Uncle John’s Log & Co.

Everything about this past weekend reinforced my gratitude for being part of an extraordinary clan—and, Man, do we know how to party! It feels a bit dangerous to venture into the kind of entry I’m about to make, because I want to enumerate all my incredible nieces, nephews, and other loved ones, but how can I do that in a partial way? Suffice it to say, “I dig you all,” and I’ll never get enough of a kick out of this extended family. Unfortunately, Bruce had to stay in Danville, but it made me happy to have Terie and Marty attend Nic’s wedding. You could say it was “the night Marty turned cool,” except he already had. It was fun to see how great a circle of friends have coalesced around the Bellarmine crew, including Alyx, Josh, Holly, and Boo. Something makes me think Peat is at the heart of it, and I admire her style. Like her mom, she’s the natural social companion. How nice it was to see Kay, Theresa, and Angela make the trip to Louisville for the celebration. Seth, too, is a constant source of enjoyment, and he astonished me with how considerate he was of his graybeard uncle moving in the midst of a bubble of twentysomethings. I urged him to stop at the studio tonight so he could take home one of my wood-block prints (Drivin’ That Train). But, perhaps more than anything, I was so pleased to see the Adkins siblings together. Joan must be indescribably proud of that trio. Caitlan snagged a job within days of jetting from England with her blade and an Oxford degree; Ian is preparing to make his ballistic arc to North Carolina in pursuit of his dream to study marine biology; and Brendan is really coming into his own as an independent talent. Wow, it seems like only yesterday they were all a tangle of squids…

— Month of May workout totals: Swim-0; Bike-5; Run-1; Lift-2; Yoga-0; Pilates-1; Lupus Drills-2

— When a boy makes his uncertain journey toward manhood, he will never forget the famous beauties that adorned his itinerary:
Charmian Carr — Connie Stevens — Donna Mills — Peggy Fleming
Diana Hyland — France Nuyen — Madlyn Rhue — Barbara Bain
Janet Leigh — Barbara Hershey — Julie Christie — Natalie Wood

— After nearly a month away from the weights, I found myself back in the gym yesterday, hoping to get my fitness regimen into balance. Hearing a Roberta Flack tune always gets me thinking of college days. Back in 1971, one of my earliest journal entries was about taking a date to see Play Misty For Me. The experience forever solidified my appreciation of Clint Eastwood as a cool dude, and I now regard that motion picture as the beginning of how he used his Dirty Harry appeal to negotiate with Warner Brothers a series of opportunities that would enable him to became one of the most extraordinary filmmakers of our time. If, like me, you have any libertarian leanings at all, you really have to admire a guy like Clint. He’s never been afraid to express his disdain for political correctness or those who shamelessly traffic in it.

— Not that there’s any reason for you to remember, but last summer I daydreamed in this space about my hope that a boyhood idol would eventually return to Central Kentucky (not as a mere beau, but as a performer). Needless to say, I’m thrilled to learn that my wish is granted. Johnny Crawford is best known for playing Mark McCain on “The Rifleman” from 1958 to 1963. Unlike today, it was a time when the quality of the typical child actor in Hollywood would raise the mental question, “Whose powerful uncle pulled strings with the producer?” Crawford was one of a handful of young television performers—Patty Duke, Ron Howard, Tim Considine, Kurt Russell—that were cast for their obvious talent. Throughout his run on the popular series, he not only held his own impressively with star Chuck Connors, but opposite a constellation of entertainment heavyweights, including Dennis Hopper, John Carradine, Martin Landau, Kevin McCarthy, Sammy Davis Jr., Buddy Hackett, Warren Oates, and Michael Landon. Trite as it sounds—those were the days. The tube was small, but the icons were huge.

— The passing of Jim McKay makes me think of so many entertaining Saturday afternoons in the 60s, as we experienced the infancy of sports-casting through his distinctive coverage. A decade later, any of us who were watching in 1976 will always remember his marathon reporting from Munich, when his place in the history of television was secured. McKay and the late Roone Arlidge surely redefined the medium during those years, and, ever since, I’ve been as equally fascinated by the technology and professionalism of sports broadcasting as I’ve been with what happens before the cameras in a venue of competition. So far, 2008 has been a great year for upsets—beginning with an exciting Super Bowl, and on through another horse racing saga that culminated dramatically today. Zito has firmly established himself as the preeminent crusher of Triple Crown dreams—a class act, in contrast to the trainer of Big Brown, who, with his arrogant posturing, disqualified himself for much sympathy. Instead of partying with Trump in Manhattan, he’ll be, as Marty put it, “just another sweaty guy in a horse stall” tonight. On the other hand, one has to feel sorrow for the Kent D family and be concerned for the talented stallion himself. Yes, there’s only one compound phrase for it: The thrill of victory, and the agony of defeat. Let the summer games begin!

V & S

— Month of December workout totals: Swim-2; Bike-2; Run-3; Lift-3; Yoga-8; Pilates-2

— Year of 2007 workout totals: Swim-23; Bike-58; Run-25; Lift-33; Yoga-21; Pilates-16

— This is the 70th installment of a series that has no meaning, other than it precludes me from using the word “sundry” within any other post. I was part of the Class of ’70 when I finished high school, and the seven has always been significant for me, since it’s my destiny number. This is the 763rd entry in this journal, which is a seven, since numbers always reduce to the single-digit sum for numerological analysis. For me, this is also the first day of a new year governed by the number seven. Other practitioners of numerology have marveled at the fact that Dana and I share the same annual number—not rare, but somewhat uncommon for married partners.

— The recent violent unrest in Kenya has provided days of concern for Dan and Sheryl’s Elizabeth, but word has arrived from Neil that she and her group are safe. It will be good to hear from her directly, and hopefully that will happen soon.

— I completed a twelfth work in my series of “Grandy-bo Variations,” but I won’t be including another in the current format for our Christmas exchange, because, for the past two years, my painting has ended up in the hands of a household that already had a “G-bo.” I’ve got to think of a better way to disseminate new pieces to those who haven’t received one, or switch to a medium that accommodates limited-edition printmaking for wider distribution.

(Variations on a Theme by
Grandy-bo, Part Eleven)

— NBC lives up to its reputation for prematurely yanking some of the best dramas on TV. In the spirit of keeping profanity to a minimum at this site, I’ll let another blogger express my profound dismay.

— During my recent morgue reorganization, I came across a post card written by Dana’s father in 1932 to his younger brother. Clearly, it was one of those items we’d rescued from a spasm of “movin’ madness,” before Aunt Marian and Uncle Dick gave up their home in Dayton and moved to San Diego. The card is from the Art Institute of Chicago and depicts a Vermont landscape Rockwell Kent painted in 1921— Mount Equinox, Winter. Almost twenty years after coming into our possession, neither of us remembers how it ended up in the reference files, but we both deemed it too valuable to exclude from the family archives. I put it on the scanner earlier today, never imagining that tonight we’d stumble upon Part One of the PBS documentary about Kent that I missed seeing earlier this year. Familiar with his work as a book illustrator and wood engraver, I knew little about his paintings, nor did I have a coherent appreciation for his life as an artist and adventurer. The man certainly had his flaws (addicted to infidelity and cruel practical jokes), but, Good Lord, what an amazingly prolific creative genius!

