The Five Stages of Grief

Many years ago, when I was a social worker back in Indiana, I attended a seminar on death and dying conducted by a student of Dr. Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, the world-renowned psychiatrist who introduced the concept of five stages of grief.

According to Dr. Kübler-Ross, when you are facing either your own death or the death of a loved one, you commonly go through five stages: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. A wonderful example of this is the scene near the end of Bob Fosse’s semi-autobiographical film, All That Jazz, where director Joe Gideon, played brilliantly by Roy Scheider, acts out each of the five stages prior to accepting his own death.

Not everyone goes through all of the stages, and not everyone experiences them in the same order. Also, the five stages do not apply only to death. They can be applied to any traumatic loss: divorce, the loss of a job—even a Super Bowl loss, as anyone from Buffalo can tell you.

I think you see where I'm going with this.

This week, Loretta and I have been struggling to come to grips with the fact that the next President of the United States will be Donald J. Trump. For two life-long Democrats, this has been terribly difficult. (Let’s face it; it’s been difficult for many Republicans.) Since the election, we have both been working through Kübler-Ross’s stages of grief. It’s been a rough week, and neither of us is anywhere near the fifth stage yet.

Stage 1: Denial

We did not watch the election unfold on any of the major networks or cable news channels. Instead we watched Stephen Colbert’s coverage on Showtime—because, you know, we thought if anyone could make election night fun, it would be Stephen Colbert.

Boy, were we wrong.

As the results came in, the look of horrified disbelief on Colbert’s face mirrored our own. Like us, he was in denial. The frivolity began to seem forced. The jokes began to fall flat. By the end of the show, Colbert, his guests, and his audience were close to tears, but we had not quite reached that stage yet. We were at…

Stage 2: Anger

We turned off the TV and tried to go to sleep, but sleep would not come. My mind kept going back to something I had seen on the Internet earlier that day: a picture of Donald Trump with that smug smirk on his face—you know the one I’m talking about—and the caption, “Trump reminds me of my dad! He tells it like it is, and that’s what my dad always did.”

How dare they compare Donald Trump to my father!

My father was a kind, wise, honorable man, a man who always tried to see the best in people, a gentleman in every sense of the word. He would have been appalled at our new president-elect: a narcissistic, unprincipled demagogue who ran his campaign based on a toxic mixture of fear, anger, and hatred. A man endorsed by the KKK and the American Nazi Party, for God’s sake! If Trump's supporters really did have fathers like that—well, I felt sorry for them. They must have had truly horrible childhoods. But that did not entitle them to force such a father on the rest of us.

How dare they!

I got out of bed, went to the computer, found the picture, and posted it on Facebook, accompanied by a somewhat incoherent rant. I later regretted this a little, but not much. It was nothing compared to what some people were posting.

Stage 4: Depression

(Yes, I realize I skipped stage 3. We’ll get to it later. Remember how I said they could be experienced in any order?)

I spent the day after the election in a stupor of exhaustion and depression, occasionally interrupted by flashes of anger. It helped that friends, relatives, and a couple of coworkers were experiencing the same feelings. It did not help that others were positively gleeful.

I don’t recall rubbing any noses in it when Obama was elected.

Stage 3: Bargaining

On Thursday, I started seeing the Facebook posts: “Already Enough Evidence to Impeach Trump” (surely a record, considering he’s not even actually president yet), “Sign Petition to Force Electoral College to Vote for Clinton,” “Sign Petition to Abolish Electoral College,” “Sign Petition to Demand California’s Secession.” (Dear God, please do not let California be that state—the spoiled, whiny brat that has a tantrum when it doesn’t get its way, the Texas of this election.)

Personally, I skipped the bargaining stage. What good does it do? If we could somehow wave a magic wand and take the presidency away from Trump, it would only add more fuel to the fear, anger, and hatred of his followers. We might even end up in another civil war.

No, best to keep working toward…

Stage 5: Acceptance

As I said, Loretta and I haven’t made it there yet. I dare say neither have any of the other millions of Americans who voted for Hillary Clinton—hundreds of thousands more Americans than voted for Trump.* But that’s okay. We have a right to take as much time as we need with the five stages. We even have a right to go back to a stage we thought we were done with. (Personally, I keep returning to stage two.) We don’t have to listen to anyone tell us to “get over it” or “suck it up.” Hell, most Republicans steadfastly refused to “suck it up” through all eight years of Obama’s presidency.

We must allow ourselves to grieve, but we must not allow ourselves to be afraid, because as a much wiser person than I once said: “Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering.” (Yes, it was Yoda, and yes, I'm a huge nerd.)

I know what you’re thinking: "Easy for you to say. As a heterosexual white male, you've got nothing to worry about. In Trump's America, you're gold." Well, I do worry. I worry about my non-heterosexual, non-white, non-male friends. I know that many of them are feeling terribly uneasy in the wake of an election that seemingly validated a segment of the population that hates them solely based on their gender, sexual identity, or color of their skin.

