THE WILD WORLD

Late last August, I decided to write a new story. It had one driving force behind it. It had to to be fun to write. Period. There was not to be a single care about filling a blank page (or a blank screen) each morning. Not a lick of worry about plot development or character motivation. Not a blessed concern about setting or rising action or backstory.

I had a scene for the opening. It came from two years of chasing away geese from the community pond behind my house. Over that time, I came to marvel at the intelligence and behavior patterns of these powerful birds. I admired their cunning in avoiding me, while I fumed about the size and quantity of their poop.

That was it. A single scene.

When I sat down to begin, a movie started to run in my noggin. Characters appeared. Tensions developed. Color and light and texture, from 374 years in the future, after the world had gone dark and been reborn. Mutants and Haters and Horrors railed against the injustice of what nature and humans had done to them. A ruthless retail monarch kept an iron grip on the fragile social fabric of Federations and Guilds. Literacy and texts were outlawed, under penalty of death, by Librarians who couldn't trust humanity from confusing prejudices from principles and destroying themselves again.

Each morning, from August to late November, I sat at my desk without a clue as to what or who was coming next. And each night, complex humans and unusual animals, with all kinds of wants and needs appeared. It was a hoot.

From the mulch that had been simmering inside me, they came. I simply tried to keep up with them. Ray Bradbury told me to get up every morning and follow the imaginary folks that were leaving the room. I thought he was nuts at the time. He wasn't.

The book was completed by the end of November, 2019.

Then came the arduous task of checking grammar and spelling. By February, 2020, it looked like things were good. Then, word came that the world was under attack. A virus was coming. It had serious intent.

Fast forward to today. After a bunch of rewrites, to bring in the current medical and cultural shit storm, the book is done. Fantasy merges with science fiction. Hate and hope get confused and reluctant friendships are forged.

I hope you take a look at THE WILD WORLD and enjoy it as much as I did writing it.

https://www.amazon.com/WILD-WORLD-James-Hugh-Comey-ebook/dp/B08Q8NQH6V/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=the+wild+world+%2B+james+hugh+comey&qid=1607699884&s=amazon-devices&sr=1-1

The Mosquito Men

I'm in lockdown. I'm ordered by the governor of my state not to go out beyond my neighborhood. Not to be close to other people. Not to shop, unless it's for food or medicine. Businesses are closed anyway. Schools are shuttered. Places of worship are silent and empty. Hospitals are gearing for a tsunami of infected patients.

Reality hasn't just stumbled. It's twisted its ankle and is having a hell of a time staying upright.

Each of us is struggling to process and cope with the global pandemic. Many adults are discovering the challenge of daily worksheets and young minds quickly bored. Some are rediscovering music and exploring art on digital field trips. Some are reconnecting with friends and relatives through electronic magic. And a whole bunch are worried if their food, money and courage will hold until medical research, hard data, and clear thinking squashes these invisible bugs.

Me?

I'm remembering when a fellow named Wizard and I drove around for three months in a beat to hell truck spraying white fog into the air. We were both summer help, working for the township highway department.

We were called into the supervisor's office our first day that summer. He led us to a bay where a tired-looking pickup truck with a 50 gallon drum and a gasoline powered compressor sat on weary springs. He showed us how to pour a couple quarts of ink black, nasty-smelling liquid into the drum and then fill it with water. A rubber tube from the compressor went into the filled drum and another rubber tube with a long metal wand with a squeeze handle came out of the compressor. A spare gas can for the compressor and a lawn chair were the last of the equipment.

"Spray on every street in the township," he said. "One drives. Don't hit anything. The other sprays. Switch off. Keep it under five miles an hour while spraying. Log on and off everyday in the mileage book."

He walked away. It was the last we saw of him that summer.

"Do you know why he wants our mileage?" Wizard asked.

"No," I said.

"So we don't just sit under a tree somewhere all day," Wizard said.

"Do you know what the smelly black crap is?" Wizard asked.

"No," I said.

I was beginning to guess why the guy was called Wizard.

"It's DDT," he said. "Don't get any on your hands."

"Do you know what the regular highway guys will call us?"

OK. I knew this one.

"Mosquito Men," I said.

"No," he said. "We're now the Bug Fuc..rs."

And that's what we did. Everyday we added smelly black crap to the drum and filled it with water. Everyday we drove to a different neighborhood. Wizard offered to sit most days in the truck bed and spray the white bug fog into the air. He liked the sun and mostly avoided the spray.

Kids ran behind us in the fog and whopped and hollered. Kids road on bicycles next to me while I drove along in first gear, hugging the curb. I had to be vigilant that dogs and fearless five year olds on big wheels didn't bolt down a driveway.

