Hello, all,

Happy 2019!

This is an interesting article I stumbled upon while doing some research for a project I’m working on:

Why forest bathing is good for your health

It’s about “forest bathing”, which is a term I find rather poetic and beautiful.   

I suppose that’s why it reminded me of Stephanie and Patrick. 

Stephanie talked about being a tree and hearing the leaves of trees on her death bed.  And I know that Stephanie and Patrick both loved to walk amongst the umbrella pines in the mountains of Mallorca. 

Perhaps Patrick was able to enjoy the view of the pines one last time before he passed. 

I certainly hope so.  

Love, Alison

These Memories

These memories
Unfairly risen from distant, awkward past
Shimmer on horizon
Distort the view

From murky mirror in rusty frame
Hint at what once was
Mar the recollections
With clouded silvered glass
And cobwebs draped in ornate corners

Eyes focused forward
We march toward the future
But our boot laces
Like these memories
Remain entangled in the thickets
From where we tread before

© 2019 John P. M. Dillon

I Had a Great Respect for Your Father

I received this lovely note from Lynn Habian, concert pianist, on Christmas Eve and am posting it here with her permission.

My husband and I send our sincere deepest condolences to you and your family.  I spoke to your father many times, on the island and from the States.

I’m a pianist who played at La Residencia 3 times- 2012, 2014 and 2015.  I was put in touch with your Dad thru Louise, PR at the hotel.  I didn’t meet your Dad,  although I invited him to my concert.  I did correspond with him thru email.  I sensed after the loss of his Stephanie,  he wanted to avoid the musical scene.  

I had a great respect for your father.  Because my teachers in past were older people,  I agreed with his views on how things should be handled professionally in music business.  So many things have changed.

I did read his obituary and saw the video that was done with you and family and friends.  Lovely.

If you wish to know who I am,  please go to my website:

Again,  I’m very sorry for your loss.

Most sincerely,

Lynn Habian,  USA

New Year’s Eve 2018

And so, once again we prepare to celebrate another new year, each time hoping that the incoming will be better than the outgoing. 2018 was better than its predecessor. The loss of Patrick, though still impacting most of us in ways large and small, is less raw than the year before.

The amount of effort remaining is huge, but the treasure trove of Patrick’s writings, correspondence, files, and documents will be scanned and posted as time allows.

Continue reading “New Year’s Eve 2018”

Shorty (Short Story)

Kids were fascinated by the way Shorty got around East End.   In those days, the only paved road in our part of town was Highway 50, unless you count the short road up the hill to the Gospel Tabernacle.  The remainder of roads were mud tracks, sometimes covered with what they called red-dog, the rose-colored residue from the burned-out slate dumps down at Minden.  On these, cutting back and forth across what was once the Rhodes place, we regularly stubbed our toes if we went barefoot on our bikes, and new cars were turned into rattle traps in a few months.  In the winter the depressions were yellow slime pits, or frozen plates between the jagged edges of red dog.

Continue reading “Shorty (Short Story)”

shattered in the fountain

the moon
shattered in the fountain
swings west while we sleep
and dream:
the moon is shattered in the fountain.
let's wake the poet
with so many dreams
he will have things to say.

I have no idea when this was written, or if this is even Patrick’s. It was at the top of the file called poems.doc, which contained a collection of his writings. 

Nathaniel Hawthorne has a book called The Shattered Fountain so perhaps this is the reference, or perhaps even a quote.

For what it’s worth, I’ve been told that Nathaniel Hawthorne was my great-great-great-great-great-grandfather. (Not sure how many “greats” belong there but I think it’s five.)