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History And Europe And Estey : Redux

Looking myself up on the Internet (as one is sometimes wont to do), I came across this. I posted this nearly ten years ago, and have/had totally forgotten it. So, it’s a possibility others have forgotten it also. I find it quite interesting.

History And Europe And Estey

0a Isabella d’Este, Giovanni Cristoforo Romano, 1500.

There is a tradition in “my” branch of the Estey family that we descend from the d’Este of Italy. The d’Este clan were rich and powerful and influential. They married well which – yes –  brought the infamous Lucrezia Borgia into the family when she wed Alfonso I d’Este, Duke of Ferrara.

My father had a reproduction of Alfonso’s sister, Isabella, readily at hand. Isabel was a name for at least one daughter in every generation of Esteys. Lucrezia attempted to befriend Isabella, but to no avail.

The town of Este is in Northern Italy, in the Veneto region, about a two hour car ride from Venice. It’s most recent population figure of two years ago was around 17,000. I have a special fondness for this part of Italy and have sprinkled references to it in some of my novels. Indeed, my whole historical onion trilogy is centred around a town in this area.

So, Este was certainly a destination when I travelled through Europe. And the surrounding area. Este was suitably medieval in tone, with its ruined Este castle and wonderful flower beds and bowers and stone bridge over river and walled town and as happily historic as all get out.

I looked to see how many Estes were in the phone book (a respectable number) but I didn’t phone anyone.  I would be more thorough and stay longer on another trip. I doubt there is any way to fix up that castle.

I enjoyed all of Italy that I visited (and the rest of Europe held no less enthusiasm from me). But to stick, as it were, around the old homestead, the most enjoyable places were Venice and Florence. I was most surprised to see cruise ships looming from the Venetian waterfront.

I sighed on The Bridge of Sighs – from such beauty to such terror those prisoners were lead. A stunning memory was boating on the Grand Canal at dusk and seeing rooms in a passing mansion ablaze with chandeliers.

Florence was my favourite. It is, of course, awash in museums and galleries and art art Art. To chose the one which stunned me most was  Botechelli’s Birth of Venus – and that’s saying a lot, considering. The Ponte Vecchio over the Arno lives up to all its billing. Alas, I bought no gold.

Also, a memory is walking along certain streets and assuming I was near riding stables because of the permeating smell. However, I was in the leather good quarter. There was also the ancient, wire mesh and gated elevator,the type I had only seen in movies, wheezing me aloft to my lodgings. And the lady who left her room key on my table after breakfast. And don’t get me started on the markets and the food. Don’t.

However, there is one golden memory which consists of neither history nor ancient art. This happened in Verona. I was walking along a busy street and looked into the interior of a news vendor. The building also had an array of paperback books. And there, looking back out at me, was my own novel, L’INGANNO BONNER, recently produced in an Italian translation. That was a most pleasant delight indeed.

DE

(image)http://www.isabelladeste.org/_/rsrc/1467897567813/isabella-deste/0a.PNG

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Kafka And His Reaction To His First Job

I have written a novel where I fill in the missing days of Kafka’s real diary. However, I appreciate the following, which is Kafka’s real opinion of the first employment he ever had. I never had such far-away thoughts at my own first job, but neither was I enraptured by it. I lasted a year.

*****************

“Now my life is in complete disorder,” he wrote to Hedwig Weiler on October 8, after just a week of work. “It is true, I have a job with a tiny salary of 80 crowns and 8-9 interminable hours of work, but I devour the hours outside the office like a fierce beast. . . . I nourish the hope of sitting one day on chairs in far-flung countries, looking out of the office windows onto sugar cane fields or Muslim cemeteries, and the insurance branch interests me greatly, even though for the moment my work is sad.”

He quit after less than a year, on July 31, 1908, citing health reasons. (“We express our amazement that the state of health of the aforementioned, who after the careful examination of the doctor carried out in October last year was recommended as absolutely fit, is after such a short time so bad that his immediate resignation must follow,” reads a letter from the company in Kafka’s file.)

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Saint Patrick’s Day On Partridge Island And Sister Darling Brings Stew (With – Perhaps – The Luck Of The Irish)

Paw, my cat/kitten,
Black as the Ides of March
With one white mitten,
Has a green ribbon
Tied around his neck,
As we stand on the dock
And welcome the arrival of Sister Darling,

Of The Rarefied Church of the World (reformed)

On this Saint Patrick’s Day,
She steps off the fishing boat,
And unceremoniously hands me
A hefty cauldron,
As she scoops up Paw
And holds him close, the way
(I trust)
She will eventually hold me.
“Irish stew,” says she.
But I didn’t even have to guess,
For I can recite, by smell,
The ingredients:
[Lamb on the bone

Carrots/celeryonions/leeks/garlic

Bay leaf/sea salt/black pepper

Lots of potatoes]

And two (I hope) pints of ale

“You are right,” she says
As Paw snuggles into her hair,
“And you will get

A Reward.”

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2025 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

DE BA. UEL

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The Blood Moon Engulfs Partridge Island

The moon didn’t disappear,

Tonight,

Because of the total eclipse.

It bathed Partridge Island

In blood,

As it turned dark.