We didn't run into anyone or anything that summer, and I suspect we decreased the mosquito population. Malaria was not an issue in the township, and West Nile Virus hadn't appeared yet. DDT was outlawed in the early 70s because of its effect on the environment, and I moved on to teaching by then.

I think of this now because I hope Dr. Anthony Fauci and other talented researchers around the world devise a safe and effective vaccine for the coronavirus. Then, nano-version injections of that long ago truck will throttle these pathogens, and kids can whoop and holler once again in schoolyards and playgrounds.

Copyright © 2020 by James Hugh Comey

The Gnat

I think it was a dime. It could also have been a snide remark or maybe an inadvertent nudge. The initial trigger wasn’t important. The carnage that ensued was.

My older brother, John, and I shared a bedroom. Twin beds, a large bureau, a night table and my small desk didn’t leave a lot of room for personal stuff, let alone privacy.

 John was going to be a senior and had earned serious attention from college coaches and attractive young women as a diver. Fat was not permitted on his sculpted figure and other than breaking his nose a couple of times from striking the end of the diving board and hitting the bottom of a pool from too clean an entry, he was in fine fettle. He was on our high school baseball team and had his driver’s license.

He was not about, that particular summer day, to tolerate nonsense from his twerp brother when I spotted a dime on the floor between our beds.

“That’s mine,” he said, with the cocksure assurance of a guy who had marched down Broad Street playing the trumpet in the band in the Philly Thanksgiving Day Parade.

“I think not,” I said, tired of his ability to speak some German and get good grades from hardly studying.

One of us reached for it.

Craziness began.

He outweighed me by 50 plus pounds and could bench press me all afternoon. He had reach and speed. I had years of playing tackle football with him and my younger brother in the backyard, where I was used to getting clobbered and holding on until somebody toppled.

We tumbled our way from the floor to his bed. The dime switched hands.  Sweat flew, softening elbow strikes.

 The slates in his bed let go after a bit, and we found ourselves wedged between the two beds.

I felt something brush my head. I thought it might be a gnat. Bugs were always slipping into the bedroom to drive me crazy with their buzzing at three in the morning.

John body slammed me onto my bed, which also collapsed. Pieces of plasterboard rained down on us from somewhere, and the gnat kept brushing my head.

Fatigue and luck smiled on me. I managed to slip a leg lock around his head and squeezed his neck. I couldn’t see his face, but the fight was rapidly going out of him.

 The gnat became insistent, banging now against my shoulders. It began to hurt.

I looked up and saw my mother hitting me with a broom.

“Let him go,” she shouted.

“You’re hitting me with a broom,” I said, astounded.

“I’ve been hitting both of you for five minutes,” she said. “Let him go.”

John didn’t act like he was going to body slam me any more so I released my legs

She pointed the broom around the room.

“Look at what you’ve done.”

We both eased ourselves up some and looked.

 There were two holes in the wall. One was over my desk, which was a tad strange since I didn’t remember being near there. The other was on the wall next to us. John had plaster board fragments in his hair. Books and the lamp on the nightstand were toppled.

“You’ve made me hurt my wrist,” my mother said, easing down the broom to the floor.

Guilt, the chief weapon in my mother’s vast arsenal. Right up there with “close to the poorhouse and nobody appreciates anything I’ve done.”

“You’ve hurt my head,” I said, lobbing her guilt back at her, but she came right back with her stinger.

“I’m going to tell your father.”

Given the circumstances, that was an unnecessary threat, but we knew its implications.

Not three steps into the house that night, my mother would pounce on my father. She would dramatically describe our fight, tearfully pointing out the grievous damage to her wrist, as well as the assault on the bedroom.

 She would then turn the heat of her ire toward him. Within minutes, our pointless brawl would amazingly become tied to something he had done years before.

A shouting match would erupt that would take hours to play out.

I wasn’t too worried.

When the thunder and lightning inside the house would finally fade away, till next time, my father would take John to the hardware store. There they would talk with enthusiasm about tools and spackling paste and home repairs.

 With the same attention to detail he used to sculpt balsa wood into airplanes with tissue-paper skin, John, curse his patient hands, would heal the walls, then, just for chuckles, teach himself to play the guitar. 

Copyright © 2019 by James Hugh Comey

Portia and Magpie

Eight months ago I moved. Not far. Twenty-five miles, one county to another. Suburban to country. Congested roads after 3 PM, parking lots jammed with shoppers on weekends, road work and school buses and folks in too much of a hurry clogging my psyche.

I attended both high school and grad school in the city, the quality of the schools, not the raucous subways and police rushing to havoc, drawing me. I lived 41 years in the same suburban house that was only two miles from where I was born. I was seeking a place with open spaces and bigger skies.

After eight months of searching, I found it.

