Tag Archives: Love

Francis

St. Francis of Assisi wrote this lovely poem, which was later paired with a soaring melody.  Sometime in the 1970s, I attended a Catholic retreat in Lethbridge, Alberta, sleeping in a high school gym.  We were awakened each morning by a choir of angel volunteers, giving us the sweetest daybreak songs.  Later in the day, retreatants and volunteers would channel Francis in singing these words.  It was sublime.  Spirit filled the room.

Make me a channel of your peace,
Where there is hatred, let me bring Your love,
Where there is injury, Your pardon Lord,
And where there’s doubt, true faith in You

Make me a channel of your peace,
Where there’s despair in life let me bring hope,
Where there is darkness – only light,
And where there’s sadness, ever joy

Oh Master, grant that I may never seek,
So much to be consoled as to console,
To be understood, as to understand,
To be loved, as to love with all my soul

Make me a channel of your peace,
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned,
In giving to all men that we receive,
And in dying that we’re born to eternal life

Oh Master, grant that I may never seek,
So much to be consoled as to console,
To be understood, as to understand,
To be loved, as to love with all my soul

Make me a channel of your peace,
Where there is hatred, let me bring Your love,
Where there is injury, Your pardon Lord,
And where there’s doubt, true faith in You

I would like to sit with Francis in Tim Horton’s, enjoying tea and a muffin.  Having it be okay if no words were shared for a time.  Listening when he speaks.  Letting my own words spill out unrehearsed.  Just being together.  No one the better, no one the worse.  One wiser, I’m sure, but that’s okay.  Both of us tapping into the world’s wisdom, indeed being channels for it.  Not smart or clever or special or renowned.

Just tea for two
And two for tea
Just me for you
And you for me

Just Folks

Two guys, one Canadian and one Tibetan.  Both well known in their fields.  Both just like you and me.  Both kind.

I read in the London Free Press this morning about George Canyon, a country singer from High River, Alberta.  London has one of its big annual events on right now – the Western Fair.  George was supposed to sing outdoors last night but the heavens opened up and the show was cancelled.  Many fans had been waiting in the rain for George to begin.

Fair organizers then set up a session for George and his fans at a comedy club in one of the fair buildings.  He would shake hands with a few people, for a few minutes.  And then bye bye.  Except the officials didn’t really get what type of person George was.

Mr. Canyon picked up his guitar and started playing for the wet but drying out faithful.  He took requests.  He chatted at length with the crowd.  “After about 20 songs, Canyon put the guitar down and stayed until he met everyone who wanted to have their picture taken with him, or an autograph.”

***

Years ago, the Dalai Lama was staying at a San Francisco hotel while he participated in a conference.  On the day he was leaving, he asked the manager to have all the on-duty employees gather in the hotel parking lot.

“The Dalai Lama walked down the line, greeting each person, smiling, looking in their eyes, thanking them for their service.  Many people wept.  Many looked at him completely enraptured.  At no time did I get the impression that his attention was wandering or that he would rather have been somewhere else.  Without exception, he was fully attentive to each person as he met them.  The effect of this wholehearted presence was remarkable.”

 ***

There’s nothing I can think of to add
Our actions say it all

 

Stompin’ Tom

I remember going to a concert with a friend in Lethbridge, Alberta, probably in the 70s.  I’d vaguely heard of the guy – Stompin’ Tom Connors – but I didn’t know what to expect.  Well … onto the stage came this fellow dressed in black, including his stetson hat, and carrying a wooden board.  He set it down under one of his feet, grabbed his guitar, and launched himself into “The Hockey Song”, all the while smashing his cowboy boot in rhythm on the wood.  My God, but he was an original!

I know you probably don’t know the tune, but close your eyes and let your mind run free:

Hello out there, we’re on the air, it’s ‘Hockey Night’ tonight
Tension grows, the whistle blows, and the puck goes down the ice
The goalie jumps, and the players bump, and the fans all go insane
Someone roars, “Bobby Scores!”, at the good ol’ hockey game

Where players dash, with skates aflash, the home team trails behind
But they grab the puck, and go bursting up, and they’re down across the line
They storm the crease, like bumble bees, they travel like a burning flame
We see them slide, the puck inside, it’s a 1-1 hockey game

Oh take me where, the hockey players, face off down the rink
And the Stanley Cup, is all filled up, for the champs who win the drink
Now the final flick, of a hockey stick, and the one gigantic scream
“The puck is in! The home team wins!”, the good ol’ hockey game

Snippets of this song are still played at rinks all over Canada during breaks in the play.

