A View from the North Coast

Love Poem by Pablo Neruda, Translated by Steve Tapscott

2012-02-13T16:37:00.000-05:00

Sonnet XI

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
Like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.”

― Pablo Neruda, Love Sonnet XI. Translated by Steve Tapscott

Tengo hambre de tu boca, de tu voz, de tu pelo
y por las calles voy sin nutrirme, callado,
no me sostiene el pan, el alba me desquicia,
busco el sonido líquido de tus pies en el día.

Estoy hambriento de tu risa resbalada,
de tus manos color de furioso granero,
tengo hambre de la pálida piedra de tus uñas,
quiero comer tu piel como una intacta almendra.

Quiero comer el rayo quemado en tu hermosura,
la nariz soberana del arrogante rostro,
quiero comer la sombra fugaz de tus pestañas

y hambriento vengo y voy olfateando el crepúsculo
buscándote, buscando tu corazón caliente
como un puma en la soledad de Quitratúe.

Carolan and "Aerie Backcountry Medicine" Training in Costa Rica

2012-02-10T10:57:00.000-05:00

Below are some photos from Aerie Backcountry Medicine and their semester-long training program in wilderness emergency medicine. This month Carolan and her colleagues are training at Rancho Mastatal in Costa Rica. Mastatal is not really near anything. The closest town, Puriscal, is a pretty good jeep ride away. As I understand it, Mastatal is in the tropical rain forest, between San Jose, the capital, and the Pacific beaches. The distance in miles is not great, but I'm thinking it takes 2-3 hours on gravel roads to get from San Jose to Rancho Mastatal, and probably another hour or two to get to the Pacific beaches.

I found the following pictures on the great blog the program has at this address: http://semesterwildermed.blogspot.com/
I hope they don't mind me reproducing the pictures here.

Top photo shows the jungle-like landscape of Rancho Mastatal. Middle photo shows Carolan's colleagues in the program. Carolan is in the middle row, left, seated. Bottom photo shows Carolan checking the airway of a colleague who is playing a role (I think!). Either that or she's doing some emergency dental work! I told her--don't do any surgery until the program is over!!

Great Day for the (American) Irish--Giants Super Bowl Victory

2012-02-06T16:37:00.001-05:00

We American-Irish will lay some claim to the exciting victory of the New York Giants over the New England Patriots in yesterday's Super Bowl XLVI. The Head Coach of the Giants is Tom Coughlin. His Offensive Coordinator is Kevin Gilbride. And the team owner is John Mara--Irish-Americans all. Coach Coughlin comes from Waterloo, New York, about twelve miles as the bird flies from where my Coughlin's settled when they arrived from Ireland. Before Waterloo, Coach Coughlin's ancestors came from County Cork, Ireland. I don't know if we are distant cousins or not--but my ancestors came from West Cork and landed in Cayuga County, New York (Scipio Town, more precisely). The only false note in our cousin-ship is that Tom apparently pronounces his name "COFF-lin," whereas we say "COG-lin" (my Dad and Grampa pronounced it more like COCK-lin, as it's pronounced in West Cork). So, yes, I would say we are cousins and I'm happy with his success and Super Bowl victory; not so happy about the way he pronounces his name.

By the way, I heard that Cork, Ireland is celebrating the Coughlin victory with an early spring--a festooning of early spring flowers!

p.s. My nephew Tommy Coughlin, the real Tom Coughlin of Mentor, Ohio, should try to make a few bucks off Coach Coughlin's victory!

The above photo is from Tom Coughlin's Wikipedia entry: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tom_Coughlin. Coach Coughlin is on the right and Coach Gilbride is to his left.

Family Photo

2012-02-04T17:40:00.000-05:00

Aunt Emily. Aunt Carolan, Julia, and Colin--January 28, 2012.

Funny video: "Irish Girls Never Say 'No' (or 'Yes')"

2012-02-02T10:11:00.002-05:00

As a student of the Irish-Gaelic language, I've discovered there is no simple way to say yes or no. This language peculiarity carries over into the speaking of English by the Irish (the variety of speech sometimes known as "Hiberno-English") and is humorously demonstrated in the following youtube video (URL link is below). By the way, English may have been forced upon the Irish by the Sasanach, but the Irish have made it into one of the world's most beautiful languages.

You can click on the title of this blog entry to launch the youtube video.

http://youtu.be/hcepgXwWbjI

New Poem for My Daughter Carolan

2012-01-30T10:37:00.000-05:00

The Trip to the Airport

I awake at 3:45 in the morning,

Call to you in the dark, this

Crystal clear late January stars and cold--

We drive the 73 miles to the Akron-Canton airport

Shadows dashing in front of the car as we speed along,

Some sort of animal or a phantom of my sleepiness and fears.

An hour and a half later we enter the airport,

And after a final inventory—passport, tickets, driver’s license, colónes —

You go through the astonishing security procedures . . .

And then you are gone from my view

And my ability to protect you.

I pray to every saint who will listen:

Christopher, Francis of Assisi, Patrick, Bridget,

And to your grandparents, gone to the other side:

“Keep her Lord like the apple of your eye,

Shelter her under the shadow of your wings.”

I imagine the frantic stopover in Atlanta,

The scrambling to a new plane,

The hope that the checked backpack makes it

And think of you six miles above the Caribbean

Seeing only the vast blueness and at times specks and streaks of ships

Making their way

As you are making your way to Costa Rica, Rancho Mastatal,

Adventure, learning, new companions, new challenges--

You,

Like your Mom and me,

A bit on edge as you wonder what’s to come.

Another New Poem

2012-01-19T10:29:00.000-05:00

Unripe: Post Mortem

In the post mortem of their marriage,

The coroner found that she had never recovered

From her woeful childhood,

Deep scars, keloids from her Japanese

Mother, so foreign and passive, and

Her GI father, controlling mean and silent.

And a failed first marriage that she didn’t learn from

And never revealed to her second husband.

She talked to him in babytalk,

Right up to the day she snuck out of his life forever,

Leaving unanswered, unanswerable questions,

Abandoned pets, a stinking mess of a house,

Unpaid and unpayable bills,

A reeking mess of two lives.

He, a sweet man-child, probably a bit spoiled

Baby-of-the-family,

And at the same time a bit neglected by parents

Who had given so much of their energy and youth

To the four older siblings—

He married the first girl to love him, to kiss him,

To hold him under the sheets.

He couldn’t believe his good luck

Which has broken down to

Insane

Bad luck

And lives that need to be boot-strapped.

Is that possible, Lord?

We pray that it may be.

Draft 1 of a Strange New Poem

2012-01-18T12:35:00.000-05:00

The following draft is very different from my normal writing. Here I tried to imagine a life going totally awry. This kind of wrong turn could happen to any of us, to our families and friends. "Nothing human is alien to me" (The famous quotation by Terence reads: "Homo sum, humani nihil a me alienum puto").

What Didn’t Happen [draft 1]

The house was filled with cat piss and dog sh**,

The mortgage couldn’t be paid since she left,

The utilities were sent partial payments.

In his head, rutted dialogues replayed every minute of his failed marriage

As he tried to correct things he said and did

Or find the fatal flaw

That caused her to leave.

He could no longer sleep and then

He could no longer eat.

Strange paranoia seeped into his soul

And strange confused thinking alarmed friends and family

Who called often and visited often

Trying to find ways to help him, but the downward spiral accelerated,

Totally out of control,

Until one day he took his shotgun and blasted the 2 outside dogs to kingdom come,

Then mercy killed the little house dog.

He got out the five-gallon cans of gas and doused the garage and basement,

A mortgage he could no longer pay,

And the filthy stinking house would become a cinder.

Then next door to the other house they had owned and rented to Tom.

And not knowing that Tom was sound asleep inside,

Dowsed the garage and basement with more gasoline,

Struck a match then headed for the barn

Where he emptied his shot gun into the tractor that he could no longer pay for

And lit the straw on fire until everything was gone:

The 2 old outside dogs, the house dog, the house, the car,

the rented house, the tractor, the little barn,

And Tom, incinerated and suffocated as he slept unknown to the desperate

Paranoid, confused, sleepless, broken

Man-boy.

That’s what didn’t happen—but could have.

The Our Father in Irish-Gaelic

2012-01-12T17:59:00.003-05:00

The "Our Father" in Irish-Gaelic

Ár n-Athair atá ar neamh,

Go naofar d'ainim,

Go dtagfadh do ríocht,

Go ndéantar do thoil ar an talamh mar a dhéantar ar neamh.

Ár n-arán laethúil tabhair dúinn inniu,

agus maith dúinn ár bhfiacha

mar a mhaithimidne dár bhféichiúna féin

Ach ná lig sinn i gcathú,

ach saor sinn ó olc,

Amen.

Approximate pronunciation:

AR NATH-her ah-TAH er NAHV

Guh NAY-her DAHN-um

Guh DAHG-huh duh REE-ukht

Guh NANE-ter duh HULL er un TAHL-uv mar a YANE-ter er NAHV

AR nuh-RAHN lay-HOOL TAUR DOO-un in-YOU

ah-gus MAH DOO-in ar VEE-uh-kha

MAR uh WAH-him-MIDGE-nuh DAR VEKH-yoon-uh FANE

AKH NAU LIG SHIN ih GAH-HOO

AKH SEER SHIN OH UH-luck.

[The syllables capitalized above receive more stress; the “kh” is used to represent a sound similar to the “ch” in the Scottish word loch or the “ch” in the German word Nacht. A more precise pronunciation transcription would need something like the International Phonetic Alphabet. Irish has many alternative pronunciations and regional variants, so what I have above would not be accurate for all dialects.]

At some point I will add audio or video to help clarify the pronunciation of the prayer.

Epiphany: The Work of Christmas Commences

2012-01-09T08:36:00.000-05:00

Yesterday we celebrated the Feast of the Epiphany at St. Mary's Church in Painesville, Ohio. Traditionally, the feast has been celebrated on January 6th, and our family has always left up the Christmas decorations and the manger scene until the Epiphany.

The word comes from the Greek, meaning "sudden appearance, manifestation." The Irish writer James Joyce and others used the word to mean "sudden insight." The Epiphany was the manifestation of Jesus to the magi and to the world outside the Holy Family.

