My Brother's Journal

I think my desire to write comes quite naturally.  My paternal grandmother often wrote prose and poetry, as does my dad.  My mother writes, too; Lovely words expressing moments in time, and feelings.  What I didn't know is  what a good writer my brother was.  Perhaps, the  best writer in our family.   That was a delightful discovery I  made this past weekend.

Although Walt lived in St. Louis, he stored many of his things at our mother's home, including a mid size duffel bag. Whenever he came to visit he'd go into  the garage to check on his  stuff, and would  point to the duffel bag telling  mom he didn't want her to ever toss it out, but didn't want her to open it.  She never did. It became kind of a family joke - "What the heck could Walt have in that bag, and why was he so secretive about it ?"  Mom would just shrug her shoulders and say, " I don't know, but your brother told me not to get into it, and I'm not going to."

That changed on Sunday.  Since my brother has been gone almost a year, I told our mother it was time to open the bag.  So that's what we did. No hundred dollar bills or rare coins, something much more meaningful - greeting cards and letters from family and friends , mostly dated from the mid to late 1980's - some from the early 1990's .   There were business cards from places Walt worked at while he lived in Phoenix, and lots of pens and pencils.  Then from the bottom of the bag, I lifted a file folder filled with a stack of papers. I saw immediately  it was   Walter's printing, and to my great, happy  surprise found he had kept a journal of sorts.  What a wonderful gift.  His thoughts, his words in his own writing . My eyes opened wide, I excitedly called out, "Mom, look ! Walt wrote these " , then began to read aloud:


by Walter Cooney

#1

What is it 
when they say, " I was touched by love"
I see love in her eyes every 
time I look into them
and when she talks I hear
love in  my ears, when we kiss
I can taste her love 
on my lips, but when I hold
her tight in bed, it's more 
than love, it's two
becoming one.

#2
This is it. The last day.
I have not seen everything there 
is to see, and I do not know 
what every man should know.  My
love for people is enormous, and love
for life even more. But this is it. 
 I ask myself, Where does a man go 
when there's no where to go?
Nothing left to be done
I don't know

# 3

My dad. He must be the smartest man in the world; the smartest man I know.  I could learn so much
from him. His fault is he will not listen to what I have to say, or give me a chance to raise my own opinion.
My mother is my Best Friend. I would , all though I can't talk to her all the time the way I want too.  Mom is always there trying to help me - like no one else. Never once can I remember mom saying, "Walt, you can't do it", or you won't make it. And the same goes for my sister, Kathy - I can't think of anything I am afraid of,
except going to my grave without my mother- sister- father knowing how I love them.


This last one brought tears to our eyes.  In that moment I wished with all my might Walt could be sitting there in that room with us. I wanted to hug my brother,  and tell him we did know how much he loved us, and to say,   "please Walt, always know how very much Mom, Dad and me love you".

                                                                         #


postscript:  These were just a few samples from Walt's journal.  Some of the writing will remain private as he would want it that way, some  I may share from time to time, as I want others to read his words to  see what a good writer he was...  his poems and essays  both  heartwarming and heart wrenching -    presenting a better picture of himself  during that time  than any camera shot ever could.  

*** To read my blog WRITE ON, WRITERS!  and more about my brother's journal please link to
http://writingnorthidaho.blogspot.com/2011/04/write-on-writers.html

Oh Spring, Where Art Thou ?

A few days ago I wrote a tiny poem about spring  for the Idaho Writers League (IWL) newsletter:

Spring is sunshine,
warmer days and
flowers ready to bloom,
budding trees, blue sky
and birds crooning
their early morning
song, sweet song


But I must have been delusional, or perhaps just hopeful, because there is no spring here.  Not in north Idaho. No warm, sunny days or tulips on the rise. Only

Grey clouds, a charcoal colored sky
rain and wind
slashing, bashing
through the trees,
crashing against the house
Muddy, ruddy earth
soggy ground -
too wet to be outside,
even the deer are hiding.
Where is Spring?
The sunshine and flowers
to lift ones spirit
from the drab freeze of  winter


I don't know, but please
Spring, get here soon.