Tom was born in New Brunswick and was taken from his mom at an early age by the Children’s Aid.  He eventually was adopted but took off from that family at age 15 to go hitchhiking across the country with his guitar.  And the hitching continued as he explored Canada and brought his music to the locals.  Many, many concerts and albums later, Tom was given the Order of Canada, perhaps the highest honour that civilian citizens can receive.

Tom was himself, writing songs that he liked, about his back aching after picking tobacco in Tillsonburg, Ontario, or drinking a bit too much after his shift at the nickel mine in Sudbury, Ontario.  He didn’t fit in with the Canadian music industry but the people loved him.  And still do.

Tom died in 2013.  He wrote a goodbye, which was published in newspapers after his death.  The man and the human being shine through:

Hello friends.  I want all my fans – past, present or future – to know that without you, there would have not been any Stompin’ Tom.

It was a long, hard, bumpy road, but this great country kept me inspired with its beauty, character and spirit, driving me to keep marching on and devoted to sing about its people and places that make Canada the greatest country in the world.

I must now pass the torch to all of you, to help keep the Maple Leaf flying high, and be the patriot Canada needs now and in the future.

I humbly thank you all, one last time, for allowing me in your homes.  I hope I continue to bring a little bit of cheer into your lives from the work I have done.

Cheers, Tom

This Old Guitar

A few weeks ago, I started playing my acoustic guitar again, and singing to Jody.  It’s been many months, if not a year or two.  I learned the basics during group lessons in Ottawa in 1972.  You could say that I’ve never gone beyond that, sticking with a few chords and a flat pick.  I’ve imagined myself as one of the virtuosos I often see on DVDs, playing cool melody lines while I fingerpick away.  Not in this lifetime, I believe.

I’ve also fantasized about being Canada’s next great singer-songwriter, in the tradition of Stan Rogers, David Francey and James Keelaghan.  Touching people with lyrics that speak of our human condition.  I’ve even written a few songs but they’re  not very good.  I don’t seem to have an anthem akin to John Lennon’s “Imagine” sitting on the tip of my tongue.

Number three in my “wish fors” has been to form a folk group – say two men and three women, guitar, fiddle, mandolin, double bass and keyboard.  Exquisite vocal harmonies that take the listener away.  Playing for audiences – large or small -bowing to the applause, contributing.  Nothing happening on that front at the moment.

I finally see that all of those supposed deficits are okay.  I just want to sing beautiful songs to my beautiful wife.  I don’t care who wrote it, or that I didn’t.  Here’s John Denver’s ode to music shared:

This old guitar taught me to sing a love song
It showed me how to laugh and how to cry
It introduced me to some friends of mine
And brightened up some days
It helped me make it through some lonely nights
Oh, what a friend to have on a cold and lonely night

I’ve sure laughed – try “Dropkick Me Jesus Through the Goal Posts of Life”, for example.  And I’ve cried.  “Song for the Mira” comes to mind, with a man reliving his youth and contemplating his death.  I’ve sung songs in the dark of English Bay Beach in Vancouver, in my dorm room at the Prince of Wales Hotel, and at sunset while hitchhiking through Northern Ontario, with no ride in sight.

This old guitar gave me my lovely lady
It opened up her eyes and ears to me
It brought us close together
And I guess it broke her heart
It opened up the space for us to be
What a lovely place and a lovely space to be

When Jody and I first met in the 1980s, I favoured her with a few tunes that brought a smile to her face: “Annie’s Song” (You Fill Up My Senses), “How Can I Tell You That I Love You”, “Mr. Bojangles” and “Free in the Harbour”, the story of whales swimming untroubled in the waters of Hermitage Bay.  I struggled to express my own words of love but the songs said it so well.  And still do.

This old guitar gave me my life, my living
All the things you know I love to do
To serenade the stars that shine
From a sunny mountainside
Most of all to sing my songs for you
I love to sing my songs for you
Yes I do, you know, I love to sing my songs for you

Okay, not exactly my living.  I’ve easily been able to keep my amateur status.  But I’ve serenaded a few stars with songs such as “Poems, Prayers and Promises” and “Be Not Afraid”.  And moonlit asphalt has been my companion as my thumb and I let “The Long and Winding Road” surround us.

