Archive for the ‘Dadbo’ Category

A successful venison harvest at the farm

Monday, November 23rd, 2020

I arrived at the Valley on Saturday, opening day of modern gun, but one thing led to another, including a satisfying visit with old chum “Bilbo,” and I was still puzzling my way through scope adjustments into Sunday. With the help of a spare box of factory .44 magnum from James, I didn’t finish getting Dadbo’s Marlin sighted in to a level of satisfaction until late Monday morning. I admit to feeling like I had already botched the whole process to some degree. I went out in the afternoon to a couple of different spots that had concealed observation points facing hay fields, including Joan’s expanse where we had held our “safari.” No luck with either one before sundown. Did not see a single deer. For me, it seemed like being “in the right place at the right time” would rule my hunting time, because I gave up tree stands a while ago to adopt a more primitive, admittedly random approach.

The next morning I had the success for which I’d hoped. I went back to the same area before daybreak and chose a high point underneath a bushy cedar tree. By around 9:30am, I was stiff and a bit numb in the ankles and feet. I was ready to give up that location, find another for a spell, or try to flush something from cover. It was sunny now, but cold and breezy. I was standing up from my hiding place, getting ready to sling my rifle over my shoulder, and a medium-size buck came out of the brush near Robin Lick. I was right out in the open, but he didn’t spook. I couldn’t tell if he saw me. He was moving slowly across the field, left to right, up toward the road and wooded knob. It was about as slowly as a deer moves with any kind of deliberateness. For some reason, I was immediately convinced he wasn’t going to pause, so I got iron sights on him and shifted up to the telescopic cross-hairs. He was moving gently enough that my instinct was to take a shot, even though I had a corresponding doubt about it being wrong, or in bad form. All of this without really thinking. Ka-pow.

I had matched my motion to his pace, aiming just a bit in front of his fore-shoulder. He bolted for the road and leaped into the woods. A voice in my head cried, “Blew it. You blew it! Why weren’t you more patient?” Instantly dejected, I knew I’d better check the area at least. It was 75 to 80 yards away. I levered another cartridge and took a moment to pick up and pocket the empty one, putting everything back into safe status. I found what might have been a few spots of blood in the field. When I got up to the road, I saw more clearly a blood trail across the crushed stone. Needless to say, my attitude was transformed. And then I saw him in the woods, looking at me. There were multiple limbs and saplings between us, but the deer wasn’t that far away, certainly less than 50 yards. I had no idea how wounded he was. Should I try to shoot again or finally be patient?

For a second time I had the hammer back, safety off, and trigger in contact. He snorted loudly and took off up the knob, still apparently strong. I lost sight of him. There was significant blood when I examined his standing ground. Well, I had no choice but to begin tracking now. “Dadburnit, the Sweeneys have their dwelling site up there” was the next thing in my mind. I set off up the hillside, looking for more sign. I didn’t find it. I was pretty far up when I heard some thrashing behind me, off to my left side. There he was, less than the distance I had seen him climb. He must have collapsed and slid downhill, before or after I made the decision to follow up the knob. Or perhaps I just hadn’t heard it when I made my own noise clambering up off the road through the dried leaves. At any rate, I’d misjudged the trajectory. When I descended to his location, the rib cage was still heaving, with a bullet entry past the shoulder and heart zone, but it was now evident that the blood had come from the mouth and nose, not the body. Presently, the animal expired before I needed to end it for him. It seemed like barely a minute since practically giving up on the outing, but now I was looking down during the customary prayerful moment. Ever so quickly, the next two days were unfolding in my mind. I had pulled it off. My hunt was over for the season.
 
 
 
 
 
 

W W D D ?

Tuesday, June 30th, 2015

Putting words in the mouth of our Clan Founder is dangerous territory, and that is why we confine ourselves to the trove of thoughts he left for us in the archives of our family publication whenever we ponder what he would have done or what kind of leadership he would have provided to us in the face of a current dilemma. Nevertheless, I will dare to venture a bit into that territory and seek to characterize something he demonstrated profoundly, and, to my knowledge or recollection, never specifically spelled out in Clandestiny. The need for this arises from remarks at our recent Council that suggested we attempt to measure or take into account relative disparities in service to Grammo or Clan. I might be wrong, but it is important for people to know what I think. The Grandy-bo I remember would have shut down such discussions with a brand of finality that only he could introduce into family deliberations. Why do I believe this? Is it because he did that very thing on one or more occasions which now I cannot pinpoint? Perhaps so, but it is more likely that I hold this view based on the principles he put into evident practice through years of consistent behavior. He was a complex person, with many facets of high character, plus faults like any man, but there are three points of his nuclear-family conduct which stand out in memory and that are relevant to my concern:

He did not play favorites.

