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A Farewell to Friends

A Farewell to Friends

Like so many wise men—
they never told the whole story.
Not about that old Corvair,
or the Studebaker Avanti.

Car of the Year, 1960.
“Unsafe at any speed.”
“Those accusations were proven false.”
The old car was always there—
from before I can remember.

One day, it would be back on the road,
his engine humming like an afterthought,
the cabin thick with dust and fresh oil,
and something sweet I never could place.

He coughed when he started,
“Leaked oil like a derelict tanker,
his heater tried to kill you with fumes.”
but he never missed a chance to go.

The Avanti came later—sleeker, stranger.
A sharp-nosed dream from another time.
Fiberglass and ambition.
“The fastest production car in the world.”
Sherwood Egbert’s doodle!

He parked like he owned the place.
Leather seats gleaming in the sun,
gauges with numbers too high to believe,
a voice like thunder held back by chrome.

The banter was constant—
compression, design, dignity—
and who had aged with more grace.
It was always loud,
affectionate laughter.

This morning, the Corvair’s engine didn’t turn over.
No cough.
No protest.
Just stillness.
“It had been a good few days.”
“Maybe the alternator?”

Avanti means “onward” in Italian.
But what do you do
when your oldest friend
has parked?

I wish I could stand in the garage again—
tools hanging on the wall,
handing wrenches,
listening to them reminisce about the past.

Corvair—faithful and flawed,
leaking, fuming, alive.
Avanti—beautiful and proud,
still whispering:
Get out there. Drive!

They were never just cars.
Reliable in imperfect ways.
Worn. Strange. Loud.
Utterly present.

Cars hold stories.
We keep them alive—
in the way we remember,
in the way we say goodbye,
in the way we drive.

• This poem is based on my father's relationship with his close friend, Nelson, who passed just shy of his 89th birthday.  I have never known a world where Nelson wasn't part of our family. I've also never known a world that did not have Studebakers. The photos are my brother and me... and Sherwood, a 64 Studebaker Avanti. 
• In the top photo, my father must have taken the picture because the car is perfectly framed. My brother is completely chopped out of the frame. Oh no, is that paint? Watch out Sherwood, I’m coming for you!

The Duel of Words: How I use Language to Meet the Moment as a TLArtist

 

Postcards for my next book arrived today !

 Today's fun surprise was receiving post cards for my forthcoming book! Thanks Arcadia Publishing

Use Code for 15% off entire order: SHARON9

image description: a box with book release cards for Haunted Virginia Cemeteries by Sharon Pajka. The cards include the image of the book cover-- a statue with a large moon and the book title. The back of the card reads "An eerie din provides the soundtrack at Arlington Cemetery, while the gauzy visage of a lady in red flits among heroes’ gravestones. Civil War soldiers meet in perpetual conflict at Mount Hebron Cemetery, and Thomas Jefferson’s restive spirit makes itself known at Monticello. From the ghost that haunted Hollywood Cemetery for months after the Capitol disaster in 1870 to multiple presidential tombs throughout the state where visitors routinely catch a chill, souls find eternal rest to be a fleeting notion in Virginia. Join author Sharon Pajka on a spine-tingling journey of haunted cemeteries throughout the Old Dominion."

Rain, Eagles, and Brokedown Palace: A Morning at Hollywood Cemetery

This morning, I headed out under cloudy skies for Meandering the Markers, a 90-minute writing and reflection workshop I hosted at Hollywood Cemetery. Designed as a space for creative and contemplative exploration, the session invites participants to tune in—to the stories etched in stone, the quiet around them, and their own inner landscape. 

Even with the steady rain, one dedicated participant showed up, notepad in hand. We moved our chairs beneath the shelter of Palmer Chapel, a beautiful spot overlooking the James River. From there, we could see two bald eagles perched on the large rocks in the middle of the river. I wished for binoculars—my phone’s zoom wasn’t enough to fully capture the moment—but their presence was unmistakable and grounding. 

As we sat with the sound of rain and river, she spoke about music that moves her, the kind of songs that stay with you like old friends. 

After the session, we walked together to find the grave of someone she knew. 

On our way back, we paused in front of a headstone inscribed with the words: 

"Going home, going home 

By the waterside I will rest my bones

Listen to the river sing sweet songs 

to rock my soul."

The lyrics were perfectly suited for the place. What poem was this? I wasn't familiar. 

I looked it up when I got home and smiled—lyrics from Brokedown Palace by the Grateful Dead. It felt like everything had come together in quiet harmony: the eagles, the river, the rain, the music, and memory. 

The poem this morning wasn’t just something we wrote—it was something we witnessed. 

Sometimes, poetry finds us when we least expect it. It rises in the rhythm of conversation, in shared silence, or on the wings of birds sitting by the water. Sometimes, it’s carved in stone, waiting for someone to pause long enough to read it. And sometimes, it’s all of these things at once.

Poems about Fortune Tellers, Crows, and a Pantoum

This week in my "Twelve Poets to Change Your Life," we read poems by Gwendolyn Brooks & Linda Pastan. Here are three poems inspired by their work. 

