On Becoming a Septuagenarian

As most of you know, I was intimately involved with “song” for more than fifty years. On October 6, 2022, I turn 70, so I take this occasion to sing about myself.

I celebrate myself, and sing myself,

And what I assume you shall assume,

For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to

you.

I tramp a perpetual journey, (come listen all!)

Not words of routine this song of mine,

But abruptly to question, to leap beyond yet nearer

bring;

-Walt Whitman

Happy Birthday to me,

Happy Birthday to me,

Happy Birthday dear Patrick,

You’ve arrived at Seventy!

Try to Remember

Try to remember the kind of September When life was slow and oh, so mellow Try to remember the kind of September When grass was green and grain was yellow Try to remember the kind of September When you were a tender and callow fellow Try to remember and if you remember Then follow, follow

Try to remember when life was so tender That no one wept except the willow Try to remember the time of September When love was an ember about to billow Try to remember and if you remember Then follow, follow

Deep in December It's nice to remember Although you know the snow will follow Deep in December It's nice to remember The fire of September that made us mellow Deep in December our hearts should remember And follow, follow, follow...

-Tom Jones

To help me remember, I have gathered a few images to share with you, one for each decade since my birth date-October 6, 1952. Please indulge me.

I remember a childhood in which I was loved and cared for. We lived in the country, in the foothills of the Smoky Mountains, and my younger brother Kim and I fearlessly roamed our twenty-acre property and rode our bicycles throughout the rural neighborhood with freedom and a sense of discovery, so follow...

I remember growing up with my canine companion, Ginger. My parents got her when I was a toddler and she lived to be 18 years old, so for nearly two decades I had a trusty friend by my side. I have several vivid memories of her, so follow, follow...

I remember that during my college years, I was cocky and confident. Shortly after our marriage, Rett and I moved to Twin Falls, Idaho where we discovered who we were as a couple and how we could make our marriage last. We loved the sense of “open freedom” that the Northwest seemed to offer, but professional ambition drew me back to Tennessee, to Indiana and Illinois, and finally to Ohio so follow, follow, follow…

I remember that during my 30s, I, 1) completed my doctoral degree; 2) became a father; and 3) settled into a professional life as a “teacher/artist” so follow, follow, follow…

I remember my 40s as a wonderful time filled with satisfying events of fatherhood with Simon and Caroline. Rett and I provided the children with necessities, and in return they provided us with great joy and laughter, so follow, follow, follow, follow…

I remember my 50s as a time fraught with family tragedy, family turmoil, and professional disappointment and transition, so follow, follow, follow, follow, follow…

I clearly remember my 60s as overwhelmingly joyous: 1) we moved to Merry Mount; 2) our dear children were happily married; 3) we became grandparents to three beautiful granddaughters; and 4) we retired, so follow, follow, follow, follow, follow, follow…

For over 46 years, the constant in my life has been my dear wife, Loretta. So when I sing “follow”, it is with deep appreciation that I acknowledge that she followed me through thick and thin with grace and support. I am forever grateful for and to her and offer her this proposal etched in stone.

There are many things to be grateful “for” but, as I ripen with the seasons of life, the many reasons blend into a sacred mystery. And, most deeply, I realize that living gratefully is its own blessing.

MICHAEL MAHONEY

My songs have sometimes been smooth, melodious, and joyous; and at other times rough, raucous, and discordant; but may my "swan songs" be relevant and meaningful to those who hear them.

A Last Song

A last song, and a very last, and yet another O, when can I give over? Must I drive the pen until blood bursts from my nails And my breath fails and I shake with fever, Or sit well wrapped in a many colored cloak Where the moon shines new through Castle Crystal? Shall I never hear her whisper softly: "But this is truth written by you only, And for me only; Therefore, love, have done?"

-Robert Graves (1895-1985)

CPW

P.S. "The cradle rocks above the abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness."

-from Speak, Memory by Vladimir Nabokov

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