But it’s into your eyes, Jodiette, that the melodies and the chords truly find their way.  And our hearts vibrate in response.

 

Dipa Ma

Dipa Ma – a tiny, unassuming woman from India – was a spiritual giant.  Many Westerners studied with her and some of those people became leaders in bringing Buddhism to North America.  How much impact can one person have on the lives of others?  Listen:

In a busy Santa Fe coffeehouse one morning, Sharon Salzberg was asked “What was Dipa Ma’s greatest gift to you?”

Sharon paused for a moment, and her face softened.

“Dipa Ma really loved me,” she said.  “And when she died, I wondered, ‘Will anyone ever really love me like that again?’”

She fell silent, and for a few moments it was as if a gate had opened into another world.  In this other place there was only one thing: complete and total love.

From Amy Schmidt:

Just before she got in the van, she turned to me and put her hands on my hands, looked me right in the eye, remarkably close, and held my hands in silence.  She stared at me with utter love, utter emptiness, utter care.  During this minute she gave me a complete, heartfelt transmission of lovingkindness … there was shakti [spiritual energy] just pouring from her.  Then she turned around and slowly got into the car.  In this one moment, she showed me a kind of love I had never experienced before.

***

She was one of the few people in my life in whose presence I have gone quiet.  I was able to rest in her silence.

From someone:

We see within the narrow band of visible light, while at the same time there are so many other wavelengths in the electromagnetic spectrum that we don’t see.  People like Dipa Ma lived in the whole spectrum.  A  rich realm of human possibility was open to her that most of us are ordinarily unaware of and find hard to fathom.

From someone:

There’s something else about Dipa Ma that needs to be mentioned, which is much more important, and that is her sila—the ethical quality of her actions and behavior.  I spent nearly every day with her over a spring and summer, and her behavior never seemed less than impeccable.  It was so clear that it was just a spontaneous expression of who she was and what was alive in her.  This didn’t mean she hesitated to act forcefully or speak out passionately if she felt something was wrong.  But she did it without judgment or blame.  She honored Munindra as her teacher, but didn’t hesitate to take him to task one day for keeping a group of her students waiting an hour and a half in the Calcutta heat and humidity for a talk he’d promised to give them.

From Jack Engler:

I had just been introduced to Vipassana through four months of intensive practice at some of the first retreats held in the States, and I left for India immediately afterward.  When I landed in Calcutta, I set out to find Dipa Ma.  I finally found her, and when I tried to introduce and explain myself, I suppose feeling I had to justify my being there and hoping to make an impression, and wanting her to see me as someone who was on the path, I broke down in her presence.  I virtually came unraveled, thread by thread.  I began sobbing uncontrollably, overcome with anxiety and humiliation, face to face with all the artificial constructions of who I thought I was and wanted to be in front of her.  It was impossible to sustain that kind of pretense in her presence.  She just listened with complete acceptance and nonjudgment.  Like any genuine teacher, her presence was a mirror in which I could not avoid seeing myself—all of my ideas about myself just collapsed.  I felt completely undone.  But Dipa Ma never changed.  She was the same at the end of the interview as she was at the beginning—attentive, gentle, kind, just listening without judgment.  When I couldn’t go on any longer, she put her hands on my head and then held my face in her hands and gave me her blessing.

From someone:

No matter who I saw Dipa Ma interact with, she always expressed luminous love and compassion.  Her profound understanding that all of us are vulnerable to the pain of life seemed to have removed any sense of exclusion from her heart.

From Joseph Goldstein:

Someone once described being hugged by Dipa Ma “so thoroughly that all my six feet fit into her great, vast, empty heart, with room for the whole of creation”.

***

There may be a few times in our lives when we meet a person who is so unusual that she or he transforms the way we live just by being who they are.  Dipa Ma was such a person … What [Munindra] did not say in words, but which was apparent from the first time of my meeting her, was the special quality of her being that touched everyone who met her.  It was a quality of the quietest peace fully suffused with love.  This stillness and love were different from anything I had encountered before.  They were not an ego persona, and they didn’t want or need anything in return.  Simply, in the absence of self, love and peace were what remained.

From Jack Kornfield:

In the end, the point is not to be like Dipa Ma or some other great yogi or saint you might read about.  The point is something much more difficult: to be yourself, and to discover that all you seek is to be found, here and now, in your own heart.

