Dad’s 88th…

Wednesday, August 10, 2010

In seventy-two hours from this date in time, my father will have died. How, who knows. Today, August 10, 2020, marks his eighty-eighth birthday.

Found lying on his back in the living room, feet up on a chair, as though doing some sit-ups or other form of exercise. Who knows.

I believe in private, much to Mother’s dismay, Dad always tried to maintain some form of regimen, to stay in shape, making up for lost time when he used to wear a suit and tie. And now free, in retirement, he relished his solitary walks and exercise.

Perhaps he did die from a massive heart attack, as the EMT had suggested. Who knows. But one never really knows when there is no autopsy. “Too expensive!” my mother exclaimed. “Besides, he wouldn’t have wanted that.” Ah, speaking for the recently deceased.

(An oft-told tale here on my blog, about my father, but it still resonates for me, after ten long years.)

He was whisked away to a funeral home—temporarily, mind you—before taken to the crematorium, still in his attire when he died; Nike sneakers, overly-long shorts, and a golf shirt. No, no pressed suit and rose gracing his lapel. Just the sweat stains from his efforts before his heart exploded. At least, that is what I had heard. Who knows.

The aftermath, a pile of ashes, residing in a Tupperware container, placed into a grocery bag, the whole absurd package sitting upon a dust-laden hutch. And within a week it was nowhere to be seen; the contents had been unceremoniously dumped near the driveway, the final resting place of a wonderful man after 78 years on this earth. What a lovely demise for my dear father.

Now, when I venture to Mother’s, I jokingly (not really) ask her to move the Ford Focus, ever so slightly, so I can view my father’s grave from the living room picture window as I nurse a rancid tepid cup of Folgers coffee.

St. Andrew peers through dense foliage, weeds choking the ill-advised site where the ashes of my magnificent father lay scattered. There is no headstone. There is no tiny memorial there to ascertain why St. Andrew drowns in a confusion of suffocating greenery.

To you, Pops, always to you. I just wanted to acknowledge you on what would have been your 88th birthday. How I yearn to hoist a glass with you on your day of days.

Dad, may you find peace of spirit—wherever you may truly reside now.

I love you, Pops. Always.

Copyright, Paul Grignon, 2020. All Rights Reserved.

The Time to Hesitate is Through…

Yes, Jim Morrison was a poet and a mystic and one who readily spoke the truth, through the fog of whatever he consumed. To you, Jim!

Yes, my time is limited. And yes, as of now, I have now not fully embraced his clarion call; I still remain in a land of limbo, questioning sundry choices and simply wondering, wondering when I can and will engage fully my artistic Muse in all that I desire.

Why? Why does the hesitation exist? Why do I continue in such folly, to continue my existence by simply…existing, without fully embracing my artistic potential. WHY?

Who knows. And who knows how many folk fall into my flotsam existence? What truly can be the supreme Impetus for change? How long can I continue to simply embrace the every day continuance of repetition before, well, before, my time on this spinning blue orb is extinguished?

What is the answer.

Well, it seems, that further contemplation is superfluous. The time, of course, is now.

And on that note shall I embrace my artistic/writing Muse, no matter what nonsense may visit me.

Thank you for stopping by. I appreciate it. Feel free to post your comments my way.

Take care. Be well.


Copyright, 2020, Paul Grignon, All Rights Reserved.

The Middle of May…

Yes, ‘‘tis now mid-May and all is well in my world. My family is safe, I am doing well, despite the ever-present threat of the virus lurking in every cranny, whether I am at work or trolling the aisles in sundry shops.

It still amazes me how so many folk forgo masks and gloves and blithely enter stores with nary a care, seemingly oblivious to the pandemic at hand, carefree as they stroll the corridors not heeding the direction of arrows on the floor. Idiots.

Of late I have been contacting various artists and clients about modeling, keeping them informed that once this horrendous scourge has diminished or, has been vanquished (one can only hope), that I am still available should they need my modeling expertise.

Modeling provides yet another aspect to my fledgling artistic oeuvre, complementing my painting and writing desires, and it would be quite nice to pose once again for my artist friends, be they students, professionals, or private crafts folk.

To witness a few past interpretations of me, please do access the ‘Modeling ‘ page above. I have been fortunate to have posed for many fine and superb artists, notably Dennis Cheaney and Amy Sudarsky.

