Carol wrote Modular Story a couple of days after Patrick’s death. It moved me again tonight so I’m sharing it with you now as part of my “revisiting” group. Carol
Much of Spanish life revolves around meal time, special shared moments of breaking bread, drinking wine, and discussing the latest news. In Yesterday We Were Eight I describe a very special meal at Basmati, one of Patrick’s favorite restaurants, with some of his dearest friends. I intend to return to Mallorca one day soon. When (more)
Here’s an article from the April 2019 issue of Southwest the Magazine, the airline’s in-flight publication found in seat-pockets all around the country last month. I think Patrick would have approved of Bergauer’s efforts described in this story. (Sorry, it’s scanned as a collection of images, so the translation tool won’t work.) Click on any (more)
Here’s an autobiographical story that Carol sent to me two days ago. There’s a place on the north coast, up high on the forest clad cliffs above the aqueous blue – your beloved Mediterranean. Its early morning in autumn, and I know I will find you there. It’s my gateway to memories. As I leave (more)
Here’s a newsletter I just received from an Arizona realtor. Given the difficulties and heartbreak of this year, and the challenges we’ve had to face with our personal losses, I found it an interesting read. JPI’m the son of Patrick of Meadows.
Today Carol and I enjoyed a picnic at the place where Patrick died. As with flesh, our stone cairn, built in May, had collapsed, the program lost. We built it again, restored the New Yorker to the pile, added a flower, posed for pictures beside it. JPI’m the son of Patrick of Meadows.
Ayer éramos ocho (17 de septiembre, 2017, JP) (Translation of Yesterday We were Eight by Nicole) Allí, metidos en el bolsillo de la bata de Patrick que colgaba del armario de Ivonne en el casco antiguo de Palma de Mallorca, la isla que tanto amaba, estaban sus tirantes. Me asaltaron los recuerdos: su pulcritud, la (more)
There, wadded up in the pocket of Patrick’s bathrobe, hanging in Ivonne’s closet, in the Old Town, on the island he so loved, were his suspenders. Memories surfaced: His dapper look, bearing his age with dignity and class. New memories emerged: Packing the boxes, sorting out the things people wanted, the things to donate; sending (more)
Sitting at a long table with strangers, the sea is particularly blue, placidly blue, vividly blue, the blue of Donna’s fancy glasses or Solan water bottles. JPI’m the son of Patrick of Meadows.
Here’s a Modular Story about Patrick written two days ago by his dear friend Carol Jackson. It’s lovely, simply lovely. Carol
Here’s an interesting piece of fiction by Patrick’s friend Carol Jackson, using the setting of Patrick’s memorial as the backdrop for a tale about a young boy. JPI’m the son of Patrick of Meadows.
JP Sent to Patrick on 13 Apr ’17 at 9:30 AM Thought you’d find this memory amusing. Perhaps you can work it into one of your next stories. Donna and I went up to Buttonwillow one weekend and stayed at what was then called Motel 6 South. There were tons of bugs everywhere, probably from (more)
Here was a link to my sister’s book, but since she is actively defying my father’s wishes and trying to exclude Stephanie’s family from their rightful share of his meager estate, I have removed the link. JPI’m the son of Patrick of Meadows.
Obituary by Sue Steward Published in The Guardian, Saturday April 9, 2005 In 1978, the singer and musician Stephanie Shepard, who has died of cancer aged 64, and her partner Patrick Meadows, a jazz musician and poet, bought an old farmhouse with three cottages at Deià, in the mountains of Majorca. The village was a (more)
Here’s an article from El Dia de Baleares dates 19 September 1987 featuring a picture of Patrick and Stephanie. Here’s an English translation. JPI’m the son of Patrick of Meadows.