WEXFORD FRIARY - A COMPLICATED CHURCH IN A COMPLICATED TOWN

 

When Christmas is at hand, like most emigrants my thoughts turn to home – Wexford Town, in my case.

After I escort a tour group to Ireland every October, I spend a week’s vacation at the Wexford Opera Festival; so the town, its people, history and distinctive accent still resonate over Yuletide.

My thoughts are often drawn to the Franciscan Friary where I was an altar boy between the ages of 11 and 14. Oh yes, I was a true believer before I got waylaid by dreams of revolution, music, sexuality, and other teenage obsessions.

Teenage years, as most will testify, can be complicated. But then Wexford was a complicated town. Though conservative and Catholic, it was traditionally represented in Dáil Éireann by a left-wing Labour TD.

While the Third Order of St. Francis, the Holy Family Confraternity, and the Legion of Mary held nominal sway in the town, James Connolly and Richard Corish had led torchlight processions down the Main Street during the Great Lockout of 1911.

To top it all, my father, like many other seafarers, was a “silent atheist.” Most had been harassed, even torpedoed, in the Atlantic by Hitler’s U-boats, and as I heard one testifying in a Quayside pub, “I never regained my appetite for pie in the sky.”

The Friary, too, was complicated. It was flanked on either side by the majestic Gothic twin parish churches of the Immaculate Conception and The Assumption. I could have qualified for altar boy service in either, because I lived with my grandfather in George’s Street, while my parent’s house was in nearby Corish Park.

But I was a Friary boy, born and bred, and always attended mass or devotions in its humbler, but inviting, Italianate structure. And why wouldn’t I?

The Friars had first come to Wexford circa1240, not long after the Normans seized the Viking town, often known back then as Weissfjord. You could say, there was a mysterious steely gentleness to our Franciscans.

For one thing, they had taken a vow of poverty. They were as poor as the poorest, and subsisted on donations from their local spiritual clientele. But it was more than that – they had stood with the people at the worst moment in Wexford history – when Oliver Cromwell’s troops slaughtered 2000 civilians after a long siege in 1649.

The vengeful roundhead cavalry galloped through the church, murdering 7 friars and their congregation, and then for a little insulte final they stabled their horses at the altar rails. The surviving friars remained in the shattered town to minister to their surviving flock.

Likewise in the Great Lockout, while the regular clergy took the side of the bosses, the friars stuck by the strikers and shared their food and few possessions with them.

That’s why on Christmas Eve, I time-travel back to boyhood midnight mass at the Wexford Friary, and experience once again its glorious choir, glowing candles, clouds of incense, and my dear friend, jolly Fr. Justin OFM.

No matter what I confessed to that merciful friar he never sentenced me to more than 3 Hail Mary’s penance, before soliciting my opinion on Manchester United’s prospects in their next game.

Fr. Justin was the reason for my friendship with Black 47 fan, Fr. Mychal Judge, OFM. I once asked Mychal to find out what had become of Fr. Justin. About 6 months later, he showed up in Connolly’s on a boisterous, packed Saturday night with the news that he’d fulfilled my request.

“What request was that?” I inquired.

“Didn’t you ask about Fr Justin?” And with that Mychal delivered a full report on the fate of his brother Friar. We laughed about the doings and sayings of jolly Fr. Justin every time we met thereafter. Franciscan solidarity!

Like all Catholic orders the Franciscans are experiencing tough recruitment times, but I suspect that their belief and adherence to the Christian socialism espoused in the Sermon on the Mount will lead them to better days.

In the meantime, the old Friary in Wexford is badly in need of a new roof. Should you feel like donating a few bucks, go to https://friarywexford.ie/

And if you’re in any kind of spiritual fix, reach out to dear departed Fr. Justin, OFM. I feel sure he won’t give you any more than 3 Hail Mary’s no matter what your transgression, but I wouldn’t mention Manchester United. Even the ever-forgiving Fr. Justin has to draw a line somewhere.

WARREN ZEVON - THE CLANCY BROTHERS & TOMMY MAKEM INFLUENCE

 

Warren Zevon was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame recently. 

 

He was a fine songwriter and wrote of what he knew. You might remember Werewolves of London, Send Lawyers, Guns and Money, or Carmelita, one of the best songs written about heroin.