Perhaps in the not too distant future I will find myself once again on a pedestal or stage, to provide my services to artists who have, like me, been cooped up inside for far too long.

In the interim, I shall continue my writing and painting, and I bid all my fellow artists, as well as readers, much good health and peace of mind.

Until we meet again, under better and safer conditions, I bid you well.

Take care,



More Than Flowers in May…

There’s a British tradition of saying ‘White Rabbit’ on the first day of every month for good luck. Or ‘Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit!’. But in my family, it has always been ‘White Rabbit’.

And, given my last post, lamenting the presence of the Corona Virus and all its inherent misery I thought, ‘Why not make a change in my life? Why succumb to the allure of alcohol during this pandemic?’

So, on the first day of May, I arose early and proceeded to utter ‘White Rabbit’ as I made my first cup of joe. It felt good. More so than usual. Initially, I couldn’t pinpoint what it was but then, as the day progressed, I realized I did not need that kick of alcohol in the afternoon, between the transition of twilight and dusk, where the creeping comfort of a cold beer (or warming effect of a slight whiskey sliding down my throat) was wholly unnecessary.

Now on the 4th of this fifth month, it still feels pretty good. More clarity, more wakefulness, more…presence. I realized, given my last post, that I simply wished to drown out the misery of the world, to suffocate the pandemic that threatened the populace, how I wondered if the virus could come into our home. So I drank. Too much.

But so far, not now. The epiphany struck me out of the blue and, for now, it has held. One never knows how one will react upon waking in a brand new month. The force of its revelation struck me, perhaps as a hard unseen slap to the face to wake me from my pathetic spending and consumption.

Looking back on these past few days, it amazes me how I can so easily slip into the realm of alcohol, to simply accept its calming effects, to place greenbacks on the counter in order to slip away from the worries and concerns of both the world and home.

I think, but I can’t be certain, that it remains the latter that has proved most effective in my giving up alcohol for the month of May. Thirty-one days of sobriety. So far, it has not been too difficult. Yes, the witching hour of 5pm still exists, but now I do not mindlessly travel to the liquor store after work, for a few beers and a handful of shots, and consume them without relishing the taste; simply to blot out the day, the nonsense of the world, the sundry happenings at home.

Now, with this clarity (I am quite certain I wrote about this in a distant post) I can readily ‘see’ the absurdity of succumbing to such a liquid allure. For what? For a few hours of forgetfulness, of intoxicating my cerebellum all for…what? To numb. To dissolve the pain. To dismiss, in my fog of alcohol, the inherent horrors of the world and the various machinations of nefarious cretins who threaten our existence.

It is day four of this month of May. White Rabbit is behind me, yet its simple message still resonates.

If you, too, suffer from the pull, the sweet siren of sundry soporifics, then perhaps this simple touch of folklore can help you.

Wishing you all much peace and peace of mind. To your good health.

To your own White Rabbit.


Copyright 2020-Paul Grignon-All Rights Reserved.

Dreary Virus Days…

The end of a raw, cold April is upon us and who knows what May will bring during this crisis of Covid-19? Scary times, indeed.

What have I been up to of late? Well, it is now 5:40pm on a rainy Sunday evening, my lovely wife resides on the couch watching some program, the dogs hover near the fireplace (yes, we still have fires), and the cats are draped on various pieces of furniture.

Of late, I fear I have been drinking too much. The threat and wonder of what will transpire in the future tend to make folk fearful and filled with wonder. What will happen? How many people will die from this epidemic? Why do we, as a populace, continue to be tormented by the resident orange buffoon in the White House? The idiot should be removed, preferably in a strait-jacket never to be seen or heard from again. Make that the entire lot that holds court in that sullied building at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Christ, what a joke.

I sit here, yes, nursing a 7.2% Torpedo Sierra Nevada Extra IPA. Christ, did those do a number on me last night, along with the several shots I consumed. My Beloved informed me that I barely managed to eat even one slice of pizza, before falling in bed, naked, and finding slumber within minutes. What an embarrassment and fool. And yet here I sit, with the same beer before me. Perhaps I have a problem; or perhaps I have a problem with the virus. Strange times, indeed.