There was no way to convince

Paw, my cat/kitten,

Black as an eclipse

With one white mitten,

That it wasn’t dripping blood.

He spat

He howled

He bared his teeth

And claws

He paced

He sometimes cowered

(I swear from exhaustion, as

the bloody thing went on

and on).

I finally threw a towel

Over him,

And tucked him

Into a closet.

Closed the door,

And talked to him.

(I confess, using baby talk),

’till the blood stopped.

It exhausted me, too.

And, when the moon shone full,

I let Paw out, and took him

For a walk outside.

If cats could howl at the moon

That is what he would have done.

{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2025 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

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2025 Commonwealth Day and Canada

It is positive for Canada to be part of The Commonwealth.

With dangerous (and Rogue) Countries putting too heavy a foot on the balance of power in the World, organizations of countries which are less powerful, offer more protection than standing alone.

This Commonwealth has evolved from an Empire, so it has gone from bad to better. Being led by a Monarch who rules only by the will of the people, leads to safety, common ground, and an equality among all the participants.

As of last year, the total population of the Commonwealth was over 2.4 billion people. Lets stack that up against Dangerous and Rogue nations. It comes to a reasonable balance.

Enjoy some “foreign’ culture and eat some different food.

Hold out your hand to an ally.

Dale Estey

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The King and Ukraine and Trump and Putin (the Puppet Master) and Canada

I am troubled by the invitation from King Charles given to Trump. 

I believe it was orchestrated by the British government, but still, it is disrespectful and insulting. However, the invitation – and gracious greeting – by the King to the President of Ukraine, Volodymyr Zelensky, (in his working attire) is a brilliant countermeasure. I don’t know if this is His Majesty’s “soft power”, or if the government exercised a wonderful display of juggling. Regardless, I extend my praise and great thanks.

But, it is best to be patient with Royalty. 

His Majesty, King Charles III of Canada, received the Prime Minister of Canada at the same private residence where he welcomed President Zelensky.

I will happily concede the invasion of a sovereign state and ally, by a murderous thug, does take precedence over the wild blustering from Trump and his repulsive Vice president.  It is best to first deal with the ultimate source of power in the current USA.

Interesting times, anyone?

DE

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A Valentine’s Day Feast Awaits Sister Darling On Partridge Island

Sister Darling, of

The Rarified Church of the World (reformed),

Steps upon the dock of the Partridge Island Lighthouse.

My humble self (the Lighthouse keeper) awaits her,

As does Paw, the cat/kitten,

Black as Liquorice candy

With one white mitten.

I pondered tying a red riband

Around his neck, in celebration

Of the day.

But our cat/kitten is not as young

As he used to be,

And took umbrage at my attempt.

Still, he is young enough

– And spry enough –

And has memories enough,

To jump upon Sister Darling’s shoulder

And nestle in her hair.

And thus, we three climbed our way

To my Lighthouse Keepers house.

I have prepared a most wonderous fish stew,

Bubbling on the hob

(It even has lobster),

And, I have baked a pan of biscuits,

For her edification.

Sister Darling presents me with

A red envelope, wherein resides

(If I don’t miss my guess)

An embossed card to celebrate the day.

But,

Before I can open it,

She shoos Paw from her locks,

Opens wide her winter cloak,

And

“Oh, My!”

Our repast is threatened

To be delayed.


{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2025 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

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Scots Wha Hae W/ Robbie Burns On Partridge Island

I’ve made a special meal

For Paw, my cat/kitten,

Black as dark ale,

With one white mitten.

It will be his second

Robbie Burns Night feast,

 And again, to keep him

In good cheer,

I am going to omit the haggis

(A hellish thing to make anyway),

And lay on the

Tatties & neeps.

But,

Since I doubt Paw will enjoy

Either Spuds or Rutabaga,

There will be a couple of

Mutton chops each,

And a piece of steak.

I will, however,

Have the whisky flowing.

And be in full voice

When I recite:

‘The Selkirk Grace’ by Burns himself.

“Some hae meat and canna eat,

And some wad eat that want it,

But we hae meat and we can eat,

And sae the Lord be thankit.”

And,

If the little bugger

(And myself)

Have more luck than we deserve,

We’ll be sharing our wee feast

With Sister Darling, of the

Rarified Church of the World (Reformed)

Who is

(Hopefully),

Boarding a fishing boat

On its way to our Lighthouse,

Right Now.

{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2025/ A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

DE BA. UEL

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Ignoring The Start of the Trump Clown Karnival – It Is Meet and Right So To Do

So, I did not see one minute of the Trump Transition.

The TV was off, and the computer was sedately ignored. 

Thus it was for the whole day of the event. I’m one proud boy who has something to be proud about.

But – I gotta tell you – today Trump seeped into my quarantine. However, it was not the aged and befuddled president, it was his wife.

Melania appeared twice. 

Once was a story (with photo) about her hat. The hat looked fine to me, and Melania is a looker. And if it helps keep Prezy at a distance  . . . then it is also functional.

Her second appearance was a story about Melania launching her own cryptocurrency. Apparently so did the prez. This is indeed perfect, as cryptocurrency is what those rubes – one of whom is born every minute – love to purchase. It fits right into the Karnival.

DE

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