 

He was well able for his subject matter, his Ukrainian-born father was a gangster in Chicago, and Warren had done his own share of walking on the wild side. Oddly enough, he had taken piano lessons from master modernist, Igor Stravinsky in LA where he also hob-knobbed with the likes of Linda Ronstadt and Stevie Nicks.

 

All of this, and his many influences, were detailed in various media upon his popular ascension to Rock and Roll immortality.

 

One major influence – of a Celtic nature – was overlooked.

 

It had to be some summer in the late 1970’s, hot as hell, and definitely a Sunday night because the Bells of Hell was near deserted. Barry Murphy was behind the stick and I had dropped by to pick up my guitar.

 

Murph bought me a Heineken and I was sitting close to the door when Warren Zevon strolled in.

 

He was tall, lean and handsome, if a little weathered, and he stood out in his cowboy hat and LA threads. The two other customers paid him no pass, while Murph continued reading Nabokov or whatever barmen intellectuals read in those distant days.

 

I recognized him instantly, but being a cool New Yorker, I merely nodded.

 

“Are the Clancy Brothers here?” Zevon inquired in an excitable drawl.

 

Though taken aback, how was one to answer? Was he having me on, and would I end up a fall guy in one of his cosmic songs?

 

Murph finally deigned to look up from Pale Fire or whatever, and cast a wary eye down the length of the bar in case Tom, Pat and Liam might have snuck in.

 

“What would they be doing here?” The barman pondered his own existential question.

 

“They drink here.” Zevon shot back.

 

“Yeah, about once a year, if they’re in town.”

 

“Oh.” The trainee rock god conceded, but shaking off another of life’s disappointments he said, “Give me a Tequila.”

 

Murph laid aside his tome and began to pour a shot of top-shelf Jose Gold.

 

“I meant a bottle.”

 

“We don’t sell liquor by the bottle.”

 

“For the right price you will.”

 

Sensing Murph’s hesitance, the two other customers offered their advice on an equitable price. 

 

Shrugging his toil-worn shoulders Murph settled on a round $30, at which Zevon asked for 4 glasses and invited the clientele to join him at a table, adding that the only worthwhile advice his father ever gave him was never to drink at a bar, especially with one’s back to the door.

 

Tossing down shots of Gold like John Wayne, I ventured, “What’s with the Clancy Brothers?”

“They saved my life.” Zevon replied, “In Spain of all places.”

 

Then he was off in a gallop. “I hit rock bottom in Sitges, near Barcelona. Woke up, no money, no prospects, nothing left but my guitar. I chanced upon a hole-in-the-wall called The Dubliner. 

 

When I asked the owner if I could play, he told me to knock myself out – which I did. He said I wasn’t bad but they only hired Irish ballad singers – whereupon he took pity on me and gave me three Clancy Brothers LPs, said come back when I’d learned all the tracks.

 

“The chords were a breeze, and I figured that if you got the lyrics of the first verse right, you could fake the others. 

 

So, I came back 2 days later with the first verse of 30 Clancy songs and blew them Spaniards away.

 

Best summer of my life. I should have stayed there. Instead I came back to this madness,” he cast a deprecating glance at his drinking companions and at Murph murdering Nabakov behind the bar. “But I owe a debt to the Clancy Brothers & Tommy Makem. They changed my life - made my music what it is today.”

 

With that, he took a long slug from the bottle, stood up, belched, straightened his hat, and strode out the door into the long hot summer’s night, another pit stop behind him on his way to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

WHO FEARS TO SPEAK OF ZOHRAN MAMDANI

 Greetings from the soon-to-be Socialist Republic of New York, or rather from a city that has elected a politician determined to confront the curse of affordability.

So why don’t we dispense with the American phobia of “socialism,” and see if Zohran Mamdani’s proposed solutions have any merit.

 

New York is still a comfortable abode for those in the top 10%, but for just about everyone else it can be a struggle.  

 

And who wants to live in a city without a confident working-class where clubs, dive bars and an affordable social scene are fast disappearing.

 

Our Mayor-elect put forward 5 solutions to New York’s affordability crisis and received a majority of votes in a huge turnout. I voted for him. Give the man credit - he electrified an apolitical Gen Z!