— Well, I’d better quit. Tomorrow begins a new cycle of productivity, and 2008 should be a great year. Nic and Michelle will marry, Marty will begin to drive, Peat will finish her degree, Bruce will get a place of his own, Brendan will publish his book, and the “Bay-bo Gril” will make her way to Yorkshire Estate. Follow it all here at Uncle John’s!

V & S

“Art is to take from life something real, then to build it anew with your imagination.”
       —Taha Muhammad Ali

— I made good on the recent advice from Irina to paint fast and complete a work within one day—I spent most of Christmas Eve executing a heron in watercolors for Nic, my Godson. It turned out rather nicely, so I’m encouraged about continuing with a series of single-day images for display at Wilma’s new gallery. Nic likes it, using the term, “shagpoke,” which he learned from Dadbo. Since I was unfamiliar with that name, I dug into its background and came up with this: It’s a variation of shitepoke, which made reference to a bird’s habit of defecating when disturbed, but is generally applied to the green heron (Butorides virescens), the black-crowned night heron (Nycticorax nycticorax) or the American bittern (Botaurus lentiginosus), none of which is the bird I painted, the great blue heron (Ardea herodias), that familiar creature which, for me, is always a symbol of good fortune. Interestingly, nicknames for the great blue include “long john” and “poor joe.” Perhaps Dadbo called any heron he saw a shagpoke, or hadn’t thought it necessary to make distinctions with a young lad developing his fondness for the world of animals. I can’t help but think of my father’s early days fishing the Stillwater, and wonder if great blues populated that part of Ohio in the 1930s. One more curious observation is that double ‘nyc’ in the scientific name for the night heron.

— I finally got to meet Jerry R at Kelley Ridge, and was happy to see him again when we gathered for Clan Stew. Does this make him an official ”sweetie?” I enjoy hearing him share his historical knowledge. This is the kind of man that has the capacity to unlock Mary’s natural desire to study history. Dana and I have resolved to take the lad on a visit to Boonesborough in 2008.

— Although there are numerous commercial tasks facing me in the studio right now, I can’t help but spend a good portion of my energy this time of year looking ahead to the coming cycle and getting organized. Rather than get caught up in an assessment of past months, I tend to flush all my thoughts and feelings about what’s behind in favor of anticipation for what lies before me. Januaries are full of hope and fresh confidence, with my mind turning to “Max Organ.” Now, don’t let visions of spam-email lewdness dance in your head, because I’m talking about my age-old effort to sort and categorize my morgue of visual materials and other personal papers, along with structuring my work space, and, in general, just dealing with all my accumulated stuff—Maximum Organization. It’s an ideal that can’t actually be reached (if you intend to accomplish anything else), but always remains a worthy goal. It makes me think about the mathematical concept of the asymptote. Max Organ shall always remain the valiant endeavor that draws one closer and closer to the unattainable standard. Nevertheless, “finished is better than perfect.”

— There should be a strong contingent of Clan at the game tonight, rooting for #3. Tomorrow is Belle’s 17th birthday, and I think she’s due for a good performance on her home court. Like a knucklehead, I got so worked up about watching her play last night that I drove us out to the high school before it became obvious I had the date wrong.

V & S

As I prepare to execute the portrait of Mr. Brady, I’m using every bit of illustrator’s trickery that I have, especially the old illusion where I convince myself that I know how to paint. The facial study and color rendering are both finished, but I hesitate to commence the final piece without a reaction from Mrs. Brady. I suppose the typical fine artist would plunge ahead, but I’m too accustomed to a process that involves client interaction.

I haven’t devoted much time to anything else over the past week, other than some Christmas decorating and our annual Clan\Power bell-ringing contribution to the Liberty kettle campaign. We covered all ten hours, with the nastiest weather staying north for the day, thankfully. I couldn’t hang around town all day, unlike past years, so Rita and Seth were the only members of the family I got to see. They both looked great. It fills me with anticipation for Christmas Eve Stew at the Hall.

The overall Salvation Army fundraising effort for our five-county area of service is running behind where we were at this time last year, and it’s difficult to put a finger on the reasons. I think the Liberty kettles are doing fine, but the big difference is the Wal-Mart locations in Danville. Marty and I rang for a couple hours in front of the grocery entrance and it did seem less active that in the past. The Advocate-Messenger is sponsoring an online kettle that anyone can use to make a contribution to our local campaign, so maybe that will kick in during the closing days. The Captains are optimistic that the community will come through to meet the goal. It always has.

On Sunday I called Barefoot, my best chum from high school, and, because I hadn’t spoken to him since summer, I found myself giving a “state of the life” summary. It made me feel ill at ease. I can’t understand why. And yet I believe that my household has successfully crossed a challenging divide. Perhaps it’s taken so long that I’ve forgotten how to be at peace. If so, it’s the perfect season to work on that. Father, grant me the peace of Christ, Your newborn Son, who fulfills every requirement.

Tomorrow is a new day in the studio, and all shall be well.

(Of course I don’t know how to paint. Only Andrew Wyeth does.)

— Each time this year I’ve run the 5+ miles back downtown from the cabin, the time has felt shorter, even though I’m running pretty slowly these days. The silence transpired more quickly for me this morning, too. Milton handed out his periodic survey to the group, and I discovered a 1961 Horizon in Mack’s studio that had an interview with Andrew Wyeth, famous at the time, and now the greatest living American painter. I’ll have to digest the whole article during another visit, but I was able to scan a few stimulating quotations, and then Sara Jane offered me a new commission, with the freedom to interpret a photographic image with my choice of style—the perfect assignment. Everything conspired to boost my motivation to aggressively advance the Brady and Eckerle projects, plus my fine-arts enterprise in general. I couldn’t think about anything else as I ran home. So, why am I sitting here with this log entry?

— Cliff and I had a conversation about blogging the other day and it got me thinking about my string of 616 or 617 consecutive posts, and how important making daily entries used to seem. Brendan still refers to this site as a daily journal, but that hasn’t been true for well over a year. Once again, time is malleable, and, as Arnold has said, there’s adequate time each day for everything meaningful enough to do. Blogging isn’t about the time, but about having something worth saying to yourself, maybe worth recording, possibly worth sharing. I eventually figured out that doesn’t happen every day. When it does, not much time is required to get it down.

— Terie and Marty bought the M:I:3 DVD and left it at our house, so, late last night, I watched the J.J. Abrams picture for the second time, and I liked it a bit more this time around. I think Tom Cruise is the Burt Lancaster of his generation. Regardless of what I might think of his personal life, his work product demands respect. (Hey, not all celebrities can be a James Stewart or Charlton Heston; Lance Armstrong falls into the same category.) If Cruise had not become an actor, he would surely have been an Olympic or professional athlete in some discipline. He has the mentality and natural capacity for high-performance physical achievement. Although one of the least flamboyant stunts, his Chinese-village tile-roof footwork is probably the riskiest choreography in the movie. As I’ve declared before, I think he squandered the full potential of the classic franchise and put its longevity at risk, but this sequel is the best of the lot, the most team-oriented, and it fits nicely into our ancient family idea of an M:I Saga Series. In my opinion, Abrams is a creative, meticulous director with a feel for the spy genre compatible to Mission: Impossible—Cruise certainly can’t be faulted with his selection—but Abrams will need to have further honed his story-telling skills to do justice to his upcoming Star Trek feature, another Desilu-originated concept from the “silver age” of television.

