F. P. Dorchak

Speculative Fiction (New Weird) Author

Nature

The North Country

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The View Out Our Camp's Front Windows, Lake Titus, New York (© F. P. Dorchak)
The View Out Our Camp’s Front Windows, Lake Titus, New York (© F. P. Dorchak)

My wife and I just returned from a trip to “The North Country,” or upstate New York. It was my dad’s 80th birthday, so we timed our annual trip back east with his birthday. Since there were several of us showing up, there was not enough room at their place, so a “camp” was rented on Lake Titus, just a few minutes outside of Malone, NY. An upstate New York camp is not a tent or KOA, but is a rustic-or-better building used as a camp. Most are rough, but some, called “Great Camps,” have many amenities and are the size of hotels. It just depends on how much money and effort one wants to put into building these things. Here’s a link explaining the Great Camps and their architecture, but just scale it down a bit for the “everyday person’s camp,” and you’ll get the gist. Anyway, we had a place large enough for the four of us. And it was right off Lake Titus, with a dock and paddle boat and kayak. And thanks to Phil and Meredith, who own the camp! Such terrific people! We had a blast!

Our flights in and out went beautifully. We met my brother, Greg, and his son, Alek

The Lake Titus, New York Camp. (Photo © F. P. Dorchak, August 14, 2016)
The Lake Titus, New York Camp. (Photo © F. P. Dorchak, August 14, 2016)

(Greg also has a daughter, Niki, but she couldn’t make it), in Vermont and we all drove to my dad and stepmom’s place, in waaay upstate New York. We did all the touristy things and revisited the old stomping grounds were Greg and the rest of my siblings and I grew up. Stopped by the old middle school we’d attended and walked about its halls (it was open—and I even ran into an old classmate of mine there who now works there; he told me several of our class now works there!). Stopped by the school’s auditorium where both Greg and I had acted in plays (I had been the gangster in “The House on Whaleshead Rock“; this is all I could find on it, but I do still have the play’s script somewhere…). This is where Greg got his start as an actor (he’s also a screenwriter, producer, author, and has even done Stand-up comedy in Las Vegas, Nevada—I’ve seen him perform, he was great, even working a drunk in the front row…), so it was cool to show his son and take pictures of it, though we couldn’t find all the light switches to switch on all of the auditorium’s lights.

We visited the old Lake Clear House, where we all grew up.

Visited Ausable Chasm.

Made multiple trips to Donnelly’s Corners!

Visited our paternal grandparents’s graves.

Frank Dorchak, Jr., Malone Golf Club Birthday Party (Photo © F. P. Dorchak, August 13, 2016)
Frank Dorchak, Jr., Malone Golf Club Birthday Party (Photo © F. P. Dorchak, August 13, 2016)

And there was my dad’s 80th birthday party! It was held in the banquet hall of the restaurant of the Malone Golf Club. There were over 70 in attendance, representing all the areas of his life from childhood, the Navy, his Forest Ranger service, to his current efforts with Clear Path For Veterans, and more. My dad spoke, sang, and we all danced. Some came up to say a few words. I spoke. Then, when it came to his birthday cake, he insisted on on having all 80 candles on his cake. In his words: “I earned every damned candle“! As he “blew” them out with a wave of cardboard or paper or whatever it was he was holding, the smoke filled the air above the cake, and Greg and I looked to each other. We both said, yeah, that’s gonna set off the fire alarms! Not two minutes later, yup, off went the alarms! After the fire department arrived, we took pictures of Dad shaking hands with the fireman who responded. We later sent an e-mail to the Malone Telegram and got an article in the Friday, August 19th, paper, the upper right corner of page A3! It’s quite large!

The rest of the trip involved hanging out with family, playing games, talking, standing and sitting around an outdoor fire pit at my folks’s place, and more. At the Lake Titus Camp, my wife and I swam and kayaked the lake. I’ll detail more of some of these and other aspects in some upcoming posts. But it was a glorious 10 days in the North Country, visiting family and reconnecting with an area of the world I love. I love the woods and waters of the Adirondacks and upstate New York and can’t get enough of them. Love visiting my Dad and stepmom, Wanda.

It was a great trip!