Across from me now is a large pond, with fields and trees beyond. The sky is panoramic, unfettered by buildings and utility lines. The traffic noises, at dawn and dusk, are Canadian geese, trumpeting as they follow mysterious roadways over the house.

Deer, fox, rabbits, and crazy ass insects I've never seen before are in abundance. And in the pond are two long time residents, Portia and Magpie. Portia is a 12 year old mute swan. Magpie is a black and white duck.

Portia's mate, Frick, was found dead recently. He disappeared from the pond two months ago. He was 17 and arthritic and possibly hurt when a hunter who had sneaked onto the pond, fired at some of the local mallards.

There is little that happens on the pond that I don't see. It's 24 hour live streaming, no WiFi needed. And what I've been seeing amazes me.

Magpie, who is all white with black wings, never leaves Portia's side. The pond is skimmed with ice now, but when the water was open, Magpie was always inches from Portia's back when she slid gracefully across the water. Magpie often leads the way up the bank to the feeder, built by the community. Magpie's no fool. Food spilled by Portia will be shared by Magpie and the other ducks.

When I asked about the strange little black and white duck, I was told that he/she crossed the road where there are fields and a stream at the bottom of the community eight years ago and has never left. Portia's wings are clipped. Magpie's are not. He/she can fly away at any time but never does.

A new male mute swan in on his way to join Portia. Hopefully they will connect and share many years together. I'm not too worried. Portia will continue to have the friend who has stayed with her during heat and cold, good times and bad, no questions asked.

Steinbeck wrote, "I got you to look after me, and you got me to look after you, and that's why." (Of Mice and Men)

Copyright © 2018 by James Hugh Comey

Fall Seven Times

In April 1990, I found myself sitting at a table in an elementary school library in my home town. I had been invited to speak to students on their Writer's Day Celebration. I had co-founded a nonprofit children's theater company the year before with an accomplished professional actor and her sister, an award winning director/choreographer. Many of the kids at the school had seen our first play, The Monster in the Woods. I had been asked to speak to classes about the process I used to create the many fantastical characters in the play and how we animated them through dialogue, song, and movement.

As a thank you for our time, we were treated to lunch in the library. I am not comfortable with such social events but something pushed down my urge to leave and, there I was, sitting across from a man and a woman. The man introduced himself as Jerry. Sitting next to him was his wife, Eileen.

When we started to eat sandwiches, surrounded by the buzz and bustle of other writers and school staff, I realized that something was wrong. Jerry was upset.

"I can't do this anymore," he said.

"I know something is going to break," she said. "You have to hang on."

I didn't know if I should say anything. I could feel the man's frustration, see his unhappiness.

"What kind of writing do you do?" I asked.

"Children's novels," he said. "Eileen writes poetry and picture books."

"That's fantastic," I said. "You're both writing and getting published."

Eileen went quiet.

"The writing isn't the problem," he said. "I have to work another job to have steady income."

"What do you do?" I asked.

"I work for a magazine whose corporate office is close by. I write blurbs about upcoming TV shows. It's money and constant, but I hate it."

"Your newest book is going to catch on," Eileen said. "We're going to be alright. I can feel it."

"I have a Master's degree in writing from Johns Hopkins," Jerry said. "I've had lots of jobs over the years to support my writing, but I'm not sure I can do this anymore."

People were starting to gather up their stuff. I told Jerry that I admired his courage and determination. Although our children's theater company was taking off (we've gone to have over 100,000 kids see our shows), I was reentering teaching in five months, after taking off for four years, to have steady income.

We said goodbye. Neither Jerry nor Eileen were smiling when they left.

The following January, I opened the Philadelphia Inquirer to see Jerry's picture in large display. His 1990 novel, Maniac Magee, had just won the Newbery Award. It went on to win dozens of other awards, and, in 2007 was named one of "Teachers' Top 100 books for Children" by the National Education Association.

Jerry Spinelli didn't give up. He's now written 35 books. Talent is important. So also is determination and perseverance and faith in yourself.

A Japanese proverb says: Fall seven times, stand up eight.

Copyright © 2017 by James Hugh Comey

I Hate Winter

I hate Winter.
It's a splinter in the heart.

Toes freeze.
Nostrils sneeze.

Thumbs crack.
A rack of ice coats
The mind, sears the soul.

Begone wretched season.
Melt into blessed warmth, cherished awakening.

Copyright © 2017 by James Hugh Comey

'Til It Is Experienced

Close to 40 years ago, I went on a bike trek to the Skyline Drive in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. (The photograph shows me and three of my four fellow riders standing on a ledge overlooking a dew dipped valley.) I remember chunks of that ride. There was monsoon rain that blasted us for four hours, in the dark, in fast, heavy traffic, where I could barely see the tail light of the bike in front of me. There were tiny towns tucked neatly on the sides of glens, and forests thick with color and texture and life. There was a mile long log jam of cars crossing into Norfolk for a huge concert that we skirted past on the shoulder, only to be stopped by a state trooper who started to write us up, only to have to stop because there was an accident somewhere.