***

To you

Hugging

What would I include among the best experiences of life?  Hugging would have to be right up there.  I mean a real hug, not one of the reasonable facsimiles that have come my way.  In fact, there’s nothing reasonable about a true hug.  The mind stops chattering.  I stop.  I get to “be with” another human being.

I remember long ago being hugged by Hal, a fellow participant in a leadership course I was taking.  Hal hugged hard.  He squeezed the air out of me and held on.  It was just about an act of violence, rather than the touch of love I always yearn for.  The vice grip was like a closed fist, not an open hand.  I didn’t think much of hugging that day.

Then there are the quickies, where the other person pounds my back rhythmically.  Percussive seems like an apt word.  It’s like the tenderness is only there for a millisecond and then withdrawn.  And it hurts to see it go, over and over again.  Then the contact is gone, leaving both of us anxious, and at least me sad.

Some folks are so tight when they hug, it’s as if they’re wearing armour.  Some of them seem to twist their bodies to avoid full-on contact.  Some practice long distance hugging, where it’s just our arms touching.  None of these ways meet my need for intimacy.

And a bona fide hug is intimate.  Although I’ve often felt sexual urges while hugging, the touch provides an opening beyond that, into a sense of union with the other, into a realm where we merge, rendering the skin barrier meaningless.

The hugs that Jody and I share are quiet ones, just holding, letting our loves mingle and caress.  Nothing to be added.  Just here and just now.  Jodiette and me.

Once I hugged a woman named Gayle for over two minutes, feeling the same sort of interweaving that Jody and I experience.  With Gayle, neither one of us wanted to end the hug, so we didn’t, for the longest time.  We weren’t needy.  Rather, it seemed like a mutual expression of abundance.

Rosie is a woman who decided to hug anyone who would accept the offer.  Here’s a snippet from her story:

The best hug so far came when Rosie approached an elderly man. “He just looked so sad.  I went up to him and asked if he needed a hug.  For a split second, he looked bewildered and then his arms rose up and he actually gave me a mighty hug.  As he pulled away from the embrace, I could see his eyes welling up in tears.  He told me, ‘I’m 92 years old and I haven’t had a hug since my wife passed, 30 years ago.  You have no idea how much this has meant to me.’”

And from a Tim Hortons coffee poster:
Not so much held as embraced

My Rock

Okay, I know that from the Buddhist perspective, nothing is “I, me or mine”,  but too bad – this is my rock.  It sits on the front lawn of the Insight Meditation Society in Barre, Massachusetts.  For the 99% of the time that I’m not on retreat, I loan it out to other yogis for their spiritual use.  My rock is about two feet tall, nicely rounded (in an irregular sort of way) and is accompanied by some lichens.

A big part of retreats at IMS is walking meditation.  We walk to be present, to feel the movements of the foot, not to look around, or to get somewhere.  Most people choose a back-and-forth route, say 30 paces long.  I like circles.  On my first retreat day, I noticed that IMS has a lovely curved driveway between the building and the lawn, leading to the two entrances of the property.  I decided to walk on the driveway from one entrance to the other, and to complete my circle on the lawn, right next to the hedge that borders the road.  Nice big oval, actually.

A few yards in from one of the entrances, after I ducked my head under the branches of a tree, there sat a rock.  I did look around – right at it.  Curious that it’s just sitting here surrounded by grass.  On my next loop, I looked some more, saw the lichens.  After a few more trips, I heard myself say “Stop”.  Said quietly, no urgency.  And so I stood, with the rock slightly to my right.  After a minute or two of “Why am I doing this?” I was off again.  And sometime soon, I found myself bending at the waist and touching the rock with my right hand.  I really didn’t feel anything, but there I was on each loop, hand against stone for perhaps 20 seconds.

During some period of walking meditation on that first retreat, hand against stone was joined by a single silent word: Jody.  And on succeeding loops, other words: Neal, Nona, Leslie, all kids, all those who are depressed, all those who are in physical pain …  And then what has turned into the final touch:

 May you be free from danger
May you be happy
May you be healthy
May you live with ease

I’ve been on three retreats at IMS, and each period of walking meditation has included my rock, and the countless human beings whom I’ve wished well.  I’ve had the thought “Do something different”, but no, I don’t want to.  It’s a tradition.

