Walk to the Black Stone

Here is the Black Stone.

It was 150 years ago, in 1859, that the Black Stone was erected. The Black Stone, also called the Black Rock, is situated on Bridge Street at the entrance of the Victoria Bridge on the Montreal side of the St. Lawrence River. The rock was dredged from the river by workers who were constructing the Victoria Bridge and it commemorates the deaths of over 5,000 Irish victims of typhoid fever who had just arrived in Canada after having escaped famine in Ireland in 1847. Already weakened by tragedy at home, the loss of their homes by forced evictions and the death of relatives, as well their own hunger, the long and difficult ship journey to Canada, and then death by typhoid fever when they arrived... It's a tragic and sad story of these people. The men who were building the Victoria Bridge discovered the mass grave--they died only twelve years before--of the Irish famine victims, some probably their own deceased relatives. Of course, they insisted that this tragedy be commemorated in some way. The rock faces a parking lot, on the other side of the street, where the actual graves are located. Every year, at the end of May, several hundred people walk from St. Gabriel's Church in Point St. Charles to the rock where a memorial service is held. There is a reception at the church hall after the walk. These photos were taken a few years ago, on a rainy cool May morning.

Yoni rocks

Two collages

Images of trees

W.B. Yeats's Grave, Sligo, Ireland, July 1978

Back in July 1978, I visited my friend R.R. Skinner at Boisville, his home in Camberley, England. We had first met a few years before, in August 1974, after I attended Krishnamurti's Gathering in Saanen, Switzland. After visiting with RR I planned to spend some time in Ireland and flew into Dublin, then after a day or two I took the train across Ireland to Galway and then on to Sligo. It not only rained, it poured rain the whole time I was there. I was miserable. One day I took a bus tour to the grave of W.B. Yeat's, that was probably the same day I also visited Lissidale House, where Yeats stayed in his youth. I did my research for this trip the way poets do their research, which is after the fact... this perhaps accounts for the dismal nature of my trip to Ireland. Years later I decided I would never visit a place where I didn't know somebody, or where I didn't have a reason for visiting (for instance, a conference). The life of the tourist is not for me, it is given to loneliness and self-consciousnss, constant travel, exhaustion, trying to maintain an interest in siteseeing when I'd prefer to be at home reading a book, and associating with some questionable people. It's all perfectly dreadful! So, this is the highlight of my trip to Ireland: Yeats's grave, including the church near his grave, and a Celtic Cross gravestone, all within close proximity to each other. Yeats is (perhaps) the greatest English language poet of the 20th Century.

Blackie

This is Blackie, a cat I found in our barn at The Cedars when he was only a few days old. I called him Black Lightning, because he moved so fast that I couldn't catch him. He has tufts of fur on the ends of his ears, which immediately endeared him to me. I loved that cat from when I first saw him.

Blackie loves a party, he loves people visiting the house. He's a sociable cat, extroverted when it comes to parties. He also eats at the table with whoever is there. We had Blackie until CZ developed asthma and he moved to my mother's house on Montclair. My mother said "He can't come here, I have a cat; put him down." A few days later I drove him over to her house and announced he was now living with her; "Blackie," I said, "this is your new home." He didn't object, he was always upwardly mobile. He soon became my mother's favourite. So, from the barn to our house, to our house in the city, to the big house on Montclair, to an apartment in Toronto, and next (as my mother enters a retirement home) to my brother and sister-in-law's home! What a character!

Here's Blackie waiting for his breakfast, I think it was French toast... could he chow down!

Here's Blackie (from his life in the country) with a birthday card in front of him, waiting to be opened. I think Blackie's a Taurus, like me.

Review of two books by James Hollis

View from Pointe Calliere Museum in Old Montreal after a Jung Society 
of Montreal end of year luncheon.

My review (below) of two new books by James Hollis, was published in the spring 2009 issue of the Newsletter of the C.G. Jung Society of Montreal. _________________________________________________ 

Why Good People Do Bad Things: Understanding Our Darker Selves 

James Hollis New York: Gotham Books, 2007, 272 pps. 

What Matters Most: Living A More Considered Life James Hollis New York: Gotham Books, 2009, 288 pps. 

The older we get the more life seems a journey. An excellent guide on this journey is Jungian analyst James Hollis, who is the author of two new books, Why Good People Do Bad Things: Understanding Our Darker Selves and What Matters Most: Living A More Considered Life. Both of these books will reward the reader with many insights into life’s journey; both are an invitation to psychological and spiritual wholeness. Hollis asks, “Why do good people do bad things?” To answer this question he turns to C. G. Jung¹s archetype of the Shadow, which he defines as being “composed of all those aspects of ourselves that have a tendency to make us uncomfortable with ourselves, it is what discomforts the sense of self we wish to have.” Hollis points out that “Of the many concepts Jung articulated, few if any are richer than his idea of the Shadow.” 