But please know that the vast majority of Americans are not like that. Please know that the vast majority of Americans have got your back. (And yes, that even includes many Americans who voted for Trump.)

Take heart, and always remember those immortal words inscribed in large friendly letters on the cover of the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy:

DON’T PANIC.

Footnote

* If you're not an American, this probably makes no sense to you, but we don't elect our president directly. Instead we use a convoluted system called an Electoral College. (I know. It doesn't make sense to a lot of us, either.)

Life, Death, and Art

A long time ago, back in the last century, I used to write stories. Back then there were publications called “small press magazines,” and an unpublished writer had a chance (a very slim chance, granted, but a chance) of having a story accepted by one of them. As a matter of fact, one of my stories was accepted by one of them. Unfortunately, the magazine went out of business immediately after I signed the contract. I took this as a sign and gave up writing stories.

But now there’s this thing called The Internet, where I can publish anything I want, and anyone in the world can read it. Of course, hardly anyone in the world will read it, and I won’t get paid a cent for it. But guess what? Hardly anyone read small press magazines, and most of them didn’t pay a cent either.

Below is the first new story I have written in decades. It’s a ghost story, but it’s not all that scary. It’s a humorous story, but it’s not all that funny. I’m not a very good judge of my own writing, but it’s probably not all that good either.

In fact, I can think of no earthly reason why you should read it, other than the fact that it won’t cost you a cent.

The Artful Transition

“Nature is a Haunted House - but Art - a House that tries to be haunted.”
—Emily Dickinson

Perhaps it was because Edward was dying that he could see the ghosts.

Yes, that must be it. The last time he had been in the museum—when was it? at least a year ago—he had been healthy. There were no ghosts then. And now, only a year later, he was dying. That’s the way it was with cancer.

And now there were ghosts.

They were everywhere—strolling through the galleries, pausing to look at paintings, sometimes occupying the same space as the living visitors. In fact, that was how Edward noticed them. It’s impossible for two people to occupy the same space, he said to himself, unless at least one of them is a ghost. (There was also the fact that their clothes were out of date and from different periods, but that meant nothing. People who frequent art museums often dress oddly.)

He made up his mind to speak to one. He followed it until, except for a sleeping security guard, the two of them were alone in a gallery. Edward was fairly certain it was a ghost, having observed it walk through a bench, a potted palm, and the aforementioned security guard. There was also the fact that it was dressed very much like the lady in the Gainsborough portrait it appeared to be studying.

“Er…excuse me,” Edward said.

The ghost did not reply.

“Excuse me, madam, but am I right in supposing that you are dead?”

The ghost turned from the Gainsborough. “Were you speaking to me?” it asked.

“Er…yes.”

“I’m sorry. It's just that I’m not used to being spoken to by the living. Generally, they ignore us. I was under the impression they could not see the transitioned.”

“Transitioned?”

“The preferred term for persons who have made the transition from life to death. And yes, to answer your first question, I am one such person.”

“‘Transitioned,’” said Edward, savoring the word. “I like that. The fact is, I have recently begun my own transition. My doctor tells me I have only a week or two to live. I supposed that was why I was able to see you—and the others.”

“Ah!” said the ghost. “One foot in the grave, so to speak.”

“Yes. I must admit that I was surprised to see so many of you. Have that many people actually died here? It must be a very unlucky place.”

“On the contrary!” said the ghost. “Oh, a few of the transitions were accidental, I suppose, but most were quite intentional.”

“Intentional! You mean suicides?”

“We prefer the term ‘planned transition.’”

“But why on earth…?”

“Some of us were ill, like you. Others were simply tired of living. In either case, we chose to die here because we love art.”

“Speak for yourself,” said the security guard irritably. Apparently, he had been awakened by their conversation. Also apparently, he was a ghost.

“One of the accidental ones,” said the Gainsborough lady.

“Heart attack,” said the security guard, “And I wish to God it had happened at the pub.”

“As I was saying,” said the ghost, “Most of us chose to die here. After all, if you are an art lover, what better place to haunt than a museum?”

“I see,” said Edward. “But how can you be sure you will stay behind? Don’t most people simply pass over?”

“The best way is to leave some unfinished business—the idea being that something that under ordinary circumstances might keep you awake at night, in the end might keep you awake for eternity. In my case, I neglected to pay my milliner for the last hat she she made me—the one I'm wearing, as a matter of fact. According to the rules, as long as the bill goes unpaid I must stay here."

"But surely your milliner must be dead by now."

"It doesn't matter. All that matters is that the bill was never paid."

"Supposing someone else were to pay it?"

