The Lighthouse

It is no wonder that our maritime ancestors personified the Sea.  “The Sea gives but the Sea will have what the Sea must have”, it was said.  Certainly the Sea must have been the Creator’s Crucible in the Creation of life on this glorious biosphere. 

My first encounter with the Sea was one of trepidation.  A leviathan confronted me, grey as chain mail and gloomy as a winter fog and bellicose. The roar of the waves was almost deafening.  The wild wind-tossed salt spray was biting and bitter.  Looming larger than any land lubber ‘s wild imagining, crashing over rocky embankments and curling in great arabesques against the sea wall, the incredible power and immensity of the waves were evident to insignificant little me.  All the romance and beauty envisioned in the mind’s eye fades in an instant when confronted by an “angry sea”.

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“This road is closed” said the officer dressed in a sou’wester.

Though our retreat was made in haste I did not fail to take particular notice of the lofty pillar precariously perched on the edge of the earth.   Its lonely horn sounding out above the roar of the towering waves, its beacon flickering in candle power, a symbol of the ages to mariners the world over.

 Though presently automated, for the greater part of history the lonely outpost on a precipice or ledge or tiny isle or atoll would have be occupied and operated by a keeper.

An individual made of stalwart stuff, willing to embrace the solitude and ruggedness of the location was the ideal candidate for the job.  The keeper would have been required to maintain the lamps, haul the fuel for the lamps, (the spiraling climb alone, exhausting) clean the lenses, remain awake for the entire night to tend the lamps and cover the lantern windows at day break.  The remarkably powerful Fresnel lenses could easily magnify the sun’s rays and set the light house ablaze during day light hours and thus it was imperative to block out the sunlight.  The keeper could not permit himself to nod out at the break of dawn after a long night’s watch.  If there was a storm, if a ship was in peril, the keeper would risk his life and brave the onslaught to help survivors of the wreck.  Of heroes, the stories abound.  

Somehow the job appeals to the fanciful side of me.  As one of the characters in Dicken’s Pickwick papers put it “Anythin for a quiet life...when he took the sitivation at the lighthouse.”

The storm subsided and the following day brought beach combers and swimmers back to the sea side.  How altogether different was the sea from my first encounter, the azure expanse meeting a cerulean sky, the lapping of the waves, the mysterious little creatures of the tidal pools,  the gulls wheeling and on the distant point, the lighthouse touched by a rainbow.  

Evening descended, the beach revelers had gone home, the tide had come in and on the quiet surf was phosphorescence.  Droplets of pure light, more numerous than the stars in the sky.   Swept in on the surf, each wave was dappled with the luminous star dust only to fade upon the shore in the twinkling of an eye. 

 I witnessed a summer wonder and somehow I fell in love with the sea.  The keeper’s situation seemed more appealing than ever.  The stark solitude, the beauty, the setting, the romance, the lore, they call out from times past and “...and the sea will have what the sea must have”.

Looking for a lighthouse posting.  

The Haunted Library

 

There are tales of a haunted Library in southern Ontario, the precise location of which I am bound by oath to a higher power not to disclose.  Suffice it to say that many have witnessed the ghost of the haunted library. 

The edifice is Georgian in architectural style.  It is a beautiful old building with a rich heritage.  The display of art work by prominent Canadian artists which hang in the gallery, alone is impressive.  The seating is some of the most comfortable that I have ever found in a library.  The floors creak and a cough or the clearing of a throat reverberates in the esteemed old building, as in a hushed theatre.

The ghost is not obtuse or buccaneer, quite the opposite, he is quiet, and retiring, and without being intrusive he has been known to be helpful.

Some library patrons have said that he has directed them to long sot after reading material prompting the suspicion that he may have been a librarian.  Everyone who has had an encounter with the paranormal anomaly, refer to the ghost as “he”, though librarians are traditionally of the female sex.  Upon further inquiry, no one with whom I had spoken had actually seen a figure.  Everyone spoke of a sensation.  Observations were described as an image that wavered like a mirage or one person spoke of the vibratory waves seen above a candle flame in describing the apparition.

 I thoroughly enjoy perusing the shelves of libraries.  I am generally drawn to the reference areas.  I loose track of time in libraries, the way most people loose track of time shopping in a mall. I had spent the entire afternoon in this esteemed place.  The sun was sinking in the sky and angular light was streaming in through the Georgian windows.

