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.
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.
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 dignidad y la elegancia con que llevaba su edad.
Surgieron otros recuerdos: empaquetar, distribuir lo que sus amigos y familia querían, las cosas que había que donar; mandar zapatos a una hermana, camisas a la otra, jerséis a ambas; entregarle a Ivonne la bata que contenía aquellos tirantes.
Alojado en casa de Ivonne, me puse la bata un momento y en el bolsillo descubrí unos pañuelos viejos y… aquellos tirantes de una elegancia imperecedera.
Ayer éramos ocho los que nos reunimos en el restaurante Basmati para almorzar. Shahin, el dueño, se unió a nosotros para honrar a mi padre con tristeza y alegría, y con una comida espléndida. Éramos ocho: Carl y Antoinette, Suzy, Ivonne, Hannah, Carol, Nicole y yo.
Yo llevaba los tirantes, y volvimos a ser nueve.
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 shoes to one sister, shirts to another, sweaters to both; delivering to Ivonne the robe and that set of braces. Continue reading “Yesterday We Were Eight”
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. Continue reading “Verderol at Ca’s Patró March”
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. Continue reading “The Church (by Carol Jackson)”
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 the nearby fields, and the door was absolutely crawling with little flying critters. Inside there were hundreds of these little pests all over the walls. Continue reading “Bug Whacking”
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.
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 focus for artists, home to Robert Graves and a refuge for exiles from London’s psychedelic rock scene, such as Kevin Ayers, Daevid Allen and his group Gong, and Robert Wyatt.
It had been in 1975 that Shepard met Meadows and they began playing, she recalled, impromptu “duets, flute and piano and baroque sonatas, and choral pieces”. Continue reading “Stephanie Shepard (Obituary)”