"Ah, now that would be a problem. It helps to have no heirs. One unfortunate fellow was only here a few days. He was taking his time, because naturally he thought he had an eternity. He had barely gotten through the Renaissance when his heirs paid all his debts, and poof!—he was gone. You can just imagine his disappointment.”

“Indeed.”

“Trust me,” said the ghost, “Nothing can ruin a planned transition like an heir with good intentions.”

“I have no heirs, good intentioned or otherwise,” said Edward.

“Lucky you,” said the ghost.

That evening, Edward had much to think about. What the ghost had said made a great deal of sense, but was the museum the best place to haunt? He also loved music; perhaps the concert hall was a better choice. The trouble was, lately the Philharmonic had been programming so much of that horrible modern stuff. The last concert he had attended featured a new piece with a half-dozen men breaking sticks for nearly an hour. And what would pass for music in the years to come must surely be worse! No, the museum was the place. With art, you were not forced to look at paintings you did not like. Only one question remained: how was he to do it?

The next morning, he returned to the museum and sought out the Gainsborough lady for her advice. He found her in a quiet gallery on the second floor, studying a Turner seascape.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” said Edward.

The ghost turned from the Turner. “I’m afraid I don’t see it,” she said. “It just looks like a lot of random smears to me.”

“You need to take a few steps back,” said Edward.

The ghost took a few steps back, disappearing into a wall.

“Not that far!” called Edward.

The ghost took a step forward, out of the wall. “Ah!” she said. “I see what you mean. It looks exactly like the sea—as seen through a very dirty window. Do you know, I was at sea once. My parents took me to Spain when I was a girl.”

Edward had no idea how to broach the subject of the ghost’s demise. After all, even though it must have happened a long time ago, she might still be sensitive about it. He decided to go straight to the point.

“How did you do it?” he asked.

“In a ship, of course. How else would one go to sea?”

“I mean your transition. How did you manage it?”

“Ah! Decided to join us, have you? Follow me.”

The ghost led Edward to the central staircase of the museum and up two flights of stairs, to the top floor. “Look down,” she said.

Edward peered cautiously over the railing. It was a sheer drop to the marble floor of the lobby, four floors below.

“Be sure to go head first,” said the ghost. “Otherwise, there’s a chance you might survive.”

Shaking, Edward backed away from the railing. He staggered to a nearby open window and took a few deep breaths of air. “I couldn’t!” he gasped. “I just couldn’t!”

“It’s up to you,” said the ghost. “There are other ways, but if it’s anything messy, I must caution you to be careful not to spatter any of the paintings. Whatever method you choose, it should be done artfully.”

“I thought perhaps an overdose of sleeping pills…”

“I wouldn’t advise it. Suppose they find you and cart you off to hospital, and you transition there? Think how depressing it would be to haunt a hospital!”

“It’s just that I’m terrified of heights.”

“Perhaps a blindfold,” suggested the ghost.

“That might work,” said Edward. “The next time I come, I'll try to remember to bring one.”

“What about your cravat?”

“You mean right now?” said Edward, fingering his necktie. “I couldn’t possibly…”

“Why not? Trust me; the longer you wait, the harder it will be.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

“Best to get it over with.”

“Yes,” said Edward, making his decision. “You’re absolutely right.” He tore off his necktie, wound it around his head so that it completely covered his eyes, and knotted it tightly.

“Ready?” said the ghost.

“Yes, I think so,” said Edward. “On three: one…two…”

“Wait!” said the ghost.

“What?” Edward snapped, impatiently. Now that he had made up his mind, he was eager to get on with it.

“Sorry, but what about the unfinished business?”

“Oh,” said Edward. “I’d forgotten about that. Let me see… I haven’t paid the gas bill. Do you think that will do?”

“Is it overdue?”

“It will be by the end of the week.”

“Are you at all anxious about it?”

“Not particularly, no.”

“Well, just think of all the trouble you’ll be causing the gas company! That should make you at least a bit anxious.”

“I suppose it does, a bit.”

“Let’s hope that’s good enough,” said the ghost. “Ready?”

“Ready,” said Edward. “One…two…”

“Hold on,” said the ghost. “Someone’s coming.”

Edward heard footsteps approaching. “Excuse me,” said a woman’s voice, “But do you mind my asking why you have your necktie tied over your eyes? Is it some sort of artistic statement? You should be careful, you know. You’re standing right next to…”

“Three!” Edward shouted, and hurled himself in the direction he believed the railing to be. The woman screamed.

“Help!” she cried, “A man has just flung himself out the window!”

“Oh dear,” said the ghost.

* * * * *

When Edward awoke, he was lying on his back. He felt no pain, but he could not see. Had the transition blinded him? Then he remembered the necktie. Apparently, ghosts could be blindfolded as effectively as the living. Did this mean his necktie was also ghostly? And for that matter, what about his other clothes? Did they transition with him? He supposed they did, for none of the ghosts he had seen in the museum had been naked. Suddenly, it seemed he had a great many questions. Perhaps he should have thought to ask them sooner.