— Local historian, R.C. Brown, is dead at 90. He once saluted me on a Danville street as, “Mr. Dixon, the Spin Doctor!” We often held different political perspectives, but shared a fascination with local heritage. I recruited him in 1991 to expound before a camera, as part of a fundraising documentary (the same program in which we cast Alyx as a child actress). He was in his 70s then, and I was young enough to think I might have a future directing videos (as close as I got to being Ken Burns when I grew up). Brown was the doctor, not me. He was from Ohio, too, but went on to get a Ph.D. from the University of Wisconsin. He taught history at Buffalo State College for 28 years. When he retired to our area, he rapidly became an authority and wrote The History of Danville and Boyle County. I’ll always believe that Professor Brown respected me as a talent, even though I consider his remark shaded by a mild one-upmanship. Perhaps he did understand better than most the true nature of my commercial craft, but I hope he wasn’t thinking of Victor Papanek’s quotation:

“In persuading people to buy things they don’t need, with money they don’t have, in order to impress others that don’t care, advertising is probably the phoniest field in existence today.”

I prefer this one:

“The only important thing about design is how it relates to people.”

— Thomas Bewick, my newest hero, couldn’t escape the ongoing necessity of making money with “coarse work” (as his daughter called it), despite his artistic reputation and unmatched skill as a wood engraver. I wanted to return the library book and avoid fines, but couldn’t help myself, and finished the biography by Jenny Uglow this week. As I said previously, learning more about his life has reinforced for me the notion that, although everything changes on outward levels, nothing really changes in the human dynamics of making a living as an independent, creative craftsman. I was notably saddened when I learned that he never fulfilled his dream of having the cottage workshop close to nature described in his memoir:

“The artist ought if possible to have his dwelling in the country where he could follow his business undisturbed, surrounded by pleasing rural scenery & the fresh air and as ‘all work & no play, makes Jack a dull Boy,’ he ought not to sit at it, too long at a time, but to unbend his mind with some variety of employment — for which purpose, it is desireable, that Artists, with their little Cots, should also have each a Garden attached in which they might find both exercise & amusement — and only occasionally visit the City or the smokey Town & that chiefly for the purpose of meetings with their Brother Artists.”

Dana reminded me that we all tend to get what we desire if we want it badly enough.

V & S

“A wiseacre on the Oakland to Los Angeles shuttle this week said the next technological leap would be implanting cell phones into people’s heads. He was kidding—we think.”
—Chuck Raasch, USA Today

Someone on the news said recently that 80% of Americans have a cell phone. I suppose I shouldn’t have been shocked at that, but I was, and it made me feel distinctly in the societal minority, since I don’t carry one. Not that it makes me uncomfortable. I’ve been mildly concerned from the beginning that their use might eventually cause adverse health effects, but if somebody gave me a free iPhone, I would bear-hug them and then find a private spot to dance in my underpants.

Last night, Dana created a wonderful meal with crab-stuffed shrimp for Marty’s 16th birthday, and he showed us his new iPod nano. We got to talking about Apple, with me speculating that the company might be planning to enter the game market. Marty said that idea sounded logical to him, and he predicted it might make its move when Sony inevitably faltered. I suggested that it would probably be a radical leap forward in graphic technology and user interface. He said Apple was sure to compete in that sector eventually, but wondered if they also might decide to make cars. That notion took me by surprise. “Think about it, GrandyJohn,” he added. “Before too long, a car will be basically a computer.”

Sixteen years old. Unbelievable. What kind of a nano-world will exist when he’s my age, and will I make it to age 96 to share it with him? Of course—I need at least another 40 years to figure things out. Will I still be able to get on a bike? Maybe not, but perhaps I shall have created at least one enduring work of art that will have made my life’s journey worthwhile. Hey, if I’ve made it this far, there’s no reason why I can’t declare my personal mid-point and tackle the second half of my expedition.

Joan sent me a delightful poem about becoming an old man who wouldn’t have “a computer or a clock or a phone in the house,” and the desire to “learn something just watching the birds and the weather.” I’d be that guy tomorrow if I had the nest egg, but I don’t, and I won’t anytime soon. Yeah, I know the reasons why. Most of Dana’s contemporaries are beyond their careers, and even I have classmates that retired years ago. I intend to keep working as long as someone will hire me, and, if I’m being honest with myself, I probably wouldn’t have it any other way, because I know I have a lot to learn. A day doesn’t pass without my seeing some creative thing to which I still aspire.

There are times when I think I’m the world’s most miserable excuse for a “multi-tasker,” even though I’m supposed to be able to handle numerous creative goals simultaneously. I was reminded again of this over the past week when I tried to make progress on more than one thing, but the only checklist item I could focus on was my digital illustration for our client in Lexington—which she loved. I was successful in getting past an initial creative block, and brought the process to a very satisfactory conclusion. Something in which to take pride, but all I could think about is what I hadn’t gotten done. In addition to my other assignments, I was hoping to compose a holiday-related “Joe Box,” as part of the local Art Center’s “White Christmas” exhibition, and I also expected to put in another productive session as an amateur stonemason before gathering with my Clan later today. Both of those deadlines slipped by. I’m learning to let them go—to release the sense of perpetual failure—to maintain some modest momentum of accomplishment—to forget about how far short I fall, compared to my expectations. When I grapple with these frustrations, I reckon that most high-performance multi-taskers have a personal assistant or an apparatus of managers, and then I flirt with regrets about not having built an organization around myself, but I have to stop and remind myself to avoid pointless rationalizations. I remind myself that I have an invaluable partner who supports me, and the freedom to achieve any level of personal discipline that I set my heart and mind to attain.

Today is the day set aside to give thanks, and I’m inclined to say, “Thanks for nothing.”

I give thanks for nothing new, because I already have what I need. I have my health, my talent, my independence, and people who love me. When it comes right down to it, that old man in the poem has nothing on me. I can discover delicious food on my plate every day. I can put Häagen-Dazs in my holiday-morning coffee (now, that’s why I exercise!). I can still weep when I listen to beautiful music. I don’t have to take medicine, and I can do virtually any physical thing I can think of wanting to do, and perhaps a few that I shouldn’t, being old enough to know better. I can spend a morning in the woods with a lever-action carbine and bring home to my mate a harvest of young, whitetail buck. I can marvel at my new friend’s ability to extrapolate that primal experience as an entire book of verse written in the voice of Kentucky’s most revered pioneer. I can coax my hand to execute just about any visual style that I can harness my perceptions to absorb. I can express my ideas and longings to others who care about what goes on in my head. I can dream. And I can still tell my mom that I love her.

Thank you, Father, for nothing different than all those blessings from Thee.

“Art is worthless unless it plants a measure of splendor in people’s hearts.”
—Taha Muhammad Ali

Tales of the Graybeard Prospector XXII
— The grizzled one prospected for both types of precious ore on the same day. He staked the first claim early in Marion County, searching for evidence of silver in the applied arts. By the end of the day, he was panning for gold at a gallery opening, with at least one promising nugget to his credit with a personal invitation to visit the big city from one of Lexington’s most prominent fine-arts administrators.

“How is it with stains?”
— I stopped by the Motor Mall to match a truck color for Pike Valley Farm. I was walking across the lot with a salesman when I made the mistake of stepping into his blind spot and I was nearly hit by a stream of saliva. He apologized by saying he’d been a catcher in college. The only reply I could think of was, “Well, I suppose that baseball is the last bastion of spitters.”