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Spiders

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Everywhere You Go...There They Are (Image by By tom burke from Morgan Hill, CA, USA [Flickr] [CC BY 2.0 [http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0], via Wikimedia Commons)
Everywhere You Go…There They Are (Image by By tom burke from Morgan Hill, CA, USA [Flickr] [CC BY 2.0 [http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0], via Wikimedia Commons)
Here’s really short little ditty.

What is it about spiders that gives people the heebie-jeebies?

Yeah, their bodies.

It’s what they look like. Talk about judging a book by its cover!

They’re creepy.

And they hide in the smallest of places—

Well, everywhere.

And to think about how many of them exist and where they exist…well, that’s what brought about this prose poem, below. It’s not much, but I like it. Short, sweet, right to the point.

And you thought clowns were creepy!

This has never been published.

 

Spiders

© F. P. Dorchak, 1992

They’re everywhere

You can’t get rid of them

They’re in places you can’t imagine

And places you can

Spiders

 

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For Whom The Gods (burp)

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Yummy! (Image by By ESO, http://www.eso.org/public/images/eso0332a/ [CC BY 4.0, http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0], via Wikimedia Commons)
Yummy! (Image by By ESO, http://www.eso.org/public/images/eso0332a/ [CC BY 4.0, http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0%5D, via Wikimedia Commons)
I think once you read this, you’ll see where I came up with the idea. But if I tell you now, it kinda gives things away.

The universe is so incomprehensibly vast.

How can it be everything?

What’s containing it all? Outside it—and how can there even be a defining boundary?

Who’s running the whole dang show?

These are all deep, powerful philosophical investigations into our origins that I utterly shatter, simplify, and minimize in my latest effort.

Enjoy.

This has never been published.

 

For Whom The Gods >burp<

© F. P. Dorchak, 1991

 

“Isn’t it amazing how the galaxies appear?” the young one, Latissimus, inquired.

“Yes. There is nothing else quite like them, is there?” replied Trapezius, the Elder.

“No, nothing. How do you think they formed—I mean, some are so symmetrical while others are so disorganized!”

“Well,” Trapezius said, “they may appear disorganized to us from our limited vantage point, my pupil, but have you ever thought that perhaps—from other vantage points—they are very symmetrical?”

Latissimus pondered.

“Good point, Trapezius! Now let me ask you another cosmological question, since you seem to know much of this universe.”

“Know so much of the universe? Ha!” Trapezius said, snorting, “I, too, am a mere student, not an Oracle!”

“Oh nonsense! I know you for what you truly are—a wise and learned man!”

Trapezius held his head in humility.

“So, pray thee, what is this burning question of yours, that you seem to be teasing me with, Latissimus? Pray the gods I am worthy of such a challenge!”

“Oh, but you are, Trapezius, you most certainly are!

“My question, that I put to you, is: If the notion of the closed universe is true, what lies beyond the universal boundaries?”

At this, Trapezius guffawed a mighty open and merry laughter!

“Oh, Latissimus, you are surely a feisty one—for that question cannot simply be put to a simple answer!

“The universe, if it is indeed as is thought, will expand, only to contract upon itself. This in itself brings an interesting postulation. For if the universe is indeed all, then from what is it all shrinking…and to what is taking up all its previously occupied space? How can it even fall back unto itself?

“Furthermore…even if the universe is open, as some say…what is it expanding into if it is everything?

“These questions are not those that I can easily corner into an answer—a dialectic perhaps—but nothing is certain. You would be better off putting such a question as to how the galaxies get their very form!”

“Then that I do, my mentor! How do yon galaxies attain the form with which they sustain? Pray thee, I inquire!”

“My friend, Latissimus, you are certainly an endless pit of curiosity this day! Let us to investigate, then, to one in particular. Note that one there, the asymmetrical one next to Quesandromidea….”

From a direction opposite and behind the philosophical prolegomena emerged a dark form…growing increasingly enormous in configuration and nascent in proximity. The two engaged in dialectic noticed it not, the shape blotting out the celestial fires to half the heavens.

{^.^ Xi yihYii kytc chatgh aNf ^.^}*

An immense fork reached down into the milky swirls below, a piece of French toast impaled upon its four-pronged end. The Hand at the other end absentmindedly swished it around in the starry sauce, the bright speckles sparkling spectacularly. The God returned to His actions, The Other nodding in agreement, He/She/Its Grin so immense that the magnetic fields of neighboring nebulae distorted.

* (translation:) “I just love the Magellanic Clouds, don’t you? They taste so sweet and cinnamonny!”