Well, there was plenty of time now.

He pulled off the necktie and opened his eyes. Something was wrong with the view. Instead of the museum staircase, there were trees and sky—and the Gainsborough lady, waving to him from a window.

“Hallo!” she called.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“The park behind the museum. You got turned around and jumped the wrong way. Bad luck, I'm afraid. Still, it could have been worse.”

“How could it possibly have been worse?”

“You could have jumped out a front window and ended up haunting the street.”

He looked around him. “Where’s my body?” he asked.

“Oh, they took it away hours ago. You’ve been out for some time. It’s not unusual. After all, you have suffered a shock.”

“That's putting it mildly,” Edward muttered.

* * * * *

At first, Edward was bitterly disappointed at being shut out of the museum. However, as time went by, he began to see the beauty of the little park.

Never much of a people person in life, he began to appreciate the beauty in faces: the good-natured face of the museum guard (not the grumpy dead one, but a happier living one) who came to the park every day on his lunch hour, the careworn but kindly face of the old woman who came every day to feed the birds, the rosy-cheeked faces of nannies and their rosy-cheeked charges, the starry-eyed, blissful faces of young lovers, strolling hand-in-hand.

Never much of an outdoors person in life, he grew to appreciate the beauty of the seasons, each offering a different palette: the soft pink and lavender of spring, the bright red and yellow of summer, the muted copper and gold of fall, the stark grey and white of winter.

About a year after his transition, he saw the Gainsborough lady again waving to him from the fourth-floor window.

“Hallo!” she called, “How are you getting on?”

Edward was somewhat surprised to hear himself say, “Quite well, actually.”

“Really!” said the ghost. “I should have thought it horrible, being this close to so much beauty and being unable to see it. After all, what is death without art?”

“As it turns out, not that bad,” said Edward. "In fact, it's incredibly lifelike."

My Halloween Playlist

Now that I've gotten over the shock of summer being over so quickly, it's time to start looking forward to Halloween. I confess I don't get into it as much as I used to—and I never got into it as much as people do these days, judging from the elaborate displays in some of our neighbors' yards. I no longer dress up, although I do enjoy seeing what costumes are popular with the kids each year. (Since this year saw the release of both a film documentary and a TV mini-series about the OJ trial, I predict that there will be lots of little Johnny Cochrans, Marcia Clarks, and Judge Itos coming to our door.)

One of the things I enjoy most during the Halloween season is listening to some good spooky music. Below are some favorites from my Halloween playlist—suitable for setting the mood at a party, terrorizing trick-or-treaters, or as accompaniment to a good horror novel. I've included links to Amazon.com should you be interested in purchasing any of the albums or songs, and I've embedded YouTube videos so you can listen to some of the pieces.

Henry Mancini: Experiment in Terror

Henry Mancini is probably best known for scoring Blake Edwards comedies such as The Pink Panther, A Shot in the Dark, and The Great Race, so it's surprising to find he composed something as creepy as this, the theme from Edwards' 1962 thriller, Experiment in Terror. This theme has special meaning for me, as it was used as the intro to Creature Features, which I watched religiously on Chicago's WGN when I was in high school.

The above link is to a Greatest Hits collection which, among other Mancini hits, includes music from the aforementioned comedies and the famous Peter Gunn theme—originally composed for an all-but-forgotten detective series, now forever associated with The Blues Brothers.

Erich Kunzel/Cincinnati Pops: Chiller

This album includes suites from Bride of Frankenstein and Psycho, several spooky classical pieces, and some ear-splitting sound effects that come with the following warning: "BEWARE!... contains the Highest level Sound Effects that Telarc has recorded to date... Damage could result to speakers or other components if this disc is played back at excessively high levels." Plus the album cover glows in the dark! Here are the first two tracks: some of the aforementioned sound effects, followed by Andrew Lloyd Webber's Overture from Phantom of the Opera.

Bernard Herrmann: Psycho and The Day the Earth Stood Still

The suite from Psycho on the Chiller album includes some blood-curdling screams, but it does not include my favorite theme from the movie: the quietly suspenseful "Hotel Room." If you follow the above link, you can download just this track (as I did), or you can purchase the whole album as a download or on CD.

Also on my playlist is Herrmann's eerie suite from The Day the Earth Stood Still, one of the two best compositions featuring the theremin (the other, of course, being Brian Wilson's "Good Vibrations"). The above link is to a compilation called Great Film Music, which also includes Herrmann's music for Journey to the Center of the Earth, The Seventh Voyage of Sinbad, Fahrenheit 451, and Gulliver's Travels.

