Patrick Meadows and Stephanie Shepard Memorial Site
Nobody said everything, or anything, for that matter, but we all tried. Fred, Zen, Robert, Milo, Barbara, Tony, Ruthven, Barry, Eivin, Alastair. Certain encounters change the course of one’s life. You might not recognize that until much later, but eventually, upon reflection, it becomes obvious. Such was that moment in the faculty room of the […]
My dad Patrick was a man of the arts with an appreciation for science. My dad John was a man of science with an appreciation for the arts. As a result, their nature combined with the artistic talents of both my moms, I naturally have an appreciation for both. All of this is a preface […]
I do miss Patrick. (Sorry for the waste of your bandwidth.)
Phil Anders, now entering his eighties, often wondered whether his name had predestined him to the life he had led. Of course he was already in his late teens when he recognized the implications, but since then he had lived up to the meaning of the word philander.
No, these are not Patrick’s thoughts of the subject. Instead he was mentioned on Wikipedia for his work with Coleridge-Taylor’s music. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Samuel_Coleridge-Taylor#Posthumous_publishing Perhaps a Wikipedia page should be created for Patrick and Stephanie.
I’m danged if I can remember how I met those two old drunks, Maybelle and Mr. Bob. Maybe hitching on the highway from Oak Hill to Fayetteville. It was the summer I quit school in Florida and took off for Oak Hill, homesick for my girlfriend. She was by then a mother, made pregnant by […]
Stephanie and I made a little world and we lived in it. A long goodbye. My life is in tatters. Yours has ended. So sorry. This short poem is from a collection Patrick called Scattered Notes.odt dated from 2014 to 2016. I’ll continue to add other segments as time allows.
Basmati Restaurant Selling Antiques First off, here’s a link to a story. If you can possibly help, please do so. I’ll explain in a moment. https://www.majorcadailybulletin.com/news/local/2021/02/09/78901/mallorca-coronavirus-basmati-restaurant.html One of Patrick’s favorite restaurants was Basmati in Palma. Every time I visited we made a point of visiting at least once and sometimes more often. When other relatives […]
Here’s a conversation with Patrick about learning how to really listen to music. It was recorded in his living room on 19 November 2011, near 11 PM. PM: ….. was a great moment for me ……… a few years back, I went to, to hear Rostropovich conducting. I think it’s called the Leningrad Symphony of […]
Knowing that there is a maximum of 366 days in a year, it’s natural that given enough time there would be overlaps in events, and so there are. For example, my first day as a racetrack volunteer happened to fall on Gretchen’s birthday. On the fifth anniversary of my dad John’s death–a personal low in […]
Patrick met Harlan Ellison while attending a Clarion Writer’s Workshop. The famed writer liked Patrick’s work and recommended him to Ed Ferman, then editor of The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction. Long overdue in my reading of this magazine (I began my subscription around 1974), I’ve been catching up at last, at least with […]
Three and a half years ago–well, if you’re familiar with this site you know what happened. It’s no secret that I think of my dad Patrick often, and miss him, and–you know, all that stuff. Today however is a bigger milestone. Thirty years ago today my dad John passed away.
Patrick would be laughing like crazy because I have been cooking so much since February. He always tried to get me to learn to cook, but I like eating in restaurants too much and it felt like too much trouble to do it for just one person, even though that’s what he did. Anyway, I […]
It was inevitable, thought we didn’t know it at the time, that we should meet Bulent. Mari and I flew from Izmir to Ankara where we spent the night. Then the next day by bus to Adana. Sounds like a simple statement, but it was not so simple. The two-propeller plane took off from what […]
Thursday I am pointlessly staring at my tea, now only a stain at the bottom of the mug. So I glance at my reflection in the glass door of the dish cupboard opposite the table where I am sitting already quite a while. Reflected is the window behind me, through which I see that the […]