On my visit to the haunted library, I was hoping to have an encounter with the resident ghost.  I was on a quest and not fearful in the least but how to begin my search for such an elusive entity as a ghost?  In the poetry section, among troubled souls who turn their despair of life into a thing of beauty in verse?  One of my favorite poets is Emily Dickenson.  At a young age, she withdrew from a vibrant social life and secreted herself away to write poems.  Upon her death her sister found the volumes of verse and had them published.  Her themes dealt with all the great issues in life such as fear and love and death and she wrote about Nature.  On some level I feel a kinship with Emily in her love of Nature. 

It was nearly closing time and I was evidently insensitive to the paranormal because I saw nothing remotely otherworldly.    

As I was leaving, I came across a hefty book,  left opened on one of the reading tables.   Having worked in libraries for a good part of my life, it is an occupational hazard bordering on the obsessive to re-shelve books.  I thought I would save the librarian the trouble of putting away the abandoned tome.

The book was a collection of verse but the page was opened at one of my favorite poems by Emily Dickenson.  I looked around but saw no evidence of the ghost, no energy waves and I felt no chill or any sensation, not even fairy dust was visible to me in the shafts of day’s fading light.  It was just as witnesses said, “a tome that you loved”.  What a dullard am I not to have made the ghost’s acquaintance?  I thanked him anyway in a quiet voice.

The poem is as follows:  I once made a feeble attempt to write it out in calligraphic printing before the advent of diverse fonts on Office Word. 

 

Westmount Public Library

I whiled away many’s an hour at the Westmount  Public Library in my youth.  .  I always felt as though I was entering a hallowed space and the reference room was the inner sanctum. 

The venerable old books, I was certain, held arcane knowledge.   I loved the way the light slanted through the leaded glass windows high above the book shelves.  The gold leaf lettering on the spines of esteemed tomes shimmered with a mysterious lustre that suggested the alchemists were affiliated with this place.  The lead which had not been turned into gold inscribed the names of the classical authors in each of the leaded panes of window glass.  There was Shakespeare, of course, and Shelley and Wordsworth and Tennyson and many more. 

The patina on the huge tables in the reference-reading room was the embodiment of a wise oak tree.   I loved the quiet creaking of shuffling feet across the floor, the sound muffled by thickly padded carpet.  It seemed to me that the ghosts of those great authors were treading softly in our midst.

The catalogue file filled the seeker with wonderment.  It seemed always a great achievement to find books relevant to whatever project I was working on.  Those little drawers were enchanting, conjuring up visions of an apothecary’s shop.  The one containing drams for the health, the other draughts for the soul.

There was a spiral stair case behind the circulation desk, its sacred geometry leading to the music gallery which held sheet music, many pages of which were embellished with calligraphic illuminated borders.  A small table was surrounded by four chairs in the midst of the collection of musical scores and musical history.  It was a favorite place to study for exams.  Perusing through the classics and old standards were a welcome distraction for the student who chose procrastination over studying for an upcoming examination.

The library never failed me.  I always left with at least one selection that proved to be good reading.   I took on folk art in a big way one summer and found remarkable old books with unique and unusual patterns hidden away in the book stacks. 

I think the most beautiful feature of the library was a connecting passage leading to the green house fashioned after a Victorian conservatory.   At Easter time, the displays of flowers were magnificent.  The fragrance was intoxicating.   The visual display was breath taking.   Large gold fish from Murray Hill Park were overwintered in a pond amidst the flowers under the glass of that greenhouse.   There was a tropical room with a banana tree which fascinated children and adults alike. 

At the end of the sojourn through the mystical, magical flowers, the scholar was revitalized and eager to hit the books again for that all important examination coming up.

This aspirant scholar, on the other hand, put my hand to the task of doodling.  I sketched a unicorn which got me to thinking about the history of unicorns and I was pleased to find five books on the topic.  As for the examination, I actually don’t recall how I fared on it, but memories of the library are as vivid as if I had left it only moments ago.

 Follow the links:

http://www.westlib.org/library/

http://www.yelp.ca/biz_photos/westmount-public-library-westmount#