He did not hold a grudge.

He did not keep score.

We can only speculate about how he came to these convictions, or if they were an innate aspect of his personality, but they shaped our entire upbringing and also, I think, his vision of how the Clan could survive into the future without rancor, faction, and subterfuge. At its core, it is almost a kind of divine balance that eludes so many others in our society and world. It is a rejection of the extremist temptation. It is a hostility to the easy path that jumps to a false sense of justice and turns away from the more difficult work of discernment that integrates seemingly contrasting forces: the emotional and the rational, or the individual and the community. At the macro level, it is why so-called leaders allow ideologies to inhibit solutions that are both heartfelt and intelligent. Nearly all of them have lost sight of how the microcosm of the healthy
 family provides the key. They fail to see how the 
capitalist, private enterprise approach

 can become a corrosive force without integrity and compassion, or the humanistic, communitarian approach can slide toward the collective repression of individual destinies. Of course, one could choose to frame these ideas in spiritual or religious language, but I like to remind myself that although my father was a religious man, and was qualified to teach Roman Catholic doctrine, he had the great attribute of being able to express himself without a resort to denominational concepts, or even traditionally Christian terminology. Maybe that was the reason he could communicate “heavy” ideas to a wide variety of individuals in such an accessible, universal manner. That is why he would gain the respect of young and old, or priests, generals, teachers, executives, and farmers.

There is another principle he emphasized. He may have spelled this one out, somewhere in the volumes of Clandestiny, but it is always timely to recall the tone of his voice when he stated:

Fool me once, shame on me. Fool me twice, shame on you.

To me, he was saying that everyone deserves a second chance, with the implication that a first mistake reflects to some degree on the capacity of the guardian, leader, or mentor. After the support of a second chance, if a repeat of the same mistake occurs, the so-called “tough love” would kick in. Accountability now falls to the author of the error. All one can do is pray and let others experience the consequences of their actions. They are still loved. They are not cast out. They are, however, left to bear the brunt of their poor choices and the rejection of the support system that provided initial help. The more harsh lesson must now be learned. It is a difficult thing for everyone involved, but there are times when intervening to protect loved ones from themselves is the lesser form of compassion. It is easy in such situations to ask the question, “What Would Dadbo Do?” (WWDD), and so much harder to let his example infuse our own judgment. And I do not mean to suggest that Mombo did not reflect and reinforce all of these principles in her own more quiet way. What we would now give to bring these issues before her and consult a lifetime of wisdom that is no longer available! It is an ongoing sorrow that we are required to bear. 
We shall, and do our best each day.

Look! It’s a bird . . .

Monday, January 26th, 2015

Intelligence-gathering drones to mimic the look and behavior of bumblebees, hummingbirds, and bluefin tuna? Kiddoes, this will not be your Grandy-bo’s Cold War.

March Exercise IX ~ day seven

Friday, March 7th, 2014

I flew solo for the first time with AM duties for Mombo. I think I finally know the ropes. Although the progression continues (at a snail’s pace, thank heaven), each time with her is more satisfying than the last. As important as social interaction is for her, sometimes it is good just to be together, comfortable in our mutual silence. She will break it with a recollection (how they forced me to eat peas, or how I almost walked off a cliff in the fog on the heights of Capri), or I will ask her, “What are you thinking about?” Dementia does not mean that the mind is not active. Jerome arrived with Juliana, who was very sweet today and made drawings for me, and then they left with Mombo and her gear. She was apprehensive about being around their dogs, based on the recent mishap. The nurse took the bandage off yesterday and the wound is almost healed. I could tell that Mombo did not want to leave, but I told her to be a trooper, which she was already. Perhaps she put it all into the context of Lent. The spring-like weather was a perfect opportunity to work outside. An opossum was scavenging in the compost pit when I went over to empty the kitchen container, so I put it out of business, permanently. No, not as Jim Phelps would have contrived, but with a pitchfork — Grandybo style! When I was up in the orchard pruning the apple trees, I saw my first crocus blooms in front of his grave. He loved this time of year, and so do I. March on.

Ninety years ago . . .