 

Mamdani’s first goal is to freeze stabilized rents. He’s hardly unique: Mayor de Blasio did it 3 times. The real question is – for how long? The howls from landlords are intense and warranted: buildings are costly to maintain. One compromise would be to allow landlords to charge capital spending as a tax deductible expense over a two year freeze. 

 

I’m all in favor of Mamdani’s city-owned grocery stores - one in each borough. If nothing else, this will help ascertain if grocery chains are guilty of price gouging, as many New Yorkers suspect. 

 

Every year, despite economic fluctuations, corporate profits outpace Wall Street expectations. Meanwhile, workers’ wages and salaries tend to remain stagnant or below inflation. So let’s follow the money on these city-owned bodegas.

 

The free and faster MTA buses idea is a no-go for many reasons. The MTA needs every penny of income to keep trains and buses moving. Giving away over $600 million annually is not an option. 

 

45% of those presently riding buses are not paying, so how about placing cameras that can identify free-loaders both on buses and subway platforms. Stiff fines and more paying customers would definitely help the MTA’s finances. (Senior citizens and very low income earners should be exempt from charge.) 

 

Besides, “free” means that buses would likely end up housing the unsheltered and those struggling with mental health problems. And since Gov. Hochul has no interest in financing this quixotic goal, better to drop it and concentrate on the Mayor-Elect’s final two important proposals.

 

Mr. Mamdani hopes to build 200,000 affordable, rent-stabilized, union-built houses over the next 10 years. This should be possible since Mayor de Blasio came close to achieving the same goal during his tenure. Unfortunately, it will still leave a huge housing shortage. 

 

To compound matters, because of tariffs and inflation, prices of materials have risen appreciably, and the immigrant community that supplies many construction workers is reeling from an unsympathetic federal government and often brutal ICE enforcement. Still, 200,000 houses is a very concrete start and worth achieving.

 

This leaves the dream of free universal childcare. To survive with any comfort in NYC both spouses must work. But even if a couple makes as much as $150k between them, child-care can cost up to 25K annually. Thus, many young couples are being forced to leave the city for less expensive rents and childcare in exurbia. 

 

I mention “dream” because this proposal would cost so much, but at least, governor and mayor-elect are adamant that something must be done, and the sooner a start is made the better.

 

Who’s to pay for this? Well, under President Trump’s recent tax bill, the top 1% received disproportionately higher breaks, it’s time for them to give back a little.

 

Taxes are already high in NYC but that’s the price of living in such a vibrant community. Still, with federal corporate taxes now reduced to 21%, perhaps it’s time for a small corporate surcharge to aid the city that houses Wall Street?

 

Mamdani’s proposals, though lofty, are humane and intended to make New York an affordable city - not just a playground for the rich. 

 

Affordability will be the key issue in all upcoming elections. So, let’s get beyond the tired scapegoat of “socialism” and deal with fiscal reality.

 

And for God’s sake, spare us the Islamophobia! Mr. Mamdani is one of a million upstanding people of Islamic faith in our city, none of whom crashed the planes into the Towers on 9/11. 

 

Many remind me of our 19^th Century Irish Catholic immigrant forebears, a misunderstood, pious people seeking a new and affordable life in the city of their dreams.

THE STATE OF IRELAND AND A WORD OF ADVICE FROM MISTER YEATS

 

“The longer you stay away, the less likely you are to go home.” That was another piece of wisdom the auld fellah imparted to me up in The Archway so many years ago.

 

He neglected to say that once your parents pass away, there’s even less likelihood of a grand return. It’s like the roots have been cut from under you.

 

I used to feel like I was floating over Ireland when I’d return on vacation. I could see and hear everything, but I was no longer involved. That’s when I got the idea of taking a tour group back every year.

 

Not only would I see Ireland through the group’s eyes, but I’d be working. That’s how I experienced America with Black 47. Each club, pub, or concert hall was a new challenge. You had to be alert because there was often a bonus to be negotiated. Likewise, to attract a crowd, you had to do interviews with local press and radio – that’s how I came to know each individual city, college or town. 

 

There’s not nearly the same pressure taking a group to Ireland; but I’m still working and making sure that those traveling with me are seeing the real Ireland.

 

And, boy, has the real Ireland changed over the last twenty or so years!

 

Ireland is now a modern, secular European country. Moving statues have long since hung up their dancing shoes.

