Dale Estey

A Ghost Story – True As True Can Be – To Lead To Halloween

A true story for All Hallows’ Eve, although it did not happen on Halloween.

And, I steal my title from the list of types of encounters with UFOs and Aliens from Space, where actual physical encounters result in injury or death. Admittedly, I experienced nothing but fright, but the touch is without question

.
I was visiting the Bay of Fundy island of Grand Manan.

I had booked a room in a bed and breakfast and arrived mid-evening. I went elsewhere for a meal, but did meet the owners, and noted there were a couple of others staying there. I returned around eleven, chatted to the owners and one guest, then went up to bed.

The room was top of the stairs and across a landing. Comfortably rustic with a radio. The bed was fine and I was not long getting to sleep.

In the dead of the dark (no street lights here) I was awakened by the touch of hands on me. I was sleeping on my left side. One hand was over my groin and the other on my chest. There was also the weight of a body next to me and the pressure of an arm across my side.

I was initially surprised and confused but not frightened. Time probably stretched but it seems to me I lay like this for ten or fifteen seconds. Then, the very first coherent thought which came to me was that someone laying behind me could not have both arms over my body. There could not be two hands placed on the front of my body.

I got out of bed very quickly and did indeed experience fear. I turned on the overhead light but saw nothing. I heard nothing. The temperature was not unusual. I was frightened and certainly uncomfortable, but I can’t say that that aura was present.

I went to the bathroom across the landing. The house was silent.

I returned to the bedroom, thinking both of leaving the light on and turning on the radio. But then I thought that that was just giving into fear, and might encourage the fear instead of ease it, so I did neither. I did not seem to take very long to get to sleep.

The next morning I went downstairs for breakfast. I heard the owner talking to two other guests as I approached the kitchen.

Just as I entered she interrupted her conversation and turned to me. She said: “Let’s ask him. He’s the one sleeping in the haunted room.”

I don’t know if they had been talking about ghosts or if something else had happened in the night. I relayed my experience and the owner then told the story of the house.

As with many buildings on the island it had been a farm house, with the owners also fishing. It was a century or more old and left to a daughter. When she herself got old and could not look after it, her family forced her to leave, something she fought against.

The present owners then bought the building and started taking in guests. However, whenever they attempted renovations, they were discouraged by having paint cans overturned, new wallpaper peeled from the wall, ladders moved, hammers and such hidden.

The new owners’ daughter lived next door, and looked after the house when her parents went away (trips to Florida in the winter). She inevitably had to come over to the house and close doors, turn off lights, put furniture back in place.

The old woman who was forced to leave had the reputation of being a mean and unpleasant person. I don’t know if she was taking a liking to me or not.

10/30/2024 0

Trump And Hitler Share A Cider In Another Bar

~ Uncle Dolf – my dear, dear friend.
~ Like Uncle, like Nephew.
~ I hope I did you proud.
~ You have elevated me to the heights.
~ I followed your lead!
~ My legacy lives on.
~ For you, mein dear Fuhrer, anything.
~ I can tell you a little story.
~ “Fill my ears”.
~ My dear, dear, Goebbels.
~ Your beloved propaganda minister.

~ You just had to love that man.
~ I know! I do!

~ He once told me – and this could apply to you.
~ I would be blessed by anything.

~ After one of his blessed speeches in Berlin.
~ Can I still learn from him?
~ He said: “I could have made them all jump from the windows, if I had asked.”
~ Maybe make them swim to Puerto Rico.

~ Donnie, Donnie. Perhaps my work is done here.
~ Oh, no. I have to win, first.

10/29/2024 0

The Old Order Changes, A Saint Passes On

Robert (Bob) Gibbs has left the building:

I considered Bob Gibbs an honorary member of my very exclusive (and never acknowledged) “Grand Lake Writers Group” This august body consisted of myself, Elizabeth Brewster, and Robert Hawks (neither of them knew of its existence, either). We all three lived within the vicinity of Grand Lake (I could see it from the upper windows of my home).

We three included aspects of the Grand Lake area in our books.