March 17

Comin' from the Irish (Cooney on me father's side, Norton on me mother's),
I honor the great  St. Padraic  by
 prayin'  his Lorica:

(I arise today
Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,
Through a belief in the threeness,
Through a confession of the oneness
Of the Creator of Creation),

and  by  wearin' of the green
I  fancy the  wee fairies
and sprite like leprechaun , enjoy a   pint of Guinness
and ancient  Celtic song
I wear the Shamrock proudly
and carry me rosary beads
I'm cookin' Irish stew
and bakin' soda bread
I listen to Irish music

while dancin' an Irish jig

Land of the Rising Sun

i lay on my bed
comfortable and warm
A lamp sits on the nightstand -
bright enough to cast a warm,
shadowy glow across the room; Light
enough for me to read a book
and write my journal pages.
Tonight i think of those
without even a blanket,
let alone a bed
without electricity
or toilet to flush
their crumpled earth
and washed out land
of broken lives,
and loved ones lost -
the people of Japan
Then  i cry,
and hope
and pray
the Rising Sun
will  shine  again

Ashes

 For many Christians Ash Wednesday is  the start of Lent, the forty days prior to Easter when the church  calls us  to reflect upon,  and contemplate more deeply the passion of Christ and   His sacrificial,  redeeming grace ; His  unconditional love for all mankind. For  Catholic Christians, we   are reminded of our own mortality when the priest uses  the sacramental,  blessed  ashes  to mark our forehead in the Sign of the Cross.

Father Jerry,  in his homily tonight made  it very clear about life and death, and   what  really matters. He told about those on the fated flights of 9/11, and how the record shows  many of the  passengers,  knowing they were going to die in a matter of minutes  used their cell phones to call loved ones to say, " Forgive me,  "I'm sorry" and " I love you".  

That sums it up pretty good,  doesn't it ? In the end, when our life on this earth is near over,  it doesn't  matter how much money we have, how famous we are, how educated,  political  or intellectual  we are; What matters most  is how we have loved, and  how we're  loved in return.

Thumbnail Drive

Since my brother's death last May, I'm thankful Kerri and I have remained close.  We text and  talk about television programs and movies we both watch; We talk  about the  weather, work, and other happenings of the day, and  in between  remember  Walt. The thumbnail drive Kerri sent arrived in the mail today.

I hear his voice

and see his face

throwing a Frisbee to his 

dog B

He looks like I remember him,

and acts like he always did;

Unpretentious and jovial,

having fun with life.

If only I could reach out 

to touch his arm,

stand by his side

and throw the Frisbee, too
and laugh together like
we used to do

(But my little  brother
 isn't here, not
 of this world,
 not anymore near;  So I slide
the mouse to  move the cursor
on the screen,  and click 'replay' -
then I see  the blue
of his eyes,  his smile,
and charming style  over and
 over again)

Snow, Seasons, Missy & Spring

Okay.  So I was wrong last week to pack away my snow shoes, winter pants and poles thinking spring was just around the corner.  I had been  fooled by  mild weathered  days,  and sunshine.  Not today. The calendar says March first, but it feels a lot more like January one.   No sun.  No puffy, fluffy cotton like clouds. No hint of blue sky.  Only grey and cold and lots of white - covering the ground like a blanket on a bed.  I'm beginning to think spring in north Idaho might not arrive until summer!  But I'm adaptable.   So once again, out come the snow shoes, poles and winter pants.  I whistled for Missy dog and off we went to forge a path across knee high snow.

 Missy enjoys being outside as much as I do.  Sometimes she takes off to cut her own trail, but when snow is deep, like today,  she  follows  behind me in the ruts I've made packing the snow down with my Yukon Jack's.   I pause and stop along the way to look up and around, awed by the total quiet and beauty of this place.  I offer a prayer of praise, thanking God for seasons and snow and  know when I take this walk in May, I  will think again of the beauty of the season, thankful for spring - warm, sunny days, and flowers in bloom.

Snow Cover

Snow covered deer
snow covered trees
snow covered mountains
snow covered streams
snow covered snow shoes
snow covered me;
Stuck in snow
trying to get back
to a snow covered house
on a snow covered path

A February Day

Quiet, alone (but not lonely)
i sit and watch out the window
as a billion, zillion
tiny ice flakes
fall gently  from the sky
drifting downward,
downward
steady and slow
to change the landscape
and color of earth
from drab winter brown
to white winter snow

The King's Speech and Hiawatha

The popular and acclaimed movie, The King's Speech has been nominated for 12 Academy Awards, and is surely a favorite among movie goers  to win the top prize. But   more than being  just a good drama with  fine acting,   the story speaks to us on so many levels about  honor, duty, loyalty, royalty, the common man, perseverance, family and friendship.

We come to admire both men, King George VI and Lionel Logue;  Recognizing  they are  decent and good.

While I was  already  familiar with King George VI and his place in history , I knew nothing of Lionel Logue.  Upon further reading   I was fascinated to learn Logue  became interested in elocution only after reading Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's renowned epic, The Song of  Hiawatha . I couldn't help but feel a little proud knowing the great American poet was held in high esteem by the Australian Logue.   According to his biographer, Logue was entranced by the words,   and  rhythm of Hiawatha  - they seemed to leap out of the page at him.