By hook or by crook, we will.
— Constructive thought is about making connections. Acquisition of information provides little, unless it helps me draw associations, which I have a natural tendency to do, even without sound data. It seems as though bits and pieces of knowledge, plus a variety of external influences, are continually converging in my daily awareness, and I can look at this as random static, coincidence, synchronicity, or divine guidance, but, fundamentally, it’s just the way I think, and I’m used to it. Perhaps that’s why, as a creative person, I find the process of collage so interesting and often develop visual ideas with a montage approach. Perhaps it’s also why I find it difficult sometimes to concentrate. Achieving any type of perceptual breakthrough invariably requires me to severely limit interruptions and drain a pernicious swamp of festering “to-do’s” and internal distractions. I haven’t had a decent creative rhythm lately, but something will shake out soon—I can feel it coming.

All jigged out? For shame!
— It was a full weekend. Marty and I got an early start on Saturday and hauled one load of blacktop to the fill on our way to Richmond. We helped clean out the garage at Fourth Street House and brought back a load of bricks that almost broke Ned’s butt. I nearly broke my own trying to help get that stone bench from the back yard into the bed of Mighty Manfred. Dropped Marty off after we unloaded the bricks at the Town House and headed to Blue Bank. Nothing going on, but I was glad I hung out, because Joan turned me on to Mhing, a conversion of Mah Jong to playing cards. Dadbo became enamored with it when he visited the Thomas cabin, and now I’m hooked, too! Sunday morning brought a nice 34-miler. Dan’s front cable broke, which continued the run of bad luck from Wednesday night, when a young guy went down on the bridge before Sand Knob (near Carpenter’s Creek) and broke his elbow. Most of Sunday afternoon was devoted to our Clan Council meeting, and we took another portrait afterwards (this time I did it right—35mm film in the shade). We moved the stone bench to a temporary spot in the cemetery. Michelle and Godson Nic announced their wedding date in summer 2008, but no “jumpin’ jig” erupted. Jay killed a pair of copperheads with a shovel. Jerusha gave me five “Pirate” Hot Wheels. I committed to completing the rock flue next month, so Marty and I need to reserve a couple days to finish the job together. All-in-all, it was a good Clan weekend. Mombo is gradually doing better, Terie’s new job is going well, J & J are counting down the days until “Bay-bo Hour,” and the Loft-mates have both quit smoking! I’m probably forgetting other news, but it’s time to call it quits.

V & S

— Month of June workout totals: Swim-0; Bike-11; Run-0; Lift-0; Yoga-0

— Easy to see that cycling is providing my only form of exercise these days, and I need to figure out what it will take to jump start my typical cross-training. In any case, I find myself thinking all the time about when I’ll saddle up for my next ride. In this part of the country, the lack of rain is creating a serious condition, but it’s made for some superb cycling weather this season, and I’m digging it. Speaking of digging, Marty and I removed another big section of old driveway at the Town House today and hauled it off in rusty Ned. I’m worn out, because six of us local cyclists went to Frankfort yesterday for the second annual Share the Road Ride and Rally. We completed a 53-mile loop through Woodford County, and the roads going in and out of Midway are the most scenic I’ve ever enjoyed on a bicycle. Talk about the heart of the Bluegrass! Just being there gave me the second wind I needed to log my new maximum single-ride mileage for the year (I’m ready for a 60-miler now). We arrived back at the Old Capitol in time for the noon rally. As the only Bike Commissioner there in riding attire, someone suggested I stand in front of a TV camera and say something. It was incoherent enough that I hope they never use it. As many know, I’m more of a rambler than a sound-bite guy when it comes to talking about “all things bicycle.”

— After a busy second quarter (with my solo exhibition, but on many levels), I’ve been looking forward to a “time out” over the next week or so. I need to be unavailable enough to get some things done that have been on the back-burner for way too long, such as finishing the reorganization of the conference room and popping the bonnet on my Mac G4 for a vital overhaul. This kind of a thing always sounds like a good idea until the target date is here. In my experience, clients are much better at taking a break than permitting us to do the same. We’ve wanted for some time to become “indispensable” again, so it will behoove us to stay accessible, but there are things I just have to do to prepare for when we are truly swamped again, and it’s only a matter of time. The Liberty/Casey account is picking up steam, the floodgate could open at any time with the new automotive client, and things are going well with the organic farm. The owners met with Whole Foods last week and picked up more orders for their organic meats, which triggers a need for new packaging graphics. The pendulum is swinging back for Dixon Design, and I must prepare our physical and virtual environment to cope with a heavier flow of business.

— Decades before the blogging culture became a fact of life, E. B. White wrote an introduction to a volume of his selected essays. For anyone who justifies writing words in a public log, his thoughts about the essayist are valuable reading. Most of us who carry on like this have no idea what we’re doing. White, by contrast, had no illusions about the nature of the format he mastered, and nearly all of us who excessively talk about ourselves in thousands of blogs (millions?) would benefit by taking his words to heart and by applying them to our peculiar practice.

The essayist is a self-liberated man, sustained by the childish belief that everything he thinks about, everything that happens to him, is of general interest… Only a person who is congenitally self-centered has the effrontery and the stamina to write essays… The essayist arises in the morning and, if he has work to do, selects his garb from an unusually extensive wardrobe: he can pull on any sort of shirt, be any sort of person, according to his mood or his subject matter—philosopher, scold, jester, raconteur, confidant, pundit, devil’s advocate, enthusiast… leave the essayist to ramble about, content with living a free life and enjoying the satisfactions of a somewhat undisciplined existence. (Dr. Johnson called the essay “an irregular, undigested piece”; this happy practitioner has no wish to quarrel with the good doctor’s characterization.) There is one thing the essayist cannot do, though—he cannot indulge himself in deceit or in concealment, for he will be found out in no time… the essayist’s escape from discipline is only a partial escape: the essay, although a relaxed form, imposes its own disciplines, raises its own problems, and these disciplines and problems soon become apparent and (we all hope) act as deterrent to anyone wielding a pen merely because he entertains random thoughts or is in a happy or wandering mood.

— Jennifer B has a squirrel in her knickers about an insignificant reunion of entertainers. Well, there’s only one significant reunion that could get me excited, because I’m old enough to remember the Original Spice Girl…

V & S

part two

I know I have a very selective memory. That’s probably both a good and a bad thing. On the one hand, it’s not difficult for me to put unpleasant things out of mind. On the other hand, it’s not difficult for me to put just about anything out of mind. Dana thinks that I have a propensity to make things up in order to compensate for a memory bank like Swiss cheese. It’s not that simple actually. All my memories seem valid to me, even the ones that apparently never happened. And when stressful things occur like what took place last Friday—thinking we’d lost Walie before she turned up at the animal shelter—it gets flushed almost instinctively. Joan’s recent mention of it at her MO-JO site took me by surprise. Apparently I forget things really fast! That’s why journaling comes so naturally for me. I’ve relied on it my entire adult life as a back-up memory. I believe I get it from Mombo, an incurable chronicle-keeper, too. That’s not to say I tend to forget my emotions in the same manner. I struggle at times to figure out why I’m in a sour mood. I can’t recall the negative stimulus, but “forgot” to jettison the associated emotion at the same time. Pretty strange. I won’t even begin to go into discussing my dreams. That’s another story and big waste of time. And so why am I rambling on about this? Just preparing to recollect some things worth remembering from the last week, but, as I said yesterday, I failed to make any notes. Just about the only fearful aspect of blogging is knowing this about myself and realizing I might be leaving important things out—not because they have any true significance in the grand scheme, but because someone who follows this log may find the omission hurtful.

