouting to one another. (What could they possibly be saying to one another?)

I recall a letter written by an American soldier from Vietnam, provided me for a story I was preparinig about the soldier and his wartime experiences. He wrote of being wakened from sleep in his tented, temporary billet by someone urgently yelling, MORTAR! MARTAR! and told his father — the recipient of the letter — how he clambored into a fox hole in his underwear, undoubtedly with other soliders, and had to be pulled from the depths of the probably muddy hole when the attack was over. It was not, alas, the final attack he would witness or, ultimately, survive.

I musn’t end that way — in war, in sorrow. I must believe that somewhere now on the planet — probably in many places — someone is shouting for joy.

Beginning in 1961, The Top Notes, the The Isley Brothers, then The Beatles exhorted us, happily, to twist and shout.

And in this primordially, perpetually twisted universe in which we are afflicted by Adam’s fall, we, in great hope — in Matthew 10:27 –are urged to shout from the rooftops the Good News.

So I guess there is good news. I’ll need a ladder to get to the rooftop.

And I hear those fellows over the fence, in shadow and sunlight. They — and I — are counting on it. The Good News, that is.

Maybe they’ve got a ladder I can borrow.

A NORWEGIAN VISITOR TO ‘THE LAST MILE’ RECOUNTS CHILDHOOD MEMORIES OF RUSSIAN DARKNESS

She entered quietly on the arm of a periodic visitor to The Mile who lives a block away and occasionally comes in for a hot dog at lunch tme. The neighor’s name is Ingrid and we knew her to be Norwegian-born. The woman, a striking-looking figure with gray hair and sharp, clear features, was named Sigrid. I’d come to find out that she spoke clear, faintly accented English. I knew the neighbor well enough to be greeted by her as they entered and she saw me chatting with Deano at the bar. “Come meet my aunt,” she said.

I sat with them for a full hour, ordered a hamburger at the bar (no table service in The Mile) , and was so glad I’d stopped in and so glad I spent the time — for Sigrid, it turned out, is a very stalwart and healthy and beautiful 90-years-old and, as a small girl, visited all over Europe and Scandanavia and was speaking of her Russian sojourn — of having seen crowds at Lenin’s Tomb. She spoke perfect English though she’s live in Oslo most of the year. She visits her neice, I learned, at least once a year and loves Boston.

“I did not see Lenin’s mummy,” she said of her long-ago Russian journey. “But I saw the queque which stood for hours and waited to get into the mausoleum. And I have seen the Red Square lie as barren as the steppes of Asia when the mausoleum was closed -but along the outskirts of the square the river of people would stream. The side streets poured their tributaries into it, and people walked, walked, walked. I have never been down in the Moscow subway, but a time or two I tried to board with my mother the packed street-cars with people hanging in clusters inside and outside. It would be a hard ride, for at that time, the streets everywhare in Moscow were full of holes and humps, probably heaped and broken by the cold weather such as you here in the United States are having now, and by war.”

“What were you doing in Moscow?” I asked. “The Soviet Union at the time, of course. It could not have been easy to get in and there might have been a fear of getting out.”

“I believe my mother — Ingrid’s grandmother –was on some kind of a misison of charity for her church. She never spoke of the reason for her travel to me, a child, and I, sadly, lacked the curiosity to ask.”

“Was it a secret, why she was there?”

“I don’t believe so,” said Sigred, “but there were a great many secrets in those days in eastern Europe. And I believe the devil had come to visit that region and has never left. And my mother might have feared speaking of it so long as there might be agents, even in Norway. Communist agents, that is.”

A somber remark, to be certain. She went on.

“For a child, there was something hypnotic to finding myself, a child, walking among streams of total strangers in the cold, for it was winter. I have not been a stranger to cold or to winter in my native Norway. But, beyond the weather, there was something cold about the people I saw. My mother spoke to no one, and the faces I saw when I looked up were empty. I was perhaps nine-year-old. I did not see one Russian who smiled, except the attendants on the Trans-Siberian Railroad.