 

Short Story Links

Links to all my posted short stories are here.

 

Garden of the Gods

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Is One Ever Truly Alone? Arches National Park, Utah, © 2009, F. P. Dorchak
Is One Ever Truly Alone? Arches National Park, Utah, © 2009, F. P. Dorchak

This story was started back in 1994. Apparently, I never finished it. And it stopped right where you started wanting some answers!

And, once again, I never remember having written this piece.

It’s thinkey and weird…and rather metaphysical…but I like where it ended up. I had to create the last half page or so of the story. That, in itself, I also found “metaphysical.” I mean, Future Me has come to help out Past Me (I wrote this post the same time I’d written up the guest post in that link) in finishing this story! I find this quite fascinating on a synchronistic and a writing level….

There is a Garden of the Gods in Colorado Springs, Colorado, and (of course) all kinds of hiking in Colorado and Utah (myself or a family member took the above photo in Arches National Park outside of Moab, Utah; we we’ve been to Moab a couple of times mountain biking and sightseeing over the years). I’m sure Garden of the Gods inspired me to write this…at least its title…but I’m not sure I’d yet been to Moab when I’d first written this in 1994. Anyway, I think it’s a cool story and actually reminds me of another story I’d read long ago…but can no longer pinpoint. The elements of this story seem very familiar to me on “another level” that I can’t quite explain….

The last time we’d been to Moab mountain biking…I’d actually gotten lost on a trail. It wasn’t for very long, but it was not a good feeling—I’d never in my life been lost before or since. It was later in the day, and my wife and I were coming up on the end of the trail we’d been on (I believe it was Gemini Bridges…), and just up ahead was a short loopback that would have returned us back on the same trail in. My wife wanted to stop; said I should just go on up ahead and finish the trail. So I figured…stay on the trail up a short ways…follow the loop around the recessed destination—just five minutes. But as I looped back around, I found there were no signs. The trail was marked going in…but not so much going out…and I took a wrong “branch” of the “Y.”

Just five minutes.

Famous last words.

I even had a map. It was next-to-useless (it wasn’t a USGS topo map—I’ll never to do that again). The map did not match up with the terrain nor trail. So I biked around for

(just five minutes…)

about a half hour or so, before I was able to backtrack (and it was getting late in the day)…I had finally passed another biker who’d directed me back on the proper path.

Talk about your flying expletives.

And to make things worse?

My wife had gotten a flat tire…and I hadn’t been there for her.

Of course she’d wondered where the hell I’d been, can’t blame her there…but another had come by and helped her. I’d later passed the guy, who’d told me he’d helped her. I thanked him and told him what’d happened.

Just five minutes….

Yeah.

Anyway, I believe all this happened after having written the story…but, curiously, in my mind…it all feels linked….

This story has never been published.

 

Garden of the Gods

© 1994 F. P. Dorchak

The old man lay still. Near delusional. Had been that way since….

Eyes closed and still…heart…barely…beating…body…useless, withered.

Legs broken.

He lay in the dark in a place desiccated from a dryness that sucked every last vestige of moisture from the air. His body. Even sound seemed decayed…hollow. The surrounding rock weighed heavily…the crevasse crushing…there barely enough room even for his deteriorated form.

How long ago had it been since he’d crawled in here?

Too long…no interest…remembering…mind…wandering….

The old man lay between life and death…his consciousness not firmly rooted in either. Yet his mind worked…carefully…slowly…trying to recall a singular event. Trying…desperately…to recall the time…when he’d unwittingly stumbled into

Another place?

Another

(a place of gods)

dimension?

…lonely…mysterious….

Never to be found again.

 

It had happened lifetimes ago when his body had still been strong and able.

His resolve granite.

Age hadn’t mattered then…he’d been young.

He’d been in the great southwest, lost during a hike into the rock and heat of the desert. Sunburned and thirsty, he’d foundered through a hidden ravine and come out the other side into a wonderland of white-and-red vertical rock. The sun was setting and cast monstrous shadows across their faces. Yucca and other scrub dotted the terrain; trees unknown to him reach up from the earth like ancient, arthritic fingers scraping at the sky.

He’d collapsed to the ground. Checked his water supply. Enough to wet his lips and that was it. Reluctantly, he sipped the last drops, was ready to toss the canteen away in anger at his own stupidity in getting lost when he’d heard it.