 

I’m not even sure I saw a priest or nun in the recent couple of weeks I was over there. I did attend two concerts in St. Iberius, the stately Protestant church on Wexford’s Main Street. The place was jammed with opera lovers, whereas the nearby Church of the Immaculate Conception and the Friary where I’d served as altar boy, were deserted.

 

Membership of the EU has been good for Ireland. Many old friends now winter in Portugal or The Canaries, “It’s much cheaper and you can’t beat the weather,” they tell me.

 

Big Tech and favorable tax laws have dumped bucketfuls of Euros on the country. It goes without saying that this moolah has not been equitably distributed.

 

Still, everyone lives in fear of President Trump and follows his daily pronouncements like scripture. Will he introduce new tariffs on Pharma exports, will he force Ireland to rescind its favorable corporate tax laws?

 

Is he really going to check every visitor’s Facebook page for snide comments about his sanity, or for supporting a Palestinian state? I’ve had to assure ladies in their 70’s who wish to visit their American grandchildren, as well as students in their teens, that the man from Queens has bigger fish to fry.

 

They even worried about me being allowed back in the US after describing the great man as a “megalomaniac” in the local newspaper. But here I am in Lower Manhattan, jet-lagged and writing this, with no sign of ICE breaking down my door.

 

Ireland is still a beautiful country that can take your breath away. A visit is good for the soul.

And yet, the country is becoming more like the US by the day. Things I heard with Black 47 while crisscrossing the US 30 years ago, I heard in Ireland last week -  that self-same dull rumble of racism and xenophobia. 

 

It’s not loud and the great majority are resisting it, but the “us against them” sensibility is, as ever, being fanned by lies and rumors spread on social media.

 

Recent Irish governments have done the country no favors by allowing quite so much immigration and refugee intake in the midst of an acute housing shortage. Biden revisited!

 

In the long run this influx of people will add immeasurably to the country. In the short run, however, there will be further turmoil as budgets tighten - for as the owner of a popular Wexford pub mentioned, “disposable income is at a new low.”

 

It doesn’t take a genius to notice that the “rare auld financial good times” are coming to an end. Same as the US,  “affordability” will be the next big word in Irish life. It will sit snugly next to “immigration” and “refugees.” 

 

In other words, beware of politicians – Irish or American - who traffic in loud words and drastic solutions.

 

For as Mr. Yeats put it, “The best lack all conviction, while the worst. Are full of passionate intensity.”

YER MAN FROM PEARL RIVER MEETS JAMES JOYCE

 “I’m pingless,” said I.“And I thought you were just brainless.” Replied Yer Man from Pearl River.

He had been wondering why I hadn’t replied to his text immediately.

 

Meanwhile, I was wondering why I’d ever given him my phone number in the first place.

I hadn’t heard from him since well before the Pandemic. In fact, I assumed Covid had done a number on him. 

 

But then, I never really knew him. He was a self-appointed literary guardian – “just making sure you don’t lose the run of yourself,” as he put it one day.

 

Did I need such a person in my life anymore?

 

He also commented on my Celtic Crush radio show, and attended many Black 47 gigs, around Westchester and Rockland County. 

 

But how could I tell if he was even the original “Yer Man From Pearl River;” or a Bot out of Hell come to haunt me?

 

What times we live in!

 

I’d long ago stopped giving out my phone number – not that I’m particularly paranoid, it’s just that as a self-employed person I work on deadlines, and don’t have time for random phone calls unless they’re from family or close friends. 

 

I’m not much of a texter either, especially since you’re expected to return such jittery interruptions forthwith.

 

Hence, my choice to go pingless. I have all rings, prompts, buzzes and nudges silenced on my iPhone.

 

“Aren’t you afraid of missing out on something?” Yer Man from Pearl River inquired solicitously during our reunion call – he snuck through my defenses because I had been expecting a call from my sister in Ireland.

 

Don’t get me wrong – I’m far from some solitary monk squirrelled away in the bowels of Manhattan. It’s just that I value my time.

 

Think of it! When you’re pingless the world is your oyster. You’re not jumping from Billy to Joe on text, plus I rarely get spammed anymore.

 

Am I any happier because of this? Immensely so! When I go for a walk, I often don’t even take my phone, nor do I wear the obligatory white Apple earbuds.