• Festival Saturday
Saturday started early at the Town House. As Dana continued to work away at picnic preparations, I planted flowers and did the annual June clean-up outside. As usual, it caused me to think of “raking the tackle-pits at dawn,” and other narrative allusions to The Legend. That’s just typical me. We were able to take a break for the Atlanta Trumpet Ensemble at the Courthouse bandstand before it was time to mount our picnic table set-up in front of the main stage. In addition to Terie and Marty, David and Lee joined us, plus the family of our new clients, John and Vi. Guest artist Phil Smith was absolutely extraordinary, and both Vince and George were inducted into the GABBF Hall of Fame, the Festival’s highest honor. After all these years of having a table, we continued to score a superb central position near the stage, but this time the amplification seemed a bit too much. I don’t remember being bothered about the volume in the past (oh, let’s not revisit that memory thing again), but we put up with it until the last act. Joan was out and about and she came to the table later for a glass of vino, but, before that, we saw each other at the marketplace tent. I was disappointed to discover that the gold pins had already sold out. Now, due to my procrastination, I’d have to wait for a re-order.

• Morning Bike Ride
Sunday morning arrived quickly and I was the first to show up at Danville Bike and Footwear to greet participants in the first Brass Band Festival bicycle ride. I was eager to see if my new idea would bear some some fruit. Two out-of-town couples brought their bikes for the advertised ride and we had a decent turnout of locals for what will be remembered as the inaugural event. After an hour or so in the countryside, we rolled to Centre’s campus for the traditional Community Worship Service. The weather was perfect. How many communities in America can produce such a high-level music festival, keep all the concerts free of charge, and include an out-of-doors, music-filled, ecumenical church service, too? It still astonishes me. Afterwards, I made my way over to the marketplace and learned that a few unsold pins had surfaced overnight. Slipping my pal Harlan a five, I managed to get an example of my 2007 design and keep the pin collection up to date.

• Festival Sunday
After all the energy of the previous days and a successful bike ride under my belt, I was at the point in the Festival when I could just take it easy and enjoy the music. Sunday afternoon on the grass might be my favorite part of the annual weekend, and I couldn’t wait for it. Dana, Lee, and I put together a simple picnic of leftovers and toasted the day with a cold Stella before heading over to campus for the final hours of glorious sound. As usual, I kicked back with my shoes off and my pin-hat down over my eyes, drifting in and out of a lazy nap while the bands played. When favorite soloists came forward, I grabbed our camera and hugged the front of the stage like it was my personal work zone. The satisfying musical peaks of Festival Sunday convince me that all my hours of studio effort over the months are worth it. Multiply that by hundreds of other volunteers and you’ll begin to understand how this event has thrived for 18 years and shows no signs of doing anything but solidifying as one of Kentucky’s summer highlights.

— 7:30 am, meet cycling pals for an early 30-miler with Scott Joplin’s Pineapple Rag in my head; 10 am, have eggs for breakfast and read the Band Festival tabloid with a feature about my poster art; 11 am, worship with Marty at the Salvation Army and hear my friend Zach preach; 12:30 pm, tear up old blacktop with Marty and empty first Ned-load of driveway debris; 2:30 pm, eat Dana’s turkey panini lunch on the front porch with Marty; 3 pm, tear up old blacktop with Marty and empty second Ned-load of driveway debris; 5 pm, go to Marty’s place to shower and play video games, 7 pm, watch “Scarface” and enjoy a lasagna dinner with Marty and Terie; 9:30 pm, head home to check email and read a bit before bed… If all my remaining Sundays were like this, I believe I could, to use a phrase attributed to the Marquis de Lafayette, “die ’appy.”

— Seth had his graduation celebration at Greystone on Saturday and it “marks the end of an era,” according to James. Mombo made an appearance, to everyone’s enormous satisfaction. Mike R brought his mom down from Ohio for the event, and he said he wants to commission a house portrait from me. Kyle D was there, and Seth passed the torch to a new student leader for the Red Kettle campaign in Liberty. Kyle said Captain Zach reported a $1700 total from our effort last season. We discussed ways to boost that in 2007. I got a bit of inside news about the new girls’ b-ball coach at Boyle. Cliff teased me about my Band Festival pin, but got my commitment to bring him a poster. Does that mean I get a new t-shirt in trade? When it was time to kick back with a beer, I had a good talk with Nic, and he shared a vision of married life in the Valley, and how he’s sure he can resist the professional pressures to value income over becoming a family man. I hope he’s right! Afterwards we stopped at the Hall and spent more time with Mombo, plus I had a chance to grumble to Joan about how the TV networks had squandered a massive line-up of talent over the past months (Haggis, Liotta, Madsen, Diggs, Daly, Hutton, Delany, Sorkin, Busfield, Goldblum, Stowe, Minear, Fillion—I can’t go on!).

— Seeing Jeannette at Greystone reminded me of last Friday at Rotary Club, when I was asked to “unveil” my poster art and make remarks. I did something I don’t remember having ever done so explicitly, and that was pay tribute to the divine source of all creativity. I wasn’t sure it had been the proper thing to do in that context, until Jeannette told me how much she was touched by it. That, combined with seeing two similar but different kinds of youthful self-assurance in both Seth and Nic, makes me realize I need to trust my instincts more, even though I might think I’ve made progress in that area. Drop the reticence and push it further. There’s no other way. The previous day I’d successfully shrugged off the inner wimp to address the Governor in public when he visited Centre for the “Get Healthy Kentucky” initiative. My comments met with applause. Come on, what is there to lose except self-doubt?

V & S

Memorial Day weekend is cranking up. Marty and I finally began our driveway project this morning, and Ned is sagging under the weight of ancient blacktop. As America prepares to kick off another summer of fun and God knows what, let’s keep in mind the true reason we commemorate this weekend— all those who fell in service to our nation, and, by their sacrifice, earned for the rest of us the freedom to pursue our happiness. This wire photo helps keep my head in the right place. I also find myself thinking about Dadbo and his war service.

How many fallen buddies did my father mourn and never tell us about? How many friends came out of his first flight-school class, and what feelings filled his young heart when a sports injury prevented him from joining them as they shipped off? How many ended up in Europe as bomber pilots and never came back from those perilous missions? How much did that experience play in my Dad’s drive to see action in the Pacific, and how many friends did he lose in that theater… friends he also chose never to talk about?