My art and writing have suffered greatly. It feels good right now to compose these words. Nothing earth-shattering, mind you, but simply pecking at keys and making all the words coherent feels good. I miss writing! As well as my art. I do have an easel set up in the basement, with a smattering of unfinished canvases strewn about, but there they sit, silent witness to my lack of interest. I cannot put a finger on it exactly. Why? Why do I forgo the two things that I enjoy? Quite odd, I must say.

Today, besides going into work on my day off for three hours (hell, a little OT helps, especially during this dilemma), I managed to fire off a few emails, wrote a piece for LinkedIn, and a note on Twitter. If I can somehow fit in the trifecta with a post to WordPress than I’d be satisfied. Well, to some degree. And here it is!

Not too much else to report, except for mentioning that my family remains healthy and happily (not really the word I was looking for) at home while I work and do all the shopping.

Now to engage my spirit in my various crafts without drinking too much nor beating myself up. It does not bode well when engaged in self-flagellation with a fine quirt in hand.

For now, all take good care, and may a modicum of calm and complete health embrace you.


Paul  ( A big shout out to my good friend, Eric Alagan. Miss you, buddy!) 🙂 :-):-)

Memories of Pops…

June 16th, 2019. My father has been dead for almost nine years now. Nine. Hard to believe.

It seems that I just espied him on the trails in Walker Pond, or spotted him at Walmart, shuffling down the aisles, his certain gait with purpled hands at his sides, his ubiquitous checkered shirt be-speckled with paint.

i remember—still—the last time I saw him alive. At our rented house, at 92 Fiske Hill Road, where Julie and I prepared a simple repast of grilled chicken salad, accompanied by a fine Chardonnay.

We chatted and chortled and soon he was on his way. Three days later, he was dead.

No grand exit from this blue marble for him. No, not even a wake , let alone a funeral. Whisked away to be burnt to a cinder and then unceremoniously strewn near the driveway, to be guarded by a statue of St. Francis and an occasional blooming lily.

I still, to this day, say hi to him every morning. And especially today it was poignant to have witnessed the wonderful flight of a heron as it passed overhead.

”Hi Dad!” I exclaimed, and watched as it languidly flew past treetops and disappeared.

”Happy Father’s Day, Pops!”

The memory of my dear father lingers, like an amalgam of hazy dreams, fond recollections of a man who taught me many things, a man I still miss most dearly.

I love you, Dad.

Copyright, Paul Grignon, 2019


A Short Story Competition…

Recently I entered ‘The Writer Digests 88th Annual Writing Competition’. Here then, is my entry. I do hope you enjoy the read, and of course feel free to critique my tale. Thank you for stopping by.

The Perch

It’s your shot, Henry!” Daryl yelled from the bar, chasing a shot of Granddad with a swig of Coors, competing with some ZZ Top tune on the jukebox, something about a silk suit and a fat suede wallet. “You still playin’ or what? Henry?”

Give me a second, will ya? Christ…” Henry finished pecking at the keys to his flip phone, sending yet another text to his son stating that yes, he’d be there for his grandson’s birthday party, David’s ninth. Tomorrow, Friday, 3:30 sharp. He had already picked out a gift, a book. Something he was sure was in short supply.

Jenkins Pub was a good place to unwind after making yet another trip to the nursing home, Comfort Place. What a great name for an outfit for the dying. Sherrie didn’t seem to mind being interred there. Hell, who wouldn’t enjoy being entombed in a pallid green room, replete with a tiny crucifix above a yellow-stained light switch, a wan flickering fluorescent light illuminating the sterile despair within. Really, was this any way to live before you died?

Definitely not the way he was going out of this world. No siree. He had plans. Good ones. A plan unequaled by his old codger contemporaries. No feeding tubes for him; no godawful smell of stale urine and disinfectant; no gagging stench of death up close and personal. No, old Henry Devins had his own plans, thank you very much.

Henry pocketed his old phone (no way in hell he was going to invest his hard-earned money in one o’ those new-fangled Apple gadgets) and limped to the pool table. Besides, he was rather partial to Braeburn.

Am I stripes?” he asked, scanning the scattered balls, wondering if he was high or low.

Jesus, Henry. You okay? You’re low ball. As always.”

He ignored Daryl’s tiresome jibes. Yes, his plans were concrete. And foolproof. It would be the perfect way to exit this spinning blue orb. Just a few more weeks, he reckoned, and then he’d be done with it. This…this life, this existence, eating and breathing and feeling and fornicating all for…, well, all for what? Christ if he knew.

