Except as noted, all images copyrighted by and should be attributed to E B Hawley.
I had become many eons ago a traveling literary gnome, inquisitive about places I had and had not visited,
walking the same paths of peoples from the past, through places once grand and still grand,
photographing images that now show me the places about which I still dream . . .

Sunday, October 21, 2012

Patriot Guard Riders

      I could reach out to touch one, a Patriot Guard. I could reach out and hug one. I could choose one of twelve to hug. They stood by their bikes ready to answer questions about the Patriot Guard.
      "Are you here to recruit us?" I asked. And without hesitation, Inez said, "Oh, yes." Promptly, too, Ted reached into his vest and brought out his PGR card, and handed it to me. "Just go online, join, and email me here to put you on the list."
      One doesn't need a motorcycle to join the Patriot Guards. Many members drive their cars to missions to provide support for the riders and other Patriot Guards as they stand with respect, holding the flag, as the procession passes by. One of them told the story that when a reporter asked a Patriot Guard how much it cost to join, the Guard said, "That's what it costs," as he pointed to the flag-draped casket of a fallen soldier. The only requisite to join the organization: Respect for the deceased and their families.
      Respect disallows the Westborough church from joining. Their hatred served as the catalyst to found the Patriot Guards. "From something bad emerged something good," my friend Lita said.
      Upon the request of the families, the Patriot Guards line the road with flags to show respect for fallen soldiers, firefighters, police, and medical responders. They also greet soldiers returning home. 
      Not a dry eye or cheek stands before them.









   
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Let Lovely Turn of Phrase Begin

JMHawley Gave Me a Kiss to Build a Dream On

Listen, will you? I think that . . . literature, poetry, music and love make the world go round . . . while mathematics explains things; I fill my life with them, then go walking in snowy woods.
Let us go then, you and I
like two etherized patients floating
through life, together feeling prufrockian.
DDB Jr. makes my world go 'round; during his absence, Pachelbel fills it up.
One summer I sailed across the Atlantic Ocean, then through the Gulf of Finland to reach Saint Petersburg; I pursued Joseph Brodsky in its alley ways. I dream of making that two summers.
I read “Biking to Electra;” found my way in a Jaguar car, and glanced at the flashing steel grasshoppers at sunset. I’ll follow K.O.P.’s footsteps after he followed N.Scott Momaday’s; find warmth and inspiration on a rainy mountain.
Throw chinese coins for the I Ching.
Save the whales, the spotted owl, the woman in toil.
Cast a fly for trout; my memories of fly fishing under the sunny blue Colorado sky remain; I yearn to build more . . . with more trophy Browns.
Listen for the swan’s calls on the Baltic Sea. Feel KKII's joy, his arms spread wide in Yazilikaya.
Good night, Jimmy Durante, where ever you are.