"You're lucky today," he said as he put away his ticket book and quickly climbed into his cruiser, flipping on his lights. "Lady Luck just smiled on all of you."

What he didn't know was Lady Luck had already smiled on me earlier in the day.  A man in a older pickup truck, on a crowded, multi lane highway that bypassed Washington, DC,  had been driving next to me. We were going about 60 mph. The sun was not in our eyes and there were no crosswinds. At one point, I looked over and made direct eye contact with him. I looked directly into his eyes, not five feet away from me.

Suddenly, I sensed movement and glanced to my right. His truck was veering directly toward me.

I hit my horn and lifted my head and shouted, "HEY!" underneath the visor of my helmet.

The man flinched when he heard my shout and pulled back into his lane. He looked like he had seen a ghost.

"Asshole!," I shouted. "Pay attention."

Now, almost 40 years later, after many incidents where I have made eye contact with car and truck drivers, waiting at stop signs, only to have them pull directly in front of me, I believe that something else is at play here. These people are experiencing "inattentional blindness." There is nothing physically wrong with their eyesight. Nor are they deliberately trying to run me down.

The Canadian writer and professor, Robertson Daves, wrote, "The eye sees only what the mind is prepared to comprehend."

Two cognitive psychologists, Daniel Simons and Christopher Chabris, performed an experiment in 1999 where they filmed three people in black shirts and three people in white shirts, shifting constantly and passing a basketball around. Participants were challenged to count the number of times the people in white shirts passed the ball to each other.

The result? As the British writer Douglas Adams wrote, "Reality is frequently inaccurate." Over half of the participants, including me when I watched the video, counted 13 times that the ball was bounced between the white shirts. I was proud of my accuracy. I was also astounded when I discovered, along with the 50%, that I did not see a person dressed in a gorilla suit step out in the center of the moving people, pound his chest, and walk off the screen.

I was so focused on the people and shirt color and basketball bouncing that I never saw what was directly in front of me. I was not looking for a gorilla. That man on the multi lane highway was scanning for cars and trucks, large machines with four or more wheels. My two wheeled bike and my direct eye contact never registered, even though he saw me. I was blind to him.

I suspect, however, after that day, when a slim guy suddenly materialized next to him on the DC bypass, he may now be aware of bikes.

John Keats wrote: "Nothing has ever become real 'til it is experienced."

Copyright © 2014 by James Hugh Comey

God is in the Trees.

I had a dream the other night I cannot shake. It wasn't happy or even a tad scary. Nor was it the typical scenario where I'm frustrated or lost or reliving past anxieties. It's tone and tenor and sense of wonderment was exhilarating.

It was about trees.

Trees have been on my mind for the last month. Snow storms have been battering my house and corner of the world. Over 700,000 people in my state lost power due to tree limbs, overtaxed by brittle ice, snapping power lines. Wind gusts toppled stately pines throughout the region, and a fractured Cyprus branch from my neighbor's yard collided with my shed roof. (The roof is still intact.) A large branch from the very top of the Holly tree in my backyard snapped and fell like a javelin, impaling the frozen ground beneath it. And the 40 foot Maple tree in the front yard, which I had reinforced last summer with cables in the upper branches and bolts through the dual trunk, shook and twisted furiously, as each frigid storm pummeled it with sleet and snow.

My wife and I began to wonder if we should have the Maple tree removed. Its branches extend over parts of the house and the street. If one of them should break, it could be serious.

And yet, the Maple tree has been my companion and house guardian for the 37 years that we've lived here. Its bark is a wrinkled elephant grey, its shade cool and welcome in the summer. Birds grace its branches even as they poop on my cars. And the fall is a riot of red and orange leaves that become the mulch for our rear garden.

I went to sleep the other night, weighted with the thought of cutting down the Maple.

And then, something remarkable happened. I dreamt of trees. Not my Maple tree. I dreamt of trees throughout the world. Glens and forests on moors and mountain sides. Canadian wilderness and tropical rain forests stretched before me.

And then, I heard a voice. It said, "God is in the trees."

It wasn't my voice. It filled the sky and my vision and my heart.

I do not take drugs and don't drink. I have never had a revelation. But, if I lived during those times when dreams foretold miraculous births and included visits from celestial creatures, I might've believed I had. Freud would tell me that it was my conscience. Odd that it has such a strong voice and waited 66 years to reveal itself. The theological implications of "God is in the trees" has been resonating inside me.

Antoine de Saint-Exupery wrote: "The tree is more than just a seed, then a living trunk, and then dead timber. The tree is a slow, enduring force straining to win the sky."