But his plans. Now there was something he could look forward to. No one would find him for years. It was perfect. Unless of course the town decided to rezone and build yet another unsustainable goddamn development, right there in the wilds where he decided to make an end and meet his maker. Whoever or whatever the hell that was.

First time you picked up a cue?” Daryl said, after Henry caromed the white ball off the far corner pocket, knocking Daryl’s number 12 ball in. “Jesus, I’d say your mind’s somewhere else. Next round of beers ride on this game, remember?”

Yeah, he remembered. Screw you Daryl. But in the grand scheme of things, he couldn’t give a rodent’s buttocks about billiards. Sitting there on his perch, the worn corner stool near the rough-hewn oak beam, he chalked his stick and thought about going up there this weekend, check on his place, make sure everything was up to snuff. Maybe along the way buy another bottle of Glenfiddich. Hell, couldn’t have too much booze before leaving this beautiful blue marble. Yes, that was the plan. As long as one o’ those damn Nor’easters didn’t blow in. Heck, mid-March and blizzards still coming in from the west coast. If it didn’t snow then he’d go there. Just to make sure all was in order. Had to be careful and plan accordingly.

Henry grabbed his half-finished, lukewarm bottle of Schlitz and surveyed the red felt. He loved toying with his old pal. And after Daryl missed sinking the 9-ball in the side pocket for the win, he’d run the table. That would shut Daryl Goodwin up for the night. Maybe even quit him asking ‘bout where he’d been heading outta town on occasion. As if it was any of his damn business. No, he wouldn’t understand. Better to keep it close to the sleeve. Let no one in. Hell, even Sherrie wouldn’t understand. She had no clue who he was anyway. Yeah, head north after the bar and make sure all was up to snuff.

He felt better. Now to run the table and close Daryl’s pie-hole for the night. And get that free ice cold beer.


Like any good detective, Henry peered in the rear-view mirror as he bore left north on 302 off 85, Jordan Bay now a quiet stretch of gray. Had to make sure he wasn’t followed. If Daryl and his cronies were privy to his plan, he’d chortle and tell them they were acting like Colombo or one o’ them NCIS guys. Henry couldn’t care less what ol’ Daryl thought. Or his fellow pool players. Just to make sure, he glanced in the rear view again.

Easing parallel to Sebago Lake, a smattering of snow snakes snuck across the asphalt. He was making pretty good time. Next to him sat a six-pack of Miller High Life—minus one—and two 750’s of Glenfiddich. Hell, had to have a heavy supply for making your demise, don’t you think? Just another few miles to Shawnee Peak and all would be well.

In back he had a few extra 20” inch pine boards, in case the place needed shoring up. He hoped the damn rungs would last until he committed to his endeavor. Wouldn’t want something like that to screw up his grand plans. And for good measure, he brought a 10-foot length of Kevlar rope, something that would provide ease of mind should wood fail. The loop at the end would do the trick in a snap. Pun, of course, intended.

A few miles more and then he’d be there, to inspect his perch, his aerie, his hermitage in the heavens, where he and his Maker would finally meet, high above the valley. He really didn’t believe in any of that after life crap, of angels and heaven and a glistening white gate with pillows of comfortable clouds on the other side, with all the amenities of death’s rebirth in the sky. No, not that but maybe, maybe there was reincarnation. He’d like to come back as a well loved cat. Hell, who wouldn’t? Lie around naked all day, sleeping, eating, being stroked. How could that be half bad?

Who the hell knew, though. But lately, after watching a string of Ancient Alien shows, he wasn’t quite sure. Hell, how did they build those damn pyramids anyway, or move some of those 100 ton stones? Maybe there was an afterlife for him. Just hope it would be better than this one.

And Sherrie. She could never comprehend what was knocking around his old noggin. He remembered that last evening, when she had been more lucid. They had sat on the sofa and ate some leftover lasagna, with stale butts of bread. And other times, when she made some cockamamie hot dog casserole (who made such godawful things?), he’d have to catch himself from his revelry, and concentrate on whatever she was babbling about, shouting over the incessant stream of ads on the boob tube.

Most of the time he’d just simply nod, emit a ‘uh-huh’ once in a while, and that would placate her. But not tonight. His mind was far away, to his roost in the skies, and he had failed to listen to her travails of the day.

