My First, But Unremembered, Sight Of The Celtic Cross

The Celtic Cross has, for me, a profound spiritual and personal meaning.  It reminds me of my Savior, of course; and of the Calvinist Methodist Christians in Wales, and the great poets of Wales who shared that faith.  It reminds me of the tombstone of the American Poet I admire more than any other, Thomas Jones, Jr., whose remains were interred in the local cemetary in Boonesville, New York.  Jones' sonnet on Saint Benedict first introduced me to the word I now use as my appellation or handle, Starward.

But, I only realized, this morning, that my first sight of the Celtic Cross was provided to me on the cover of Mary Shelley's novel, Frankenstein, the edition given to me by my cousin Jeannie, she of the exquisitely sheer stockings with the very softly opaque reinforced toes.  (Refer, please, to my previously posted remarks about the film, Frankenstein Meets The Wolfman).  I was not cognizant at that time of its significance.  In fact, until I had seen an internet picture of that cover this morning, I did not realize the cross had been part of it.

So to Mary Shelley; and to the artist who designed that cover; and to my beautiful, shoeless, cousin, whose soft-sheated footsteps so often traced a path through my childhood---and brought me to certain feelings which I would understand, a bit more, in adolescence.


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