Fr. Jenkins, in his homily yesterday, finished with a famous poem, that made me think of Tom Liszkay's Christmas card:

The Work of Christmas
Howard Thurman

When the song of the angels is stilled,
When the star in the sky is gone,
When the kings and princes are home,
When the shepherds are back with their flock,
The work of Christmas begins:
To find the lost,
To heal the broken,
To feed the hungry,
To release the prisoner,
To rebuild the nations,
To bring peace among people,
To make music in the heart.

Goodbye to 2011 and Greetings to 2012

2012-01-04T15:45:00.000-05:00

I was traveling and otherwise busy as the year changed from 2011 to 2012 and didn't get to write any reflections about the passing and new birth.

I guess the words that entered my mind on New Year's Eve were "Deo Gratias." The old Latin phrase, first learned as a kid attending Latin masses at St. William's back in the early 1950s. Thank You, Lord God, for my life, our lives, my family, friends. Thank you that we have health, a good job, so many gifts. And prayers for those sick in body or troubled in spirit (I know many, as do you!). Prayers for those suffering from the Great Recession, those needing money and work, those without health care. Especially for those without hope. Especially for those without hope.

We got an annual Christmas card from a friend, Tom Liszkay, a Clevelander exiled long ago to Columbus, who closed it by reminding us to clothe the naked, feed the hungry, and shelter the homeless. Tom reminded us to live out the corporal and spiritual works of mercy, an injunction at the heart of our Catholic Christianity, and something I learned in my parents' home (where we fed the neighborhood kids, gave them companionship and love even if their parents neglected them, where my Mom and Dad offered a home to three alcoholic uncles and to my Grandmother in her old age); and learned from my teachers, both Ursuline nuns and lay teachers alike, in my Catholic grade school--St. Williams; and from our first pastor at St. William's, Monsignor John Flemming, who paid the family bills when my Dad was layed off from work; and from the wonderful teachers, both lay teachers and Marianist brothers and priests, at St. Joseph High School in Cleveland. All these wonderful teachers and models--who never saw what they wrought, the fruit of their works and their lives.

As Tom Liszkay said--Don't forget to practice the Works of Mercy.

And don't forget to say thank you to family, friends, and colleagues. And to the Lord--Deo Gratias.

Colin in the Snow--a Brief Video

2012-01-02T11:37:00.000-05:00

Couple More Christmas Photos

2011-12-28T20:22:00.000-05:00

Above: Eddie Kleppel, with Colin on his shoulders, and Julia Coughlin Kleppel.

That's not really Colin's beer! Emily in background.

Froehliche Weihnachten von der Coughlin-Kleppel-Homan Familie!

Bob's Christmas presents, a hiking stick and a new jacket.

Euclid as a Summer Lake Resort

2011-12-28T18:30:00.001-05:00

In today's Plain Dealer there was a story about Euclid in the late 1890s as a kind of summer getaway resort for Clevelanders [also on cleveland.com at this address: http://www.cleveland.com/remembers/index.ssf/2011/12/caddying_at_westwood_and_vacat.html]. When the Shore inter-urban train came to Euclid around 1898, so did the summer tourists. Initially they would rent tent platforms in the Moss Point area of Euclid (that's near where E. 222 meets the Lake--the site of a sewage plant now as well as Euclid Park). A few years later people began to build summer cottages--many of which are still visible in Euclid. [more coming]

The Opposite of a Christmas Story in Mentor

2011-12-28T09:38:00.000-05:00

A homeless man has been jailed by the city of Mentor over Christmas. His suitcase was found Saturday morning in front of the Barnes and Noble store. Authorities were afraid it was a bomb and it was removed by the Lake County Bomb Unit, who fired two shots into it. They blasted dirty underwear and clothing.

Kevin Striley, age 43 from Mason, Ohio, is in jail because the homeless man could not post a $102,000 cash bond--as set by Judge John Trebets. I couldn't meet a bond like that!

Two thousand years ago a young couple traveled from the region of Galilee to a village just south of Jerusalem--called Bethlehem. There was no room at the inn for them, even though the young woman was nine months pregnant. Her baby was born in a stable, a manger, a place where animals ate and took shelter. This baby, whom we Christians celebrate as the Savior of the World, knew homelessness from his first moment.

I don't know exactly what the Mentor authorities should have done. Maybe they put Kevin Striley in jail to give him a warm place to stay over Christmas and some regular meals. Maybe Mr. Striley needs psychiatric evaluation. I hope that Mentor officials didn't violate their Christian and human duty and heritage.

A Few Christmas Photos

2011-12-27T16:24:00.001-05:00

Top: Kevin Coughlin. Middle: Jim and Dillon Coughlin. Bottom: Darby, Jodi, and Quinn Coughlin.

More Family Photos: the Bowers/Bauer side

2011-12-22T21:16:00.000-05:00

My Grandma, Cora Bowers, on her First Communion Day--probably in 1897. She's on the left in the photo above. This was professionally taken in Youngstown, Ohio. Her father. Frank Bowers, was born Frank Bauer in Pittsburgh. Most of his family stayed in Pittsburgh and retained the German spelling of their last name (many Bauer relatives still live there). At some point, Frank moved to Youngstown and changed the spelling of his last name--why I never heard. Frank married Mary Voelker and moved to Cleveland, where he worked as a bridge engineer (he was an important engineer on the Detroit-Superior bridge crossing the Cuyahoga River valley in Cleveland. The bridge has linked the east and west sides of Cleveland for about a 100 years now. My Grandma, whom I loved very much, lived from 1889 to 1980, and is buried in All Souls Cemetery in Chardon, Ohio.

The two Bowers sisters, Cora Bowers Coughlin and Edna Bowers Rosenfelder, at Maryknoll near Ossining, New York, where their brother, Larry Bowers, was a Maryknoll missioner. Brother Larry served earlier in his career in China.

Cora Bowers Coughlin, Brother Larry Bowers MM, and Edna Bowers Rosenfelder. This photo was taken at Uncle Bill and Aunt Kay's house in Willowick, Ohio. Uncle Larry came home every August--when the wild cherries ripened on the trees (that's the association I made as a young kid). I think this photo might have been from the early to mid 1960's.

Some Older Family Photos

2011-12-21T16:10:00.000-05:00

Top photo: Grampa Connie Coughlin (born 1891), Uncle Bill Coughlin (born 1923), with Jeannie and Jackie Coughlin. 1953, Willoughby, Ohio.

Middle photo: Al Fitzpatrick, Margaret Ann Coughlin Bernice Potter, Bob Coughlin, Nelson Potter, Linda Coughlin, Mrs. McHugh, Catherine Fitzpatrick. Circa 1980.

Bottom photo: Mary Finnegan Fitzpatrick, Mrs. McHugh, Bob Coughlin, Mary Zylowski. Circa 1980.

Winter Solstice Poem

2011-12-20T12:45:00.000-05:00

Winter Solstice

The chill creeps into the bones:
December 21 and sun gone long before 5 o’clock;
Huge gray clouds roll in off Lake Erie
Riding the Witch’s gale, spitting sleet and

Fears as real and as organized as the swirl
Of pin oak leaves down Lakeshore Boulevard.
This day, shaken by nameless fears,
Seems to last forever:

I wonder how I will get through the next minute,
And the minute after that,
And the minute after that,

Wonder if I can make it
Until hope returns

Until peace-which-surpasses-understanding,
As mysterious as winter solstice’s fear--
My heart standing still, turning cold,
My spirit abandoned--

Until peace returns like grace like unexpected

Gift.

Robert M. Coughlin

The End of the Iraq War

2011-12-15T21:50:00.000-05:00

Today marks the end of the Iraq War. I remember so vividly the day it began. In America it was March 19, 2003, the feast of St. Joseph [it was March 20th in Iraq]. To me at the time, it seemed such a sacrilege to begin a war on this feast day. The war began with "Shock and Awe," a bombardment never seen before in the history of the world (or so it seemed to me as I watched it on television from about 6000 miles away).

And today, after more than 4400 dead Americans, uncountable dead Iraqis (the estimates vary wildly, from over 100,000 to a million), and tens of thousands of wounded, the war is over. I guess we won.

For about 13 months my family was on pins and needles as my niece, Michelle Zaremba, served with the Ohio National Guard in Iraq and Kuwait. Michelle led truck convoys across Iraq and was often in danger. On Easter of 2004 my niece was almost killed as an RPG shot through her cab windows. She and her co-driver were wounded in this attack, and her truck was incinerated (if I remember correctly, Michelle had 2 trucks burn up during her service there). I can't imagine the heat, dust, violence, fear--and yes, the camaraderie and heroism--that Michele and her colleagues encountered.

Michele and thousands of other soldiers brought home spiritual suffering from this war, PTSD, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. She has had counseling and treatment for this and has handled it well. But not all returning soldiers have overcome PTSD. There have been suicides, many of them, and problems with alcohol and drugs. Three of my uncles were damaged by their service in World War II, when they hardly had a name for PTSD (in severe cases it was called "shell shock" back in those days). My uncles (Jack Coughlin and Dick and Don Fitzpatrick) never got treatment for their psychological pain.

So today I think of all the dead, wounded, and suffering--on all sides--and hope that a just peace comes to Iraq.

Bring peace to this broken world, O Lord!

Coughlin/Kleppel Family Photo

2011-12-08T10:40:00.000-05:00

Coughlin/Kleppel Family photo, taken in Fall of 2011 at the Great Lakes Brewery in Cleveland. Linda, Emily, Carolan, Bob holding Colin Jude Kleppel, Ed Kleppel, Julia Coughlin Kleppel.

Lord of All Hopefulness and Margaret Ann's Passing 8 Years Ago

2011-12-08T10:02:00.002-05:00

Lord of All Hopefulness
Lord of all hopefulness, Lord of all joy,
whose trust, ever childlike, no cares could destroy,
be there at our waking, and give us, we pray,
your bliss in our hearts, Lord, at the break of the day.