Well . . . so did Bob.
In some of his writings, his characters boarded riverboats, and took a trek which got them to Grand Lake from Saint John. One such Riverboat pier was a twenty minute walk from my house. Although not certain of this, I like to think he pulled into this port upon occasion. Evangelical meetings were generally on the agenda. I have (in my way) incorporated this into one of my novels.

I remember Bob once being nonplussed by my activity.There was a party at his house (such a delightful place, next to a railway). It was either a birthday party for Elizabeth Brewster, or a celebration of a book launch by her. I showed up with the gift of a bottle of champagne. I handed it to Bob.

His look was one of surprise. I’m not sure I had ever seen him surprised. I had the suspicion he knew everything. I still have that suspicion.

He made the comment (I don’t remember if it was to anyone) “Look, he brought champagne.” My interpretation was that Bob didn’t think I had enough sophistication to do such a thing. Or, he didn’t know what to do with the bottle.

When I left, it was still unopened.

The Essential Robert Gibbs – Robert Gibbs – Google Books

Whatever three ships mean

two freighters and a tanker

standing off Partridge Island

more like scanned-for presences

than really anything out there

(I saw three ships come sailing in

come sailing in singing itself

off-season off-key)

~ Bob Gibbs [Skipping Round the Biosphere]

10/28/2024 0

Oktoberfest

I begin my novel, Fame’s Victim, during Oktoberfest in München. Here is the abridged first chapter.

ST is famous for his discoveries about Space and Time – hence the initials. He is fodder for magazine and movie fantasy. His is the life from which envy is made.

Fame is a seductive life sentence. ST suffers consequences as he strides the red carpet.