My wife and I still have to make a decision. Safety comes first.

But the life force that flows through my guardian is not unlike my own. We both have wrinkles, both seek to stand tall and straight. Storms may try to make us fall. Through all of this, I will try to remember the words of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow:

"I hear the wind among the trees
Playing the celestial symphonies;
I see the branches downward bent
Like the keys of some great instrument."

Copyright © 2014 by James Hugh Comey

The Man in a Glass Box

In 1961 I began a four year pilgrimage to St. Joseph's Prep, a Jesuit high school at 17th Street and Girard Avenue in North Philadelphia. I was 14 years old, weighed maybe 100 pounds, and was scared as hell.

It took an hour each way to travel a tad over 15 miles from the western suburbs. Each morning I braved jammed trolleys, ELs (elevated trains), and subways. In snowstorms and rain, wind and heat, I carried a gym bag bottom heavy with textbooks and assignments. I had three hours of homework every night. Cicero and Virgil, Moliere and Steinbeck spoke to me of wars and brave men and broken hearts.  Over 720 days and nights, I persisted in leaving the quiet safety of my suburban home for chaotic city streets and the demanding hallways of a school that had been teaching boys since 1851.

Why?

Because I believed that this expensive (I had to work weekends and summers to help pay the tuition) pilgrimage would help shape my mind and my spirit. I hoped that the brilliant teachers and fellow pilgrims would give me the skills to find my way through college. And I trusted that, if I worked my tail off, I just might develop the endurance I would need to face whatever might come my way in the future.

I was right. Years later, when my mother was very ill, I wanted to complete my doctorate degree at the University of Pennsylvania before she died. My victories were always my Mother's victories, and, with her health failing, I wasn't sure if I could complete the research and write the dissertation in time. Tapping back into my Prep days, I presented my proposal, did the research, wrote the paper (295 pages), and defended in 11 months time. I taught during the day and worked every night and weekend. I knew how to work hard.

Eight months after my Mother wept openly as she watched me receive my Doctor of Education degree in the International House at the University of Pennsylvania, she died. Neil Gaiman wrote: "You have to believe. Otherwise it will never happen."

However, I never could have imagined that I would be taking yet another pilgrimage to North Philadelphia. And this time, not to the Prep, but to a man in a glass box.

After teaching for 17 years, I decided to leave public education and received training in a variety of counseling fields. For four years I saw clients with a wide range of concerns. My daughter was getting ready to attend college and salaries for public school teachers were starting to go up. After much reflection, I decided to reenter teaching. The problem was, with much better salaries, there were 500 applications for every opening. And worse, why hire a teacher with 17 years experience when you can hire someone fresh out of college at a much lower salary?

I was in a difficult place. My determination and hard work couldn't change the hiring climate. The upcoming college tuition and room and board and books were steep, and I wasn't getting invited in for interviews. The well worn academic paths I had learned at the Prep had served me well, but they weren't working now.

That was when I remembered the man in a glass box. My relatives had made visits to the shrine of Saint John Neumann in North Philadelphia. I remembered hearing how John Neumann had come from Bohemia and started the first Catholic diocesan school system in the United States. I also knew that he had been Bishop of Philadelphia in the mid 1850s and canonized a saint some years back.

I decided to visit his shrine and was stunned to discover it was only 1.1 miles from the Prep. I had not been in North Philly for some time, and made my way in late March to Broad Street, then east down Girard to North Fifth Street. The Church of Saint Peter the Apostle sat on the corner. Below the church was a low ceilinged chapel. And, in the front of the chapel, just before the altar, lay the body of John Neumann. He was clad in white bishop's garb, as if asleep, encased in clear glass.

It was very quiet, the sounds of Girard Avenue gone. A man in an expensive suit was kneeling at the altar rail, only several feet away from this priest who had been declared a saint, the only male US citizen ever done so. The man in the expensive suit was quietly weeping. They were not tears of joy.

I sat in a pew in that quiet place. Finely wrought applications and snazzy cover letters had not landed me an interview. Ernest Hemingway wrote: "The best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them." I decided to trust this sacred man, in this sacred place. I asked humbly for his help. I asked if he could find a position for me where I might help kids to think and question and wonder. I asked if he might give me the strength and patience to find my path.

Two months later, I was called in for an interview. Two weeks after that, I was hired. I taught in that school district for 20 years, retiring in June 2010.

Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote: "All that I have seen teaches me to trust the Creator for all I have not seen." My trust that March day in a man in a glass box changed my life, and taught me that hard work, determination and belief in more than yourself is a worthy pilgrimage.

