Tag Archives: Games

Imagine This!

Some folks may not like this.  So what.


I sit here, now, imagining

That nothing was or is.

That nothing ever  mattered

Nor nothing ever will.

Imagine there’s no people

Nor light, nor darkness too,

No time or anything to do.


Imagine if there’s never

Nor ever will be you!

Just kill yourself then, Brother

And make it all come true!


Oh, ohhh, ohhh, ohhh!


It’s just a dream that’s all

And we’re all imagined

Shadows on some wall.

A wall that’s just a shadow

At the bottom of some cave

Where no light’s ever entered

Nor nothing’s made or saved.


Oh, ohhh, ohhh, ohhh!


Imagine what you cannot do,

Nor never thought, nor never will:

No God, no stars, no planets

No one to love or kill.


It’s just the perfect answer

For all the things we love.

Or hate if that’s your fancy.

Below or high above.


No heaven high or hell below,

No safe earth in between.

Simply nothing!  That’s the riddle

And the answer, don’t you see,

The Cheshire’s smile does mean.


Oh, ohhh, ohhh, ohhh!


My song’s about now over;

Well, really not begun.

Never really warbled

And never really sung.

Like a rainstorm in the desert

Or sunshine in the night

Drowning burning devils

In new agonies of fright.


Ah, ahhh, ahhh, Hahhh!


peg 06/11/2018





The Last Delivery

When my father cashed in his chips on April 26, 1969 the responsibilities for the proper conduct of his obsequies fell upon my dead brother Tom (MP 56, Fordham 67), who was very much alive at the time, and my humble self.  And so, the next day we appeared at Williams Funeral Home, not too far from Joe’s Fish Market, and just across Broadway from the RKO Marble Hill accompanied by our grieving mother and sister to learn what could be done to honor a devoted letter carrier.

The funeral director, whose name I never can remember, but whose manner I shall not forget, sat behind his desk, which seemed about the size of a carrier’s flight deck.  It was the most slick and shiny piece of furniture there has ever been and was empty of everything except a black phone, his folded arms, long fingers knitted together so as to make me think of a bed of snakes, just below the inverted reflection of his face in the highly polished wood; that face a practiced and professional mask of compassionate sympathy, welcoming us in a properly consoling manner; both in reflection and in fact.

  “We accept cash or check,” were what I remember most his consolations.  That and the soothing words, “Payment is due within ten days, or late charges go into effect,” did much to ease the pain of loss.

My mother, stoically silent, merely nodded, opened the purse she held on her lap, produced a pile of bills and counted out the full amount.   “We would like to see the coffin,” my brother said, standing.  “You have a showroom, of course?”

With no more than the merest gentle smile, your man rose and gestured that we follow him, from his carpeted office through the door and down the carpeted corridor to a doubled door opening into a large room filled with beautiful examples of funerary magnificence.

To be sure, I was awed.  He gestured in such a manner that gave us to understand any of these was ours for the asking.  Thus invited, we strolled among les Objets des Morts, whispering comments and questions until we had narrowed our choices to two.  My dear sister spoke for the first time.  I know this sounds unusual for those who know her, but nevertheless…  She spoke and said, ” Are these the right size? “

For the first of several times during the next few days the, until then, composed, controlled, supremely confident gentleman, our very own Virgil I had come to think, appeared to lose himself in surprise.  “No one has ever asked that question,” he answered with the tiniest waver in his voice.  My mother, smelling blood, smiled ever so briefly and said,”We are.”  I thought I saw him stumble backwards, slightly.  My brother was nearest him, now, and said, “Our father was above average in height, though slimmed some by the disease which finally took him from us.  He suffered greatly in this life, and we would be grieved to know we were the cause of any further suffering for him on his “Last Journey”.” Turning to me, Tom added, “Peter, here, is closest to our father’s height.  We would like to see in which of these Dad would look his best.”

“Of course he’ll take off his shoes.”  The gentleman had raised only this objection after a nervous cough and a frantic look around, whether for help or a way out I have never known.

And so, barefooted since I wanted to feel the satin lining on my feet, I climbed in and lay down in the coffins feeling a bit like that little girl in the story.  The first one was too small by several inches, and I thought of my poor father spending only God knows how many years awaiting the Parousia with cramped aching feet.  But the second was just right, and upon my testimony, we all chose it for Dad.  He, or what is left of him, lies there still, waiting comfortably.

There were several details left to be attended to, so we returned to the office.  The next matter was the preparation and publication of an obituary for the deceased as our Master of the Rites informed us.  In response to Tom’s question he explained just what the charges would be in each of the several papers and offered himself as amanuensis in its production.  He removed a blank piece of paper from within one of the desk drawers and, smiling, paused expectantly.

My mother asked if this was included in the fee just paid.  Sadly, it was not; a piece of information which caught us short for the merest moment.  We were not people of means, and had little set aside for the honors which might have done my father justice.  His early death caught us unprepared. Then my brother offered what I think was a brilliant solution.  He said, “Why not: Ed Gallaher, dead!”

After he had found himself; only a short while, really, our guide gave us some bad news.  “There is a minimum charge.”