Lord of all eagerness, Lord of all faith,
whose strong hands were skilled at the plane and the lathe,
be there at our labours, and give us, we pray,
your strength in our hearts, Lord, at the noon of the day.

Lord of all kindliness, Lord of all grace,
your hands swift to welcome, your arms to embrace,
be there at our homing, and give us, we pray,
your love in our hearts, Lord, at the eve of the day.

Lord of all gentleness, Lord of all calm,
whose voice is contentment, whose presence is balm,
be there at our sleeping, and give us, we pray,
your peace in our hearts, Lord, at the end of the day.

Passing of Dick Kenney, Pillar of St. William's in Euclid

2011-12-07T16:31:00.000-05:00

The Plain Dealer today posted the obituary of Dick Kenney (Richard C. Kenney, Sr.), one of the pillars of the St. William's community and the city of Euclid. I have known of Dick since my cub scout years, the mid 1950s. I attended St. William's with his daughter Anne, and I knew his son Dick a bit. When I moved back to Euclid and St. William's in 1988, we were greeted by Dick and Anne, who still lived on Oriole near E.260th.

Dick and his wife Anne had nine children, 22 grand children, and 15 great grandchildren. Anne survives Dick; they both leave a legacy of family, church, and community. What else can you ask of a legacy?

New poem

2011-12-01T12:22:00.000-05:00

The End of a World

More drama under the surface than we ever suspected:

She, so needy, needing him so much,

Leaves

One fine fall day, so suddenly,

Yet so treacherously, meticulously planned

Down to the cute smile and wave goodbye

As he left for his three-day campout with his old buddies.

The house dog left to sh** all over the place,

The two outside hounds left without water or food for three days.

Money withdrawn from their joint bank account,

Letters sent to his brothers and sisters cataloging

All his sins, peculiarities, flaws.

But she didn’t mention her own peculiar sins.

That came out later:

The screaming rages,

Chasing him around the house with a huge wooden spoon,

Pummeling him on the head.

Physically ill, mentally ill

Or damaged by abuse from her own father

We don’t know cause and effect . . .

But we see the bodies on the battlefield,

The wounds, the injury,

The desolation.

Watching a Friend Struggle with Psychological Suffering

2011-11-29T09:15:00.000-05:00

Someone I know well is in the middle of terrible psychological suffering. It's a mix of suffering over the loss of a marriage mixed up with terrible anxiety and insomnia. He is frantic, calling family members constantly, and calling his doctor to the point where the doctor is angry. In the past week or so he has been prescribed some medicines to help him through this crisis, but they don't seem to be working--at least not yet.

We have given him the best advice that we can think of (and much of this advice comes from people who themselves have gone through anxiety, sleeplessness, or depression). We are at the point where we don't know what else to do.

It seems that helping others in pain we must walk a fine balance between helping too much and not enough. If we help too much, we abet the weakness of the sufferer and don't allow him to grow through the experience; if we don't help enough, we risk terrible tragedy.

Hard as it is to say, it seems we sometimes need to allow people to suffer some. They need to see that they have the strength within to overcome troubles and to handle pain. What is the balance? When do we help? And when do we stand by to encourage them to help themselves?

What my friend doesn't seem to know is that this suffering will end; he will overcome and become stronger; he will be happy again, find new love again.

New Translation of the Roman Missal for Catholic Masses

2011-11-28T15:13:00.000-05:00

Yesterday marked the first use of the new English translation of the Roman Missal in Catholic masses. My initial impression is less than positive, even though I loved the pre-Vatican II Catholic mass as said in Latin. I was an altar boy and knew the Latin responses by heart. I also studied Latin in high school, so you might expect me to love this somewhat literal translation of the new missal.

Wrong!

As a translation, the new missal seems to be way off the mark. It does not translate Latin into idiomatic American English--by any reasonable standard. It uses words, idioms, and phrasings that we simply don't use. A great example is the use of the word "consubstantial," which is substituted for "one in substance" in the Nicene Creed. I've never heard anyone use that word, but now some friends, family, and I throw it around like a two-bit word just as a joke.

Also in the creed they repeatedly use the word "I" instead of the word "we." Now this may be a more exact translation of the original Nicene Creed, but to me it's a kind of loss since the creed is a community prayer and Catholicism is a community religion, not, as in some forms of Protestantism, a religion of isolated individuals seeking salvation. We Catholics are like Jews--we are in this business together! "We believe in one God . . . ."

Any good poet can tell you that you can make the most beautiful and memorable and holy music with the simplest words, the language that the people speak every day. We don't need obscure words and syntax to elevate and mystify our belief in the Lord.

An Example of a Famous Macaronic Song: "Siuil a Run"

2011-11-21T09:15:00.000-05:00

A long time ago I learned a macaronic song, consisting of English, Irish, and nonsense words, called "Siuil a Run." I remember singing it at Notre Dame parties (1966-1970) with Mike Gerrity and maybe Brian Wilson. At the time I had no idea there were Irish-Gaelic words in the song (the very title means, "Walk, My Love!" in Irish). The title is pronounced /SHOOL ah ROON/.

Macaronic songs and poems incorporate at least 2 languages, and sometimes more (see my attempt at a macaronic poem in the previous blog posting). Wikipedia give the following as the lyric to "Siuil a Run." In fact, there is no definite lyric but many variations:

I wish I was on yonder hill

'Tis there I'd sit and cry my fill

And every tear would turn a mill

Is go dté tú mo mhuirnín slán

Chorus

Siúil, siúil, siúil a rúin

Siúil go socair agus siúil go ciúin

Siúil go doras agus éalaigh liom

Is go dté tú mo mhúirnín slán

I'll sell my rock, I'll sell my reel

I'll sell my only spinning wheel

To buy my love a sword of steel

Is go dté tú mo mhúirnín slán

I'll dye my petticoats, I'll dye them red

And round the world I'll beg my bread

Until my parents shall wish me dead

Is go dté tú mo mhúirnín slán

I wish, I wish, I wish in vain

I wish I had my heart again

And vainly think I'd not complain

Is go dté tú mo mhúirnín slán

But now my love has gone to France

to try his fortune to advance

If he e'er comes back 'tis but a chance

Is go dté tú mo mhúirnín slán

One translation of the Irish chorus is

Go, go, go my love

Go quietly and peacefully

Go to the door and flee with me

And may you go safely my dear.

A youtube performance by Clannad": http://youtu.be/4ZP-4B7kHqA

Experimental Macaronic Poem

2011-11-19T12:32:00.001-05:00

My Own Vida Loca

Macaronic Poem (German, English, Irish, Latin, Spanish)

Mein verrueckt, wahnsinniges Leben

Ein Durcheinander of joys, Leiden, and chaos,

Unexpected, surprising Einsamkeit,

And even more surprising moments of Einigkeit und . . . sogar,

Liebe, Grá, Amor.

Lieber Gott, Mo Chara,

Shelter me under the shadow of your wings,

Hold me i mbos a láimhe thú

Nunc et in hora mortis nostrae

por favor!

Bob Coughlin

November 22, 2011

Another Irish Version of My Poem, "Northern Lights"

2011-11-16T09:28:00.002-05:00

An Chaor Aduaidh

(translation of Bob Coughlin’s poem “Northern Lights” by Una Kimbrell)

Fógraigh an nuachtán gur tháinig said i láthair aréir.

Mar sprid i mo codladh sámh,

Ag lasadh an spéir thoir thuaidh timpeall Chardon,

Bileog daite ag dahmsa san oíche dubh,

An bhfeicfeadh mé na soilse seo choíche?

Tá Cuma aghaidh Dé orthu.

An splanc uaine ag luí na gréine,

Cat fíain sna coillte oíche,

Braithim mar Tomás,

“Lig dom mo lámha a chuir sna créachtaí no ní chreadfeadh mé é!”

Ó, a Chaor Aduaidh,

Aurorea Borealis,

Lig dom a dahmsa leat san oíche uaigneach geimhridh.

Veterans' Day

2011-11-11T09:48:00.000-05:00

On this Veterans' Day I want to remember my Dad, Robert P. Coughlin, and his brothers, Bill, Jack, and Fran, all World War II vets (all survived the war, all now deceased, two of them very damaged in spirit by their service).

Also, my Uncles Dick and Don Fitzpatrick, also World War II vets, also damaged in spirit by the war.

And Tommy Fitzpatrick, my cousin, who died in Vietnam in 1969; my Notre Dame and Innsbruck classmate, Steve Shields, who died in Vietnam in 1972.

And Michelle Zaremba, my niece, who fought in Iraq, and has fought (successfully) some PTSD demons.

"Dear Lord, bring just and lasting peace to the World!"

Pictures of Mom, from 1940 to about 2000

2011-11-10T08:50:00.001-05:00

Today would be my Mom's 88th birthday. My brother Kevin sent me these photos of Mom spanning almost 60 years. At the top, Mom and Kevin's visit to Ireland in the late 1990s; then Mom with Mary Ellen and Jimmy in the early 1960s in Euclid; next is Mom and Dad on their wedding day, August of 1947, in Willoughby; and finally, Mom with her brothers Skip (Fenton) and Don Fitzpatrick, circa 1940 in Cleveland (probably at Tarrymore Drive, off of Neff Road, near Lake Erie).

My Mother at Age 33 (May 5, 1957)

2011-11-10T06:00:00.000-05:00

Here's a beautiful photo of my mother, Margaret Ann, probably taken at Susie Brock's First Communion party on May 5, 1957. Mom would have been 33 years old. No comment on the two bottles of beer in front of her! We'll say those belonged to Dick and Don Fitzpatrick!

The above blog entry was first published in March of 2011. I'll republish it today to honor my mother on what would be her 88th birthday.

"Northern Lights" Poem in Irish-Gaelic: "Fainne ó Thuaidh"

2011-11-02T07:03:00.003-04:00

“Northern Lights” -- Fainne ó Thuaidh
by Bob Coughlin, translated into Irish by Paul Curran

Dúradh san nuachtán gur thaibhsigh siad aréir

Mar taibhse i mo chodlata sámh.

Las siad suas spéir na hoíche Baile Chardon

Le taipéisí damhsach datha san oíche dhubh

An mbeidh mé na soilse sin a fheiceáil riamh?