A rustling, grinding sound.

Holding onto the canteen, he got up. Searched the rock. The grinding stopped, replaced by a softer, gentler trickling…

Water.

The hiker got up and rushed across the scree, slipping more than once.

Water.

Food he could do without for now, but water he’d die without. He already felt himself growing ever more lethargic, stiff. Near nauseous—

Water.

The sound drew him unerringly to it source. Water he’d hoped was real and not the delusion of a dying mind. He’d scurried about a small outcropping of rock and came upon the

Cool, crisp, flowing water!

Out from the very pores of a red rock itself.

He’d dove at it…sucking it directly from the rock face…cupping his hands he splashed the precious fluid to his parched lips.

It’d initially hurt parting his lips so much, cracking open dried skin, but he brought the water up and swallowed greedily. A huge knot of the frigid fluid got caught midway down his throat and he coughed it out, grimacing in more pain. For something so life-giving and necessary, it was sure running him through the ringer….

 

It was now darker from the setting sun, and he’d finished cleaning his clothes and washing himself. Felt more like he should…hydrated, rested. Filled his canteen before going to sleep for the night.

He looked about him.

It was still warm, but not so unbearable as midday. He’d considered continuing…were it not for the weariness of his body. He didn’t think he could get very far in his present condition and deemed a night’s sleep more important.

After all, did he not now have all the water he would ever need?

Did he not now have shelter to weather the merciless sun?

The only thing he lacked…was food.

At one time all he needed was water, but now his stomach growled.

Collecting sticks for a fire, he pondered his next step…when a large hare jumped out before him. It sat on a rock not ten feet away.

The hiker carefully crouched and placed his sticks down before him…stared at the meaty beast. It stared back, motionless except for its twitching nose. The hiker searched the dirt around him for a stone.

Water.

Now food.

He pitched the rock at the animal.

It hit the rabbit square in its head, propelling it over the side of the rock it had sat upon. The man got up, withdrawing his knife from its sheath. On the other side of rock he found it. One leg twitched but momentarily.

He fell upon it.

 

He’d stuffed the steaming pieces of cooked rabbit into his pack and looked out his cave. Early morning should have looked bright, but the day appeared dull, overcast. The heat of the day seemed subdued. Collecting the rest of his things, he’d thrown on his pack and given himself a once-over, checking his gear. Satisfied, he left the cave for the expected heat of the day…

But what he’d found sent shivers up his spine.

Instead of overcast skies and heat, he found it was still night…a full moon overhead.

He looked to his watch…but it was smashed.

Had he lost his mind?

Had he slept into the next night?

All these thoughts flooded him…but the end result was that he couldn’t possibly stay here forever…

Could he?

Some kind of Fate had brought him here and here he must deal with it…at least until he could make his way back to the world he knew.

The facts were that it was cool, dark, and he had food and water—his canteens and pack full with both. He needed to return home.

Resolved to restart his homeward sojourn, he left the security of his cave for the uncertainty of the dark.

He climbed down the boulders and loose rock, down to the water that still flowed mightily from the very pores of the red rock. He looked back and up to his deserted shelter—somewhat surprised that he could no longer

(go back)

find it.

Could he find it again…actually climb back up there just for paranoia’s sake?

But he’d already slept in it. Eaten there. Of course it was there.

Somewhere.

Knock it off, he told himself. Of course it’s still there. It has to be—

Like the water. That came out from the rock.

He shot a glance towards the miniature geyser.

Yes. Still there. Stuck a hand into it.

Cold.

You’ve just been out in the desert too long, that’s all.

He dropped his hand and turned away.

But in which direction should I go?

He looked from where he’d come…to where he was headed. There was plenty of light from the moon, but there was no—

Path.

He blinked. Rubbed his eyes. Moments ago he’d have sworn there was no path, but now…as if it had rolled itself out just for him…

(this is insane!)

It was there.

The hiker took two steps onto it as if testing it for solidity. Plenty solid. Plenty real. Plenty there.

There was an actual clearing of stone and brush—as if stone and brush had actually parted just for him—the earth packed down as if having been traveled before.

By whom? By what?

The hiker stepped onto the path.

Images of an old man filled his head. A man in pain…damaged.

A shudder ran through him. Made him dizzy.

This was not just…not just any old man—

Him?

A future him?

