Here’s a long autobiographical story by Patrick about his time in Missouri. I found two versions, one from 2011 and another from 2013. I spent a couple of hours editing the latter (mostly typos and formatting) and am posting the result here.
The airlines wouldn’t let us fly, so Mari and I returned to the States from Holland on the S.S. Rotterdam. Mari was in a stupor induced by Thorazine, little red capsules that she had to pop two or three times a day. It seemed pretty crazy to me that she could travel by ocean liner, but not airliner. Seven days, if I remember correctly, with nothing but sea in all directions. She could fall or jump. On a plane, I’m pretty sure I could have kept her in her seat for a few hours, and anyway what harm could she have done?
A friend met us at the dock in New York and took us to his apartment in Freeport until we figured out how to get to Missouri. I had sold my car before expatriating, or so I thought, two years before. Continue reading “Real Kill”
In 1960 there were still plenty of us who wanted to live in Greenwich Village. The heydays were long gone, but the aura still hung around. The Café Bizarre was just catching on. The Figaro still had wind quintets or string quartets live on Sunday morning, men with heavy sweaters and horn rims reading the fat Sunday Times at tables the size of a dinner plate. There were still pushcarts with vegetables and fruits on Bleecker Street. The Aurora Italian restaurant was still affordable, the waiters still had Neapolitan accents. Chess in Washington Square. A tuba and piccolo duet by the fountain. Painters showing their stuff alongside the church.
Patrick sent this story to me, along with several others, on 25 Dec 2013. This one tells the story of the Zambak, chronicled elsewhere indirectly.
Billy Bielmeyer and I were sailing in the Bay of Izmir in his tiny Pirate dinghy. The hills of Izmir rising up on all sides from the deep blue sea bristled with minarets. It was the hour when the muezzins called the faithful to prayer, but you could not hear them out where we fizzed along on the sea, the main and jib flaphappy in the stiff breeze coming off the land. The wind was hot on my cheeks, and I felt Continue reading “Zambak”
Here’s a letter from Alice Berridge to Patrick and Mari, written shortly after Kennedy was murdered. (The letter is dated 1 Dec 1963.) In it she announces the impending arrival of a second child. (I believe that would be David.)Continue reading “Your Letter Was Again a Surprise”
Here is the boat I bought for 500 dollars in Izmir. The first day out, after getting her fixed up, a storm tore up the mainsail and blew us onto a sand reef. The captain of the fishing boat who pulled usoff lost a finger in the winch. We (bandmaster Billy Bielmeir and I) spent the night in the bar of a safe harbor, while helicopters andrescue people searched after the storm cleared. The next day we tied up what was left of the mains’l and using that and the jib, we limpedback to the yacht club in Izmir. Meanwhile the newspaper AKSAM hadreported us lost at sea and supposed dead. The photo shows Mari receiving the news. Continue reading “Lost at Sea and Supposed Dead”
Here’s a letter from Fred to Patrick from the early 1960s in New York, with a reference to Mari. I’m guessing this is early 1963 (I arbitrarily gave it a date of 3 March 1963) but I’ll need to research the timing of Patrick’s purchase (and subsequent near-demise) of the Zambak.Continue reading “Don’t Sell the Ship”