Copyright © 2013 by James Hugh Comey

More Than Life Itself: A Eulogy

Today is Mother's Day, 2013.  My mother, Mary Comey, died 17 years ago. Recently I came across the eulogy that I wrote for her funeral service at Saint Thomas Church in Villanova, PA. My brother, Dave, valiantly delivered the text. On this day dedicated to mothers, I offer excerpts from this tribute to the woman that I miss with all my heart.

A Eulogy

It's difficult, in just several minutes, to describe a life that spanned over three quarters of a century, especially when it's your mother. Yet there are qualities of Mary Comey that well up strongly in our memories.

The first of these qualities is determination. For those of you who didn't know my mother, she stood four foot eleven inches at her prime. Because of her physical size, some people, especially sales people, mistakenly assumed that she was small in her determination and her power of will. Each of us can remember watching her thoroughly exhaust, wear out and wear down furniture, clothing, appliance, and dozens of other types of sales people as she artfully used every manner of persuasion to bring them to precisely the amount that she had determined when she first entered their store. And each of us frequently found that she worked her persuasive magic just as effectively on us, usually right after we had declared in a loud voice that we were not going to budge, that we had made up our minds. There was little that could deter Mary Comey, not even death. In the last month of her life, when living became just too physically difficult for her, she convinced God that it was time for her to come to Him. She wouldn't accept no for an answer, and ever God Himself knew better than to mess with Mary Comey.

The second of her qualities was a rich love of telling stories, together with a remarkably creative imagination. All of our lives, we were treated to the most extraordinary tales by our mother. We heard about a Nazi spy she met who ran a boarding house in Saint Louis when she followed my father to the Midwest during World War II; the adventures she had as the Executive Secretary to the Director of the War Bond Division of the Philadelphia branch of the Treasury Department when all of the big celebrities of the day came into town, and the most wild adventures just going to the corner gas station or food store. When my mother went to the Wawa, almost anything was possible. It's no wonder that my brothers and I have been directly involved with the theatre and other media, and that each of us generates our living in a performance-based profession. It is also no surprise that all of her grandchildren have found themselves before some kind of artistic, athletic, or government-related audience. My mother lived life with high drama, and her legacy is that her children and grandchildren are carrying forward her joy of sharing their thoughts and feelings with others.

The third quality, and perhaps the one that most exemplifies and defines my mother's character, was her total devotion to her family.  All of her life, she lived within spitting distance of her brother and her sister. She was fiercely devoted to my father, John Comey. Other than a forced separation during World War II, my mother and father were inseparable for half a century. They consulted each other on every matter, often using their own special and robust form of communication. And for her three sons, daughters-in-law and grandchildren, she traveled by plane, train, car, bus or walked up mountains so that she could applaud, cheer and hug each one of us after every event, regardless of its scope or importance. She always cried at our ceremonies because she deeply admired our efforts and our willingness to dare to try.

In a letter that she sent after we surprised my parents with a 50th anniversary party, my mother wrote, "I love you more than life itself." We were with her when she died, my father, brothers, and I, her family together as she wanted throughout her life. We will miss her powerful presence and her deep caring for our well being and happiness. We love you deeply, Mother, and ask that you not give God too hard a time if He should dare to disagree with you.

Copyright © 2013 by James Hugh Comey

Silence Is My Friend

There is a sound that has always comforted me. When the crash and bang of the world rings in my ears and I cannot think straight, I seek it. When a room full of people all seem to be talking at once, and department stores and fix it yourself warehouses are blaring announcements that are echoing inside my skull, I look for it.  When meetings with folks are trying to outshout each other, and highway traffic is swallowing my sanity, I need it desperately.

The sound I love is silence.

My good fortune was moving in fourth grade to a new house that had a steep slope behind it that led to 120 acres of untouched woods. It was my own personal sanctuary. I'd climb down the 70 degree slope and sit atop a ragged crag of high rocks for hours, watching and listening to Crum Creek meander through my woods. The conventional entrance was at Smedley Park, off Route I in Nether Providence, some miles left of the bottom of the hill. Few people would venture to the bottom of my hill and beyond. The tree branches each had their own voices, with giant, arthritic oaks groaning against the caress of fall breezes, and elegant maples swishing their leaves in elegant harmony on summer afternoons. Bird song and squirrel barks mingled with the rustle of tall cattails near a marshy area that ran down from the Springfield Golf Course. Snakes and toads and tiny fish by the edges of the creek swirled in the clear water. The sun smiled through the thick canopy of trees, warming the soil and my rock perch and me.

I sometimes wondered, as I sat alone, if what I was doing was normal. I did frequently come down into the woods with neighborhood friends and raft on the creek, and climb Indian Rock (someone had painted an outline of an Indian long ago), and explore caves. But I just as often sat solitary, atop my giant rock perch, soaking in the smells and sights and sounds of my quiet sanctuary. It felt akin to being in church.