The old man lay still…eyes closed…heart…barely…beating…body useless…broken beyond repair. He lay in the dark in a place that looked remarkably

Like this one.

How long had he been there?

An accident…a horrendous fall. Crawled out of the ruthless, mid-day sun with broken legs into a tiny rock fissure.

Where no one would ever find him.

How long had he lain there?

Too long…alone…never to be found—

Yet the younger him had found him.

And the younger him desperately tried to recall how he’d gotten here…where he was now…had unwittingly stumbled into

Another dimension?

A place of gods?

Never to be found again?

No.

He was strong…capable. Fed and watered. He would make his way out.

And if he truly was tied to this man…this old man…if that old man really was him…he would take him with him.

Together they would both leave.

The young hiker couldn’t tell if it was all in his mind…or like the water, cave, and rabbit…but he looked down and saw a rough-hewn field stretcher…with a leather strap.

He wasted no time.

In his mind’s eye he carefully picked up the old him…and gently positioned him upon the stretcher. He grabbed the leather strap at the end of wooden handles and looped it up and over—around—his shoulders, lifting one end of the stretcher. Shifting his pack and gear…he stepped out onto the path.

Never once did he look back.

The rocks smiled.

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Sex in Fiction

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Out From Between The Sheets. Art by Victor Olson, Beacon Signal Books, Public domain via Wikimedia Commons.
Out From Between The Sheets. Art by Victor Olson, Beacon Signal Books, Public domain via Wikimedia Commons.

I am not a writer of porno…but elements of my latest novel, Voice, might well seem that way to some. Or is it “erotica”? And what’s the difference?

There are sex scenes…and there is little left to the imagination in most of them—but in the same breath the sex scenes (I am betting) are not exactly what I’m thinking you’re expecting.

What is it about sex that embarrasses us?

Sex.

Can you even look at the word without flinching?

We don’t feel the same way about violence. Sure, we give lip service to how terrible and abhorrent violence is…but our actions speak otherwise. Violence doesn’t embarrass us—it should, but it doesn’t. Look at all the TV shows and movies…the gaming…that is so accepted that even kids are allowed to watch and/or play. You don’t see the same level of acceptance with things-sexual.

And I’m betting many of you are nodding your heads now, thinking, of course not!

Why is that?

So sex is worse than violence?

We can watch graphic prime-time shows with animals-in-the-wild “mating,” but Heaven forbid there’s a prime-time show with humans graphically “mating” (though arguments can be made this already quickly changing…).

And there’s the embarrassment factor.

People all the time talk about violence, lip service or not…but, again, Heaven forbid anyone bring up the topic of sex. This, on a philosophical and metaphysical level intrigues me. Sex is a natural function of the Human race. Arguably, violence is not. Violence is brought on by other factors that I’m not going to even try to get into in a short blog posting—but, to me—it is not a “natural function” of being a human.

I am not writing more apologist posts about my work, but I’d read this article by Noy Holland that discussed sex in writing, and it got me to (again) thinking. We really are far more accepting of violence than we are of sex. This is a flat-out, disturbing truth.

There is nothing redemptive about violence. There is about sex. Sure, one could say that violence can redeem itself by taking out evil, by “righting a wrong,” but there really is nothing good about inflicting pain or death in and of itself (and the old “two wrongs don’t make a right” come to mind). Doesn’t matter if the end result “corrects” a problem or not, one is still employing violence in said scenario. One is still performing heinous activity upon another. And I’ve heard more than once about how those who inflict actual violence on others do not feel good about it. Even in times of war. But so often it is framed within the guise of “a necessary evil.”

Sex, on the other hand, is not about inflicting pain or death…it’s about “inflicting” (if the word be used) pleasure and closeness. Connectivity. About bringing people together. Enjoying each other. Love can even be involved!

Yet talking about it, writing about it, filming it in movies has always been to certain extents taboo.

This is quite “telling” about the Human Race.

And what is “pornography”? Is it “erotica”?

“I can’t define pornography,” one judge once famously said, “but I know it when I see it.” (Justice Stewart in Jacobellis v. Ohio 378 US 184 (1964).)

Pornography is defined as anything that is in words or pictures sexually explicit. Another definition is something that is primarily designed to produce sexual arousal in viewers. But there are further refinements of the definition that describe how erotica has the “saving grace” of “intellectual bookending” (I’ll call it)…an actual story surrounding the sex scenes…the employment of skill in storytelling. Erotica is also intellectually stimulating, while pornography is usually just about “getting one’s rocks off”—and usually for a predominantly male audience at the expense of women.