 

Instead I amble along like people used to. I’m tuned into the same rhythms of the city that poets and musicians from Walt Whitman through Miles Davis, Brendan Behan to Bob Dylan moved to. I have no need of podcasters or other “influencers” screaming in my ears.

 

It’s a lot safer too. I’m less likely to get a belt in the back of the head from some crazy who doesn’t appreciate my hair-style. Although a majority of contemporary lunatics appear to be conversing with argumentative old girlfriends or concerned fathers-in-law through concealed microphones.

 

This makes for a noisy world and I’m determined to keep my little patch of it as quiet as possible.

 

That’s not to say I’m some kind of luddite. I use my phone and laptop frequently to seek or confirm information; for instance, I was stuck for a name a few minutes back and googled “first poet of the Manhattan skyline?”

 

Bob’s your uncle, out popped Walt Whitman. The old poet and printer has always fascinated me, consequently I had to restrain myself from following him down an AI rabbit hole, one of the temptations of modern life.

 

I don’t use Instagram. Nor do I subscribe to X or anything of that nature, and the thought of getting information on current affairs through social media strikes me as beyond ludicrous.

 

Try it sometime – de-ping yourself! You’ll find a certain sense of self returning. You’ll definitely be less stressed and time-constrained, and your neck will feel a little more supple when you no longer have to crane it downwards to fixate on your phone.

 

You may even find an original idea or two bouncing around again in your cranium. Don’t take my word for it, I’m merely heeding the advice of Mr. Joyce. Would Jamesy have written Ulysses if he’d been following Taylor Swift on Instagram?

 

As the great man put it, "I will try to express myself in some mode of life or art... using for my defense the only arms I allow myself -- silence, exile, and cunning.  

 

As for Yer Man from Pearl River -- Ah well, I guess everyone occasionally needs a guardian angel. 

THE FLIGHT OF THE OSPREYS AND A STATE OF UNEASE IN THE COUNTRY

 The ospreys dallied a few weeks longer this year. They’re usually gone by the third week in September. But then, 2025 was a banner year.

One day I counted 9 of them, diving, fishing, then transporting the catch back to the chicks who eagerly await their diet of  live sushi.

 

I’d never seen more than 4 fishing together. 9 was almost overwhelming.

 

With their departure, a familiar sense of foreboding has returned. It will be April before I see them again. I’ve experienced that same feeling every year since the pandemic began.

 

Of course I shake it off as autumn, that season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, melds into early winter. If you make a living from the arts you have need of a robust optimism. It’s no business for the weak of heart.

 

It runs in the family. My granny lived with my paternal grandfather on 100 acres of farmland almost within sight of the spires of Wexford town.

 

She had married well but was from sailor stock and always retained a large part of her townie nature, replete with superstitions and nautical lore.

 

She loved birds too, her favorites were swallows, and she was comforted by the mud nests they built in the eaves of her tall house.

 

However, when September drew to a close, so too did her sense of foreboding grow, as swallows from near and far gathered on the telegraph wires that snaked down her avenue towards the road.

 

My grandfather, a somewhat somber man, had learned over the years to remain silent while his wife fretted about the imminent departure of the swallows.

 

She watched through her large kitchen window as October days ached by and Wexford’s biting East winds grew stronger. And then one day at the sound of a great whoosh, she would run outside as her spring and summer companions departed.

 

My grandfather would barely look up from his Daily Independent or Financial Times. Still, he would sigh with relief – the gathering tension would halt now and dissipate over the following weeks, until her only mention of swallows would be, “I wonder will they return early next year.”

 

Isn’t it odd how natures are passed on from generation to generation no matter how far away from the original clan you’ve strayed. I sometimes stop in surprise as I see one of my own sons throw a look across the room, the very image of a long dead uncle that he has never even met.

 

And so it goes with the ospreys. Like my granny I wonder if they’ll return early, they’ve been known to stray up north from Florida or Mexico soon after St. Patrick’s Day.

 

Is it age, or the purposeful instability caused by the current president, that deepens the palpable sense of foreboding that seems to have settled on the land?

 

I have little respect for his policies or general carry-on, but I have to admit that the Trump/Miller/Vought strategy of” flooding the zone” has been highly effective. Even for a political junky like myself who reads the Times and Journal every day, I can’t keep up, and in fact now often leave newspapers unopened and favorite news shows un-watched.