Vic Mizzy: Suites & Themes

Okay, so Vic Mizzy's music is not very spooky. As a matter of fact, most of the music on this CD is just plain silly. However, some of it is silly-spooky, including the music from one of my favorite silly-spooky movies, The Ghost and Mr. Chicken, the theme from The Addams Family, and this piece from the 1967 comedy, The Spirit is Willing, which sounds like something a vaudeville ghost might soft-shoe to. Unfortunately, the album is out of print, and used copies are going for $130 and up. Hopefully someday someone will reissue it, because where else are you going to find the themes from such memorable TV series as The Pruitts of Southampton and Kentucky Jones?

Danny Elfman: Music for a Darkened Theatre

That Danny Elfman has written some wonderful spooky film music should come as no surprise, considering one of his biggest influences was Bernard Herrmann. He is also a master of the silly-spooky, as evidenced by his score for Beetlejuice.

Robert Cobert: Music from Dark Shadows

As I mentioned in a previous post, I was one of those kids who ran home from school to watch Dark Shadows back in the 1960s. I had this album on vinyl when I was a kid, and I now have it on CD. Some of the spoken-word tracks are a bit cheesy, but the music is delightfully creepy.

Various Artists: The Haunted Mansion

I love the whole Haunted Mansion experience, from queuing through the family cemetery to Little Leota's farewell. ("Hurry back! Hurry back! Be sure to bring your death certificate, if you decide to join us.") It's the one ride I must go on whenever we go to Disneyland, and each time I see something new.

The music contributes so much to the Haunted Mansion experience. Like the ride, it begins full-out spooky: funereal organ music underscores the narration of the Ghost Host (Paul Frees). As the ghosts begin to party, the organ theme transitions into the spooky-silly "Grim Grinning Ghosts" song. The CD is out of print, and used copies are ridiculously overpriced (because Disney collectors), but you can download MP3s—either the entire album or individual songs—for a very reasonable price.

Bach: Toccata and Fugue in D minor

Why have we come to associate organ music with Halloween? I think it goes back to the original, silent version of Phantom of the Opera, when Lon Chaney pounded the organ on screen while accompanied by a live organist in the theater—no doubt playing this piece, which has been used in countless horror movies. I have a number of recordings of it, but I recommend Great Toccatas by French organist Marie-Claire Alain, because it includes several even scarier pieces (my favorite being the hair-raising toccata from Suite Gothique by Léon Boëllmann). The CD is out of print, but you can order a used copy for a ridiculously low price.

Poulenc: Concerto for Organ, Timpani and Strings in G minor

It was a dark and stormy night, nearly forty years ago (well, it was dark and a bit chilly, but the weather was actually quite pleasant for late October in northern Indiana). I was in an open-air theatre, waiting in line with dozens of other people. Dramatic organ music played over the loudspeakers, setting the mood for a Halloween "haunted forest" event. Unfortunately, the volunteers taking tickets could not tell me the name of the piece or its composer (and this was long before smartphones and Shazam). Years later, I heard the same piece on a classical radio station, and I was immediately transported back to that October night in Indiana. "What is this music?!" I cried. "Poulenc," the announcer replied, "Concerto for Organ, Timpani and Strings in G minor." It still gives me chills every time I hear it. Turn down the lights and turn up the volume; you'll see what I mean.

And don't let the quiet movements fool you. Remember that scene towards the end of all horror movies, when the audience thinks the monster is dead, and it suddenly comes back to life?

Usually more than once?

Scamp

I was nine years old when I received a note from Santa Claus in my Christmas stocking, telling me I was old enough to have a puppy. My parents took me to a pet store on our next trip to Fort Wayne, and I picked out a frisky border collie pup. As it turned out, "Scamp" (named after the comic strip offspring of Lady and the Tramp) was a little too frisky. Santa was wrong. I was not old enough to have a puppy—at least not a puppy like this one.

He was impossible to housebreak, and he chewed everything he could get his teeth into—shoes, furniture, toys. He was too much for even my mother to handle, and if she couldn't control him, I didn't have a chance. That summer, while I was away in Fort Wayne visiting grandparents and aunts, Scamp went away, too—to a farm where he had lots of room to run and play. At least that's what my mother told me. I believed her story then, and I prefer to believe it now. I like to think that Scamp had a long, happy life on that farm, chasing cows and chickens and chewing up everything in sight.

By the end of that summer I had a new brother, which may help to explain my mother's impatience with my mischievous puppy. It was pretty cool having a little brother, but what I really wanted was a dog. There were a number of short-term, smaller pets: a succession of cats that stayed briefly and moved on, a series of short-lived hamsters and even shorter-lived goldfish. There was even a white mouse. My mother adamantly refused to allow it inside the house, and so it spent its brief life in a cage in the mud room off our kitchen.

I still wanted a dog.

I had just started my freshman year of high school when our family moved from a quiet little town in Indiana to a densely-populated suburb of Chicago. I went from a small school where I knew just about everyone to an enormous campus where I didn't know a soul. I was miserable and felt like I didn't have a friend in the world. My parents took me to the local animal shelter to pick out a puppy, thinking that might help. It did.