He stopped his revelry long enough to take a sharp left on 302 past Bridgton. Only ten miles more.

Henry! My goodness, you haven’t heard a word I said. What’s going on in that thick skull of yours?” Sherrie had placed her fork on the edge of her plate, next to a strip of unfinished mashed potato and one lone French green bean, both plastered with congealing Heinz Homemade Gravy, straight from the jar. It was a far cry from growing up, where his Mom would save the grease and bits of beef and make her own gravy, with real flour, stir until it was smooth and creamy and tan, the perfect accompaniment to a mound of buttered spuds.

Yeah I, uh, I heard ya. Somethin’ ‘bout Margie at work, how she doesn’t pull her weight. Which I gather is quite substantial.” He dared not look at Sherrie, peering instead at his plate—what exactly was she feeding him anyway?

Sherrie had that ridiculous eye-wash of a glass in front of her, filled with her beloved Carlo Rossi Chablis. She stared at him, measuring whether he had truly been listening. Satisfied, she put her two ounce glass down and picked up her fork, stabbing the lone green bean on one soiled tine.

I mean, can you believe her, Henry? She certainly had the nerve. I tell you, I don’t know why I bother.” The fork disappeared into her overly lipsticked mouth, chewing over both bean and her cohort. “Enough of Margie. What’s been going on, Henry? You just don’t seem present.” She had a habit after every bite to pick up whatever she was drinking and take a slurp off the glass. Henry found it utterly repulsive.

This is exactly what he didn’t want to deal with. He had places to go, things to check up on. How had his life led to this exact moment, with this particular woman and meal, being questioned about his whereabouts and such, wondering exactly what coursed through his old bald head.

Nothing. Nothing much, Sherrie. You know me. Same ol’ Henry. Mr. Predictable and all that.” He looked down at his plate. He could not fathom taking another bite of the gruel in front of him. He picked up his lukewarm Natural Ice (she thought all beer tasted the same and had grabbed whatever was near) and took a reluctant swallow. The news bellowed from the living room, all death, doom, and despair. He had to go. The beer made him gag, as though he just swallowed something foul from the bowels of a redemption center.

Sherrie, my dear, that was, uh, lovely. Thank you so much. But I have to get a move on. I have to check in on something. Thank you.”

Just like that? Typical man. Eat and run. Go. Don’t bother,”she said, remonstrating him with a wave of her flaccid arms. “I’ll clean up. Nice to see you, Henry. Maybe next time you can actually let me in and tell me what the hell is going on with you.”

He moved to pick up the plates but she shooed him away again. “Henry, if I know you, there’s no getting yourself out of your own head. Just go. Oh, and thanks for the Grey Goose.” The vodka sat unopened on the counter. He wished she opted for that instead of the godawful Natties. Maybe he would crack open the Glendfiddich as soon as he left.

He nodded, grabbed his parka and hat, and opened the front door. “Thank you, Sherrie. Appreciate your hospital–”

Oh, bugger off, Henry. Enjoy your night. Whatever the hell it is you do.”

He closed the door behind him and slipped into the frigid evening air. Alone at last. It was later than he wanted but still a hint of twilight hugged the night sky. A sliver of brilliant moon hung low on the horizon, as though god himself had accidentally punctured the night sky with a fingernail.

Piling into his car he wondered how much longer Sherrie would hold out. Her mind was slipping, that was evident. That far away gaze, more often than not. The way she would stop mid-sentence, as though trying to recall just what was on her mind; or the fork in mid poise, unable to decide whether to stab a vegetable or a piece of fatty meat. Soon, he reckoned, soon he’d have to find a place for her. He made up his mind to do some research tomorrow. It would be better for her.


Gazing again at the darkening sky, he wondered why he agreed to meet Daryl for a beer. He stayed longer than he wanted. Now he’d have to hurry if he wanted to inspect his place. Damn it. He should have been up there already. Cranking the heat, he sped off past Del’s Deli, past The Beauty Shack (who in god’s name chose that title?), and beyond the fringe of lights, down past Crazy Eddie’s Farm, to the dirt road, nothing more than a rutted path really, where he would park alongside the cattails and swamp, and lug his supplies up the rocky trail to his signature tree.