In Fame’s Victim, ST ends one century attending Oktoberfest in Munich, the biggest party in Europe, and starts the next hiding away from the world’s Press that hound him for his opinion

~~~~~******~~~~~

UM PA PA! UM PA PA!

Tuba sounds assail ST as he forges through the clogged streets and packed alleys of Munich during these last hours of Oktoberfest. This, and the thousands upon thousands of revellers apparently heading to his own destination.

ST worries what will happen when he reaches the Kafer’s Wiesnschanke tent. Because it is situated on the very edge of these huge Oktoberfest fairgrounds, ST is in one of his impeccable disguises. However but will it prove so effective (as it is proving now), that he will be unable to gain entry? Without immediate entry and quick access to his reserved table, he is not going to get to his waiting bottle of Glen Grant scotch.

ST has never had to deal with this problem. He uses camouflage to get from one private destination to another, and always has the luxury of removing his disguise in the comfort of some bath or bedroom. Here, he will have to prove who he is in one public place, so he can get out of another public place.

ST passes the Hofbrauhaus, with still a long way to go. He regrets he consented to spend these last two hours of the week deep in the gemutlichkeit of Bavarian sausages, chicken and beer – horse-drawn wagons of which trundle past even as he aims unerringly for Kafer’s Wiesnschanke tent.

This dramatic scene is foreign to him, though he supposes he is no longer foreign. It is through his inheritance of vast tracts of land and chattels along the coast of the North Sea (to say nothing of the interesting pockets of real estate and apartments still being revealed across the face of Europe, America, Australia, and the Bahamas) that his special invitation to this evening arrived. And the obligation to attend.

The acres of vibrant lighting cast a multi-hue glow across ST. He notes his roughly-shaped beard (one of three dozen – each cropped differently), takes on such bizarre colouring that he doesn’t remember what it really looks like. He probably could have gone without disguise and passed unmolested. That is what his hosts had told him, but he has had such assurances before.

Under a set of flashing amber and yellow lights, ST looks at his watch. The crowd is slowing him, and he should have used another entrance, instead of the broad way through the tents. He tries to get closer to the edge of the crowd, but the edge in an ever-moving mass is difficult to find. It is analogous to the boundaries of Space/Time, which he can never actually discern either. ST rarely gets such a chance to put his world-famous theories to a practical test. Head up and elbows to the ready, he begins a vigorous forward thrust. This attitude alone is enough to make more people give way, plus he is not without practiced skill at dodging and pirouetting among crowds.

As ST advances the garish lights become more extreme, and he has difficulty distinguishing the various tents. The one he wants is in the upper corner, and supposedly not easy to miss. But it is also one of the smallest (holding slightly over 2000), and for all he knows it may get lost in this absurdest hurly-burly. He may succumb to this incredible throng, and get carried away on its tide to the more boisterous Spatenbrau, or whisked back to the very beginning of his trek at the Hippodrom.

In an attempt to fit in, when ST first arrived at the fairground he had purchased one of the large gingerbread cookies, which so many people are wearing around their necks. This is now proving a mistake, for it keeps bumping back and forth across his chest. As he has never actually seen anyone eating the damn things, he hesitates to take this course of action. On the other hand he is concerned that if he just tries to remove it from his neck, the cord might get tangled in his fake beard.

ST clamps a hand over the cookie as if he was taking an oath, and continues through the noisy revelry. He is just passing the Winzerer Fahndl tent and thus is not far from his destination. A turn to the right and some more well placed elbows, and he might be able to arrive in another five minutes.

Just as ST can lose Time when he attempts to track it, equation by equation, through the vast quadrants of his computer programs, so it begins to elude him here. The overwhelming chore of Oktoberfest becomes surprisingly addictive. Although he still wants his scotch and reserved place at table, he looks longingly at the Winzerer Fahndl tent with a desire to enter. As he stares overhead at the amusement park rides, he wonders if he would find them as thrilling as the screaming participants indicate they are. ST is even tempted to gravitate to the nearest thundering band, and settle in close to the tubas. Perhaps he might risk an inquisitive munch of his over-large gingerbread cookie.

These thoughts put him in a better frame of mind as he eases himself into the slowly moving crush. He gets behind a trio of husky teen-agers, and lets them unknowingly clear a path.

It seems their goal is to sample beer from each of the fourteen tents, but so far their boisterous gung-ho remains good-natured and useful. ST keeps just the right distance behind the three so he is not considered a part of their group, yet manages to glean the benefit of their passage. Much as the stern of a ship glides through the wake of the prow.