Well, I’d best move on to the other reason for today’s entry. The latest message from Joan says that Mombo is doing well. I’ve decided to take the easy road today and post her news in this log. Why shouldn’t I just provide a direct report? Her current role in providing constant companionship for Mombo (with Jeanne, Rachel, and Glenda) has taken her away from blogging—

“A lot has happened since my last note to you all. Mombo has made some great improvements. The breathing treatments that she gets every 8 hours seem to be helping her, and she is now up to 850 on her ‘hookah.’ She has been taking some really good walks ‘around the block.’ Her appetite has returned, so she is eating much more and actually said that her lunch tasted ‘really good’ today. Her spirits are high, and you can tell that she is putting her will into getting well so that she can go home. They haven’t given us a firm day yet, but they have mentioned a possibility of Sunday. It would be nice to get her home on the Lord’s Day. She is so grateful for the beautiful cards and the phone calls from so many of you. Rachel and Glenda have been real troopers in helping Jeanne and me provide Mom with round-the-clock company. She really perks up when she gets a visitor. Today she said her rosary and read several daily readings from the Mass. She also got to see most of DAYS OF OUR LIVES. The case manager here at Central Baptist was in today and is arranging for home health care to come in after she gets back to the Valley. We are very pleased with the care she has had here. Most of her nurses and nursing assistants have been wonderful. Respiratory and physical therapists have also been supportive and helpful. She was so busy today that she did not even get a nap in, so now she is tired out, but, all in all, she is moving down the road to recovery.”

Thanks, Joannie, for keeping us all informed. You are a good daughter and an exceptional sister, too. But, most of all, you are a great mother, like Jeanne, and we all know who taught you how.

Get well soon, Mombo, and come back to the Land!

— Month of April workout totals: DON’T EVEN ASK . . .

— Well, it’s May—Derby Day at that—and I had my best night’s sleep in weeks. I even dreamed about my old employer in Evanston, with a very pleasant, lucid conversation. I’m glad to be comfortably back in the blogiverse, and it hasn’t had anything to do with News Bruiser’s recent excommunication. It’s had everything to do with a wild convergence of commitments in April that shoved aside all activity but the most essential. I’m pleased to say I was able to fulfill each of my pledges: to lead the annual meeting of our five-county Salvation Army, to participate in the spring conclave of the Kentucky Bicycle and Bikeway Commission, to attend the quadrennial national conference of the Salvation Army in Dallas, and to mount my first solo art exhibition since 2002. Whew… Can you believe I pulled it all off?

— The experience in Dallas was, without a doubt, the most powerful package of conscious-raising stimuli that I’ve had the privilege to absorb in many, many moons. An amazing line-up: Jerry Jones, Laura Bush, Rick Warren, Jim Collins, and Israel Gaither. Plus the many workshop sessions that astonished me with their solid informational excellence, including an opportunity to hear Stan Richards, a legend in the advertising world who would’ve been a prize keynoter at any professional gathering. He’s the creative mind behind the Army’s recent “Doing the Most Good” branding effort. On top of it all, we had the wonderful gift of time spent with good friends from Danville (nine of us were there), plus an exhilarating two days at the Anatole Hilton, which is like being inside a museum, because it has a world-class collection of Asian art distributed throughout the spacious complex (Reagan held the Republican National Convention there in 1984). And I haven’t even mentioned our evening at Texas Stadium: a picnic supper on the turf, lots of entertainment, and a chance to nose around an NFL locker room. Far too cool for a guy who can probably name less than a dozen pro football players. Eat your heart out, Marty… Oh, I forgot. You hate the Cowboys.

— Also wedged into last month was a particularly refreshing “Council Day” at the Valley. Both Terie and Bruce were there, and I don’t think that’s ever happened before. Makes me a bit prouder to be the namesake of the House of John. See you all at the next Clan gathering. Same time, same channel…

— After months of preparation, my exhibition at Danville’s Community Arts Center was hung and opened without any serious mishap. True, I had to abandon several items on my wish list, including a desire to display my first “Joe Box,” but, as usual, things worked out the way they’re supposed to, and the room was arranged with enough creations to satisfy my fondest anticipations. It was a delight to welcome lots of Clan and dear friends (plus many local poobahs were in attendance). Thanks to Bruce for his home-stretch assistance, and, of course, to my ”partner in all things,” who supported my preparatory effort for much of the year, and laid out a delicious spread of goodies outside the gallery on Thursday evening. Wow. This is not the end, but only the beginning of many more successful shows. Just take a look in my eyes. I can see the vision.

V & S

— I’ve been trying to think of an appropriate way to tell Ian that I’m proud of his new workout discipline and to offer my encouragement, but I haven’t thought of anything cool or clever to say to him yet. Well, in the meantime, maybe this will do.

— One of the byproducts of March is an almost hypersensitivity to the ingredient stimuli that influence my state of being for each particular day—whether or not I’ve exercised, what I’m currently reading, whether I’m on the uphill or downhill side of a deadline, how much restful sleep I had, what kind of a movie I might have watched the night before, whether I began the day with a Rosary, what style of artwork I’m in the middle of, whether or not my Macintosh is acting up, etc. Being more aware of how these things affect my mood and powers of concentration is good, right? I used to just let each day find its own pitch without much thought to this kind of assessment, but now I know I can counter-balance various influences with music, poetry, prayer, stretching, dietary adjustments, or just a quick floor romp with a Yorkie. Nevertheless, there are still certain kinds of creative tension that have a tendency to throw me off my game, but I’m “getting there.”

— My talk seemed to go well enough yesterday morning that Milton wants to schedule it again as a “rerun.” I don’t think that’s ever happened before, but it might have something to do with only two other people showing up.

— Easter was a long day, but it felt like it flew by much too fast. When I waited to pick up Bruce from the hospital, I sat in the car for a spell, listening to my tape of Heston reading from the New Testament. Bruce was ready to go, but they failed to order the wheelchair transport to the exit. Such a silly regulation. I can stand to be around hospitals, but I don’t like them. As it turned out, Bruce didn’t feel well enough for the ride down to the farm, so he stayed home. We stopped in Junction on the way, to get Terie and Marty, and the four of us spent the holiday afternoon with Clan. I drank too much coffee and ate too much food. Had a very nice discussion with Peat about her job as newspaper editor next year. She’s laying the groundwork this spring, which is smart, and will spend some time in Europe this summer—quite a few Clan Kiddoes are following in my footsteps with travel abroad during student years. I found out that Seth has committed to Bellarmine. Looks like Sam Morgan will go there, too, and he’ll run track. We saw pictures of “Baby Molina,” and I got the data to do numerology charts for her and Torrance. Later in the day, I watched Marty conduct battles on the PC with ROME: Total War, and we played on the PS2 together, too. Our best boxing bout was Sugar Ray R against Sugar Ray L. Marty has moved to primarily sports video games because they require more controller skill, plus he’s getting more interested in the world of sport overall, which is having a bit of a spill-over effect for me. I actually cared who won the green jacket.

V & S

March experiment—day eighteen— Well, I may not have broken the back of the “Joe Box” dilemma, but I think I managed to harass a disc or two toward that goal. Joan and Caitlan stopped by on their way to the farm and delivered more boxes to keep things interesting, plus a weird hand-built crank wheel of some sort. Marty helped me clear a better work space for my 3D project in the coal bin. It’s been a while since he’s been in there, and he realizes that now he needs to duck to move around, too. He helped me carry furniture into the refurbished kitchen upstairs. Dana’s been working diligently this weekend with all the finishing touches. Life is quite good, if one puts emphasis on the blessings. At times it seems like three steps forward and two back, but things are moving in the right direction.

Today’s sight bite— The scrubbed green of winter abutting pastel blue—c-l-i-c-k—as I run the hilltop hay fields of KSD’s property.