According to the shelter, he was a "collie mix." The veterinarian who gave him his shots said he was a "shepherd mix." He must have been a "golden retriever mix" too, because he grew up to look just like one. I named him "Scamp." When it came to naming dogs, I was not very creative.

When he was a puppy, he slept with me, right next to my head. Unlike the first Scamp, he was easily housebroken, and would wake me up in the night if he needed to be put on the floor to use his papers. One night when he was unable to wake me up, he had no choice but to jump. I woke up when I heard him crash head-first into the wastebasket next to my bed.

He started out as my dog, but it wasn't long before he was a member of the family. When the family sat together in the living room watching TV, he would make the rounds from one of us to another, sitting down next to our chairs and giving us a paw to hold. No one ever taught him that; it was just something he did. I did teach him a few things—sit, heel, stay—but it was my mother who taught him good manners. During dinner, he would lie patiently outside the doorway to the dining room, nose between paws, watching us, never moving until we finished our dinner and my mother called him into the dining room to inhale any food we had dropped on the floor. And if he was good (and he was almost always good), she would also give him a plate of scraps. No wonder he adored her. (And she, though she would never admit it, adored him as well.)

Once, I took him to the park and let him off his leash. He took off like a shot, and before I knew it he had run the length of a football field. For a moment I panicked, thinking I had lost him. But when I called him, he immediately came running back to me. I should have known he would never run away. When, as a puppy, he somehow escaped from our fenced-in back yard, he went around to the front door and scratched until we let him in.

He wasn't perfect. He had his faults. He barked—though not to excess, and not at the things most dogs bark at. (The things that upset him most were windshield wipers, slide projections of family photos, and for some strange reason, grapefruit rinds.) When the neighbor's Pomeranian barked at him through the fence, Scamp did not bark back; he just peed on it. He was overprotective, and bit a couple of people who made the mistake of coming into the house or yard before we secured him. Fortunately, there were no lawsuits.

He had a congenital heart defect, which we did not discover until he began having seizures while I was away at college. When I found out that my parents had to have him put to sleep, I cried. Like I said, he wasn't perfect, but he was about as close to perfect as a dog could be. There could never be another like him.

I suppose that's why I have never wanted another dog.

Irish Bucket List, Revisited

Four years ago, I wrote of my intention to one day visit Ireland, with a bucket list of things I hoped to do when I got there. Last month, I finally got there. Let's see how many of those items I can check off my list...

1. Tour the Guinness Brewery

Of course we visited Guiness Storehouse in Dublin. And we drank Guinness Stout and/or Smithwick's Ale everywhere we went. And we sampled several varieties of Irish whisky (or, as they call it in Ireland, "whisky.")

"Sláinte!"

2. Listen to Live Irish Music

Four years ago I made a promise that, if I made it to Ireland, I would find a pub with live music and request Finnegan's Wake in honor of my late friend David Hawthorne. I was able to fulfill that promise at a place called "The Quays," in the Temple Bar district of Dublin. The musicians, a guitar/fiddle duo named Stephen and Sharon, promised to play my request "later." If they did, we never heard it. Before they finished their set, we were obliged to leave due to the premises being overrun by rowdy, obnoxious tourists with idiotic requests for such songs as "Danny Boy" and, believe it or not, "Country Roads."

We did hear a few good songs from Stephen and Sharon before the drunks took over. And later on, at a place across from our hotel in Galway called "Tigh Fox," we had front-row seats for trad (traditional Irish music) sessions on two successive evenings.

Stephen and Sharon

Trad Session at Tigh Fox

3. Follow in the Footsteps of Leopold Bloom

It's virtually impossible to visit Dublin without stumbling across at least one of the places mentioned in James Joyce's Ulysses. We found three. The first was directly across from our hotel: the pharmacy where Leopold Bloom purchased a bar of lemon-scented soap (which he forgot to pay for). Our Gravedigger Ghost Bus tour ended at a pub just outside the gates of Glasnevin Cemetery, where Bloom attended his friend Paddy Dignam's funeral, and our Literary Pub Crawl finished at Davy Byrnes, the "moral pub" where Bloom ordered a gorgonzola sandwich and a glass of Burgundy that later caused him some intestinal distress. ("Prrprr. Must be the bur. Fff. Oo. Rrpr.")

Oh, and one more thing: I finally finished reading Ulysses in Dublin. What better place to read Joyce's tribute to his favorite city? I now understand why he wrote, "When I die, Dublin will be written in my heart."

Window of Sweny's Pharmacy

Glasnevin Cemetery

Davy Byrnes

4. Buy a Round at a Real Irish Pub

I had the perfect opportunity for this when we visited Pat Cohan's Bar in Cong, the pub featured in The Quiet Man. There was only one person in the bar besides us, so buying a round for the house would have been a real bargain. But the mood wasn't right. There just wasn't the sort of conviviality that inspires one to buy alcohol for total strangers.