It was my sister, then, who suggested a solution.  We would approach my father’s favorite barkeep, Angie of The Kingsbridge Tavern on the corner of our block.  He was always good.  We’ll just add it to Dad’s tab, now in the low four figures.  And that was the end of that!

The last matter of business for the afternoon involved the number of cars for mourners, and, of course the hearse and flower car.  We would do this all without flowers, my mother said, since it was too early for dandelions she added, soto voce.  That left us with the matter of a hearse, and the positioning of cars.

And, here, I spoke up.  “My father’s last wish was to have a Mailman’s Funeral.”  He had been writing something on  piece of paper when I said this, and he slowly put down the pencil.  Looking directly at me he spoke, a little tremulously, “What do you mean?”

I guessed he had never heard of such a thing, so I explained that my father’s body would be carried from the funeral home on the day of the Funeral Mass by six pallbearers in full dress Letter Carrier’s uniforms placed in a mail truck and driven to the church.  Behind it we would all walk, led by the Mailman’s Marching Band.  The Mail Truck, to be driven by my father’s longtime mailman friend and partner, whose name I only remember as Ralphie Boy, would be further decorated with two brand new leather mailbags, one mounted inside out on each each door to signify that inside a dead letter carrier lay.  Further, a gold ribbon bearing the word “Cancelled” in black letters would be draped across the hood of the truck

“Really?” He said.  ” If they are available,” I answered.  “That would be good,” my mother interrupted.  “With the money we save on your hearse, we won’t need Angie.”

And so it was. Or could have been.  The fellow was kind enough to say he would absorb the obituary costs if we allowed him to take Dad to church in his hearse.  Such a deal we couldn’t get in a store as Moe the tailor used to say.

We took it.  He couldn’t stand, so we shook his hand and left.

There are other stories to tell about Dad’s wake.  But, I’ll save them.

Happy Birthday!

The first ones would be thirty-seven years old today.  Their children would be in their teens; high schoolers carrying iPods, texting everyone in the wide world, Facebookers.  Spouses would have gone off to work somewhere in the city, out into a field, or over to the factory by now.  Perhaps they both would have to go to work.  So many couples do that now, you know.

This is the time of year for planning vacations with the kids.  Maybe they’d be sitting now at a computer getting information on air fares, nice beaches, tickets at Disney World.  Was Disney World around thirty-seven years ago?

The first ones would be thirty-seven years old today.  It’s Friday today.  The weekend starts and tonight might have been movie night.  Would they take the kids to Papa Gino’s and then over to watch “Avatar “on the other side of town at the huge “Cine-plex” with the stadium seats and a ten dollar barrel of popcorn for everyone?  Perhaps they would be the kind of folks who like to stay home and play some board games with the kids.  I kind of wish I’d had the chance to know them.  Today I miss them.  I think I will miss them every day.

The last ones have no age at all, since we don’t start counting those things until one year of breathing on your own has been completed.  They won’t get to see the sun rise or set, to stand outside in the rain, throw a ball, take a math test. learn to drive.  They have no age at all, the last ones.  We cannot count for them.

Oh, I suppose that not every one of them would have led the kind of life I’ve led.  Maybe their mistakes would have been bigger, their faults more obvious, their sins more heinous, and they more in need of mercy from us all.  Maybe they wouldn’t have seen what I have seen of life, or been able to see anything at all, or talk about it with anyone at all.  Is that the reason?  Should I feel better for them, then, or because of what has happened to them?

Today, their birthday, there will be thousands who will wonder what may have been.  It’s strange how we do that; wonder what may have been.  My father used to play that game with me, sometimes; the game he called Imagine If.  I was supposed to tell him what I would do if I imagined I was someone, someplace, somewhere.  Who can ever ask them?

I never played it with my own children.  Our make believe games were all, somehow, more concrete.  I was someone, they were someone’s, too, and we were all somewhere together.  Our minds placed us here or there and we took on another name in another place, and did almost anything we wanted to do.

Now, I play it with them even though I know that there is no way.  Yet, today I play it with them, and I have been playing the game since I woke up this morning.  I have to do something with them today.   Today is their birthday, if any day is for those who have never seen a day.  I can see them all in my imagination, filling the streets, crowding everywhere, the younger ones and the very first ones; the ones who would have been thirty-seven years old.  I see the ones my own children might have played with, might have gone to school with, might have dated and married.  But they never did.  I see the new-borns.

We play games, you know, to pass the time in each other’s company, to enjoy ourselves, to be friendly and companionable.  We have always played games, all our history in every age, games and sharing each other’s company have been part of life.  Hospitality, welcome, sharing.  These are virtues.  These are acts of charity and of love.  These are us at our most human, at our best.  We have been brought up to share ourselves, to welcome the new one and the stranger.  Well, I must play with them, these millions who are here today.

I remember the games at my children’s birthday parties.  I remember how much pleasure we all took in them, from the youngest to the oldest.  I remember the joy on their faces.

Will you play and sing with me, today?  Will you play and sing Happy Birthday to the strangers who are here, the millions of shadows around my heart?