Tá sé mar a fhéachtar an aghaidh Dé

An splanc ghlas le luí na gréine

Cat fiáin san choill oíche

Is Tómas mé --

"Cuirim mo lámha isteach san creachta nó ní chréidim é!"

A Fhainne ó Thuaidh

Aurora Borealis

Lig dom rince leat a dheanamh

Oíche uaigneach éigin geimhridh

Grady Sizemore--Thanks!

2011-11-01T09:30:00.000-04:00

The Cleveland Indians have decided not to pick up their option for Grady Sizemore ($9 million/ year), thus ending his career in Cleveland.

Grady Sizemore played full-tilt boogie since coming to the club in 2004, and that has been his undoing. Can you say that an athlete played too hard, too intensely? That's what Grady did, and his magnificent defense, characterized by diving for balls and crashing into outfield walls, led to many injuries and five surgeries the past few years. Grady went from playing nearly every game from 2005 to 2008, to playing 106 games, 33 games, and 71 games in the past three years. Despite his injuries, Grady Sizemore didn't change the way he played.

The only other baseball player that I have seen to match Sizemore's intensity was Pete Rose. I got to watch him during the Big Red Machine years, one of baseball's greatest eras. Somehow Rose managed to stay healthy during his long career, despite the head-first slides and crashes into players and fences (I remember the crash at home plate into Ray Fosse in the 1970 All Star Game--Holy Toledo!).

I admire both of these athletes, Grady Sizemore and Pete Rose. That's how I played baseball and football. I gave it my all. Football seems more a game that fits this intense style. Baseball demands a level of relaxation--for hitting especially. It's amazing that Sizemore and Rose could be both intense and relaxed when necessary.

We will miss the likes of Grady Sizemore. A player of this talent and intensity comes along very rarely.

Here is a video clip of Pete Rose crashing into Ray Fosse:

An example of Grady Sizemore's defense:

Babushkas, Davenports, Ice Boxes, and Tree Lawns

2011-10-31T20:11:00.000-04:00

Growing up in Euclid, Ohio, we spoke an exotic dialect of English--though we didn't know it. My dialect (which was a mixture of family "idiolect" and our socio-regional dialect) might be described as an inland Northern variety of American English, flavored by our lower middle class socio-econmic status and our Irish-Catholic religion--with a dash of family peculiarities! Now that is a mouthful, I know.

There was a Euclid twist on our language because outside of Ljubljana, Slovenia, Euclid probably had the largest concentration of Slovenians in the world. We had Slovenians, Polish, Irish, Germans, Italians, English, and other ethnic groups in our town. We had many Jews and a Jewish temple, Ner Tamid, at E. 250th and Lakeshore Boulevard. As far as I knew, we had no Blacks in Euclid of the 1950's and 1960's. I've since heard that there were a few African American families around Babbitt Road and the railroad tracks (Nickel Plate and New York Central). This might seem astonishing in the year 2011 because Euclid is now around 40% African American (the Euclid public schools are much higher than that).

One possible linguistic contribution of the Slovenians and Polish Euclidians might be the word "babushka." I know the word in Russian means "grandmother," but to us it meant a scarf head covering that women wore. It probably was the most common head covering in St. William's when I was growing up (at the time women were required to wear head coverings in Catholic churches). My very Irish mother always wore a babushka in church. The word was as ordinary and common to us as the word "hat." When my wife moved to Euclid in 1982, she encountered this word for the first time--and I discovered it was not a commonly known word outside of Euclid and Cleveland.

Another common word in Euclid was "tree lawn." A tree lawn is the strip of land between the sidewalk and the street. I found out as a graduate student at Ohio State (1979-1982) that this was also not a universally understood word. In fact, there are interesting regional variations of this. Some people have no word at all for "tree lawn"; in Barberton, Ohio they call a "tree lawn" a "devil's strip." In fact, if you ever hear that term, you can bet the ranch the speaker is from Barberton.

In our family, the long overstuffed chair in the living room was called a "davenport." Now I get a blank look or a giggle when I use the term. I have a feeling we davenport-speakers are losing ground! This is probably also true for the Canadian chesterfield-sitters.

Another term used in our family was "ice box." That's where we kept the milk, the beer, and the Cheez Whiz.

I feel like a dinosaur these days, mowing my tree lawn, wearing a babushka (well, not really), sitting on my davenport, and grabbing a Great Lakes "Edmund Fitzgerald Porter" out of the ice box. Some days I like to eat my pirogi and potica as I drink my beer.

First Attempt to Translate My "Northern Lights" Poem into German

2011-10-31T15:15:00.001-04:00

Das Nordlicht

Die Nachrichten sagen: Es trat auf der Buehne letzte Nacht.
So wie ein Geist in meinem tiefen Schlaf,
Erleuchtet den noerdlichen Himmel um Chardon Stadt--
Tanzende Farbenvorhaenge in der schwarzen Nacht.

Und sehe ich das Licht jemals?
Die Erscheinung des Gesichts Gottes,
Der gruene Blitz bei Sonnenuntergang
Der Rotluchs im Urwald.

Es ist mir wie Thomas,
"Wenn ich nur die Wunden tasten . . .'
Dann wuerde ich es glauben.

O wunderschoenes Nordlicht,
Aurora borealis,
Lass mich mit dir tanzen
Eine einsame Winternacht!

(Uebersetzung von Bob Coughlin, 31 Oktober 2011)

Northern Lights Visible Last Night

2011-10-25T15:14:00.001-04:00

Northern Lights

The newspaper said they made an appearance last night,

Like a ghost in my deep sleep,

Lit up the northeast skies around Chardon

A dancing sheet of color in the black night.

Will I ever see these lights?

It’s like seeing the face of God

The green flash at sunset

A bobcat in the night woods . . . .

I feel like Thomas—

“Let me put my hands in the wounds

Or I will not believe!”

O Northern Lights

Aurora Borealis,

Let me dance with you

Some lonely winter night.

Bob Coughlin

Mary Ann Ratchko-Gamez: Premier Whistle and Flute Player!

2011-10-16T14:49:00.002-04:00

I attended mass today at St. Mary's in Painesville, Ohio. I was struck by the beautiful flute playing, and then blown away by the spectacular whistle playing I heard at mass. I looked toward the choir loft and saw Mary Ann Ratchko, the new music director of St. Mary's. This was the person who played the beautiful Irish airs on whistle and flute at my mother's funeral in 2003.

The whistle music was so sweet and poignant I actually began to weep softly in church. After mass, I climbed up to the choir loft and talked to Mary Ann. She told me that she plays a Copeland sterling silver whistle, which accounts for the pure, sweet tone. Well it accounts for some of the sweetness; but it's Mary Ann's artistry that makes this music transcendental, reaching right for the heart.

One of the beautiful tunes Mary Ann played was "The Hills of New Zealand." I located a youtube version of this--played by Joannie Madden and Cherish the Ladies:

Largest Baseball Crowd Ever--It Happened in Cleveland

2011-10-15T19:55:00.001-04:00

Telling Strollers vs. Hanna Cleaners, September 1914

I located this photo at this site: http://lcweb2.loc.gov/service/pnp/pan/6a29000/6a29400/6a29473v.jpg. Click on the image to see the full panorama.

I think this is the game my Grampa played in--the largest crowd ever to see a baseball game. And it happened in Cleveland, September 1914, at Brookside Park (near the zoo). This was a semi-pro game, not major league. Hard to imagine from our perspective a hundred years later.

Grampa Connie Coughlin and Telling-Belle Vernon Baseball Team

2011-10-15T19:39:00.000-04:00

Telling-Belle Vernon Baseball Team, around 1914 or 1915

My Grampa, Connie Coughlin, played shortstop for a great Cleveland semi-pro team around 1914-15, the Telling-Belle Vernon Strollers. The Belle Vernon Dairy Farms. Co was a Cleveland dairy, and they merged with the Telling Co., makers of ice cream, on the 29th of January 1915. They played a baseball game in September of 1914 or 15 at Brookside Park, a natural amphitheatre near the Cleveland Zoo-- before an audience of over 100,000 fans. There are photos of this crowd available, the largest gathering to ever witness a baseball game (and an amateur game at that!).

The photo above is not clear enough for me to identify my grandfather. I think he is in the upper right corner.

The Great City of Cleveland

2011-10-15T12:24:00.000-04:00

You laugh?

Last evening we went to supper in Cleveland's Little Italy neighborhood, right where Mayfield Road meets Murray Hill, at Presti's. They sell some simple Italian foods, as well as some not-so-simple (spectacular, really) Italian pastries. What a wonderful place to sit, chat, and eat with your family and friends. Presti's is as good as any place, anywhere!

Then we drove a half mile or less north to Severance Hall, and heard the world-famous Cleveland Orchestra, led by Franz Welser-Moest, as they played a ballet by Stravinsky (Agon); a violin concerto by Tchaikovsky; and Bolero by Ravel.

I especially liked the Tchaikovsky piece (Violin Concerto in D Minor), featuring the spectacular violin playing of Nikolaj Znaider. And the wonderful Bolero. When Bolero ended, I spontaneously let out a war-whoop, embarrassing myself a bit.

Cleveland might have its problems, but it has Little Italy, Presti's, and the Cleveland Orchestra!

Bobby, Denny, and Mary Ellen, circa 1954

2011-10-08T20:49:00.000-04:00

The Coughlin kids, circa 1954: Bobby at age 6, Denny age 4, Mary Ellen, age 1. Euclid, Ohio. Thanks to Kevin for the photo.

Connie Coughlin's Baseball Team-1911

2011-10-06T20:01:00.000-04:00

My grandfather, Connie Coughlin, played shortstop for the Marotta AC baseball club, which was the Cleveland Class B champion in 1911. At the time, my Grampa was 20 years old. Sandlot baseball, amateur or semi-pro, was huge in Cleveland early in the 20th Century. Geez, it was huge when I was a kid watching Cleveland Class A ball in Euclid, at Memorial Park in the early 1960s.

Bob Hope participated in the Marotta Athletic Club as a young man--boxing. He even tried out for one of my Grampa's baseball teams (he didn't make it; got cut).