Tomorrow— Internal and external agenda items expand to fill the day…

March experiment—day ten— I had to battle with my “inner wimp” this morning to run five miles at daybreak. With as mild as it is outside, that should not have been necessary, and as soon as I was out the mud-room door I was grateful for the upper hand. It was just the first in a string of today’s reminders to myself about why I’m conducting this odd exercise in the first place. I revisited my piece for New Mexico and took on an ambitious compositional addition, inviting the risk that I might spoil the whole thing. That’s the sort of thing I do in March, but I want to become bold enough to do it all the time without even thinking about it. Inner wimp be damned—you don’t know what untapped capability I have! The decision put me behind schedule again, but I refuse to fret. No profit in it. The Strocks stopped by for lunch, and I loaned one of my dumbbells to Marty. Today is the twenty-ninth anniversary of our first date, so I’m taking Dana to hear Dawn Osborn perform tonight at the new Woody’s in Danville.

Today’s sight bite— Dried paint and pencil marks on a flat surface—c-l-i-c-k—the illusion of a pear results from coordination of mind, eye, hand—and will.

Tomorrow— Spring forward an hour, share the silence, and embrace the checklist…

— Month of January workout totals: Swim-7; Bike-1; Run-3; Lift-1; Yoga-0

— It looks like Mother Nature took a chain-saw to Florida’s midsection overnight. I need to find out if any of the damaged areas are where we have family. I hope not. Here in Central Kentucky we have our first blanket of snow for 2007. No Rotary Club meeting today. The schedule is tied to Danville Schools, which are closed. I’m going to have to keep an eye on the weather for a few days. The national football holiday is coming up this weekend and that’s when we do our afternoon Super Bowl Sunday mountain-bike “ride around the block” in Forkland. Twenty miles, four knobs, and plenty of time to ponder our own sanity (or lack thereof). It looks to be slippery and a bit on the frigid side. The moment of truth comes after the first climb (Elk Cave Knob), and a rider must decide whether to opt for the 11-mile short route or go for the full deal. I’ve been known to go either direction, depending on how numb my sense of self-preservation has become at this point in the ride.

— For many years, my Clan had a tradition of gathering as a “planning committee” in January. It didn’t make sense in one way, because it was basically the same people who would ordinarily attend a regular Clan Council, but the mood was a bit more “visionary,” and that made it a special annual event. It started out as my idea and I’d always chair the meeting. Back in the 80s we’d sometimes hold it at the homes of various householders, rather than at the farm. This past Sunday we put that era behind us and moved forward into a new one that begins with Mombo’s Trust. Our desire for a more “corporate” structure with a solid legal foundation has been a long-standing family goal. It goes back to the formation of the Clan as we know it. It goes back to a time before the planning meeting. All things must change. Congratulations to the Clan, but let’s hope we can occasionally slip back into that old practice of sharing our dreams.

— There’s street smart, and then there’s street smart. It depends on which streets we’re talking about (right?), and when it comes to Josh, we’re talking about Baghdad. I inquired on Sunday about whether he’s heard anything about possible orders to return, but he just shook his head. He was recently out in Kansas, where he reportedly spent his days waging video war games from a comfortable hotel room. He’s also been asked to spend time with other soldiers on the eve of their overseas deployment, and if I know Josh, he won’t be sugarcoating what kind of attitude he thinks it takes to get the job done and make it home. I wonder at times to what degree our forces find it necessary to blur lines that the rest of us think are always morally hard-edged. I had a talk with Marty about Iraq not too long ago and I posed the question, “Does success in warfare require doing evil?” His reply: “GrandyJohn, that’s the whole point. We can’t. We’re Americans.” Damn good answer.

V & S

Because I was out there moving before daybreak in that stinging rain, I guess it means I’ve managed to re-infect myself with the running bug. So far so good, when it comes to one 2007 resolution. On mornings like this I have to work at mentally distracting myself, so I was thinking about someone who recently talked about their dreams of flying. At the time I wasn’t sure I could recall one of my own. Last night I had a real doozy of a flying dream. There was nothing about the actually flying that seemed unusual. Since it was foggy in my dream, I was concentrating mainly on avoiding smokestacks, tower antennae, and power lines. There’s only one reason I can think of as to why I might have dreamed that—learning about the announcement of a proposed high-tension transmission line that will cross Garrard County. The map published in the newspaper this week appears to locate it uncomfortably close to Kelley Ridge. David confirmed my suspicion when I showed it to him. I’d assume Joan had heard about it, but found out she hadn’t when Marty and I stopped to have dinner. It was nice, very delicious, and a joy to spend time with her at her cozy home (the house that Joe built, but Joan burnished). The lad and I took the opportunity to visit on our way back from EKU. I had to deliver an artwork accepted to the “Compassion” show at the Giles Gallery.

— Year of 2006 workout totals: Swim-40; Bike-54; Run-27; Lift-56; Yoga-55

— An internal debate about whether to revive these journal entries came to a close on Christmas Eve when my nephew Ian asked me to start making them again. Over time, I might delve into my 14-week experience as a recovering blogger, but, for now, I just intend to make a modest resurfacing, and try to get some kind of rhythm back.

— It’s been ages since I got sick, or it seems that way at least, because I forgot what it felt like. I’ve missed the entire year-end celebration, but that’s the risk I took when I plunged into a sea of youth over the weekend, many of whom made no secret of having recently crawled from “the pit.”

— I was pleased with another variation on my thematic Grandy-bo series (the eleventh), which ended up in Crabtree hands at our Clan’s Chinese (Chine-Yine) gift exchange, but I took even greater satisfaction from a highly successful pencil and wash portrait of Marty for Terie’s Christmas present, along with the triumphant completion of Alyx’s large, mixed-media G-bo, which had me stumped for the better part of three years.

— The Butcher of Baghdad stretched twine before the end of the year, and, come on let’s face it, there was no way it wasn’t going to be controversial. As the Old Virginians liked to put it, “Sic Semper Tyrannis.” Happy New Year.

V & S

Phoned into the KBBC conference out on the dock this morning, reminding me of taking the July call when I was here, while out on a boat with Marty. This kind of technology has just sneaked up on us, but would have seemed like Star Trek to me not that long ago. After that, Foot and I mounted our last perch run across Muskellunge Bay to the Point. I had one 11-inch baby that made the outing for me, although we were still hoping for a limit catch. They just haven’t bitten like that on this trip. Foot was miffed at hooking little channel cats and sunfish. I cleaned and froze the batch when we got back. Now we’re cleaning, organizing, and packing so we can leave as early as possible tomorrow morning. I guess I’m ready to depart, but I sure would like some “final night luck” later this evening and bring in a nice salmon.

Bob and I were up early and put the rowboat in the water. Bill (Foot) found oars and an anchor locked in the unused shower house. I figured that with six guys, we needed a third small boat for fishing in the channel. Most of the perch caught while we were up here in July were taken between 8-11 in the morning, including that memorable outing Marty and I had with Sartoris on July 21st. It’s time to duplicate that success, if I can. At least we have the “elbow room” now and the Sylvan can be used exclusively for salmon runs. Before long, five of us were “fanning at the plate” out in the channel, so we gave that up and had a fair amount of success with another run to Connors. Nobody got skunked this time. Bob had multi-species and Foot caught an 11-inch perch—a nice fish by any standard. I had only four keepers. It’s frustrating for us not to have found the “zone” yet.