However, the mood was right at Tigh Fox in Galway, where we did not buy a round for the house, but we did buy one for the musicians. I think that counts.

Pub from The Quiet Man

I could have bought a round for this guy, but it just didn't seem right.

5. Visit the Grave of William Butler Yeats

It was a beautiful, sunny day when we visited the scenic spot where, "Under bare Ben Bulben's head/In Drumcliff churchyard Yeats is laid." (As a matter of fact, the weather was beautiful nearly every day we were in Ireland, which I understand is a very rare thing.) That same day, thanks to Google Maps, we also managed to locate a small, secluded island near the shore of Lough Gill, made famous by one of Yeats' early poems:

The Lake Isle of Innisfree

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee;
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

Drumcliff Churchyard

Yeats wrote his own epitaph in the poem Under Ben Bulben.

The Lake Isle of Innisfree

So as far as my bucket list goes, I think I can safely say we nailed it. We also saw many wonderful sights that weren't on the list, including the National Leprechaun Museum, Newgrange, the Hill of Tara, Clonmacnoise, the Cliffs of Moher, an old farmhouse in the middle of nowhere that served as the principal location for one of our all-time favorite British sitcoms, Father Ted, and a shoe store in Galway that bears my family's name.

In short, we saw about as much as a person can see of Ireland in just one week—which means there are many more things we didn't see (basically anything north of Sligo or south of Clare).

I guess it's time to start making a bucket list for our next visit.

"Logues Speisialtóirí Bróg" ("Logues Shoe Specialists"), Galway

Comfort in Mayberry

I have been sick for the past two weeks, and I have spent much of that time in my recliner: coughing up and blowing out snot, drifting in and out of consciousness, and seeking comfort in favorite movies and television programs, preferably those in black and white. For some reason, I find black-and-white television more comforting when I'm sick. Maybe the color irritates my eyes, or maybe it's just because I'm reminded of my childhood, when everything on TV was black and white.

I watched a few old movies from my DVD collection, then started watching episodes of The Twilight Zone, which was a mistake. It turns out that "another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind" is not a particularly comforting place to be when you're sick. Also, I know this sounds crazy, but the smoke from Rod Serling's cigarette seemed to aggravate my cough.

So I started binge-watching The Andy Griffith Show. TV Land airs twelve episodes a day: six in the morning and six in the afternoon. In between are episodes of Bonanza and Gunsmoke. I watched a couple of episodes of those shows, but I found that the Ponderosa and Dodge City were nowhere near as comforting as the fictional setting of The Andy Griffith Show, Mayberry, North Carolina. For one thing, Bonanza and Gunsmoke were in color. For another, they had a lot more gunfire. Sheriff Andy Taylor never wore a gun. Deputy Barney Fife did, but Andy only gave him one bullet, and he made him keep it buttoned up in his shirt pocket (with good reason).

Speaking of Gunsmoke, here's a bit of related trivia. It started out as a radio show, with a completely different cast. Two members of the cast of the radio show—Howard McNear, who played Doc, and Parley Baer, who played Chester—went on to become featured cast members of The Andy Griffith Show, as Floyd Lawson, Mayberry's barber, and Roy Stoner, Mayberry's cantankerous mayor.

I have always loved The Andy Griffith Show, and it was wonderful getting reacquainted with the residents of Mayberry. When I was young, my favorite episodes were those featuring Andy's bumbling blowhard deputy, Barney Fife, played brilliantly by Don Knotts. This time around, I especially enjoyed the first-season episodes featuring Elinor Donahue as Ellie Walker, Mayberry's pharmacist and Andy's first steady girlfriend. (Ellie disappeared without explanation after the first season, which is a real shame. I thought she was a lot cuter and a lot more fun than her replacement, schoolmarm Helen Crump.)

Most of all, I enjoyed the scenes between Andy and his young son Opie, played by future Academy-Award-winning film director, Ron Howard. "Ronny," as he was then known, was only six years old that first season. His scenes with Andy are so genuine and natural, you'd swear you were witnessing a real conversation between father and son. Often, Andy uses humor to teach Opie an important lesson about life, such as the time he explains feuds by telling the story of Romeo and Juliet. Just as often, Andy is the one who learns a lesson, as when Opie points out that his lying to a friend to make a trade for a pair of roller skates is no worse than Andy's "horse trading" with an antique dealer over an old cannon.

I suppose this is what I find most comforting about Mayberry: Andy and Opie's relationship reminds me of my relationship with my father. Like Andy Taylor, my dad was good at explaining things, good at listening, and always had time to talk to his son.

I really miss those talks.