Carolan Plays "O'Connell's Lamentation" on Flute

2011-10-05T22:55:00.001-04:00

I asked my daughter Carolan if she could play the great Irish tune "O'Connell's Lamentation." She hasn't played the flute much recently and had very little time to practice; still, the performance came out pretty good! I first heard this tune on Malcolm Dalglish and Grey Larsen's great album, Banish Misfortune.

Fooling the Toothfairy with Luckystones

2011-10-05T10:16:00.000-04:00

Anyone who grew up near Lake Erie in Lake County, Ohio knows about "luckystones." They are small stones of milky quartz, usually white (though occasionally tinged with yellow or orange), that are rounded and polished by the wave action of the Big Lake. Many people collect these beautiful lucky stones.

As a kid in Willoughby, Ohio, I learned from my grandparents that you could put an appropriately sized luckystone under your pillow, and voila, the next morning, you would get a dime from the toothfairy. Does this still work? Of course it does, as long as the little kid informs his parents or grandparents about what he or she is doing. Of course inflation has hit this market too.

Once, while studying geology at the University of Notre Dame, I asked my professor what exactly a luckystone consisted of. He laughed and said he had never heard of a a luckystone--that it was not a scientific geologic name. Now every kid in Willoughby in the 1940s and 1950s knew what a luckystone was! And certainly my children know! So much for the limits of these brilliant Notre Dame profs.

My understanding is that these luckystones are washed down some of the local hills in creeks and rivers where they reach Lake Erie, and then are further rounded and polished by the Lake. I think the rock formations they come from are called "Sharon Conglomerate," and can be found on Gildersleeve Mountain in Chapin Forest (Kirtland), at Thompson Ledges, at Nelson-Kennedy Ledges, and around Chardon by the Best Sand quarries. Best Sand produces some of the purest silica sand in the world from these Sharon Conglomerate formations--and that's lucky for them indeed.

Give it a try. Find a luckystone down by the Lake, put it under your pillow--then let me know.

Thinking about the Melonheads of Kirtland/Chardon

2011-10-05T09:48:00.001-04:00

Lately, as the winds of autumn howl and the bitter rain falls, as the maple leaves turn red and orange, my mind turns toward thoughts of the Melonheads that roam the deep woods along the Kirtland-Chardon border, where Lake County meets Geauga County, Ohio. I know, friend, that you've been thinking about this too. About these perverse, terrible, and unfortunate monsters, created by Dr. Crowe's despicable experiments, condemned to roam forever the forested hills and ravines of this part of Northeast Ohio.

Yes, friend, I know that you've gone looking for them too (as I first did as a teenager in 1964, with Gary Czyzynski, Jay Neidermeyer, Buster Zylowski, and other Euclid friends from the St. William's-Upson School neighborhood). What we saw was too terrible to reveal back then; in fact, I can barely write about it now.

I can't bring myself to tell you exactly where to look; it would disturb the peace of those unhappy, melon-headed souls and the few normal residents of the area. I wish I could dissuade you from looking. If you don't find them, you will be disappointed; if you do find them, you will have to carry this terror in your heart until you too feel the cold clay of the grave. The Melonheads are nothing to fool with. Not everyone comes back from searching for them. Others come back, but irreparably damaged by their new and terrible knowledge.

Take care, my friend.

p.s. I have 2 other posts on the Melonheads: one from October 30, 2010; and one from October 27, 2009 (that one with photos)

The Passing of Marvin Helf, Euclid Homebuilder

2011-10-03T10:50:00.000-04:00

There was an obituary in today's Plain Dealer for Marvin Helf, the man who built our family's home in Euclid in 1951. The obit says that Marvin Helf was 92 years old when he died, which means he was only 32 years old when he developed the subdivision in Euclid that extended from Zeman Avenue to Elinore Drive, and from E.272nd Street to E. 260th Street. There were hundreds of inexpensive tract homes built in this area by Helf. When my Mom and Dad had their house built, the cost was $11,900. The house was fairly small and was built on a small lot (maybe a tenth of an acre). The bottom floor of the bungalow had 2 bedrooms; the second floor was unfinished (later finished by my Dad); and there was no basement or garage or even finished driveway (we added those later).

Over the years we had a lot of petty complaints about the house and the small lot. But it did offer our family (and hundreds of families) a nice new place to live and raise families--for a modest cost. The neighborhood attracted the vigorous World War II vets and their spouses, who populated the neighborhood with lots of children. The area had a neighborhood group called the "Forest Park Civic Association"--which I guess is as close as we came to having a name for our neighborhood. My Mom and Dad sometimes just called it the Marvin Helf homes. This was a wonderful place to grow up, and for that we have much to thank Marvin Helf.

Margaret Ann, Skip, and Don Fitzpatrick, circa 1940

2011-10-02T17:08:00.003-04:00

This photo shows my Uncle Skip (Fenton) Fitzpatrick, my mother, Margaret Ann Fitzpatrick Coughlin, and my Uncle Don Fitzpatrick. This photo might have been taken in 1940, when their mother, Margaret Ann Sullivan Fitzpatrick, died. My mother would have been about 16 years old in March of 1940 when her mother died. Skip and Don would have been in their mid twenties, I believe.

What Happened to Euclid's "Mt. Baldy"?

2011-09-30T15:44:00.000-04:00

When I was a kid, Euclid had one mountain--"Mt. Baldy." This mountain was somewhere between Highland Road and Chardon Road (US Route 6), about a quarter mile south of Euclid Avenue, US Route 20. I'm guessing Harms Road dead ended near the peak of this landmark.

Last Sunday I attended 9:30 mass at Lourdes Shrine, the beautiful and historic grotto off Chardon Road hill (just south of Euclid Avenue). After mass I drove up Highland Road to the Euclid Creek Park road that winds through a narrow valley, ending up at Green Road in South Euclid (by the way, it ends where the village of Bluestone once stood; here the beautiful slabs of Euclid Bluestone were quarried by some of my Irish ancestors).

Anyway, on my drive I couldn't see Mt. Baldy. Where had it gone? A mountain can't just disappear, can it? I used to be able to see Mt. Baldy from St. Joe's High School on Lake Erie. Something that prominent can't just disappear.

My best guess is that Mt. Baldy got some Rogaine treatments or transplants--in other words, vegetation has regrown on that once-barren hilltop and cliff. And now Mt. Baldy has transformed into Mt. Hairy. That's my theory and I'm sticking to it.

Goofy Little Poem

2011-09-29T09:49:00.000-04:00

When It’s All Gone

What if, no when, I lose them,

One by one . . .

If I have nothing left, in the end,

But, say, my nose . . .

Then I will nuzzle you

And sniff you like some old beagle dog.

Maybe you will roll me over,

Scratch my belly,

Say, “Good boy! Good boy . . .

Now get back in your cage.”

September 28, 2011

More about Cincinnati's Boal Street & Cincinnati Communes

2011-09-27T10:52:00.010-04:00

There were several community houses (some people might call these "communes") in Cincinnati in the early 1970s, and I was connected to three of them. One loose community was the 225 Orchard Street apartment building in the Over-the-Rhine neighborhood, near Liberty Street and Sycamore. People who lived in that building included me, Chris Cotter, briefly Dan Wenstrup, Clare Weinkam, Annie Weinkam, Peggy Scherer, Jack Shereda, and others who don't immediately come to mind.

About 100 feet across Sycamore Street was the Mansfield House, which was a genuine community or commune. When I moved to Cincinnati from Euclid in late January of 1971, the people in the Mansfield House included Greg Haas, John Luginbill, Joan Levy, Bonnie Tompkins, Andy Meyer, and a handful of other folks. I was never sure if there was an official roster of House residents. Certainly Carolyn Bromley and her brother Dan lived there much of the time, as did Jack Shereda, and, from time to time, Kenny Przybylski. When you add in the frequent visitors, you get a sense of how dynamic and exciting this place was: Denny Ryan, Henry Scott, Mary Alice Shepherd, Chuck Matthei, Peggy Scherer, Anne Weinkam (and her sister Clare and brother Paul), Dick Crowley, Richard Gale, Chris Cotter, Joel Stevens--and so many other wonderful, talented, and committed people.

A third community house, of sorts, developed about a quarter of a mile away, just up the Sycamore Street hill, then down Boal Street, a beautiful hillside street that ran above the Over-the-Rhine basin. I think that somehow Jim Tarbell got hold of the house--for very little money. And Jim let his friends live in the house. The address, if I remember correctly, was 324 Boal St. The house, built in the late 1890s, was a three-story brick house, a style common in Cincinnati's older neighborhoods. This house had a wonderful view, a back yard that was a hillside, and a side yard--something lacking in most of Over-the-Rhine.

For a very short time, when I was between apartments, I stayed in the Boal Street house. Regulars there were Henry Scott and Dan Bromley. A fellow named Jack lived in the first-floor front room; I'm sure many other people lived in that house or stayed temporarily in that house from time to time. I remember that Chris Cotter's dad, Larry Cotter (a prominent architect in Cincinnati), looked over the house to give an opinion on its structural soundness. If I remember correctly, Mr. Cotter was not particularly sanguine about the house's long-term prospects (guess he was wrong!).

I have many fond memories of the Boal Street house. I remember a wonderful party we had on one of the upper floors--must have been around 1975 or so. Lots of people packed in, music and dancing and beer--lots of fun! I remember another time when we took the old Peacemaker Ross Anderson up on the roof. Now Ross was about 75-years-old and blind, so this appeared to be a dangerous stunt. But Ross was so happy to sit under the stars on the roof of that old house. So many wonderful friends, meals, parties. I remember one day playing Scrabble with friends, including Ken Przybylski and Mary Alice Shepherd (now Mary Alice Milnes). Mary Alice took some pictures and when she later showed me a photo she took, I grabbed it and tried to crumple it up. What a dumb, vain move on my part! I wish I had that photo now, with Kenny deceased almost 25 years. Another memory is of Malcolm Dalglish, the great musician, playing his hammer dulcimer in the house--right at the beginning of his folk music career.