Marty was here to interview me for a writing assignment, and it’s impressive to see how seriously he’s taking the school project. I filled one side of a cassette tape during our Q & A. That should give him plenty to work with for his rough draft. After a hearty supper of turkey burgers and sweet corn, we hauled more loads of brick from across the street. Since Marty started lifting weights, he’s gotten noticeably stronger. He matches my height now and, judging from his big shoe size, he still has some growing to do.

We’re heading south from Michigan, having made the decision to avoid I-75 to travel down through Indy. One of the great blunders of our stay is not getting any pictures after Marty and I slew the perch yesterday. Even Dana didn’t think of it. Stupid. It would have been a good memento, plus a potential Website shot for the Resort. Our “coach” took control of the cleaning, and we just went with the flow, in a state of joy and satisfaction, neglecting the obvious documentation. Oh well, sometimes you just get caught up in the moment, so “you had to be there.”

Lot’s of little things stick with me about the week. Like playing “Grand Theft Auto” with Marty and realizing that, although the premise of the plot-line is criminal in nature, the video game has an extraordinarily broad range of programming modules that include driving, motorcycling, bicycling, boating, and flight simulation for both planes and ’copters. In other words, the play experience is, to some degree, what the player brings to it. The level of violence is largely discretionary. Although it may still be true that it has a negative influence on younger users, for most in the target age group, it’s probably no more depraved than the average action movie that same age group thrives on. My conclusion— the criticism neglects the balance of features that make it a technical wonder and which undoubtedly contribute to its success as much as any perceived focus on the violent aspect that underlies any “shoot-em-up” video game.

I also remember talking briefly to the old mechanic fixing a Chris-Craft engine at the Hessel marina. He replied to my question about horsepower with a somewhat dismissive yet still friendly answer that indicated his attitude regarding the supremacy of horsepower— “It’s all in the gearing. But you can’t get these young guys to understand that.” He told me how he used to race boats when he was young and how he would beat boats with more horsepower by generating more torque. What will happen to all these awesome vintage boats when the generation that worshipped them as boys is gone?

And I took great pleasure in watching Marty’s director’s-cut DVD of “Mohicans”. Savoring Mann’s skillful blend of style and substance again has easily convinced me to skip his much-criticized “Miami Vice.”

Most of all, I revisit moments out on the Sartoris boat, hearing Marty’s quiet chuckles of satisfaction as we hooked perch after perch, and I flash back to some great beach frisbee, with the realization that my grandson isn’t a kid anymore.

Memories like that take the sting out of departure day.

As of last night, I think that Mr. Sartoris could no longer take it, so he invited us to go out on his boat this morning to demonstrate successful lake perch methodology. Long story made short— Marty and I brought back a basket of 34 keepers which resulted in an “all-you-can-eat” beer-battered fry later in the day.

Suffice it to say the Sartoris Technique works! I’ll be looking forward to using it again in September. What a difference a little know-how makes. As they say, “Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.” Everything has to be exactly right and then… WHAM. Most catches don’t require a new bait setup. WHAM. Again and again. That man thinks like a fish. And the current conditions in the Les Cheneaux allow for a satisfying reward, if you take the proper approach.

After our big catch we went into town to get tartar sauce for Marty and also visited the Hessel dock, concluding that the weather was right to take out Walt’s Sylvan, so we had a nice boat ride when we got back, circling Government Bay, motoring out the Yacht Entrance, and then coming back around Gravelly Island. Marty got his chance to take the wheel out in open water. We had the familiar geography all to ourselves and it was really enjoyable. As the sun set, it was a classic Barefoot’s Resort scenario… campfire, frisbee on the beach, marshmallow roast, a slice of Dana’s blueberry-peach pie with a scoop of Laurie’s homemade ice cream.

Packing luggage that night didn’t even feel so bad. What a week!

Marty hooked an eleven-inch channel cat yesterday morning while I took my conference call out in the boat, but otherwise, zero perch. Then I botched our precious panfish morsels in the kitchen when I mistook Dana’s sweetened whey powder for flour. Today’s luck was even worse, and, as Marty put it, it was a “demoralizing” day on the water. Meanwhile, Tom P is routinely bringing in 15-30 perch per day himself and his daughter Tracie was catching keepers with her little boy only 50 yards away, while we sat and watched. Hard to figure. I know there are several variables to juggle (plus Marty is a bit green and I spend a lot of time dealing with his tangles, etc.), but we should be doing better. We’ll keep trying. They’re out there. One foot-long perch jumped out of the water so close to me I should have grabbed it. All in all, no complaints. We’ve had some pretty nice days this week after the wind died down. Up to now, I’ve been getting in a good channel swim each day, but by the time we’d gone down to the lake today, the breeze had picked up again. I made an anxious crossing with loud, choppy waters that made it tough to hear any potential boats that might put me in danger. Later we watched “Master and Commander” on Marty’s console and it was even better than I remembered it, a truly great story with exceptionally well-developed characters. Seafaring in 1805 makes my dodging little motorboats look like a tame occupation. Why is it we men must find some element of daring to feel fully alive?

It’s early. Marty and I are getting up to go perch fishing. Dana is kindly making pancakes for us. It just dawned on me that I have a Bicycle Commission conference call this morning which I may need to join by cell from out on the lake. That’s too wild for me—I don’t even typically carry a mobile telephone in my “day job!”

Speaking of wild, I had a dream last night about getting stuck in an unknown J.J. Abrams TV series (from when he was younger) called “Submission,” and it was a phantasmagoric mix of “Baron Munchhausen,” Twyla Tharp, William F. Cody, and “Alias.” I thought, “Wow. This guy is a damn genius!” I had to laugh at myself when I woke up and realized it was a dream.

Marty and I had no luck with our fishing opener, but today we caught one yellow perch and a few sunfish (also called pumpkinseeds). They’re hard to clean. With so many activities back-to-back, I haven’t recorded nearly as much as I want to while it’s happening. The lad devised a diamond-shaped mile swim for me in Moscoe channel, so I accomplished that before we “struck out at the plate” during an expedition for northern pike tonight—at least the sunset was spectacular…

We had our gas oven go on the blink, so Dana used another one in a vacant cabin to roast a turkey breast and bake a blueberry pie. I helped roll out the top crust with a wine bottle. Marty hooked up his PS2, so now he can do his favorite thing that makes him happy, plus it will allow us to watch a DVD or two this week. Did my first channel swim before dinner last night—without fins because I forgot to carry them down to the lake. Even so, it has me thinking about a greater challenge—either speed or distance. Seeing people with perch in their baskets gets my desires going, so I need to run into town and get my license. Let the fishing commence!

Our Indianapolis arrival was behind schedule, but Dana, Marty, and I had a nice Mexican supper with Bruce. Said our goodbyes and headed north this morning, travelling through Ft. Wayne, which was much better driving than I-75. After a big delay in Lansing, getting groceries and trying to find the best route to Grayling, we finally arrived at Barefoot’s Resort before dark and settled into Walt’s old mobile home—not a stylish abode, but comfortable, bright, and more than roomy enough for the three of us. Finished “Payne Hollow” during the drive up. Harlan inspires me to my own individualism, and it’s my hope to find significant time for contacting my creative self over the next few days, with conceptual development for artwork and self-promotion that would be hard to sustain in an environment less conducive than this. That’s my idea of a good break from the typical routine.