Wednesday, April 17th, 2013

This would be Dadbo’s 90th birthday, had he not been lost to us nearly 20 years ago. For the rest of my life I shall create pictures of him. As I’ve said before, I can’t know what he’d think of that, but I suspect his feelings would be mixed. Modest enough to be uncomfortable with the practice, he might have approved, on the other hand, of my using his image as a mechanism for continuous artistic investigation. It’s natural for me to think about him on his birthday and how enhanced my life would be if I still had access to his wisdom, evolving perspective, and keen sense of leadership. Whether we comprehend it or not, each of us has a meaningful influence by our very presence in the drama of existence, affecting our world and others in countless ways. Perhaps our departures from the stage will be less profound than his, depending on how each of us has played our part. When one is as beloved as my namesake, the absence is a deeply felt void which sends wide ripples across the surface of family life. And so, it is a day for me to pay tribute, in the springtime he cherished, and to declare that I shall love him forever.
 

Variations on a Theme by Grandybo, Part Eight
mixed-media collage by J A Dixon, 2006
collection of Alyxandria Kenner

Gaps Not Bridged

Saturday, April 13th, 2013

“Never lose sight of love and kindness for family, Clan, and friends. Family comes first and many times we make or seem to make it last.”
— Grandybo

Why is the sweetness and sorrow so ever-present, tipping this way and that, like the child’s teeter-totter of oldenday?

Dana’s splendid birthday celebration with friends has been bookended for me by the deaths of my Uncle Jack and Jonathan Winters. That both of these men departed within a week of each other feels strange to me, because I always associated one to the other in my mind. They were close in years lived, went to high school in the Dayton area, and both reached the prime of youth wanting to be cartoonists, just as I had done. Saying farewell to Uncle Jack comes, of course, with a deeper sense of loss, but I shall miss the unique, zany humor that made Winters so famous. Both men had a zest for life so characteristic of their great generation. I’m not aware that they knew each other, or had ever met, or that any of the Seitz brothers had met Winters, for that matter. It’s just that I had him linked to my uncle for my own odd reasons. Perhaps I was picking up on something that transcends coincidence, if such a thing even exists, but that is the substance of another journal entry, is it not?

Pop Seitz delayed giving his name, John, until the last of eleven children. (An act of humility?) When each had a first-born son, neither Uncle Jack nor my own dad would wait. (An act of pride?) Although Aunt Betty always called her husband by the name ‘John,’ he was always called ‘Jack’ within his family. In much the same way, the Dixons called the namesake of John by a different name— ‘Ed’ or ‘Eddie,’ the diminutive of his middle name. You may find it peculiar that I focus on these aspects, but it just happens to be the way in which I think.

Although I can empathize with Aunt Betty’s family as they endure the loss of a father, I cannot begin to comprehend how Mombo must feel to lose her “kid brother” and the only sibling who had remained among the original eleven. Art, Ginny, and Jack had always been a trio, and her early memories never fail to tie the threesome closely together. When I think of Uncle Jack, I think of his enthusiasm. If a subject was worthy of his attention, he was never half-hearted about it. We shared more than a name, but also talents and interests. Nonetheless, he was someone with whom I spent precious little time, as was so true with all my Seitz uncles. No matter how much one of my mom’s brothers seemed to like me, I could never make the proper effort to correspond or really connect. A generation should not be such a difficult gap to bridge, especially when there is respect, admiration, and affection. I’ve been blessed with more fine uncles than anyone could ever expect to have in one life. Studying and appreciating them from afar, I have squandered nearly every opportunity to discover the true man and to know him as a mentor or friend. This is the path of least resistance, I suppose. It’s probably what Grandybo was trying to impart in so many of his Clandestiny writings.

I once had an idea to create a gift— a strip of panels in the style of Milton Caniff called “Jack and the Renegades.” It always seemed too frivolous or too ambitious, depending on my state of mind. Today I realize that undoubtedly my time and effort was spent instead on something ambitious or frivolous that means nothing to me now. And yet, the cartoonist in me still lives, and has probably been kicking inside since I first found out that Uncle Jack was a cartoonist, too.

My heart is with him today, with his descendants, with my mother, and with everyone who loved him.

And this, too . . .

Sunday, April 29th, 2012

 
 
This image goes well with the one from 1981 below. What was going through my father’s mind, now that he had a baby boy — the third in line with the name of John Dixon?
 

Image for a birthday . . .

Tuesday, April 17th, 2012

Clan Valley ~ the place to go . . .

Sunday, November 27th, 2011

Out of the blue — a rare eagle-eye view!