God, he was tired. Exhausted. Maybe, maybe he would curtail his grand plans; maybe he would make it sooner than later. And why not? Especially after witnessing Sherrie’s sudden collapse, how quickly she disappeared before his very eyes. Christ, if anything was ever a turning point, she was it.

Yes, maybe it was time. He would find out soon enough. Once he got to the ol’ sycamore he would know. How many more times could he afford the opportunity to heave himself skyward, to his aerie, and peer out at his last vista? He would find out. Tonight.

He eased the old Impala along the path, careful not to bottom out, especially after the torrential rains of late. He couldn’t remember such downfalls. He eased the old beast against the rusted barbed wire fence, thinking that ornery Jack Jaspers wouldn’t mind if he left his Chevrolet parked near his sagging barn. Jaspers rarely made it out this far anyway.

Henry turned off the engine. He depressed the window button (he preferred hand cranks, but nowadays, they were hard to come by) and allowed the cool evening air to surge in and keep him silent company.

Sitting there, breathing in the night air, he thought that yes, this was going to be the night. And why not? Why wait a few more years? Or one year? Why not embrace spontaneity, for once in his life? And heck, it was truly only once in his life. After tonight, there would be no other tomorrows. No kicking around the pub, no futile gatherings at the Comfort Place,no worrying about Sherrie. No, just him. Alone. With his last supplies, edging ever closer to the other side.

He opened the door and heaved his bulk out, into the frigid evening air. It was getting cooler, just the way he planned. Maybe he’d forgo his third layer of clothing and simply embrace the night. Up there, sitting and watching the slow arc of the full moon as it wended its way along the heavens, occasionally taking a swig and then, as he drank in the sight and vapors, wonder how it’d feel once the effect of booze and exhaustion held sway, sitting back against his perch, slowly drifting into sweet oblivion.

But he was far from that peaceful vision; he had barely made it out of his goddamn car. And he still had a half mile to walk; shuffle along the stony path to his tree, the towering spire that would help usher in his comfortable demise.

It should have been sooner. Every step was a struggle. How in god’s name was he to hoist himself skyward? He had to, though. Everything hinged on his ascent. To his spot, his final resting place, his perch upon the pine slats. He could taste it; nestled against the hard rough surface of the tree, taking that long hard swallow of scotch, gazing out at the town below him, watching the moon as it grazed first the horizon and then presented itself to him, in full glory, a lone beautiful watchful eye witnessing his exit.

The trek to the path was dreadful. What had happened? Christ, was he that much out of shape? He just did this, didn’t he, a few weeks ago? Or was it months? On recollection, it was four months ago. Could, could he really have aged that much since?

Just push forward, you old sod! Keep going. After all, who is this for? Yes, the love of your foolish old heart, you crazy bastard. It was, as it always was, for Sherrie. Poor, lovely Sherrie. Locked up and lost within herself, unable to remember past exquisite evenings, nestled close to the hearth, wine glasses in hand, laughing, peering at flickering flames, holding hands on the sofa, warm and content.

The sycamore was in sight. Henry chanced a glimpse skyward. Dusk had all but faded. Only thirty more yards. He hated his ragged breathing, as though he was getting old. But then, he was 78. Christ, where did the years go? Where indeed? Seventy-eight. It didn’t seem possible. And yet, here he was. Alone, rasping for breath, lugging clinking bottles of scotch and supplies to his perch high above.

The sycamore stood solid, beckoning his final approach. Henry stopped and slid down the rough flank of the tree. Just a simple rest before his climb into the heavens.

The sun had long fled. Dusk had fast disappeared, as if shy to remain present. Only dim remnants of light filtered along the horizon from a silver moon.

Henry struggled off his haunches, stood and looked up. The old wooden rungs seemed sturdy. He would know soon enough.

Henry began to climb. Everything appeared to be in order. Twenty feet up, he reached for a rung and slipped. His grip was firm, but something gave, a slight twist of rotted wood, a sudden shift of something not quite right.

The rung snapped. As if in a dream, he reached out with one hand, grasping nothing but air. He tumbled backward. Was this really happening? As if in slow motion, he reached out but his hands failed to find purchase. He was in free-fall. Twenty feet straight down.

Landing hard in the snow, he lay disoriented. Looking up, through the snow-laden boughs, he saw glimpses of his perch high above. Where he should have been right now. Gazing out at that town, taking his first long sweet slug of scotch.