In the wake of this week's massacre in Orlando, only the latest in a series of mass shootings that become more frequent and more deadly with every passing year, I find myself wondering what Andy might say to Opie about such a terrible event, and what my father might say to me.

I feel sure of one thing: it would be something comforting.

Sirens of Dublin

I woke up this morning with a great idea for a video game based on James Joyce's Ulysses. I should have known that someone else already beat me to it:

James Joyce's Ulysses is one of the greatest books in literature, and it is also one of the hardest to read. Irish filmmaker Eoghan Kidney is crowdfunding a creative solution to this problem: A virtual reality video game that allows the reader to experience the book as the protagonist.

(USA Today Book Buzz, July 28, 2014)

It's no wonder I woke up thinking about Ulysses. For the past few weeks, I have been immersed in it, hoping to get through it before we visit Dublin this month. I studied excerpts of it in college, but this is the first time I ever attempted to read the whole thing. Why? Because, as the writer of the above piece pointed out, it's an incredibly difficult book to read. Some would say the only book that is more difficult is Joyce's second novel, Finnegan's Wake.

Here's an excerpt from a 1922 review of Ulysses that appeared in the New York Times:

Few intuitive, sensitive visionaries may understand and comprehend "Ulysses," James Joyce’s new and mammoth volume, without going through a course of training or instruction, but the average intelligent reader will glean little or nothing from it—even from careful perusal, one might properly say study, of it—save bewilderment and a sense of disgust. It should be companioned with a key and a glossary like the Berlitz books.

That from a contemporary literary critic, who probably understood most of Joyce's references. Now, nearly one hundred years later, readers have even less chance of comprehending Ulysses.

But it's definitely worth the effort.

It's a fascinating concept: take Homer's Odyssey, compress the story to a single day (June 16th, 1904) and a single city (Dublin), record every single thing the protagonist (for the most part, Leopold Bloom) does, says, and thinks throughout the course of that day. It should be required reading for writers, or for anyone who loves the English language. Joyce's use of language throughout Ulysses is nothing short of amazing: it is at times joyful, at times shocking, and at times playful, as in the section I am currently reading, titled "Sirens."

"Sirens" is a sumptuous free-verse poem composed of snatches of music, conversation, and especially the thoughts of Leopold Bloom as he dines with a friend at the Ormond Hotel. Here are a few examples:

Describing the flirtatious barmaids, Miss Douce and Miss Kennedy (aka "bronze" and "gold"):

Shrill, with deep laughter, after bronze in gold, they urged each other to peal after peal, ringing in changes, bronzegold goldbronze, shrilldeep, to laughter after laughter: And then laughed more. Greasy I knows. Exhausted, breathless their shaken heads they laid, braided and pinnacled by glossycombed, against the counterledge. All flushed (O!), panting, sweating (O!), all breathless.

Describing Blazes Boylan, the man Bloom suspects is headed for a liaison with his wife:

By Bachelor's walk jogjaunty jingled Blazes Boylan, bachelor, in sun, in heat, mare's glossy rump atrot, with flick of whip, on bounding tyres: sprawled, warmseated, Boylan impatience, ardentbold.

Describing the voice of Simon Dedalus, singing in the bar:

It soared, a bird, it held its flight, a swift pure cry, soar silver orb it leaped serene, speeding, sustained, to come, don't spin it out too long long breath he breath long life, soaring high, high resplendent, aflame, crowned, high in the effulgence symbolistic, high, of the ethereal bosom, high, of the high vast irradiation everywhere all soaring all around about the all, the endlessnessnessness...

Describing Pat, the bald and deaf waiter:

Pat is a waiter hard of his hearing. Pat is a waiter who waits while you wait. Hee hee hee hee. He waits while you wait. Hee hee. A waiter is he. Hee hee hee hee. He waits while you wait. While you wait if you wait he will wait while you wait. Hee hee hee hee. Hoh. Wait while you wait.

Describing Bloom himself, as he exits the hotel:

By rose, by satiny bosom, by the fondling hand, by slops, by empties, by popped corks, greeting in going, past eyes and maidenhair, bronze and faint gold in deepseashadow, went Bloom, soft Bloom, I feel so lonely Bloom.

The section ends with Bloom outside the hotel, his thoughts punctuated by the flatulence brought on either by the cider he had with dinner or the burgundy he imbibed earlier that day at Davy Byrne's Pub:

Seabloom, greaseabloom viewed last words. Softly. When my country takes her place among.

Prrprr.

Must be the bur.

Fff. Oo. Rrpr.

Nations of the earth. No-one behind. She's passed. Then and not till then. Tram. Kran, kran, kran. Good oppor. Coming. Krandlkrankran. I'm sure it's the burgund. Yes. One, two. Let my epitaph be. Karaaaaaaa. Written. I have.

Pprrpffrrppfff.

Done.

Imagine that in a video game.