This page page highlights the articles that I think you’d like to read first, since new visitors overwhelmed with the amount of information posted on this web site. Some provide simple entertainment – stories, jokes biographical and semi-biographical musings – while others reflect the impact Pat and Stephanie had on peoples’ lives.
I wrote She of Clouds and Flowers for Stephanie and sent it to her before she died. Her lovely voice and idyllic setting inspired the piece. Perhaps you can still see her there, on the terraces, tending her gardens and thrilling the birds with her song. JPI’m the son of Patrick of Meadows.
This long letter from 1991 embodies Patrick’s nature. It contains a blend of narratives that summarize his frenetic lifestyle, travel, procrastination regarding family, whirling ideas, exploration into new areas (like Finale, then a new computer program for music), and observations on life and death. JPI’m the son of Patrick of Meadows.
I realize that this web site reflects on my dad’s life and his many accomplishments. Patrick was a prolific writer, avid reader, skilled musician, witty raconteur, good friend, and active in pursuit of the arts. He was especially joyful about his relationship with Stephanie which he considered the best thing that ever happened to him. (more)
All who knew Patrick knew of his–pardon the pun–storied past. Here are two stories of Patrick’s brief time as a lumberjack with his best pal Lee. Shortly after high school they trekked across the country to Oregon to work in the forests. These tales recount that adventure. Be sure to read Lee’s comments on these (more)
I admire Patrick greatly, just as I admired John, my grandfather who adopted me. Each of my two fathers had special qualities that I value, and each loved me in their own way. Patrick, however, was mostly absent from my life, and from the lives of my sisters, which worried John immensely. In contrast, John (more)
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)
Lady, your flowers have been well-kept for generations; Blossoms have topped that stone wall many springs And filled parlor-damp vases. (Roses cannot clean the mildew from the spacious, once gracious rooms.) I have been in your parlor, Seen polished wood Under light straining through stained glass, Felt leather groan as I sat, Handled wicker and (more)
This is Cassandra’s favorite story about Patrick and Stephanie, as told to us on 4 July 2019. I subsequently realized that Patrick wrote a tangentially related story called Oktav, the story of the harpsichord. It’s interesting to compare the two tales. Cassandra, Ed, and their son Jason were living on Ibiza, which is a different (more)
Here’s the prequel to Patrick’s autobiographical story http://www.patrick-meadows.com/heading-to-coos-bay/ about his brief time as a lumberjack with Lee. I found this in Patrick’s Scattered Notes collection. I was choker setter. Lee chased the cat. Before starting college, I looked for a summer job to accumulate funds for my studies. My parents could not afford to send (more)
Patrick loved the poetry of W. S. Merwin, so when my friend Terry sent me a link to this poem, I knew that it needed to be shared here, on the anniversary of Patrick’s passing. The following link is an authorized reprint, found on the Poetry Foundation web site. For your convenience, I’ve also included (more)
The sky behind the bluff catches fire and burns Down the clouds, spreads to the peaks Above the bay; the wind changes and turns The waves into dolphins racing to break The headland toward the open sea. The squall breaks over us, not from sky or hill, But out of black crashing ocean spilled Over (more)
It was the Great Depression, and we, like all our neighbors, were forever short of cash money. It was pinto beans and mashed potatoes all week, and on Sunday stringy meat which made my teeth shift in my gums. It was burnt bacon and pan biscuits for my father’s breakfast, and flour gravy over biscuits (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)
Stephanie’s brother Tate sent this poem to me to share on the site. You can see the handwritten version more clearly by clicking on the images, but the copies are faded so it’s typed here as well. Nobody, nobody at all is going to care when I die. My brother and I were our mother’s (more)