One amazing thing I've found about the Internet is that you can type in the address of a house, and then use a function on Google Maps to actually see that house. If you want to try to see the old Boal Street house, type this into Google: 324 Boal Street, Cincinnati, Ohio 45202. Then drag the little yellow icon of a man onto the road and take a look. It's a miracle!

I have also found a photo and property description of this house by going to www.zillow.com, and then typing in the house address.

More about the Cincinnati Boal St. incident

2011-09-26T18:12:00.000-04:00

I located a website that discusses the strange incident Kenny Przybylski related to me--something that happened on Boal St., a hillside street that overlooks Cincinnati's Over-the-Rhine neighborhood. Here is the statement:

"Cincinnati: A house here (440 Boal St.) was rained on by something that was described as resembling 'watery blood except that it was oily." There was a little cloud overhead, and it seemed to be several colors, red, greens and pinks, which seemed to be the source of the oily stuff. The witness, who was outside during this, noticed his hands starting burning where this stuff had touched him. He went inside and washed, and when he came back out the cloud was gone and the rain had stopped. All his peach trees died in a short time, and grass where this stuff had fallen also died. No idea what this stuff was and there were no planes overhead to drop anything. Samples were taken and results were never shared with the owner. July 22, 1950."

This was found at the following site: http://rhandi.tripod.com/namerica.html.

It's possible that I misremembered this as a flying saucer incident. The details seem to be very close to what Kenny told me--and Kenny heard this firsthand from the owner of this house. This house is visible from the Over-the-Rhine neighborhood (at least it was when I lived there). The side yard has many tall spruce or fir trees that that be seen from a half mile away.

My 94-year-old friend, Robert Shamleffer

2011-09-26T15:55:00.001-04:00

Every once in a while, Robert Shamleffer, aged 93 and 3/4, knocks on my office door to say hello or give me another piece of evidence of the directions and influence of the "people up there." When he says "up there," he points heavenward or moves his eyes upward.

Robert is stone deaf, so a conversation with him is difficult, to say the least. And he has trouble reading my lips, so hidden by beard and mustache. But I think I understand this fascinating man, who is a diligent, though totally non-conventional scholar.

His references to non-earthbound intelligences remind me of the old man on Boal St. in Cincinnati, who told Kenny Przybylski that a flying saucer landed in his yard many years back. Kenny believed this man and Kenny believed many matters of this kind--just like Robert.

Robert is an extraordinary man, and a brilliant one, and I'm glad he has befriended skeptical me.

Smart Little Bugger

2011-09-19T10:32:00.000-04:00

My grandson Colin, now about 13 months old, was at our house last evening with his Mom and Dad. I've hardly seen him the past couple weeks and was overjoyed to have him around. Having Colin around is no task for the faint of heart. He is a whirlwind of activity and he leaves you breathless trying to babyproof the house. He finds "trouble" where you hadn't anticipated it. We block off the stairs to the second floor of the house, but when we took him out the front door for a little walk outside, he promptly tried to walk down the three steps--as if he were on flat ground. He simply has no concept yet of a safe way to go down steps (some 20 years ago, Colin's Aunt Emily developed an approach of sliding down a stairs step-by-step, all the while saying, "Emmy go down backwards. Emmy go down backwards."). Colin go down forwards--and fall down!

After dinner we were viewing some of our recent photographs on the television screen when Colin discovered a tiny blue light that indicated the tv's on-off switch. Of course he turned it off. He is very very sharp with cause and effect, and he liked this effect. When I turned the tv back on, he immediately located the tiny blue light again, and turned it off.

Colin is a blast--so much fun. And the boy can wear you out chasing him, trying to keep him safe and sound!

Andy Nolan, Rest in Peace

2011-09-17T11:02:00.000-04:00

Andy Nolan, whose funeral mass is taking place right now, lived a short life, some 26 years, 1985-2011. He attended Chardon High School, served in Iraq in the Air Force, and had many friends who loved him.

"Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord. And perpetual light shine upon him." Bless his family and friends. Bring him into the light and love and peace of Heaven.

Denny and I Trick Our Dad

2011-09-15T10:30:00.001-04:00

"Don't Try this at Home!"

Dad sat at the dinette table, staring into his coffee in silence. Every day, after 9 hours at the Fisher Body factory, he sat there in perfect quietude, looking over the Plain Dealer.

Denny and I had a bright idea that summer afternoon in 1958. Let's make a dummy out of Denny's pants, shoes, and shirt, and hang it so that the feet are at Dad's eye level, just within his peripheral vision, as he sits there with his coffee and paper. "Let's see what he does," Denny said.

So we got to work, attaching sneakers to the pants' bottoms, stuffing the legs with paper, stuffing a shirt, then dangling this brilliant invention just within Dad's field of vision.

We were jigging this dummy up and down when suddenly we heard feet pounding on the stairs. In a flash Dad was standing behind us as we continued jigging the dummy. His face was red, eyes wide open. He was wheezing badly.

"What the hell are you doing?" he yelled.

We were speechless, dumbstruck. Finally I blurted out, "We were making a joke on you, Dad."

Dad unbuckled his belt, pulled it off . . . and taught us a painful lesson about scaring your Dad half to death.#

Colin's First Pitch--Lake County Captains

2011-09-04T23:25:00.001-04:00

My grandson, Colin Jude, made his first appearance in a professional baseball game today when he threw out the first pitch at a Lake County Captains baseball game. Colin seems to be ambidextrous at this point, throwing both right handed and left handed. His first pitch, from the southpaw side, was thrown at age 1 (OK, 54 weeks). It's thought that the pitch was a slider, about 5 miles per hour. If he can add 5 miles per hour every year until he is 20, he'll be throwing 100-miles-an-hour smoke by the year 2030.

At the game were Colin's parents, grandparents, Uncle Nicky Kleppel, and Fr. Tom Tifft, of Borromeo Seminary (in case we needed any divine intervention). There were also about 7 rabbis throwing out pitches--it was Jewish Heritage Day at the park. You think the Lord wasn't paying attention to this event?

Colin is the first Coughlin-relative to appear in a minor league game since Connie Coughlin, my grandfather and Colin's great great grandfather, played in the Three-I League around 1916 (I think my Grampa played for the Rockford, Illinois "Wakes" or "Rox").

Anne Lamott's book "Bird by Bird"

2011-09-01T10:05:00.002-04:00

If there's one book I would advise an aspiring writer to read, think about, laugh over, and reread, it would be Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life. I just read one of the early chapters in the book ("Getting Started") and in that chapter Anne writes: "Start with your childhood, I tell them. Plug your nose and jump in, and write down all your memories as truthfully as you can. Flannery O'Connor said that anyone who survived childhood has enough material to write for the rest of his or her life."

I have an amazing memory for my childhood years and have written many things about them. One provocative incident came to mind today and I've decided to write it down to see if it could go anywhere.

This incident happened around 4th or 5th grade at St. William's School in Euclid, circa 1958. It has just occurred to me that I'm afraid to write everything that happened--at least in a nonfiction context. There is one sensitive issue that still causes me pain, that I'm unwilling to reveal. Maybe that part of the story needs the mask that fiction provides. We'll see.[will continue]

Colin Jude: World's Youngest Bodhran Player

2011-08-31T09:04:00.000-04:00

My grandson, Colin Jude, appears to be the youngest bodhran (Irish drum) player this side of County Kerry.

Carolan's Adventure in Montana's Bob Marshall Wilderness

2011-08-28T12:58:00.007-04:00

For a day, my daughter Carolan was seemingly lost in "The Bob"--Montana's great and huge Bob Marshall Wilderness (a roadless tract of more than a million acres). This is the story as I know it right now. I'll add or change things as I find out the whole story.

I think it was this past Tuesday, August 23, 2011, when I talked to Carolan as she drove from Kalispell east on Rt. 2 to Hungry Horse, Montana. When she turned south onto the Forest Service road going past Hungry Horse Reservoir I said goodbye to her. At that point it was probably 1 PM.

Carolan then drove down the East Side Forest Service road of the long Hungry Horse Reservoir to the Spotted Bear Forest Service Cabin--I'm guessing she got there by 3 PM and talked to the people at the cabin about meeting up with her friends on a trail crew (I believe that 4 of her old friends are on that crew: Evan, Elisheba, Mark, and Barry). A ranger suggested a short cut for her to get to the crew: instead of walking the trail along the South Fork of the Flathead to Black Bear Cabin and then heading west on the south end of Picture Ridge Trail, she should immediately get on the steep northern head of Picture Ridge Trail near Sarah Peak and locate her friends' camp site just down that trail ("just down that trail" might be a 7 to 10 mile hike!). This would involve a vigorous uphill hike, but would save her maybe 8 miles and lots of time--possibly 2-3 hours. Beware of shortcuts! I believe we first learned that when we read fairy tales as children!

Meanwhile, the ranger sent a radio message that the crew on Picture Ridge Trail (east of Swan Peak and Inspiration Point) was going to get a surprise visitor. That visitor, Carolan, never showed up that night and was presumed lost in the wilderness. Every crew in The Bob heard that radio message--not just Carolan's friends. Would the idea of being "lost" embarrass Carolan? I don't know. Of course she never was totally lost; Jim Bridger and Broken Hand Tom Fitzpatrick were never totally lost. And anyway, The Bob is one of America's largest wildernesses, and anybody, even Bob Marshall himself, could be disoriented for a while in this huge area.

After talking to the people at the Forest Service cabin, Carolan drove her car down to the Meadow Creek trailhead and began her trek, hiking over the wooden pack bridge (see image above) that spans a deep, beautiful gorge. After walking a mile or two, she crossed over the wilderness boundary into The Bob. She finally came to what appeared to be Picture Ridge Trail (but things are rarely marked in The Bob--that's just accepted by everyone who goes there) and headed up, only to find it impassable because of fallen trees. Somehow, trying to get through the trees, she lost the trail and found herself hiking downhill--which seemed wrong to her. Finally she came to a river (South Fork of the Flathead) and crossed, with the water up to her belly. She was carrying a heavy backpack, with food, water, sleeping bag, and tent, and trying to keep from being swept away by the deep and rushing water. For the first time in a while, she was felt a twinge of fear and tried to think of what to do if she was swept away. Her first thought was to find a way to wiggle free of her pack. Luckily, she didn't need to do that, and was finally able to reach the other shore. Carolan started thinking about how alone she was and how close to disaster she had just come.