“The English word ‘stolid’ might best describe the expressions on the faces of the Russians I encountered. Not ‘solid’ –though they were solid in a way, but ‘stolid.’ And there seemed to be no individual differences in the faces and demeanor. In an American or a Eurpean crowd, one encounters all manner of persons. This has been my experience during a long life. But my childhood impression of the Russians I saw was very bleak–and this was immediately after the end of hostilities in the World War when much of Russia had been ravaged by the German Armies whom Russia and the Allies ultimately defeated and drove off. There was rubble everywhere. But the weight of the dictator and the shadow of Lenin fell once again over the vast Russian territories. For Norway, under the heal of collaborators and for America and the West, victory meant freedom. Not so for the Russians. My mother later told me how she had been told stories of both glory and of wretchedness. But if you wish to know, I believe what my mother ultimately believed was that we were walking in a universe of miserable lies.”

I reminded myself of the definition of “stolid”: unemotional, expressing little or no sensibility.

And then, darkening my mood at this narrative, Sigrid began to speak of what had perhaps most impressed her about the heart of the Soviet Union she experienced with her young senses: it was the unaccountable stench– that made her welcome, on the day she and her mother departed Moscow, the distant rumble of thunder somewhere distant from their hotel room, and the sight and sound of warm summer rain falling on the city of millions and hoping it was washing it clean.

And, as I sat there with aunt and daughter, I thought of the stinking darkness that closed over the vast Russian heartland after 1945 and that has yet to depart entirely, though I have not been there and dare not judge too harshly the Russian soul when we all know there have to be good, brave, noble, pure souls in that nation always longing to be free either to defeat their overlords or to escape, as we may need someday to escaape — if we’re not careful –from our own country. I know how so many feel about the current government. But what of the alternatives to which an alarming number seem drawn.? I can see New Yorkers one day, even in this present day, choosing to flee that grand city by degrees — escaping the slow imposition of a kind of rancid socialist dream that, again, by degrees, might be realized by its handsome, smiling elected acolyte. New Yorkers and, potentially, all of us might come to know what the late Arthur Koestler wrote of in Darkness at Noon.

Far-fetched? Maybe. Maybe not. I leave the likes of Solzhenitsyn and Doestoyevsky and Tolstoy to go on post humously warning us of the horror that crept over their homeland and was hatched out of a Faberge’ egg that was Tzarist Russia, and that finally spilled its yoke out onto the streets in 1917 and that keeps spilling onto all manner of places around the globe, doing horrible things — Vietnam and Cambodia come to mind — and that is constantly seeping into new places, far and near.

Dumb metaphor, I know. But you get the point, I hope.

I thanked Sigrid and Ingrid for that bracing hour of conversation in the cold monthy of February at a little table in the little place called The Last Mile.

BLEAK MID-WINTER SUNG POETRY AWAITING SNOW AT THE LAST MILE

“It’s not mid-winter,” I said to Knox, the artist from upstairs, who’d insisted it was.

“It is,” he insisted, with icy adamance.

“Winter’s just a month old astronomically, ” I said. It’s just a month since the Solstice,” I said. “February, that’s mid-winter.”

“I don’t care what the stars say,” he said. “I’m feeling it here on earth.” But he seemed deflated by my failure to yield on the subject, and so, out of respect, I relented. “Maybe it’s mid-winter in our souls,” I said.

I had to admit, wherever we were in winter, it was feeling — bleak.

Knox was sitting over his Blushing Monk. “Have it your way, Wayland. But I’m feeling — bereft. Christmas came and went. I never got to sing my favorite carol — my MID-WINTER carol. Seriouis people sing it at Christmas, mid-winter or not.”

“So you’re going to sing it?”

“I absolutely am,” Knox said.

How about that! Knox was going to sing — and (a little late) sing a Christmas Carol. All I’d ever heard him sing was “Frosty The Snowman.”

A big bad storm was sweeping across the country. Deano, at the bar, was watching reports on The Weather Channel. It was coming our way. We’d all be isolated. The whole country would feel the sting and white blight of winter, even Dallas. Deano had gotten in extra provisions. There were exactly seven people at four tables, all strangers, none of the regulars, not even Sticky and the Crow. I guess they were somewhere getting ready for the big white freeze. Had the lights dimmed, or was it my imagination? It was quiet. That wasn’t my imagination.

I said to Knox, “you had plenty of time to sing your carol.”

“I’m going to sing it now,” he said. It was written by one of my favorite poets.”

“Who’s that?”

“The lovely, the magnificent Christina Rosetti.”