A short time ago I happened to see Susan Cain speak on TED. Her speech was called "The Power of Introverts." I was transfixed. I knew from the Myers Briggs test that I was INTJ, the rarest kind of personality. (I have written about my discovery of this in an earlier blog.) But to hear a total stranger so accurately describe me was remarkable. Her TED speech was based on her best selling book, Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking (http://www.amazon.com/Quiet-Power-Introverts-World-Talking/dp/0307352145). I immediately read the book. Again, I was struck by the similarities of the people described in her book and myself.

One example is a very successful professor who was popular with his students and a sought after speaker. He played the part of the outgoing teacher, but then fled to his country home where he avoided parties and most social gatherings. When he was away from home, presenting at a conference, he walked outside, alone, between speeches, or, if it was too cold, hid in areas where he didn't have to engage in small talk. It wasn't that he didn't like people. He simply preferred quiet. Sensory overload was unwelcome, and schmoozing with strangers was alien to him.

My classroom was a very quiet place. Students engaged in conversations with me and each other, often on an intense level, but without shouting or interrupting each other. If I asked a question, I would wait quite a while before a hand went up. The silence in the room didn't bother me. When students would look at me, wondering why no one was saying anything, I would say, "Silence is my friend."

I didn't attend the retirement party for a cluster of educators who retired when I did. I knew what people thought of me without going to a noisy environment where I wouldn't be able to hear or think. And, like the professor, I do not have the schmoozing gene. Both of my brothers are outgoing and enjoy large groups where strangers meet and chat. My wife and kids are easy mixers in social situations. But, as Susan Cain so aptly describes in her speech and book, there are people like me, and her, and others, who often prefer to read over talk. We enjoy the company of a small group of intimates, in a quiet setting. Sensory overload can feel almost painful, and thinking and productive work is most often accomplished apart from others.

We, introverts, agree with Confucius that "silence is a true friend who never betrays." And, when the world becomes too loud, we gently ask, "Let us be silent, that we may hear the whispers of the gods" (Ralph Waldo Emerson).

Copyright © 2013 by James Hugh Comey

My Head Exploded

Forty six years ago, my head exploded.

The year was 1966. I was a freshman at West Chester State College, beginning my undergraduate training to become an English teacher. I'd just completed four years of an arduous Jesuit education at St. Joseph's Prep. I'd commuted by trolley car, elevated train and subway over 700 times from the suburbs into the streets of North Philadelphia. Police sirens, screeching subway wheels, blaring traffic on Broad Street, and congested concourses underneath City Hall were my white noise while I navigated my way through Latin and French translations, obscure mathematical concepts, and the gobbledy gook of scientific charts and formulas.

Now I found myself in West Chester, PA, 30 miles outside the city, where the sky was blue, the streets were sleepy, and I knew no one. Classes didn't meet every day. Many professors didn't take attendance. And assigned readings in mandatory freshman subjects that had no bearing on my life were dull and not due for several days. 

Because I have always sought refuge in a library when I feel isolated and alone, forty six years ago I found myself before a book in the Francis Harvey Green Library. I don't know why this particular book caught my attention. Maybe it was its green cover, or its images of trees and mountain tops, or its title. Or maybe it was my time to find and read this particular book.

I picked it up and read the opening line: "In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit."

Four years of Latin and Roman phrasing and mythology crumbled before the powerful Germanic and Scandinavian imagery that began to flow along the pages. A small, merry village of hairy-footed creatures, a wizard with uncertain motives, a gang of boisterous dwarfs, a perilous journey to find a dragon. I had never tasted such wonderful words. A single small creature had to find the pluck to venture away from all that he knew, surrounded by new companions and new enemies. I didn't know that Vietnam Nam and the draft board was just around the corner. I didn't know a girl was going to burn herself to death outside the library two years later in protest to the war. I didn't know Martin Luther King was going to be shot to death my junior year, or Woodstock was going to erupt my senior year, or four students would be killed at Kent State in 1970 for protesting. The revolution was only a tiny, unfelt wind in 1966. And I was a lonely kid who had found a book, and then a trilogy, that offered an imaginative place where courage and determination and the magic that comes from caring can make a difference in the world.

Today is the 75th anniversary of the publication of The Hobbit. Tomorrow, the 22nd of September, is the celebrated birthday of both Bilbo and Frodo. These two creatures, along with their creator, blew apart my imagination close to half a century ago. And I thank them for it.

“Still round the corner there may wait
A new road or a secret gate
And though I oft have passed them by
A day will come at last when I
Shall take the hidden paths that run
West of the Moon, East of the Sun.”
― J.R.R. Tolkien

Copyright © 2011 by James Hugh Comey

A Sudden Coming Together

My wife, Trish, saved a life once. She hadn't planned on doing it. It happened quickly, in a sudden coming together of events. The players were a mixed bunch of actors, each with their own needs. The setting was our side and back yard. It was late afternoon, a gorgeous June day with a cool breeze that demanded open windows and easy conversation.