On the other side of the river, Carolan bushwhacked farther, not seeing any clear sign of a trail, and came to an area with steep cliffs on both sides--an impassable area. At times she was wading on the edge of the river, steep cliffs above her, and deep blue water below--a very dangerous situation.

After an hour or so, Carolan went back, retracing her steps, recrossed the South Fork, again up to her belly in the wild rushing water, and hiked all the way back to where she first got disoriented. This time she located Picture Ridge Trail and, very late in the day, raced up that steep and demanding trail. As it was getting toward sunset, she felt exhausted by all the hiking and all the danger and uncertainty of the day. She hiked until it was almost dark, but there was no sign at all of her old friends. Then, she made the decision to hike back to her car. So in the twilight, and then the dark, she hurried down the trail back to the Meadow Creek trailhead.

What to do now? Carolan decided to drive until she saw a place to camp. But after a while, seeing no place to camp and getting a bit freaked out by all the events of the day, she decided to drive back to Hungry Horse and get a motel.

It's a long, dark drive along the Hungry Horse Reservoir, but she had driven it many times. After about an hour and a half of driving, she got to Hungry Horse and located a motel. When she knocked on the door and awakened a caretaker, she got the bad news that a room would cost $120 per night--money that she didn't have. Carolan turned down the offer, and as she returned to her car the lady said, "I'll pray for you!" but at that moment, exhausted and discouraged, Carolan needed a room at a fair price, not a prayer.

Carolan then decided to drive all the way back to Kalispell and try to get a room at Motel 6. Finally, around midnight, she was able to secure a $60 room. She flopped onto the bed and fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.

The next day, renewed and re-energized, she drove back to Spotted Bear then Meadow Creek, where she notified the rangers that she was not indeed lost. And then Carolan headed down the east side trail of the South Fork of the Flathead (keeping away from the unmaintained west side trail), hiking some 10 miles or so to the Black Bear Cabin. There, she met her old friends, who rejoiced that she was OK, and not indeed lost in a million-acre wilderness.

And that is the story, as I have understood it, of Carolan's 2011 adventure in The Bob.#

There are a number of Youtube videos that show the South Fork of the Flathead.

Here's a beautiful one:

Here's another Youtube video of the South Fork of the Flathead. This one has some views of the steep and dangerous cliffs that Carolan encountered:

Colin's Tricks: Gestures and Signs

2011-08-19T10:41:00.000-04:00

My grandson Colin only speaks a few words that I can clearly identify--his words for Daddy, Mommy, and Grandma, sounding like /da da/, /ma ma/ and possibly /na na/. Sometimes he seems to call me, his Grampa, something like /ah jah/. Amazingly, he has a larger repertoire of gestures, including a couple that are very close to American Sign Language (his own dialect of ASL!). The video above shows many of these gestures and signs.

New Poem for my Grandson, Colin Jude

2011-08-16T22:55:00.000-04:00

Colin's "Word" for Love

“Gefuehl ist alles. Name ist Schall und Rauch.” (Goethe’s Faust)

--for my Grandson, Colin Jude

Feeling is what Colin Jude does.

He loves his Grandma Linda,

Curls his head into hers,

Leans into her body.

Colin at age one has just a few words,

Thinks that the names of things just might be smoke and mirrors.

Has not yet learned their precision or treachery,

Their poison or their poetry.

But he knows love.

I watch him lay his head on a pillow

Next to me, his Grampa. He snuggles

Head to head, feels the warmth and pulse

Of our lives together.

This baby, this toddler dances to my pennywhistle,

Pounds on my piano,

Plays—then prances—yes stands

Upon my bodhran, my Irish drum.

Cuisle mo chroí, pulse of my heart,

Mein Schaetzchen, mein Herz,

My heart, my heart!

[Bob Coughlin--August 16, 2011]

Notes:

1. The quote from Goethe’s Faust could be translated, “Feeling is everything. The name of things is but smoke and mirrors.”

2. “Cuisle mo chroí” is Irish Gaelic and means “pulse of my heart.”

3. “Mein Schaetzchen” is German for “my little treasure; “mein Herz” means “my heart.”

Full Tilt Boogie: My Grandson at One Year

2011-08-14T17:38:00.000-04:00

In a few days, my beautiful grandson Colin will be one year old. Yesterday and over night, Colin stayed at our house while his Mom and Dad went to a wedding. I'm so glad they trust Colin with us. All in all, we had a blast. And after a short rest--give or take a week--I'll be ready to do this again.

Colin has 2 speeds: full-tilt; and deep sleep. When he is up, he is up, alive, and at top speed. When he is asleep, the 4th of July fireworks wouldn't wake him.

Colin seems to be interested in everything and curious about everything. I take this to be a sign of intelligence. Of course this could also be taken as a sign that he will drive his parents and teachers crazy. Colin particularly loves music. He loves when I play guitar and claps his hands and dances along with my playing. He also likes my penny whistle playing and squealed along with a tune I played yesterday. He loves to sit at the piano and pound on the keys. Yesterday, he tried to use the piano as some sort of giant drum. He is already a master of the bodhran, my Irish drum. He plays it with the tipper or beater (a wooden drum banger)--which he also bangs on the piano and his doggy "brother," Sandy-the-Dachshund. He also likes to use my bodhran as a foot stool--and so far, the drum skin has withstood his jumping up and down on it.

I love this little guy. He has made my life so happy!

Trying to Imagine Carolan's Life in the Colorado Mountains

2011-08-12T10:39:00.000-04:00

I think a lot of failures in life are failures of imagination. That goes for my own life too!

Each day I try to imagine what my daughter Carolan's life is like--partially because it is so different from the mainstream and partly because she is so far away. Some time every day I try to look up the weather in a location near her. It's impossible to find a weather station at 11 or 12,000 feet off a trail in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains or the San Juan Mountains--so I look for the nearest town. Today, minutes ago, I checked the weather in Creede, Colorado, maybe 10 to 20 miles from her crew's tents (which I believe are near Trout Creek and the Continental Divide Trail in the Weminuche Wilderness and Rio Grande National Forest of Colorado). In Creede, at a measly 8820 feet above sea level, it was 40 degrees and clear, heading to 74 degrees Fahrenheit. Where Carolan lives, it might be much colder. I'm guessing it fell well below freezing last night at 10, 11 or 12,000 feet.

I also spend parts of my day looking at contour maps of Colorado, trying to imagine what the trails look like that she is working on. It doesn't look dramatically steep from the maps as I read them (though the elevation is impressive). I think she is currently below tree line, probably cutting, with her crosscut hand saw, downed aspen and ponderosa pine from long-neglected trails. She's also probably dealing with (moving or pulverizing with her "double jack") huge rocks on the trails as well as fixing trail drainage problems.

I know that Carolan and her crew wake up early, do stretching exercises, eat breakfast, and are soon at work. They probably spend some of their time every day locating and then filtering drinking water. Whatever they are doing, it's a long, hard day of work--maybe 10 hours of heavy physical labor, about 2 miles above sea level. With this intense level of work, do they have time to admire the beautiful mountain lakes and creeks? The stunning serrated peaks? Do they ever stop to marvel at the herds of elk and the other exotic wild animals at the top of the Rocky Mountains?

Every day these thoughts challenge my imagination.

What Does the Weminuche Wilderness Look Like?

2011-08-10T08:30:00.000-04:00

My daughter Carolan is working this hitch (with her Southwest Consevation Corps crew) in the Weminuche Wilderness in the Rio Grande National Forest. She's somewhere near Trout Creek and the Continental Divide. The nearest town (which is not really very close by) is Creede. I located a Youtube video in the Weminuche/Riuo Grande area:

As you will see, this area is wild and beautiful!

Reek Sunday and Lúnasa in Ireland

2011-08-09T11:28:00.002-04:00

A week and a half ago, on Sunday, July 31, thousands of pilgrims climbed the holy mountain called "Croagh Patrick" in County Mayo, Ireland. This last Sunday in July is called "Reek Sunday," and the holy mountain is popularly called "The Reek." Untold thousands climbed the mountain that day (estimates go up to 20,000!)--some climbed barefoot or on their knees. Legend has it that St. Patrick himself fasted on this mountain in the fifth century. I will climb this mountain next summer.

The very next day in Ireland and throughout the Celtic world, Lúnasa was celebrated--a pagan feast named after the Celtic god Lugh. The festival is still celebrated in places with bonfires and dancing, and god knows what else!

The Irish (like many others throughout the world) can hold together both their modern religion alongside the ancient pagan religion. A good trick that we humans are capable of! I know the Austrians could do this too when they celebrated Sonnwendtag, summer solstice, with bonfires atop the alps. I was involved with this back in 1968 on a mountain top outside the village of Matrei-am-Brenner.

Irish-Americans and the Famine in Africa

2011-08-08T23:15:00.003-04:00

Irish-Americans should immediately respond to the terrible suffering caused by the famine in Africa--especially in the area called the Horn of Africa: Somalia, Ethiopia, Kenya, Djibouti, and parts of Uganda. I say this because of our own heritage and experience with the Great Famine that led to the death of a million Irish and the emigration of another million--including strands of my own family. Much of the world (including many Englishmen) did virtually nothing to help the starving Irish. Some saw the famine almost as the "invisible hand" of Adam Smith. It was no invisible hand! The famine was man-made--we have learned. The potato blight might have been caused by mother nature (though even that is arguable); but the famine was man-made. And it could have been addressed and relieved by human action.

The Irish diaspora is spread wide around the world, with lots of Irish in England, Scotland, Australia, Canada, and the United States. These folks should open up their pocket books and help the starving in Africa.

We won't forget the "Drochshaol," the Terrible Time, the Great Hunger, and how so many in the world stood by idly as men, women, and children died by the hundred thousands.

It's not hard to find reliable institutions that will help address the famine in Africa. I have sent a donation to Catholic Relief Services, http://crs.org/.