One Wants a Teller in a Time Like This 

 

One Wants a Teller in a Time Like This 

A fortune teller who can predict how to bear this business alone. 

A clairvoyant trained in psychography with an old set of Tarot cards 

spread out by her crystal ball. 

One cannot put a coin in the machine 

that spits out a prediction knowing for sure what the future will bring. 

It is certain if or why or how 

One wants a Teller now. 

 

Like Pythia, Don’t Count On It 

or Nostradamus Concentrate and Ask Again 

or Swedenborg, As I see it, yes 

or Edgar Cayce, Very doubtful 

or Jeane Dixon, Better not tell you now 

or the Fox Sisters, (thump, thump) Outlook good. 

 

Behold— 

The Magic Eight Ball 

Reply hazy. Try again later. 

              *Inspired by “One Wants a Teller in a Time Like This” by Gwendolyn Brooks

Before an Elegy with Crows 

 

I.
 

They launch themselves from the crooked wires—
 

five crows, sometimes six—
 

in bursts of laughter,
 

black air punching the morning peace.
 

Then the banging:
 

chimney caps rattled like war drums,
 

garbage can lids struck by their tiny hands.
 

Your roof for their concert,
 

as if they know the end is near
 

and want to mark it with noise.

II.
 

Their racket pierces like the rain
 

on your trailer roof back in Washington—
 

a hard, ceaseless drumming
 

you once mistook for comfort.
 

But these are strange omens,
 

crows lit by the glow of a dumpster fire
 

three streets down,
 

wings glinting orange like they’ve flown through hell
 

and brought back its warmth.

III.
 

There is nothing left to let in.
 

You’ve closed the door, sealed the vents,
 

shut out the last of the light.
 

Still, they find cracks,
 

their cries slipping in sideways,
 

a final intrusion of the world
 

before it forgets your name.

IV.
 

The crows do not flee.
 

They settle like smoke.
 

An uncanny stillness,
 

a hovering that doesn’t blink?
 

And they wait—
 

until you cannot.
 

No silence rises after their song,
 

only the sky,
 

and the sound of fire eating air.

                                           

                                       *Inspired by “The Deathwatch Beetle” by Linda Pastan.

There was an age when I was most like myself. 

Letters sent in envelopes with second chances, 

Refusing the new while holding onto the old, 

Remembering how it felt before their death. 

Letters sent in envelopes with second chances, 

Folded into prayers that I released into the wild. 

Remembering how it felt before their death, 

Each of their words vanishing across the page before my eyes. 

Folded into prayers that I released into the wild. 

Their declarations confessed on college-ruled loose leaf, 

Each of their words vanishing across the page before my eyes. 

Sealed in a grave that nobody visits. 

Their declarations confessed on college-ruled loose leaf. 

Refusing the new while holding onto the old, 

Sealed in a grave that nobody visits, 

There was an age when I was most like myself. 

                      *A pantoum inspired by “Something About the Trees” by Linda Pastan.

Poetry, poets, and books: another day longing for literary trails

I'm currently taking a course, "Twelve Poets to Change Your Life," with Caryn Mirriam-Goldberg through TLAN. We started with Emily Dickinson—so naturally, she’s been blooming in my thoughts lately. 

I spent much of my weekend in the garden. I'm happiest when I have dirt under my fingernails. After repotting plants and tending to those friends in the ground, I finished reading the spring sections of Emily Dickinson’s Gardening Life by Marta McDowell.

Flowers, poetry, and the quiet joy of digging in the earth. 

The second poet of focus this week is Walt Whitman. I  appreciate his ability to celebrate the individual spirit and the vastness of the American experience through imagery. His poetry inspires a sense of connection and self-reflection that feels timeless. 

I used one of the course prompts to compose my own poem, aiming to capture a personal perspective while honoring the tone that characterizes Whitman’s work.

My 51st Year

After the crest of half a century,


Through fog and flame, the spare seasons, the scattered joys,


My mother’s silence now a constant hum,


My father yearning to breathe free— almost eighty-seven,
gathering the light like bread, breaking it.

A new post— in halls once proud with purpose,


Now flickering, ivy fading, gasping in the marble—


Academia, fallen cold and dying? Or maybe just unvalued,


Scorned by those who forget who first opened the page for them.

The world at war again, though not always declared —


the homeless refused, children buried, cities razed— 

the names change,


but death is always the same.

 

And on Flag Day we’re told


to raise banners for a fool in a suit,


those clapping their own backs while


the hungry, tempest-tost, are hushed. 

Yet still — I lift my lamp beside the coffin door, walking —


through campus corridors, past empty chairs,


through streets that forget themselves,


past memorials that call only in whispers.

I reflect still. I write still.


Reporting in — not to salute, but to stand,


and not in uniform,


but with pen and pulse,


that glows with world-wide welcome.

Of course, literature reminds me of my other place to be—the cemetery. While people complain of humidity, especially this time of year, I long to be soaked in my own sweat in a cemetery on a mission to find a story of an author. How I am daydreaming about visiting Dickinson's grave in West Cemetery in Auborn.