When he comes within sight of his own goal at Kafer’s Wiesnschanke, he wonders if his trio of outriders is going to steer in its direction. An argument can be made that it is next on the list of any pub-crawl, but the youths are loudly debating the merits of either the Sportschutzen or Lowenbrauu.

ST has the temptation to clap them boisterously on their shoulders and invite them to his more rarefied destination. His popularity with youth is particularly high right now, as he appears to be quite the rebel with his contention that the year 2000 is not the Millennium. This is not his desire, but who is more going to be asked all the questions about this momentous event than the expert on Space/Time?

Even his obvious equation – obvious to ST, at least – that if someone owes you $2000, you are not going to be satisfied in only getting $1999 back – has become an embedded catch phrase in nearly every article now written about the Millennium. It has even become a refrain in a contemporary pop song.

ST starts to hum “Don’t Shortchange Us”, having no fear of ever being heard over the din of Oktoberfest. The decision as to whether or not he will befriend the teen-aged trio is made for him as they abruptly link arms and make a wide swing toward the Lowenbrau tent. ST may be mistaken about the sound of his own voice, for the trio of teenagers breaks out in a thundering rendition of the refrain to “Don’t Shortchange Us”. They create a wide path through the packed revellers, many of whom applaud and join in.

OKTOBERFEST (See what you are missing): https://www.oktoberfest.de/en/informationen/oktoberfest-webcams

09/23/2024 0

It Is Friday The 13th And The Red Ship Passes: Part The First & Part The Second

PART THE FIRST

It isn’t that we had no warning.

Hell, even Paw, the cat/kitten.

Black as Death with one white mitten,

Knew it was coming.

Knew (perhaps) before the rest of us.

And fishing boats, the last couple of days,

Have left notes in the Message Box,

Down on the Lighthouse dock.

One of the notes had been relayed

From the brigantine, HMS Buzzard,

Informing of this passage into the harbour,

And the night this would be done.

So,

As Lighthouse Keeper,

I await

On the Lighthouse dock,
In my navel uniform,

Which I am sometimes

Expected to wear,

Since I represent the might

Of Majesty,

As sole subject, yet overlord,

Of the Lighthouse on Partridge Island.

Waiting for the Red Ship to pass.

I feel the still on the sea.

I understand why they have awaited

This shroud of fog.

I have,

With my vantage point atop the Lighthouse,

Seen the approaching ship,

With each of its lanterns

Glowing through red glass.

I can imagine the unfurled red sails.

So, I stand,
And I wait,

With my own red lantern,

And wish I were hunkered down

With Paw, the cat/kitten,

Who chose his hiding place

An hour ago.

PART THE SECOND

I had wished for Sister Darling,

Of The Rarified Church Of The World (Reformed),

To be with myself and Paw,

On this night.

And this passage.

She could offer both physical

And Spiritual comfort,

To Paw and me.

Paw likes to nestle beneath

Her wealth of long hair,

And I would like to touch it.

But she,

With both the Bishop of the Roman church,

And the Bishop of the Anglican church,

In their simple cassocks,
Unrobed of their vestments,
And also, with the Mi’kmaq Shaman,
Await on the dock, On shore,

In the deserted port,
To move this cursed cargo
Of human decay and death.

They will sing and chant their

Religious words of hope.

While I, when the time is right,

Will curl up in my greatcoat

Beside Paw,

And wait out the night

While these folk of Faith
Do the dirty business of God.

{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

09/13/2024 0

It Is Friday The 13th And The Red Ship Passes: Part The First / Part The Second

PART THE FIRST

It isn’t that we had no warning.

Hell, even Paw, the cat/kitten.

Black as Death with one white mitten,

Knew it was coming.

Knew (perhaps) before the rest of us.

And fishing boats, the last couple of days,

Have left notes in the Message Box,

Down on the Lighthouse dock.

One of the notes had been relayed

From the brigantine, HMS Buzzard,

Informing of this passage into the harbour,

And the night this would be done.

So,

As Lighthouse Keeper, I await

On the Lighthouse dock,
In my navel uniform,

Which I am sometimes

Expected to wear,

Since

I represent the might

Of Majesty,

As sole subject, yet overlord,

Of the Lighthouse on Partridge Island.

Waiting for the Red Ship to pass.

I feel the still on the sea.

I understand why they have awaited

This shroud of fog.

I have,

With my vantage point atop the Lighthouse,

Seen the approaching ship,

With each of its lanterns

Glowing through red glass.

I can imagine the unfurled red sails.

So, I stand,
And I wait,

With my own red lantern,

And wish I were hunkered down

With Paw, the cat/kitten,

Who chose his hiding place

An hour ago.

PART THE SECOND

I had wished for Sister Darling,

Of The Rarified Church Of The World (Reformed),

To be with myself and Paw,

On this night.

And this passage.

She could offer both physical

And Spiritual comfort,

To Paw and me.