But no. He lay sprawled, at the base of the sycamore. Now what? Full dark was nigh. Only patches of moonlight passed through the trees.

Dropping his gaze, he peered at the trail where he had left his car. Other shadows replaced the bushes before him. Was, was something moving out there, beyond the fringe? Something unseen before?

He shook his head and reached for his knapsack. A sharp pang gripped his left leg. He chanced a glimpse and saw a puddle of dark crimson spreading slowly in the snow. And what was that bright snatch of white? Was….was that bone? Christ, what the hell happened? Rustling through his bag, he grabbed one of the bottles, removed it and snapped the seal. The scotch would help. Amazing they were intact.

The shadows neared. How was it possible for bushes to move on their own? But he knew. They weren’t mere shrubs. No, the occasional glint from twin orbs gave them away. He was not alone. Multiple yellow eyes glinted in the shifting light of the moon.

The shadows approached, cautiously at first. Henry looked at them and, averting his eyes skyward, saw the dark slats of wood high above—his perch—his final resting place, with booze at hand, the vista of town and moon before him. Damn it, he should have been up there by now! But it was not to be. He grabbed the handle of scotch and took another long hard pull of the burning liquid.

Here’s to you, David. Happy birthday.” He took another slug and plopped the bottle into the snow. The shadows edged closer, initial fears subsiding.

And here’s to you,” he said, into the void. One more swig and one more gaze into the branches above, a glimpse of the moon passing his perch. He reached for the bottle, the wavering shadows coming into focus. And closer.

I love you, Sherrie.”


Copyright, Paul Grignon, 2019.

Epitome of Largesse…

This past Sunday, June 2, 2019, we celebrated my stepson’s graduation from high school. Various family members and friends attended, braving weekend traffic and stifling heat in the gymnasium, where the grand ceremony took place.

Afterward, we all were to assemble once again at the The Duck, a fine restaurant nestled in the heart of Sturbridge, a town made famous by its famous Old Sturbridge Village, a reconstructed 18th century town.

Upon entering the establishment, I was surprised to see all other party members had already arrived. I marveled at how they managed to get there before us, given the snaking line of traffic exiting the school.

Three tables were cobbled together, and all 14 of us sat scattered about the banquet table of sorts.

My wife, Julie, and I were hosting this little soiree, wishing to offer a meal in honor of all who attended such a milestone day.

Prior to this gathering I asked Julie if we did indeed have the necessary funds for such a lavish outlay of cash, what would amount to hundreds of dollars. She assured me all was okay.

As the evening progressed, and various plates and side dishes, as well as copious amounts of drinks were passed about, I made silent calculations in my head; what people ordered, how many cocktails were flowing across the tables, adding up the rough math as coffee and desserts soon graced the tablecloth.

It was at this juncture our harried waitress could not be found. It was evident the meal had concluded, and I could tell people were anxious to leave.

Where was she?

And then, my brother-in-law, Steve, got up, ready to leave. Still I scoured the dining room, valiantly searching for our server. As our party slowly edged to the stairs, Steve turned and said, “It’s all taken care of.”

Unbeknownst to Julie and I, Steve and his lovely wife, Meghan, had preempted us, surreptitiously paying for the entire meal! We were shocked. And extremely grateful.

It was a monumental display of incredible generosity, a gesture of such largesse that left us speechless.

I write this in honor of them, to Steve and Meghan, for all their countless acts of kindness and for bestowing such unprecedented gifts upon us, time and time again.

We left the building and made our way to our respective cars. Steve and his family were already in their car, ready to wend their way home in Sunday traffic. I reached into the window and shook his hand, thanking him profusely for such a fabulous and generous gesture.

Here then, is to Steve and Meghan, two wonderful and kind souls. Both Julie and I thank you for your munificence

We are–as always–grateful for your magnanimity. Thank you!

Copyright, Paul Grignon, 2019.


A Quiet Evening…

I thought about the title to this post, quite a bit, and simply came up with the one above. I had, of course, a few others in mind but given the evening I suppose the least amount touched upon would suffice.

Although many other titles coursed through my head. ‘A Far Cry’ came to mind but was suppressed.

You see, it remains a rare occasion when both our boys are here, let alone sit at the dining room table, with us, their parents.

The candles were lit, the diffused lights were in place, the ambience was okay; a fire burned in the wood stove. It was cozy. The winds howled outside on this late March evening, the dogs hovered near the kitchen for fallen scraps.

Perhaps ‘A Far Cry’ would have indeed been a better title for we cannot possibly compete with other fellow relatives who live distant yet provide a more pleasing destination, a place where much frivolity, laughter, music, drinks, and superb food reign.

Here, when our simple repast was served, two sullen boys reluctantly sat down, offering not a hint of conversation. The ensuing dinner remained utterly quiet, save for spitting wood in the stove, and the rustlings of canines underfoot, the latter awaiting morsels to rain down upon their eager muzzles.

I don’t know. It remains a sad commentary where, how incredibly rare it is for us to ‘host’ our boys at the table that silence reigns; nary a word spoken, even after attempts at coaxing at least a monosyllabic response.

I suppose it remains the climate to which much gaiety is to be gleaned. Certainly it is not to be found here, where fine comestibles do grace the table, cold beverages brace the inner sanctum of the fridge, and where many animals offer their own exuberance to others rarely seen in this household.

Granted, we do not possess a whiff of bells and whistles. Simply a dwelling with simple fare, a warm interior, cozy beds for those who seek slumber, and always a welcoming front door.

A quiet evening, indeed. Glad to see ‘my’ boys at the dinner table? A resounding yes. Perturbed that not a glimpse of happiness or conversation was to be had? Yes.

Yes, things here in our simple domicile remain incomplete and questionable. It was just good to have the boys here with us, partaking in a simple meal, sitting at the table, their demeanor far removed from the company of mom and ‘dad’.

A far cry of what I expected. But then, too, our 17 and 25 year old sons have their own lives. And perhaps I felt insensitive to their respective needs and thoughts.

One can never, though, anticipate the outcome of such gatherings, nor be disappointed by the resounding silence that accompanies such a meal.

Thank you, though, to both my sons, for having sat with us. Despite the deafening silence during the meal, it was a pleasure to gaze past my plate into their handsome faces.

I love you both dearly. I hope you both know that.

Copyright, 2019, Paul Grignon



Winter’s End, New Beginnings…

The sun provides little warmth here on the east coast in Massachusetts where I sit nestled on my perch down a trail near a frozen field of white whilst my dogs scamper through belly high snow.

The times of late beckon much pondering: about life, work, existence, the past, and yet, most importantly my Love, my sons, and all our assorted pets.

Ruminating upon such things tends to magnify other important details that threaten our very domicile; past looming creditors that appear out of the azure, replete with threatening letters; hearing from our tax man that, because of the Orange Imbecile that resides at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue (does he, though, deserve the capitals for his pathetic work in the Capitol?) we are to receive thousands less than presumed, rendering us once again in arrears to friends’ generosity with their past loans.

What to make of all this as I sit on a ragged blue chair eyeing the fallow field before me? What to make of such things? It is, I am quite certain, a familiar lament to thousands—nay, millions—of other fine folk drowned in similar debt and circumstances.

What can one do? What is the remedy? What steps can I take to alter this vicious cycle of crushing debt and allow a semblance of calm to once again enter our fractured lives?

Hmm. Such queries, such questions. What to do, what to do.

I return—always–to a most inspiring friend and constant blogger, one who provides insights and kind words, a self-less soul who continues, unabated, with wonderful posts, a consummate writer who always leaves a pleasing message to all who reply to his lovely prose.

I am, of course, talking about Sir Eric Alagan, he of writtenwordsneverdie, a most delightful and thought-provoking site that will leave you in astonishment at his prolific output and varied writings. Do, do stop by. Read a few posts. Drop him a line. He shall respond. In moments of doubt, when I question my own writings, of why I have been so far removed from replying to his writings, of why I remain distant from my own computer—my words—it is he who allows me to sit and compose, to revel in writing, to free myself from the daily constraints of nonsense that tends to permeate all our lives.

Thank you, Eric. Just a quick shout out to you, to give you credit where credit is due, to allow other readers a chance to stop by your site and witness the wonder of your words.

‘Tis time indeed that I plunge my own spirit in the craft of writing. Just posting this letter gives me that initial impetus into that realm of words.

Take care, Eric, and thank you.

Your friend from afar,