When I discovered    The Song of   Hiawatha   inspired Logue  in such a big way, it  was like standing on a springboard,  and I jumped  from one book to another.   I began reading the verses of  Hiawatha aloud, and found it pleasant and enjoyable, that I liked and understood the story better.   And like Logue, I  became entranced with the words, and the rhythm of Hiawatha:

Of all beasts he learned the language,
Learned their names and all their secrets,
How the beavers built their lodges,
Where the squirrels hid their acorns,
How the reindeer ran so swiftly,
Why the rabbit was so timid,
Talked with them whene'er he met them,
Called them ," Hiawatha's Brothers."


In a funny way, one  might say it was  The King's Speech,  George VI, and Lionel Logue that  lead  me to Henry Wadsworth  Longfellow and The Song of Hiawatha.  In another way,  one could also say,  it was  Longfellow who lead Logue to George VI and the King's speech .

Valentine's Day

 Red roses
and chocolate hearts
whispered words,
tender and sweet
i speak to you, alone
my dear one
my darling one
like a lingering melody
from a favorite song,
'Be mine'
'Forget-me-not'
my forever  Valentine

WIND

Away out here
they got a name
for rain, and wind and fire
The rain is Tess, the fire, Joe 
and they call the wind Mariah

(Alan Jay Lerner from  Paint Your Wagon 1959)


All through the night, into early morn
sleep eluded me
as a  whipping,  swishing sound -
the howling of the wind
swirled and  twirled  through  trees;
thrashing, bashing, crashing
against  window panes and hardieplank
 like the constant roar
of stormy waves pounding
a  sandy shore

Me and My Shadow

I'm sure glad that famous little groundhog, Punxsutawney Phil didn't see his shadow today, indicating an early spring,  because I did see mine, and for awhile was concerned it might mean a longer winter for us folks here in north Idaho. Not that seeing my shadow, or not seeing my shadow has ever been any kind of bell weather, that's for the groundhog to forecast every February 2, so why I would be concerned I don't know.  Perhaps it was just  the day after day of January cold and skies shaded gray that cast a gloomy mood and makes me long for the light of the sun, a more temperate temperature, and the color blue

 

Words to Song

I have a collection of favorite  vinyl albums I  enjoy listening to on my vintage   turntable when I'm doing chores around the house,  sitting at the PC, or  on our well worn  wingback chair doing nothing.   Some  I play over and over, like today with Frank, Ella and Bing. Besides their voice and style,  I like the music and words they sing.  Especially the songs with words by Lorenz Hart, Irving Berlin, Cole Porter, Gershwin, Mercer, Sondheim (and so many more).  I'm awed and amazed at the flow of their lyrics; the phrasing and prose.

I've heard some say, " The lyric is nothing  without the music",  but  one can  also pose,  "What is the music without the words?"   Yes. Yes. Of course,    many songs  are beautifully arranged as  instrumentals only,  helping to sooth the soul and lift the spirit,  and  I appreciate those arrangements greatly, but  suggest even when listening to the' instrumental only'  arrangement, what pops into your mind are the words !

A perfect example of   a great  lyricist's  poetic flare  is   Johnny Mercer's " I Remember You" :

'When my life is through,
And the angels ask me to recall
The thrill of them all,
Then I shall tell them
I remember you'

or Hart's - any of Hart's - "Mountain Greenery", There's a Small Hotel" , I Could Write a Book", " I Didn't Know What  Time It Was", "My Funny Valentine", "Blue Moon" :

'And then there suddenly appeared before me,
the only one my arms will ever hold
I heard somebody whisper, "Please adore me",
and when I looked,
the moon had turned to gold.'

And the more contemporary Paul Simon:

'When you're weary, feelin' small,
When tears are in your eyes,
I'll dry them all;  I'm on your side.
Oh, when times get rough,
And friends just can't be found
Like a  bridge
over troubled water
I will lay me down.'

Song words. Poetic words. Beautifully written  words. Not just for a time, but timeless .

1.26.2011

This day:
books to read
songs to sing
a walk outside
dreams to dream
letters to write
a kind word said
prayers to pray
love to give

More Than Words and Paint

I find that words, as wonderful as they are, can't always describe true beauty, intense feeling  or a heart overflowing with marvelous joy.
Even the artist, while being able to paint the scene of a wooded landscape, seascape , or mountain lake with just the right shadows and hue can't completely translate what one experiences  when witnessing such an awesome, spectacular view.
 A feeling so sublime;  Perfectly at peace,  tranquil.   The spirit within is lifted higher, enriching the soul.  If even for a moment, allowing   one to  grasp the sure  knowledge,  God's grace abides.

The Written Word

Email and texting can be quick and immediate - depending if the recipient replies within a  minute, and while  most of us today would be lost without  internet connection,   and checking our e-messages  every day, I still think there's  something special about receiving a hand written note in the U.S. Mail , or card from a friend wishing you well.