Paw likes to nestle beneath

Her wealth of long hair,

And I would like to touch it.

But she,

With both the Bishop of the Roman church,

And the Bishop of the Anglican church,

In their simple cassocks,

Unrobed of their vestments,

And also, with the Mi’kmaq Shaman,

Await on the dock,

On shore,

In the deserted port,

To move this cursed cargo
Of human decay and death.

They will sing and chant their

Religious words of hope.

While I, when the time is right,

Will curl up in my greatcoat

Beside Paw,

And wait out the night

While these folk of Faith
Do the dirty business of God.

{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

09/13/2024 0

The Red Ship Passes / Part The First

It isn’t that we had no warning.

Hell, even Paw, the cat/kitten.

Black as Death with one white mitten,

Knew it was coming.

Knew (perhaps) before the rest of us.

And fishing boats, the last couple of days,

Have left notes in the Message Box,

Down on the Lighthouse dock.

One of the notes had been relayed

From the brigantine, HMS Buzzard,

Informing of this passage into the harbour,

And the night this would be done.

So, As Lighthouse Keeper, I await

On the Lighthouse dock,

In my navel uniform,

Which I am sometimes

Expected to wear,

Since I represent the might

Of Majesty,

As sole subject, yet overlord,

Of the Lighthouse on Partridge Island.

Waiting for the Red Ship to pass.

You can feel the still on the sea.

You can understand why they have awaited

This shroud of fog.

You can,

With my vantage point atop the Lighthouse,

See the approaching ship, with each

Of its lanterns

Glowing through red glass.

You can imagine the unfurled red sails.

So, I stand,
And I wait,

With my own red lantern,

And wish I were hunkered down

With Paw, the cat/kitten,

Who chose his hiding place

An hour ago.

{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

09/01/2024 0

Happy Birthday, Princess Anne The Princess Royal. Hip Hip Hooray!

The Sergeant Major barks more commands. This is a full-bore Military event. There are no civilian dignitaries present, although there are plenty of civilians.

The Princess Royal is not going to inspect troops. She stands in silence, looking at a stand of trees and masses of people. Fred wonders what she is pondering. She thinks it has something to do with hearing ‘God Save The King’. The Princess Royal has helped bury two of them – and a Queen.

“Sergeant Major?”

“Ma’am.” The Sergeant Major is startled, but never too startled for words.

“Put them at ease.”

Even a Sergeant Major can not be prepared for everything, but the Sergeant Major acts immediately to the unexpected and strange request. He bellows his exact and time-worn orders, and both troops and band return to at-ease positions.

“Fred, let’s take a look at this Memorial.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

The Princess Royal gestures for both her Aide-de-Camp, and the General waiting in the wings, to accompany them. Fred knows HRH desires this event be as simple as possible, but she doubts local officials anticipated anything this simple. Even the couple thousand standing on the grass, walkways, and among the trees, sense this is a unique event. There is barely a murmur.

Winnifred Mayhew Cudgel feels that something should be said. They should be seen to be talking. Such silence is, quite frankly, weird.

“This is all for a horse?” Fred knows the answer, but doesn’t know what The Princess Royal really thinks.

“Oh, so much more.” She looks at Fred. “A horse of hope. At war’s end, a horse of triumph.”

Fred now knows what is going on. The horse, named Princess Louise after the regiment that found her, had been wounded on a battlefield in Italy. It had been found in a field standing beside its dead mother. Members of the regiment, so many of them farm boys from the country, spirited the horse away. Tended to its wounds. Fed and watered it. Put it into an enclosed truck and took it wherever they went.

Officers pretended to know nothing.

At war’s end, Princess Louise, alive and healthy, was put on a ship and ended in New York. From New York she was transported to Saint John, and from Saint John twenty miles away she ended her trip in Hampton, where she got a bale of hay, a bag of oats and was made a ‘naturalized Canadian’. She was given the “. . . God-given right to trample and eat from any and all vegetable gardens.” She died at 29 in 1973, and is buried at The Princess Royal’s feet.

“A mascot,” says Fred.

“And, I think, a friend.” The Princess Royal chuckles. “They say she liked some whiskey and beer.”

“Sounds like a good life.”

“Eventually – yes.”

The Princess Royal’s Aide de Camp approaches, accompanied by an older man.

“Your Royal Highness, this is Mr. Finton. He looked after Princess Louise the last years of her life.”

“I’d call her Lou.”

“Hello, Mr. Finton.” The Princess Royal extends her hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

“But always Princess Louise around other people.”

“I understand.”

“She was special.” Mr. Finton glances at Fred, glances at the Aide de Camp. “There was always respect paid.”

“That is appreciated.”

“I have something for you.”

“Oh, yes?”

Fred and the Aide de Camp look far more surprised than The Princess Royal. This was not part of any plan. Winnifred Mayhew Cudgel likes to create surprises – likes to spring them for effect – but she doesn’t enjoy them.