That conversation was suddenly pierced by the sharp cries of two catbirds that had landed on the fence just outside our side bay window. They were cries of anger and alarm. Something was very wrong. The catbirds had a nest in our neighbor's high bush. They were extremely protective and would sound the alarm at anything with beak or teeth. And their alarm was on full volume, so loud I couldn't hear my wife’s words.

I went to the bay window and looked out. Just below the catbirds was Mama Cat, with something in her mouth.

Mama Cat was a very large (maybe 25 pounds) feral cat that lived in the window well of our neighbor's house. They built a flap entrance for her so she could enter into a small wire enclosure in their basement to escape the winter's cold and the summer's heat. They provided water and food for her. They captured her once after she dropped a litter of kittens in their backyard and had her spayed. It was the only time humans ever touched her. She was as wild as the wind. Her tracks were found in the deepest snow in the coldest months, and she slept under the tall ornamental grass in my backyard from April to August. I respected her independence and freedom. I especially respected her claws.

At first, I thought Mama Cat was holding a mouse by the neck. But then she turned slightly to look up at the screaming catbirds.

"Trish," I said. "Mama Cat has the baby bunny."

For weeks, we had been watching a tiny bunny in our back yard at daybreak and dusk. It was so tiny, at first, it looked like a chewing dot of fur. Slowly, over time, the dot was growing. It moved like a blur when we approached, although it usually ducked beneath the smallest plants, thinking we couldn't see it.

"Trish," I said, turning, thinking she couldn't hear me with the din of the catbirds.  "Mama Cat has ...."

Trish was gone. I heard the back door slam.

"Uh-oh," I said and ran.

When I reached the side of the house, my wife and Mama Cat were facing off.

"Drop it!" Trish said.

Mama Cat's instincts were on full throttle. She had made a kill. It had been a clean kill, probably with many hours of stalking and waiting to make that one fatal lunge. This was not your garden variety kitty. This was a wild animal that had survived God knows how many threats from enemies of all kinds. She was not about to be intimidated by a mere 5' 1.5" human.

"Trish," I said, coming up behind her. "It's too late. The bunny's dead."

"No it's not," she said. "I saw it move."

The rabbit hung from Mama Cat's mouth by its neck. Like its distant relatives on the African plains, Mama Cat had seized its prey by the throat and suffocated it.

"DROP IT," Trish yelled, rushing Mama Cat.

The catbirds flew with alarm into the air, and Mama Cat, trapped by a closed gate, leaped onto and over the fence to escape the charging woman. The bunny lay on the ground where she dropped it. Mama Cat had survived these many years by knowing when to fight and when to flee. And it was time to flee before the fury of this protective woman. The bunny was not Trish's child. It was not human, and it was as wild as Mama Cat. But it was also helpless and young, and somewhere its mother was looking for it.

I looked at the lifeless body of the rabbit.

"It's dead," I said again. "It's too late to do anything."

Trish reached down and lifted up the body.

"I can feel its heart beating," she said quietly. "It's beating very fast."

The bunny didn't move in her hands. It didn't blink or struggle to get away from her.

Trish slowly laid the body in our garden. There was still no movement.

"Maybe its neck is broken," I said.

"I'm going to stay with it," she said. "I don't want Mama Cat coming back and taking it."

I left Trish and the bunny in the backyard. Ever practical, I wondered what I would do with the body.

Twice I saw Mama Cat on the other side of the fence, staring into our yard. I had the sense she was calmly waiting for the human to go away so she could retrieve her prize.

Trish finally came inside.

"That was really nice of you," I said, "trying to save the bunny."

"It's gone," she said, washing her hands.

"Gone?"

Had she already placed the body in a trash bag?

"It sat up after a while. I think it was in shock. Then, it got its feet under it and ran off into the neighbor's yard behind us where we always see it go."

I was stunned. I had written the bunny off. Twice.

"You saved a life today," I said. "That's incredible."

"I saw it move," Trish said and smiled. "I had to help it."

In Watership Down, one of my favorite books, courage and persistence are the hallmarks of the rabbit characters in the novel. Against terrible odds, Hazel and Fiver and Bigwig and a host of others struggle to survive against many enemies.

At the conclusion of the book, Lord Frith says to El-ahrairah, a folk hero of the story: "All the world will be your enemy, Prince of a Thousand enemies. And when they catch you, they will kill you. But first they must catch you; digger, listener, runner, Prince with the swift warning. Be cunning, and full of tricks, and your people will never be destroyed."

I add my wife, Trish, and her caring for a helpless bunny to Lord Frith's blessings.

Copyright (2012) by James Hugh Comey