The other day  I read educators in some districts are no longer going to teach  cursive writing in school. In my opinion, a sad change in curriculum.   I remember my own grade school years and thought about the dedicated   nuns and how they placed such  importance on their students  learning good  penmanship. Besides being  a discipline in perseverance , we were learning a skill  - knowing how to write our thoughts  would allow  us to communicate in another away. Everyday we  would practice writing letters of the alphabet, then whole words , and eventually full sentences over and over until it met with Sister's approval.

I then thought about the handwritten letters  and journals throughout history - many of them  held sacred , displayed   in museums and other great archives - letters of popes, poet, kings, queens, presidents and layman describing their place and time in the world.  Not only  do they tell us of a particular  era, but also   a part of  who they were are preserved in the actual writing of their own words, in their own hand.

Finally, I thought about letters and notes written to me by  those I know and have known, those  I   love  and hold dear - some  no longer on this earth. To  re-read  their  words written  personally to me brings a smile to my face and  joy to my heart. In their hand written word, a part of them still near.

Winter

Winter has fallen
upon my spirit
like it covers
the earth; Cold
and bleak
Dark days, darker nights
i search  the light of the sun.
Nature's music - a babbling
brook, the bird's sweet song
remain silent, still.
For how long?
Until seasons change
and Spring comes again

Kindle v.s. Print

The Kindle, Nook,and iPad are all the rage with readers today. In an on-line article dated December 28, 2010 the guardian.co.uk reported "Amazon e-book sales overtake print for the first time".  Wow !  That is  impressive.   In September when my friend Sandy C. and I traveled  to California ,   I thought I might want  one, too, and  even  considered putting it on my Christmas wish list, especially after a fellow passenger was gracious enough to show us her Kindle, allowing  us to  hold it up close and personal.   She  took great delight in telling us about the benefits of an e-reader - including free downloads -depending on author and story, and its many other fine features.  One of those attributes, the passenger pointed out, "No more stacks of books laying around the house."   After hearing so many positive things about the Kindle, I was ready to sign on.

But when I got home and walked into the study and saw all the books lining my shelves, I  began re- thinking  the e-reader vs print book .  I wondered  about city libraries and those row upon rows of titles and authors so carefully cataloged. What would happen to all those books?   Will our libraries now be changed to 'downloading' centers?    Then I thought  about inscriptions, and underlining and jacket covers.   Some folks , like me,   highlight  a sentence or phrase  with a marker because it touches our spirit in some particular way, and we want to find it again to read and re-read.   Not possible with an e-reader. And most importantly,  how does one inscribe something special  to another when giving an e-reader for a gift.  Can't be done.

Just this past Christmas my  son received a print book from his grandparents in Florida.   His Grandma Susie waited in line for six hours to purchase "Decision Points" and have it signed by the  former President of the United States, George W. Bush.  Gavin's Grandpa Cooney  took the time and effort to write a note describing the purchase of this book , where and when.  My  dad  wrote on the inside cover, " A piece of history, Grandpa Cooney".

I began looking at other books on my shelf.  Some with inscriptions from life long  friends, Susan and Phyllis. Others  from my mother, and grandmothers.  One book , " I've Got to Talk to Somebody, God"  by Marjorie Holmes dated 1974  is  from my brother, Walt. On the inside cover he wrote, " To my sis Kathy on her 1st Trip Abroad.  Luv Walt. Good Luck. hurry home.  As soon as possible, o.k. Sis.  Love Always .  The First of Many. (over)   Kathy, read 115 when you're on the airplane"

Walt knew I was afraid of flying, the words he chose to underline gave me great comfort then,  and  continue to  touch my heart deeply, especially now  since he passed away last May. The words he wrote to me in 1974 will continue to speak to me, as my dad's words will to Gavin - into the future.  One big advantage an e-reader doesn't have.

Advent - A New Beginning

Advent.  The four weeks prior to Christmas, now  once again  drawing to an end, but  leading to a  new beginning.   A season when we anxiously await, anticipate  something bright and beautiful.  Something bigger than ourselves. The birth  of our Lord and Savior. We plan  and prepare  with daily prayer for our hearts to be renewed , restored, reborn. We  decorate our homes with lights and  trim a tree and wrap packages for friends and family all in celebration of the one who is to come: "Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. Lord of Lords, King of Kings. Immanuel."  Christmas morn  we can  envision  and almost hear the choir of Angels  singing,  " Gloria, gloria  in Excelsis Deo".  Filled with awe,  we humble ourselves by  bending  a knee and  bow  our head  to praise God , giving   Him thanks  for His gift of perfect love.