“I understand you like horses.”

“I do.”

“Then Princess Louise would feel good if you have this.”

Mr. Finton reaches toward an inside pocket of his jacket. Fred notices members of the Security Detail tense up and move closer. The Aide de Camp immediately puts himself between The Princess Royal and the man. Fred remembers that she is to duck and cover. Endeavour has told her often enough. And to roll. He has even made an interesting game out of it.

Mr. Finton takes out a hand-sized package, wrapped in brown paper. There is twine around it, tied into a neat bow at the top,

“I hope that you will like this, your Royal Highness. I think you can get nothing more personal.”

Unexpected gifts are not to be given, and certainly not to be received. It could be dangerous. It could be insulting. It could be embarrassing. The Princess Royal does not hesitate to take it in her hands.

But then, she gives it directly back.

“Perhaps you will undo it.”

“Yes, your Royal Highness.”

Mr. Finton retrieves the package without looking at her. He is slow to untie the knot, but pays attention to no one around him. Perhaps he has forgotten them. The hundreds of people have gone silent. The only sound is the breeze through the trees.

Holding the twine in one hand, he hands back the package.

“I apologize for any inconvenience.”

“Think nothing of it.” She looks directly into his eyes. “These gloves were not made for untying string.”

The Princess Royal takes the package and opens up the brown paper. Inside is a commercial blue jeweller’s box, with a store name and the image of a diamond imprinted on it.

“Are we to be engaged?”

Mr. Finton is momentarily at a loss, then barks out a deep laugh.

“Lord love a duck.” He shakes his head. “No, no, no.” He covers his mouth as another laugh escapes. “It’s the only decent box I could find.”

“My husband will be glad to hear that.”

The Princess Royal shifts her shoulder bag, then opens the box.

“My God.” The Princess Royal laughs. “Straight from the horses’ mouth.”

“It was one of her favourites.”

The Princess Royal takes it from the box. She shows it to Fred.

“It’s a mullen.”

“Ma’am?” Winnifred Mayhew Cudgel is at a loss for words – an unusual state for her to be in. She has seen nothing like the object in her life.

“A horse’s bit, held inside the animal’s mouth to control the reins.” “I tried a number over a co

of years.” Mr. Finton rubs the metal. He glances at Fred and then looks at The Princess Royal. “I could tell this was the most comfortable.”

“Did you ever ride Princess Louise, Mr. Finton[?’

“I wasn’t supposed to.”

“But?”

“I was to exercise her every day. She was stabled out at a farm, some miles from here. Big pasture. Just walking seemed to be a bore.”

“For you?”

“Well – yes.” Mr. Finton pauses. “But, I think, for both of us.” He speaks quickly. “And I knew some of the soldiers had ridden her in Italy, when she was healed.”

“Did she like it?” Fred is curious.

“Yes.” Mr. Finton turns to her. “Absolutely.” He looks back to The Princess Royal. “Always gave me a nudge every day after that.” He has a smile on his face. “Always a gentle ride, mind. She was no filly.”

“My mother liked to keep riding.” The Princess Royal smiles. “She was no filly, either.”

“She was a great woman.” Mr. Finton bows his head.

“Yes.” The Princess Royal puts the mullen back into the box. “She was.”

The Princess Royal steps forward a few steps to look closely at the memorial. She has complete interest in what she reads, but this is also the signal that the event is coming to a close. Her Aide de Camp and the security detail prepare to leave. Discrete orders are spoken into microphones. Some car engines start on the street.

~ Dale Estey

08/15/2024 0

“World Elephant Day” Should Be A BIG Day For The Whole World

There is no question the world needs more elephants.

The more the merrier.

On the loose and living the good life.

Tanking up on fresh food.

Swilling up at the water holes.

Getting a mud bath on the muddy shore.

Getting a dust bath in the dust fields.

And making a hellova lot more baby elephants.

And all elephants should be left alone by the vicious human beasts who slaughter them for fun and ivory.

An Elephant stampede would come in right handy.

Now, I’m partial to Elephants, having written a book of short stories where an Elephant holds his own in conversations with God.

Yes, God gets a good talking to – though the Almighty does manage to give as good as He gets.

So, I’m all for WORLD Elephant Day.

In fact, I’d give them a whole Week.

Nay, a whole Month.

Alright, a whole Year!!

They’re BIG animals. They can handle it.

08/12/2024 0

kafkaestblog

It is a whirlwind in here

Author

Dale Estey

A Ghost Story – True As True Can Be – To Lead To Halloween

Trump And Hitler Share A Cider In Another Bar

The Old Order Changes, A Saint Passes On

Oktoberfest

It Is Friday The 13th And The Red Ship Passes: Part The First & Part The Second

It Is Friday The 13th And The Red Ship Passes: Part The First / Part The Second

The Red Ship Passes / Part The First

Happy Birthday, Princess Anne The Princess Royal. Hip Hip Hooray!

“World Elephant Day” Should Be A BIG Day For The Whole World

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