For Hollis, and other Jungians, an understanding and awareness of the Shadow part of the human psyche is one of the roads to wholeness and individuation. This is especially important for those of us in the second half of life; it is a time in which, as Hollis writes, “The critical summons is to recover a personal sense of authority, explore, thoughtfully express the personal Shadow, and risk living faithfully the soul’s agenda.” Of course, few people willingly examine their Shadow; it is usually kept hidden, avoided, or even denied. Some of us prefer to live in a cocoon of infantile expectations; others are complacent; and still others prefer to avoid doing the very work that will bring us depth and an insightful life. But this life, this journey, demands that we live intelligently and authentically, that we live a life of emotional and psychological maturity. Indeed, while working with Shadow material is difficult, there is a reward: this lies in the release in our lives of a reservoir of creative energy of which we had not previously been aware. 

This Shadow energy can find its expression in creative work, but is also shown in a renewed sense of who we are and a commitment to living a life aligned to our values and the “soul’s agenda.” James Hollis’s most recent book, What Matters Most: Living A More Considered Life, will reward the reader many times over. I think it is one of Hollis’s best books for readers at any stage in life, at any place in the journey of life. Hollis begins by admitting that the book is an “eccentric compilation,” and it is! He writes, “We are not here to fit in, be well balanced, or provide exempla for others. We are here to be eccentric, different, perhaps strange, perhaps merely to add our small piece, our little chunky selves, to the great mosaic of being.” This is a wonderful invitation to be who and what we are. The book, then, is made up of individual chapters that can be read solely or consecutively. They are discussions of Hollis’s considered opinion and observation of life’s meaning and “what matters most” in life. 

A selection of some of the chapters’ titles will give an idea, a sampling, of what Hollis considers important in life’s journey: That Life Not Be Governed By Fear That We Consider Feeding The Soul That We Respect The Power Of Eros That We Step Into Largeness That We Risk Growth Over Security That We Find And Follow The Path Of Creativity That We Encourage Spiritual Crises That We Write Our Story, Lest Someone Else Write It For Us Each of these chapters can be read separately; each is a thoughtful discussion and elaboration on a specific aspect of “what matters most.” They are diverse subjects, held together by Hollis’s intelligence and insight, and sometimes explained more fully with literary references. The emphasis in the book is not to find happiness, it is to find wholeness and to live a conscious life that is in agreement with the soul’s needs and requirements. For at least the last forty years an interest in mythology (and the belief by many in the absence of a cohesive mythology in our society) has taken hold of the popular imagination. Hollis reminds us of Jung’s “myth for our time” which he says is individuation. Hollis then writes: “In fact it is a summons to service, of ego submission to values larger than those previously embraced.” Thus, our journey is one of individuation, of inner discovery and self-knowledge. This journey is the central myth or adventure of our time. 

Since I first began reading James Hollis’s books, in the early 1990s, and heard Hollis speak to the C. G. Jung Society of Montreal (he is a gifted and riveting public speaker) I have always found him to be one step ahead of my own thinking, one step ahead of me in my life’s journey. He has always been an astute thinker and a most welcome guide in these matters. If you want to begin reading Hollis, or if you have read several of his books, I highly recommend What Matters Most: Living A More Considered Life. James Hollis concludes the book by suggesting the following, 

This search for God, this longing for meaning and understanding, while often frustrating, has given me my journey, and my journey has given me greater acquaintance with many gods along the way , all, especially the dark ones, worthy of and demanding respect and many good and many bad people, but always an interesting life. In the end, having a more interesting life, a life that disturbs complacency, a life that pulls us out of the comfortable and thereby demands a larger spiritual engagement than we planned or that feels comfortable, is what matters most. (p. 256) 

Stephen Morrissey

winter 2009

Note: Read other reviews of books by James Hollis reviewed here, do a search on this blog.

Between Chaston and Green, early summer

Lovell's Montreal City Directory, 1845-1846

Not a photograph, but a copy of a page from Lovell's Montreal City Directory for 1845-1846 (the complete directory is available online from the Bibliotheque Nationale de Quebec). Here is the listing for "L. Morrisy" (Laurence Morrissey), who is my great great grandfather. Just beneath Laurence's name is "R. Morrisy", who may be a relative of Laurence's; I am really not too sure of the relationship, assuming there is one.

Laurence and his wife, Johannah Meany, and one or two of their children arrived in Montreal from Newcastle, New Brunswick, possibly the previous year. Laurence's family (including his parents, Patrick Morrissy and Mary Phelan, and his siblings) had immigrated to New Brunswick around 1834. The first mention of Laurence Morrissey in Montreal was in the previous year's Lovell's Directory--for 1844-1845--a copy of the page on which he appears can be found below.