But what I find curious as I look into this whole debate (subtle unintended pun in there…) is that modifiers are applied to the act of sex…modifiers like “violent and degrading” are the usual suspects.

But these are modifiers to the inherent term, not part of the inherent term.

Sex.

The act of sex is not about degradation and violence…it is about the act of people coming together and experiencing each other on an intimate, physical and emotional level. What we do with that, how we interpret that or “damage” that does not change the inherent neutral and beautiful act that sex is.

Just like farting or breathing or picking one’s nose, there is nothing wrong with sex in and of itself.

Go ahead and debate all the interpretational aspects of society and religions and decorum-what-have-you, but there is nothing wrong with the act of sex.

Yet we continually find fault with it.

In Voice, I depict sexual situations that I feel are important to the story, to the characters. In doing so that makes people feel ill at ease. Uncomfortable. Even I felt more than a little uncomfortable as I wrote and rewrote those scenes (truth be told, I was also uncomfortable writing the violence that unfolded in The Uninvited), and I was embarrassed at myself for having felt that way. No fricking way should I have felt that way! No fricking way should any of us feel that way!

The actions in my novel are between two people. In private. I’m not saying what they did was right…but it was what they did and is critical to the story and the characters’ growth. Without those scenes, there is no story. No impact.

It was just sex.

But it was the story, the emotional impact that bookends “that” activity that elevates the novel beyond the realms of “pornography.”

“Erotica” even?

No. As Noy points out, “All good fiction has an erotic charge.”

I try to write as “real” as possible in all of my work. It doesn’t matter what it is, I give it my all. When I put something out there, I very much intend people to walk away from my work saying something like, “Gee, that really could happen….” I did that for my metaphysical stories, my supernatural stories, my conspiracy theory stories. Of my fifth novel, it happens to have some pretty intense sex scenes in it like The Uninvited had some pretty intense violence in it. Both of these stories were at times difficult to write. And writing—good writing—is supposed to be “difficult” on a metaphysical/philosophical level and to get one to think. Reconsider one’s station, one’s place in life. One’s world. Voice is no different…whether it’s really good writing or dreck…my aim was to get one to reconsider certain aspects of love and life and relationships. Given the subject matter, if there weren’t moments of being uncomfortable then I hadn’t done my job.

Sex in fiction?

It shouldn’t even be an issue.

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Morningside Cemetery, Malone, New York

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Morningside Cemetery, Malone, NY, July 16, 2015
Morningside Cemetery, Malone, NY, July 16, 2015

The next stop on our whirlwind North Country tour of July 16, 2015 was the Morningside Cemetery, in Malone, NY. Curiously, as I wrote and researched this post, I found that the cemetery is formed in the shape of a “heart”! How cool is that? Click this link to see that. What my stepmom wanted to show me was the resting place of U. S. Vice President William Wheeler (1876-1880).

I’m nodding all-knowledgeable-like when she told me this, but inside I’m, like, “Vice President William Who?!”

Isn’t that terrible?

U. S. Vice President William A. Wheeler, Morningside Cemetery, Malone, New York, July 16, 2015
U. S. Vice President William A. Wheeler, Morningside Cemetery, Malone, New York, July 16, 2015

Sure, I know there are presidents and VPs that extend back beyond the age of social media history, but, um, I don’t remember them all, sorry. And I’m not a student of politics. I learned what I needed to in grade and high school and hoped it helped frame my mind for the future, but, apparently, I’m in good company, for Rutherford B. Hayes also once asked: “Who is Wheeler?”

Sorry, Mr. Vice President!

There are some other notables interred here, including Orville Gibson, who founded the Gibson Guitar Company. He was also born in Chateaugay, new York—I never knew that. Apparently there was speculation Gibson suffered some form of mental illness. I don’t think we saw his gravestone, but I do believe my stepmom may have mentioned him. Click here for more information on Mr. Gibson.

Anyway, the Vice President’s resting place is beautiful—in fact the entire cemetery is. Rolling hills, tons of trees and shadows, and some really cool-looking grave art. Just like you’d expect a northeastern cemetery to look like! It was quiet, nary another (soul?) around, and the two of us just walked among the gravestones….

 

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