May

May you be free from danger
May you be happy
May you be healthy
May you live with ease

I think “may” is a fine word.  It’s about sending out a wish that the powers of the universe allow something to happen.  I’m not gritting my teeth and muttering “This will happen” or “I’ll make it happen”.  No, it’s a completely different type of energy, hands open rather than fisted, a deep letting go.

The Buddha taught the world the phrases you see above, and they’ve been voiced by countless people over the centuries.  The practice is called “metta”, and has been described as a warm rain falling gently upon all of us – no one left out.  It’s also referred to as lovingkindness.

I’ve practiced metta in many locales, including between periods at London’s hockey arena.  I wander the concourse, past the long lineups for burgers and beer, and simply say the words silently, wishing everyone well.  Only the occasional person looks back, and that’s fine.  I don’t need to be recognized and acknowledged for what I’m doing.  It’s not about anything good coming back to me.  But of course good does return my way, as an effortless flow.

***

May you be free from danger

Every day I inject a syringe of Fragmin into Jody’s stomach to dissolve her blood clots.  And many times Jody has been in pain as a result.  It makes me very sad, and scared about the next time.  I do my best and sometimes that’s not good enough.  Jody, may you be free from pain and the danger of cancer.  I pray.  And there is a kind of benign response returning to me from … somewhere.

May you be happy

I have a friend who’s depressed.  Trevor is sad about some poor decisions he’s made in life – financial, interpersonal, self-critical.  His conversation is often peppered with little digs at himself.  He doesn’t like being around other people, especially large numbers of them.  He’s lonely.  Trevor, may you see that you’re a struggling human being, just like the rest of us, no better and no worse.  May you forgive yourself for the mistakes you’ve made and look to the future with a smile.

May you be healthy

My friend Marie suffers from multiple sclerosis.  She used to host Jody and me at dinner parties, where she’d smile up a storm and regale us with tales of life in France.  Now she’s in a nursing home where she has little shortterm memory and needs heavy care.  Marie, may health return to your body and soul.  Even if the disease continues its progression, may you enjoy good times with your family and friends.

May you live with ease

I know a man who supervises many employees.  Whether as a result of his childhood or more recent traumas, he wraps himself up with tension, and feels the need to restrict the freedom of others.  As powerful as he is, fear follows him everywhere.  Peter, may you come to breathe easy and trust the gifts of those around you to get the job done.  And may you walk softly in the world.

***

Hand in hand
Heart to heart
Soul to soul
Come what may

Silent Poet Klaus

Driving (Part One)

You learn a lot about people when you’re on the road.  Like myself, for instance.  I had the thought that since I’ve been meditating for years, it should all be smooth sailing (mixed metaphor, I know).  Oh well.

All it takes is for me to be approaching an intersection with an oncoming green, but with the orange “Don’t Walk” light flashing.  I can feel my body tensing up.  Not so long ago, I’d press the gas pedal hard to get through but I finally realized that the constant rhythm of speeding up and slowing down wasn’t what I wanted in life.  So now I lighten my foot and the yellow or green happens.  But the tightness remains.  I figure that I’ve many years of driving still ahead of me, so how cool that I’ll have all these future intersections to practice my mindfulness.

I first attended a retreat at the Insight Meditation Society in 2010.  I wanted to drive.  I wanted to be alone for a couple of days, and experience having no one know exactly where I was on planet Earth at any given moment, until I phoned Jody from my daily destination.  As I set out, already enjoying my aloneness, I felt peaceful.  I wanted the driving to be a preamable to the meditation.

My plan was to take secondary highways all the way from Union, Ontario to Barre, Massachusetts.  Nice two-lane blacktop.  And I left home with one assumption: in Ontario, all the way to Fort Erie, Canadian drivers would happily drive the speed limit with me (80 kilometres per hour, or 50 mph).  But once I’d cross the Niagara River into Buffalo, those darned Americans would tailgate me all the way across New York if I kept to 55 mph (or 90 kph).

It was early morning, not another car on the road.  A bit later, here comes someone from behind.  Coming fast, as a matter of fact.  And voila – there he or she was, stuck to my bumper.  After probably only a few seconds of that, the driver pulled the wheel right and zoomed noisily past me.  By mid-morning, Highway 3 was filling up, and the “car five feet behind my rear bumper” scenario was repeated over and over.  With fewer chances to pass, some drivers would jerk their auto to the centre line, looking for a break in the traffic.  Overall, I let my mindfulness fritter away.  I was shocked that we Canadians were so pushy, so “me, not you”.  That’s not who I am, is it?  After reflection, the answer came: “No, it’s not”.