Lovell's is a great source of information for anyone doing famly history research in Montreal. Go to the Morrissey family history website for a complete listing compiled from Lovell's of all the Morrisseys who have lived in Montreal since around 1844 to the 1970s. .

This is the final page of family album photographs. I hope you have enjoyed them.

St. Matthew's Church, then and now

Here are a few, final, photographs of St. Matthew's Church taken two or three years ago. I suggest matching them with previous photographs of St. Matthews for a "that was then and this is now" comparison.

The Royal Tour, May 1939, Montreal

World War Two had been declared, the Royal Family visited Canada and were in Montreal in May 1939, that's 70 years ago.... These photos were probably taken by my father.

Note: Just recently I realized that bill bissett's poem, "The Canadian", refers to what is probably the same Royal Tour as shown in these photographs, the difference is that he was watching the Royals from his home in Halifax and these pictures were taken in Montreal. I read "The Canadian" when I was a student at university and it is still one of my favourite poems by bissett, it's a terrific evocation of the class system in Canada.
SM; 26 July 2009

4350 Montclair Avenue

My mother (holding our cat Simey) and Graham Nichols (my stepfather), whom she married in May 1963. The playroom at 4350 Montclair Avenue.

Annie Holden, my mother's cousin from Woodstock, Ontario visiting us, probably in 1967 for Expo 67. Photo taken in the backyard at Montclair.

My brother, my mother, and me (holding Simey, our cat), in the living room at Montclair. Around 1967.

Hampton Avenue

Here is my mother's father, my grandfather, John Richards Parker, who came to Canada from Blackburn, England, and worked until his retirement around 1946 as a fire man for the City of Montreal. Above: my grandfather's house at 2217 Hampton (below Sherbrooke Street West). A few years ago the flats next to this, identical to my grandfather's, were for sale and I walked around in them. They had been made into a single home with the upper unit for bedrooms and the lower for a kitchen and living room, dining room. I was most struck by how small they were, perhaps 900 square feet each. I have no memories at all of my maternal grandmother, she had bad health and didn't like to have her photograph taken; I believe she died around 1957. This photo (above) is from the mid-1960s.

My grandfather in his back yard.

My grandfather owned the two units; the lady who rented upstairs (in above photo) and her daughter were my grandfather's last tenants.

My brother and I, on the front stairs outside the Hampton Avenue flats. Around 1954 - 1955. I remember putting lit matches in my Uncle John's mailbox (he lived upstairs from my grandfather) and setting the curtains on fire, and I remember my Aunt Muriel completing a jig saw puzzle which either my brother or I pulled apart, perhaps testing how strong the pieces really were... I've always loved a fire, perhaps appropriate since my grandfather was a fireman.

Vacations, mid-1950s

That's my brother with his dog Buddy, on the road to Alburg or wherever in Vermont it was that we were going for a few weeks vacation. That must be Lake Champlain on the left.

Here is my brother and I posing, I think this must be at Fort Ticonderoga (spelling?) in Vermont. Is this the summer of 1957? It might be.

(Note: I've been informed that this isn't Fort Ticonderoga but Fort Chambly in Quebec on the way to Vermont. This seems accurate and I stand corrected.)

The road to North Hero, Vermont.

Maybe we went for a long drive one day, or down to Old Orchard Beach in Maine (I think that's where we got those American Civil War hats, one of which I am wearing in this photograph). That's my grandmother on the left and Auntie Mable on the right, and I'm standing between them.

It looks like a cool fall or spring day beside Lake Champlain.


(Below) This must have been taken on the same day as photo two above, my grandmother is wearing the same dress in it. That's my mother standing beside me.

Woodstock, Ontario, December 1956

We often visited my mother's cousins who lived in Woodstock, Ontario. They had emigrated here from England in the late teens or early 1920s. This is a photograph of their family home. When most of the daughters, and one son, had married and moved away, and the elderly parents (Alice and Bill Holden) had died, there was only the one daughter left at home, that was Annie Holden, and she never married, so it became her home. Annie died the year she retired, I believe in her lawyer's office, of a stroke. My mother was with her at the time. Annie was always very nice to us, a truly kind person who attended a Baptist church, sang in the choir, and worked much of her life at Harvey Woods in Woodstock.



This is December 1956, just after our father died. Two boys, age ten and six, who have lost their father.

Here is my brother, my mother, and I, at Annie's.

Woodstock, December 1956.

The two photos above and the photo below, probably taken at Bud Karn's farm. Bud's wife was Bertha Karn, one of Annie's sisters, their daughters Katherine and Patty. That's my brother, Bertha's daughter Kathryn Karn (KK), myself in the hood, and Michael or Billy Davis (the sons of Jennie and Arnold Davis, another sister of Annie's).

Here is Annie's house, in Woodstock, perhaps spring 1957.

A few years pass and we're still visiting Woodstock, now it's 1962-1963.