 

It’s too much, the brain can’t take it all in. I meet people every day who are retreating into their shells. This president who must dominate every news cycle is winning.

 

Or is he? I chanced to watch about 5 minutes of his recent speech to the United Nations. It was staggering in its assumptions and conclusions. 

 

“Green energy is a scam, renewable energy is not strong enough to fire up the plants that you need to make your country great; oil, gas and beautiful clean coal are the answer.”

 

As for the transformation of the planet we see all around us: “Climate change itself is the greatest con job ever perpetrated on the world!”

 

Thank you, Mr. President, more speeches like that, sir! With elections coming next year, we need such rants to rouse us from our benign somnolence.

 

However, we’ve gone far beyond a battle between two bickering political parties. We have an urgent, even existential, need for a return to some form of national sanity before the ospreys return in 2026.

SOMEWHERE BEYOND "NEITHER HERE NOR THERE."

 

“You and me are neither here nor there, young fellah,” the auld lad said to me one night in The Archway. I wasn’t sure what he meant.

 

He was probably about 50 then and I wasn’t long into my twenties, but he looked years older from the drink and the life in construction.

 

He always sat on his own when he came to see Turner & Kirwan of Wexford. A rarity, he liked that we played original music – so I occasionally joined him for breaks. Four sets made for a long night.

 

I could tell he was lonely, and as Christmas grew closer he seemed to shrink back into himself. 

 

Turner and I were particularly lightheaded that night, for Mr. Barry, the immigration lawyer out in Queens, had said our papers would be arriving any day and we’d definitely be going home for our first Christmas in three years.

 

“We don’t fit over here and come another few years you won’t fit back home either.” The Auld lad persisted.

 

I would have disagreed with him but that would only set him off.

 

In the long run, he was right but that first Christmas back home in the 70’s was only brilliant.

The trip with Aer Lingus was magic in itself. A right old party was thrown for us and my brother Jimmy that afternoon in Tomorrow’s Lounge in Bay Ridge. 

 

We were already at least a sheet to the wind by the time we hit the Kennedy Airport bar, already jammed to the ceiling with Paddies equally shellacked. The party transferred en masse to the plane.

 

Back then, most people smoked and the hostesses delighted in serving Irish beers. The party continued unabated to Shannon, where my father picked us up. We made a couple of stops on the way, as he tried valiantly to keep up with us.

 

The party continued for the full five weeks as we made up for two lost Christmases. The Wexford girls were sweet, and our old friends delighted in the stories we only half-exaggerated about our exploits in CBGB’s and the Lower East Side and how mighty the craic was in The Bronx.

 

Occasionally I’d catch my mother glancing at me, worried but unwilling to say anything. Hadn’t we promised her we’d be home for a couple of weeks in the summer!

 

That rarely happened. There was always some dream to pursue, a record contract to be gained, and later a book to be published or a play to be produced.

 

Around the seventh year in New York and the third Christmas home in Ireland, I began to understand what the auld lad had been talking about – I was neither here nor there. The previous Christmas, instead of going home, I’d taken a Jack Kerouac On The Road trip across America in a car to be delivered to California.

 

We crashed in Pennsylvania but, true to our word, we got that smashed-up Audi in one piece to its owner in Sausalito. 

 

I’d lost track of the auld lad by then; Sean, the bartender up in the Archway, thought he’d gone with the great displacement from The Bronx to Pearl River. 

 

I hope he found some consolation in the greenery of Rockland Country, far from the concrete fields of The Bronx.

 

I thought of him in 2000 when I went home to say goodbye to my mother. Smoking had been banned and the plane felt somewhat civilized, I sat in silence most of the journey and wondered just where had the years gone.

 

My baggage had been misplaced in Kennedy. I wasted a valuable hour searching for it in Dublin Airport, my mother’s hand was still warm when we got to the hospital.

 

I’ve returned home many times since then, and somewhere along the line I realized I’d finally disproved what the auld lad said. I’ve gone way beyond “neither here nor there.” My life is firmly set in New York City.

 

I still visit Wexford, Dublin, Belfast, Donegal, Galway, Dingle, and all the other places I’ve loved in Ireland, but New York is home.

 

I hope the auld lad found similar solace and meaning up in Pearl River, though I have a feeling his ghost still haunts The Archway along with so many other displaced souls.