Once I was off the mandatory section of Buffalo freeway, I found Highway 20 towards Albany and settled into my moderate journey across the state.  Or more accurately, prepared for the onslaught from the rear …  …  …

Guess what?  There was none.  I’d be toodling along at 55, glance into the rearview mirror, and see a driver several car lengths behind, matching my speed.  Oh, the bliss of space.  I got to look around at the world – the farmers’ fields, the cows, the heightening hills and the cutesy towns.  It seemed that half the houses were displaying the Stars and Stripes, and that made me happy.  Through New York and half of Massachusetts, I hardly ever encountered an impatient driver.  So much for stereotypes.  How wrong I was.

Then a week of slowness and silence at the retreat centre.  Sometime, I’ll tell you about it.  Coming back home, nothing on the road fazed me.  That tension at potentially yellowing lights was non-existent.  And out in the country, on a long series of rolling hills, another opportunity arose.  A semi-trailer was having trouble on the upslopes.  Sometimes his speed would drop to 20 mph.  Not only did I not care, it seemed that the four drivers between the truck and me didn’t either.  No darting over the centre line to see what’s ahead.  No bumper games.  Just five of us keeping a respectful distance from the vehicle ahead.  And there was another feeling … love for the human beings in those cars and that truck.  People doing their best, people okay with what the moment was giving them.  At one little town, one of my friends turned off the road, leaving four followers.  I missed that person.  There was a hole.

What if I could bring my mindfulness to all travelling moments?  Why not to all moments, period?  Not just when I’m sitting in a meditation hall, but when I’m living my life.  Sounds cozy.

 

 

Gosh, if Canadians were like this

The PW and Me

I worked at the Prince of Wales Hotel for five summers – 1969, 1970, 1974, 1975 and 1976.  The PW is a grand chalet-style hotel, perched on a hill above the northern end of Upper Waterton Lake, with mountains running southward on both sides towards Glacier National Park in Montana.  I had marvelous adventures during the tourist season, hiking many trails with many friends.  The fall of 1974, however, was another kettle of fish.

Johnny, the hotel’s caretaker, had asked me to stay for September and October to close the grand old lady down.  I became a specialist in draining toilets and putting up shutters.  I slept in my room at the middle dorm – the only person there.  After all the summer parties in employees’ rooms, and the general hustle and bustle in the hallways, there was silence.  I didn’t even want to play music.  Spent a lot of evenings under my comforter, looking out the window at Waterton Lake and thinking about life.

Mealtime was another story.  I ate in Johnny’s house – with him, his wife Jean and son Brent … just a wee little lad.  I sat across from Brent and loved pointing behind him (“Look who’s there, Brent!”), and having him turn to see.  Then I’d take his plate of food and put it on my lap.  Looking back, I’m sure that he figured out my ruse pretty quickly, but kept going because the game was fun.  Many years later, back visiting family in Lethbridge, Alberta (near Waterton), Jody and I were walking through a mall when a young man looked funny at me, came right up, and said, “You stole my food!”  It took me a few seconds, but I finally got it.  “Brent!”  Very lovely.

Back in 1974, it was just Johnny and me in the hotel for eight hours a day.  I loved the old place and still do.  It was built in 1927, I believe by the Great Northern Railroad.  Imagine tall rough-hewed beams of dark wood, am immense chandelier way up there and maybe the best view in the world.  Seven stories altogether, with the last two squeezed under the eaves, and a series of interior balconies looking down on the lobby.  Cozy leather sofas were available to both guests and staff, and I spent many an hour listening to the string quartet and watching folks from around the world stroll towards the dining room.

In the fall of 1974, I often leaned over the fourth floor balcony, with no Johnny in sight, opened my mouth, and sang.  The voice was pretty good.  The acoustics were sublime.  And the world stopped.  One of my all-time best memories.

Johnny and I took breaks together, downing a lot of black coffee.  He was such a gentle man, almost always sporting a big grin.  We both loved the place.  The fact that Johnny liked me made such a difference in my life.  I needed someone to like me – preferably a girl, but Johnny would do until the love of my life decided to show up.

I wish you all could have been there in 1974, and felt the spirit of the PW.  Many of you, of course, were in other places, drinking in their essence.  And some of you hadn’t yet made your debut on this fine planet.  I bet that without you ever being there, you already know my dear old hotel.