These thoughts draw me back to another book, my copy of Literary Trail of Greater Boston by Susan Wilson, which was published when I lived in Massachusetts. Revisiting its pages reignited my interest in the places that connect writers to the landscapes they inhabited. When I lived there, I was a poor high school English teacher just out of grad school with little income and a hefty student loan, so I did not have much leisure time to visit all the places in Wilson's guidebook but I did walk the streets following the tour paths. I went to Walden Pond walking the path to Thoreau's cabin site. 

Now, sitting here on my porch, I’m itching to return and walk the grounds of Forest Hills Cemetery, pay tribute to the poets buried at Mount Auburn, and stand at Author’s Ridge in Sleepy Hollow Cemetery—places where the presence of literary voices still lingers.

Roses, Cemeteries & Friendship: A Sunday at Hartwood Roses

This past Sunday, I spent the day surrounded by blooms, history, and some of the best company at Hartwood Roses Open Garden Day. If you’ve never been, you’re seriously missing out—it’s one of those slow, beautiful days where everything smells like roses (literally) and time just feels softer.

This year’s event was on Sunday, May 25, 2025, and as always, Connie’s garden was pure magic. I still can’t believe we have been friends for ten years now. We first connected through our blogs back in 2015, then became social media friends, and cemetery adventurers together. I've attended the Hollywood Cemetery Rose Days that she led. We attended cemetery picnics together, and I've been on a few of her rose rescue missions. She’s a friend and one of the best advocates for preserving historic roses that I know.

Connie’s the reason I started growing cemetery roses in my own yard. She kind of drafted me (in the best way) into the mission to save these historic roses—once lovingly planted in cemeteries, now often neglected or mowed over by well-meaning (I use that phrase loosely) landscapers who don’t realize what treasures they’re cutting down.

There are probably more cemetery roses blooming in Connie’s garden than in most cemeteries. She’s rescued and labeled so many that walking through her garden is like taking a rose history tour. I spotted roses from Congressional Cemetery, tons from Hollywood Cemetery, and even the Emma Trainer rose—the first one I ever worked on reviving during Rose Day. Now it’s a gorgeous velvety red blooming Dr. Huey, thriving and showing off deep red blooms. Not exactly the rose she once was but still loved. 

Connie also introduced me to Anne Spencer’s garden in Lynchburg years ago, and that visit helped me see gardens not just as pretty places, but as living archives of memory and meaning.

After soaking up all the beauty in the garden, I made a stop at Fredericksburg Cemetery to visit the graves of novelist Helen Gordon Beale and her mother, diarist Jane Howison Beale. Sadly, that visit came with a heavy heart. Earlier this month, there was a major vandalism incident at the cemetery—over 15 gravestones were toppled or damaged, including markers belonging to former mayors and others with stunning religious symbolism. Repair costs are estimated at more than $20,000—a big ask for the small non-profit that maintains the space.

It is another reminder of how important it is to care for these tangible pieces of our past, whether that’s gravestones or historic roses. They tell stories. They hold memory. And once they’re gone, they’re gone.

If this kind of thing speaks to your heart, I highly recommend following Connie on Instagram @hartwoodroses to catch next year’s Open Garden Day (and enjoy some seriously gorgeous rose content in the meantime). She’s always sharing updates, and trust me—you’ll want to mark your calendar when the time comes.

Until then, I’ll be tending my little patch of rescued roses and feeling grateful for this community of caretakers, gardeners, and friends.

Haunting the Page – 5 Writing Prompts for World Dracula Day

This morning, I began World Dracula Day with “Dracula in the Morning” on Reedsy — a quiet ritual to honor the birth of one of literature’s most enduring shadows. First published on May 26, 1897, Bram Stoker’s Dracula gave us more than a vampire. It gave us a myth about desire, decay, and the lengths we go to for connection. 

It’s about the echo of eternity, the slow rot of time, and the haunting legacy we leave behind. But it’s also about machines — the phonograph, typewriter, telegraph — and how we use technology to preserve memory, reach loved ones, and whisper across centuries. We still do that. Through keyboards and screens, through ink and voice memos. We still try to be heard. 

So today, I offer 5 Writing Prompts for World Dracula Day 

• What do I want to leave behind in this world—what mark, what myth? Consider the difference between a memory and a legend. Are you building something to be remembered... or something to haunt? 

• How do I relate to ruins, old books, forgotten things? Why am I drawn to them? Trace the shape of your attraction to decay. Is it nostalgia, beauty, melancholy, or something deeper—something ancestral? 

• Imagine your journal is found in a crypt 200 years from now. What truth do you want a future stranger to read? Write as if you are the ghost in the paper—what message do you leave behind in ink and dust? 

• If my darker self wrote me a letter today, what would it say? Let the voice of your shadow self emerge—honest, unfiltered, possibly immortal. What wisdom or warning would it offer? 

• What parts of me have already died, and what continues to live on through habit, memory, or myth? Decay isn’t just physical—it can be emotional, spiritual, or symbolic. What remnants of your past self still haunt you? 

These prompts aren’t meant for quick answers. They’re meant to linger, to echo, to open crypts within your soul. On this World Dracula Day, let your words be relics, your journal a tomb, and your thoughts a form of haunting. 

Write like you’ll never die.