Above, the Cleveland Irish Famine Memorial, on the East Bank of the Cuyahoga River, the area known as The Flats. Part of this memorial was designed by Lakeland Community College librarian and friend, Paula Blackman. Here's a link to a story on this memorial: http://www.clevelandpeople.com/groups/irish/irish-famine-memorial.htm.

Innsbrucker Reunion: Herr Gerrity und Herr Coughlin

2011-08-08T19:06:00.001-04:00

Mike Gerrity, Terry Morris, Linda, and I met for dinner last week at "11th Street Dockside" restaurant in Port Royal, South Carolina. I met Mike either at Notre Dame in 1966 or in Salzburg, Austria in 1967. We "studied" together (along with 34 other Notre Dame guys) in Salzburg and Innsbruck, Austria. Mike is a translator of German and Russian (and probably a half dozen other Slavic languages). He has the most interesting curriculum vitae that I know of (I think mine is pretty interesting too--but I wasn't ever (officially) a garbage man). Mike has worked on the hotline in the White House, has been a medic in the army, has picked up garbage in Berwyn Heights, Maryland, and for more than 20 years has translated the most complex scientific documents from Russian and German into English. Mike and his wife Terry are two of the best trivia players I know--and really, two of the smartest people I've ever known. They are also plain old-fashioned wonderful people and I am so privileged to know them.

Carolan's Southwest Conservation Corps Crew in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains

2011-08-08T11:32:00.001-04:00

Carolan writes, "It's from our most recent hitch on the Black Canyon Trail in the Sangres. Left to right, Sierra, Eric, me, Danielle, Baryl, Marcos, Evan. Brandon must be taking the picture."

Carolan's next hitch is in the San Juan Mountains, not far from Creede, Colorado, up Trout Creek Trail in the Weminuche Wilderness (Rio Grande National Forest).

Wild Mountain Lion in Connecticut!

2011-07-27T20:44:00.001-04:00

Yesterday I heard that a 140-pound wild mountain lion was killed on a highway by a SUV on June 11th in Milford, Connecticut. The cougar was a male, possibly looking for a mate. DNA shows it is the same animal spotted in Minnesota and Wisconsin and had the same genetics as the wild population of panthers in the Black Hills of South Dakota. In fact, it is believed that this very lion traveled some 1500 miles to Connecticut.

I remember that a wild panther was killed near the Chicago loop in 2008 (http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2008/04/080417-cougar-shot.html). Last month there were reports of cougar sightings near Canton, Ohio. You hear about such sightings from time to time--but they are almost always universally dismissed as impossibilities.

We rarely saw wildlife in Northeast Ohio as a kid. But in recent years, deer have almost become a plague in many Ohio cities and suburbs; I have seen flocks of 20 wild turkeys in my back yard; I have seen coyotes within the city of Mentor; I have seen two bald eagles flying about 50 feet over my head at Mentor Lagoons beach.

This is an amazing triumph of nature. Daniel C. Esty, commissioner of the Connecticut Department of Energy and Environmental Protection, has said, “The journey of this mountain lion is a testament to the wonders of nature and the tenacity and adaptability of this species. This mountain lion traveled a distance of more than 1,500 miles from its original home in South Dakota – representing one of the longest movements ever recorded for a land mammal and nearly double the distance ever recorded for a dispersing mountain lion.”

This link from ABC.com has the story and a video of the dead mountain lion:
http://abcnews.go.com/US/conn-mountain-lion-made-long-journey-south-dakota/story?id=14169829

Climbing Ireland's Holy Mountains

2011-07-26T16:28:00.004-04:00

Next summer I intend to climb two of Ireland's holy mountains, Mount Brandon (in Irish-Gaelic, Cnoc Bréanainn), the holy mountain of St. Brendan on the Dingle Peninsula of County Kerry; and Croagh Patrick (in Irish-Gaelic, Cruach Phádraig), the holy mountain of St. Patrick near the County Mayo town of Westport.

Below is a youtube video of the climbing of Croagh Patrick on "Reek Sunday," the last sunday of July--an old Irish tradition:

The two holy mountains are not high by Rocky Mountain standards. Croagh Patrick is 2507 feet in elevation; Mount Brandon is 3123 in elevation. The highest mountain peak in Ireland, Carrauntouhil, is only 3406 feet. But these mountains look impressive from below, and they will offer me a considerable challenge considering my age and conditioning.

When I climb Croagh Patrick I will keep in mind that plenty of very old ladies climb it--and some climb it barefoot, as a form of penance. I am competitive enough that I won't quit the climb if I see a little old barefoot lady next to me persisting up to the church atop Croagh Patrick!

Carolan Working in the Black Canyon, Sangre de Cristo Mountains

2011-07-25T11:35:00.000-04:00

Today, after a well-deserved 4 day rest, my daughter Carolan leads her crew back into the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, this time on the Black Canyon trail. This trail is not too far from the town of Villa Grove, and in sight of Cottonwood Peak (13, 588 feet) http://www.summitpost.org/cottonwood-peak/151598

Amazingly there are videos on http://www.youtube.com/ of this area. Here's one: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LpU99pxF_DE

There's another one of someone climbing Crestone Needle. Carolan worked on a trail leading to that peak some weeks back. Here's a link to that video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cbGMU2lZFCI&feature=related This is one incredible mountain!

Presque Isle, near Erie, PA--Great Place on a Hot Summer Day!

2011-07-23T09:56:00.000-04:00

Yesterday the high temperature in Cleveland was 95 degrees, with high humidity; the day before 97 (my car thermometer hit 104!). These are among the hottest days ever recorded in the Cleveland area. We have had some summers when there were no, or very few, days in the 90's, so this summer is extraordinary.

Luckily, we have a gigantic lake right here, Lake Erie, one of the wonders of the world. And yesterday we traveled 80 miles east along the shore of the Big Lake to an amazing place, the peninsula called "Presque Isle," just north of the city of Erie, Pennsylvania. If my French studies of long ago can still be trusted, "Presque Isle" means "almost an island." The peninsula is about 6-8 miles in length, with miles of biking and hiking trails, 13 tremendous beaches, uncounted ponds, lakes, bays, and swamps. At its tip is a monument to Commodore Oliver Hazard Perry, the hero of the 1813 Battle of Lake Erie. From that point you can see the town of Erie, about a mile across Presque Isle Bay. In the summer there are dozens of sailboats and power boats in view. In the winter . . . well, you don't want to know. Let's just say that Commodore Perry's crew gave the name to "Misery Bay" during the hard winter of 1813-14 for a reason.

Yesterday we encamped at Beach 10, known as "Budny Beach" (after Pat Budny, a 17-year-old boy who swam from Long Point, Ontario to this beach back in 1975). The water was wonderful and really cooled us down. This was the perfect place to be on a hot day on the northern coast of the United States.

Here's a link to Wikipedia's article on Presque Isle State Park:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Presque_Isle_State_Park

Southwest Conservation Corps Members--Tough Hombres!

2011-07-21T11:18:00.002-04:00

There are not many young Americans (outside military members and others serving in Iraq and Afghanistan and similar places) who work harder than the members of groups like the Southwest Conservation Corps, the Montana Conservation Corps, and similar groups working on the wildernesses, national forests, and national parks throughout our country.

My daughter Carolan is one of those people, a crew leader for a Southwest Conservation Corps working in the Sangre de Cristo Wilderness in Colorado. Carolan, her co-leader, and her crew work 9 straight days in the wilderness, a tenth day back in Salida town, and then get 4 days off to rest and recuperate from their tough hitch. They live in tents in the wilderness, carry all their food and tools on their backs, secure their water from mountain streams, and do hard, physical work for 10 hours per day maintaining and repairing the mountain wilderness trails. Often this means swinging a double-jack (double heavy sledge hammer) all day long, pounding large rocks into smaller rocks. Because of wilderness regulations, they do not use power tools--this is pure human power and ingenuity at work. I don't think that one of 100 American youth could (or would be willing to) do this work.

On Carolan's last hitch, one member had a personal crisis, a bear got into their "bear hang" and stole some of their food, and they were belted by a vicious mountain hail storm. Despite all these difficulties, this SCC crew managed to get their trail work done. It's no wonder they were exhausted walking out of the wilderness this past Tuesday. I bet they are looking forward to a steak, a cold beer, and a comfortable bed!

These are amazing amazing young people--among the best our country has to offer. And I salute all of them!

Below are a couple of the hand tools used in the wilderness, the "double jack" and the "pulaski." The double jack breaks up large rocks, which can really hurt horses on the wilderness trails. Pulaskis serve many purposes, but are really good at cutting roots and digging through dirt.

There's a Wikipedia entry on the pulaski tool: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pulaski_(tool).
There are images on the Southwest Conservation Corps' website that show crews maintaining trails with these and similar tools: http://sccorps.org/

I located a cartoon illustrating a "bear hang" here: http://www.trailspace.com/articles/2009/10/07/book-review-bear-essentials.html. Apparently a smart bear can outsmart even these bear hangs!

"Verweile doch! Du bist so schoen!" Faust, Crested Butte, and Me

2011-07-20T09:24:00.002-04:00

While at Crested Butte, Colorado a couple weeks ago (one of the prettiest places on earth), a thought like a streak of lightning jolted through my mind: "Verweile doch! Du bist so schoen!" That is the old utterance from the mouth of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe's Faust. It means something like, "Please stay . . .you are so beautiful!" And in Goethe's play it was the signal for the Devil to come and try to collect Faust's soul. Faust thought that if he ever felt totally happpy and satisfied that his life would no longer be worth living, that his soul would be dead. So he agreed with the Devil that expressing that kind of satisfaction would be the signal to collect his soul and hurl it into hell.

For a moment in Crested Butte, I felt that way. There with Linda and my daughter Carolan and friends Jan and Dick. High up in the Rocky Mountains. Wildflowers in full spectacular bloom. High peaks still covered by snow fields. Emerald Lake, Cottonwood Lake, Lake Irwin--spectacular alpine lakes. Faust's seductive thought entered my mind.

Top photo, Linda and Carolan in Salida, Colorado. Bottom, Bob at Emerald Lake, near Schofield Pass, north of Crested Butte.