Christina Rosetti. A Victorian, a famous one, too. 1830 to 1894. Of course I’d read her in English class, not really paying much attention.

“How about that,” I said. And I was recalling that I’d once dated a girl, a very nice, smart girl, who loved the poetry of Christina Rosetti. She wasn’t destined to love me. She sort of gave up quickly on me because of my drinking. Too bad, because we could have read poetry to each other, and sung carols – at least while our time together lasted. At least for a little while. I didn’t feel like we were a forever-together couple. But — well, we were lifting each other up — for a while. As it was, we dated about a month.

“Where is she now?” said Knox, “this old girlfriend of yours?”

“She died,” I said.

Knox grew grim. “Sorry to hear that,” he said.

“It was a long time ago. I was waiting for a landlord to let me into a new apartment in Cambridge,” I said. I was sitting on a little wall, reading a copy of the Boston Globe I’d picked up on the way. I was paging through it, reading as I went, when I came upon the obituaries. And there, right in front of me, was her picture, and the obit telling me she’d gone off to be a college professor in Pennsylvania and died of cancer. She was still young. I hadn’t seen her in years.”

Knox sank, on my behalf, into a vicarious melancholy. Indeed, with that memory, I’d slid down in my chair as well. The memory had blown into the bar out of nowhere, through closed doors, along with the ghost of Christina Rosetti.

Knox, his cocktail of choice, Blushing Monk half gone in front of him (he drank one a day), said, “What’s this about your drinking? You don’t drink.”

“Once upon a time,” I said.

“Fairy Tales begin that way,” he said. “Once upon a time.”

“They don’t always end in Fairyland,” I said.

“Well, I’ve ended here,” he said. “My fairyland.”

I slapped him on the shoulder. “You’ve got miles to go before you sleep,” I said. I was paying tribute to another poem — about a dark, snowy night. “So go ahead. Sing your carol. We’ll have one for my old date, and old Christina, and maybe for the Ghost of Christmas Past —one month past.”

“Yeah, let’s here it, ” a guy chimed in from the next table, like another ghost. Seems like The Mile was full of ghosts that night.

And with that, Knox commenced singing,

In the bleak mid-winter

Frosty wind made moan

Earth stood hard as iron

Water like a stone.

The place went silent, everybody listening. Deano turned down the TV.

Knox has a nice voice, actually. Everybody knew that from him singing “Frosty” at least once every December. He sang on.

Snow had fallen, snow on snow

Snow….. on snow

In the bleak mid-winter

Long ago.

And so the song went. I’d heard it from choir lofts, never from a bearded soloist in a saloon. And it gets religious — it’s a carol, after all, not just a song about winter, like “Slay Ride” or “Jingle Bells” — or “Frosty.” . Odd and sweetly mysterious, hearing Knox siinging religious words, he being decidedly UN- religion. The verses took us through the cold mid-winter to Bethelehm , a month late for the birth….

Angels and Archangels…

May have gathered there, Knox sang.

Cherabim and Seraphim

Thronged in the air.

And it seemed, Cherabim and Seraphim flocked overhead in The Last Mile in a season we’d decided was mid-winter, whatever the calendar might say. Of course, that famous carol, for all who know it, went on for a few verses more. And so, Christmas had come back briefly and flashed again at The Last Mile, like a fluttering bulb on a snow-covered evergreen. The tree and Knox’s voice, and every vestage and reminder of The Birth vanished in the lingering dim light.

Cold and snow were coming.

The handful of patrons went back to their drinks, I to my cup of hot tea, thinking about that girl I’d known so briefly. Knox, very pensive now, back to his Blushing Monk with its Benedictine, lime and exotic what-not. He might have been thinking of the Maltese Hairdresser who sped in and out of his life.

It was night – in the bleak (almost) mid-winter, at The Last Mile.

Deano at the bar turned from the Weather Channel to the Bruins. They were beating the Vegas Golden Knights at The Garden.

Life went on –in a bleak, paralyzing mid-winter.

But I like to believe the angels lingered, with Ms. Rosetti and that red-headed brief acquaintance who, according to that old obituary, as I remember it, went on to do her doctoral thesis on, none other than the poet Christina Rosetti.

Listen to Gustav Holst’s arrangement of “In the Bleak Mid-Winter”: