"Frog Hospital" And "Pax" Discuss Names, Burial Rites, Bag Pipes And Public Vs. Private Art

Dear Fred,

Thanks for Frog Hospital.

What a remarkable "viewing" of Robert Sund's body!

Last night I recounted to a group of friends at my son's high school graduation party how I broke down in tears at my Mom's "viewing" but not at my Dad's - the parent with whom I completely identified.

As I was living through this, it worried me that I was not crying.

Then, as I pulled the car to graveside, I got out and started to fetch something from the trunk.

While walking to the back of the car, unexpected bag pipes rended the air and immediately tears came forth. 

Maybe "it's the Scot in me," but I think bagpipes should be part of every proper funeral. (The Celtic people of Galicia - where Compostela is located - are still fond of piping. Danny and I would hear the pipes from time to time while walking the Camino de Santiago. We even heard them within earshot of Santiago's Cathedral.)

***

I call myself Alan. 

But when I meet people I also let them know I respond to any variant of Archibald. 

I like it when people mistake my name and sometimes don't even correct them so I have a chance to "try it on." 

My pastor at the Oakland Cathedral (St. Francis de Sales, a remarkably well-balanced fellow) could never break the habit of calling me John. 

When my son was born, I felt he "should" be named Andrew and --- Ecce! --- the first person to visit baby Danny after he came home from hospital said "Isn't Andy a beautiful baby?" Go figure.

You may be the last person who still calls me Arch. 

Jim Sanfilipo calls me A'bald and FV, a lover of both Jim and me -- and a person who remains a boon friend and traveling companion of us both -- calls me A. 

I call her F.

My high school sweetheart will still - occasionaly - call me Pooh.

I tell people I am from Rochester, Irondequoit (which is Seneca for "land between two waters") and Honeoye (Seneca for "finger lying on the ground") since all three of these places were the sites where I was formed from birth till I moved away.

Pax

Alan

On Sun, Jun 12, 2016 at 2:20 PM, Fred Owens <froghospital911@gmail.com> wrote:

FROG HOSPITAL -- July 12, 2016 -- unsubscribe anytime

dead poets

By Fred Owens

In my life, writing is work and other arts are self-expression, like playing the piano. I am not very good at the piano but it makes me happy. And drawing. I enjoy drawing and painting and if I pin the drawing to the wall for a while, then I enjoy looking at it.

That used to be called domestic art, but now I would call it self-expression.

I remember a painting in Aunt Jean's living room, hung over the couch, a still life with flowers. Aunt Jean did it herself and it looked just about perfect in that spot, in her home.

The trouble is if you put Aunt Jean's painting on public display in a gallery, I think it would be an insult to her memory. It just wouldn't look good in public.....

So the distinction for me is between public and private. I really want the whole world to read my writing, but I play the piano for my own pleasure.

dead poets

Robert Sund, the poet of Ish River, died in September of 2001, only a few weeks after the twin towers were attacked in New York City on September 11. I remember all the TVs were on at the hospital, except in Robert's room. I was glad he did not have to watch that terrible news, he was dying and beyond all that.

Robert died of lung cancer at age 71. Hundreds of people knew him and loved him and came to visit him in the hospital. But Jeff Langlow and I were the only two of his friends that came to his wake.

The way it worked out, Robert knew he was dying and he calmly made plans for friends to create a trust to keep and publish his poems. That was done. And for his body to be cremated and celebrated with Buddhist ritual on a propitious date. There was to be no wake, just cremation and then Arthur Greeno was to keep his ashes for the time being. 

Except Jeff Langlow and I didn't know that. Jeff was a carpenter who lived in his home-made cabin up by Blanchard, deep in the alder woods.  He and I both went to the funeral parlor the day after Robert died. We both showed up at the door at the same time that evening and we asked the undertaker for the viewing.

The undertaker took  us past the carpeted parlor in a hushed voice and showed us to a small empty room in the back. And there was Robert deceased and lying on a hospital gurney, just as plain as pumpkins.

Robert was all cleaned and washed the way a dead person is treated in that special manner, but he was only wearing a hospital gown that barely covered his knees.

His hands were folded reverently over his stomach and wrapped with Buddhist prayer beads. His bare feet draped over the edge of the gurney.

His feet are bare, I said to Jeff. Then I said maybe they should put a blanket over his feet, his feet will get cold. But Jeff said, he's dead and where he's going he won't need shoes and he won't ever get cold.

That was the wake of Robert Sund. No one else came and we weren't supposed to be there either.You come into this life barefooted and you leave it that way too.

A New Book about Robert Sund

There is a new book about Robert Sund. It is a collection of his unpublished poems and journal entries, plus memories from friends of times with Robert, and interesting black and white photos. It is the very best Robert Sund book, because Robert was more than a poet. He was a creation of his own community, and his community -- his friends -- speak for him now.

The book is called a flutter of birds passing through heaven

Where are you from?Dear Reader, Where are you from?  What do you call yourself?

Everybody is from somewhere and maybe you want to ask them. I ask people all the time, where are you from, although lately that can get too political, so I changed it. Now I ask people, "Where did you grow up?" The funny thing is people smile when I ask them where they grew up. Try it yourself and see what happens.

Trump News. I wrote something about Trump but it was too weird, so I deleted it. I tried again, it was still too weird. Maybe Trump is contagious, arrrgh!

Memory. I challenged my girlfriend to a recitation of the names of Jane Austen's six novels from memory. She declined the contest, and then I began to recite, but I only came up with five titles. We were out on a walk. I have a dumb phone. Her phone is only half-smart. We did not have access to Google  -- how primitive! I wracked my brain but could not remember the sixth title. Of course when we got back to the house and the domestic wi-fi we found the answer instantly on Google. It was Emma. I had forgotten Emma. But looking this up on Google seems like cheating.

Events. We can get instant news from the atrocity in Orlando, but there in no need to declare an instant reaction. Do not act or speak in haste. do not jump to conclusions....... Go outside, take a walk, read a book..... let the media and the police do their job..... then react and say your words.

Subscriptions. Frog Hospital is free and hundreds of readers have enjoyed reading 25 issues every year since 1998. but if you really insist on paying for a subscription, then you will be remembered in the editor's bedtime prayers. To subscribe, you must go to the Frog Hospital blog and hit the PayPal button with your contribution of $25 or $50. Or mail a check for $25 or $50 to

Fred Owens

1105 Veronica Springs RD

Santa Barbara, CA 93105

thank you very much