Recently I had the great fortune to enjoy a flight in a small plane with a pilot who is a fellow bicyclist. Earlier in the summer he mentioned that I should go up with him, but I forgot about it until I received his invitation by email. I was excited to join him, and I was prepared to share whatever he wanted to do. Unexpectedly, as soon as we departed the airport vicinity above Junction City, he asked me what I wanted to see. And so I happily guided him to a destination in the Casey County knobs — for any red-blooded member of the Dixon Clan, it was unquestionably the “place to go.”

This is the part of the story where clearly I should provide some kind of apt description of just how magnificent that experience proved to be. Instead, I hope that a few pictures will capture the perspective better than anything I might write. I hadn’t been in a position to do any aerial photography for at least 15 years or more. At that time, I had borrowed superior camera equipment and was in an aircraft which enabled me to hang out an open window with Dana clutching my belt. Because I was on the clock for a client that day, the idea of heading toward Blue Bank Road wasn’t in the cards. This time around, I only had our inadequate digital, and the plane windows were picking up a lot of glare, so I did my best to grab some decent angles in the time available, falling short of the desired “full coverage.”

There was also a significant degree of turbulence that morning, and when my friend offered me the controls, I declined, believing that the constant bumpiness would deprive me of any true “feel” for whatever modest adjustments I would be brave enough to make. Nevertheless, one can’t ascend in a small craft without being gripped by the wonder of flight. We were soaring with the land, just as pioneering aviators had done. As we circled through Marion County, past Forkland and into the Boyle County I had crisscrossed on a bike for nearly 20 years, my “sense of place” shifted abruptly from a ground-based familiarity to an eagle-eye awareness. I was struck with the thought of my father leaving behind his life as a pilot, giving up flying after he had known these same awesome perceptions far more profoundly than me. Why? Was it the unpleasant “baggage” from too many wartime hours in the air? Was it the power of youth’s love for field, river bottom, and the woodland creatures of a surface world? Or was it something else entirely?

For John Edward, there must surely have been times during that first decade after the Pacific tour when he faced an opportunity to reclaim the sky. A different vision must have taken hold not long after he came home—a vision of family and fatherhood that had no meaningful role for skills he had learned, taught, and then relied upon to survive a hazardous duty. Perhaps he had read Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, the famous French writer and pioneer of flight who was lost over the Mediterranean in 1944. Of Saint-Exupéry, David McCullough says it best for me:

Central to all he wrote was the theme of responsibility. In The Little Prince, it is the fox, finally, that tells the Little Prince what really matters in life, by reminding him of the flower, the single rose, he had cared for at home… “Men have forgotten this truth,” says the fox. “But you must not forget it. You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed. You are responsible for your rose.” Writing of his friend Guillaumet, an intrepid mail pilot, in Wind, Sand and Stars, Saint-Exupéry said that moral greatness derives more from a sense of responsibility than from courage or honesty. “To be a man is, precisely, to be responsible.”

Responsibility. Any of us would be challenged to find another word that better fit the man we knew as Grandy-bo, Dadbo, Eddie … that handsome young man of the open sky who would return to earth and become the founder of our Clan.
 
 

Aerials taken on Sunday morning, November 6, 2011.
Click photos to enlarge.

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This is Clan Valley — the place to go . . .

clanheartland333.jpg

The heartland of our Clan, the vision of a man . . .

bluebankfarm333.jpg

The Blue Bank Farm and family cemetery . . .

clanheartyard333.jpg

The “Heartyard” and home to our Clan mother . . .

Realm of Greystone

The Realm of Greystone includes Knob End . . .

New Cabinhood

The former Cabinhood recently changed hands . . .

The Shire

The Shire — newest addition to Clan holdings . . .

The Human Condition

Saturday, March 12th, 2011

monarch_strip.jpg

March Exercise —day twelve— Thematically, the best motion pictures often can be summed up in one word: Determination. Togetherness. Manipulation. Fortitude. Delusion. And, with the film that took the Oscar— Friendship. At least, that’s what I took away from The King’s Speech last night. Both men, in entirely different ways, put everything on the line in loyalty to their deepening friendship. Is it the highest form of love? I don’t know. Perhaps. There can be true love without friendship, but never true friendship without love. For some reason, it calls to mind the story of the split that took place between my Dad and a man that was his neighbor when I was a child. When we moved away and my Dad’s life became even more complicated, this man gave him an ultimatum. He’d had enough of making the trip to visit my Dad if the effort was not reciprocated. An impasse. My Dad was raising seven kids that he expected to be college bound. He was married. He was fighting the Cold War at work. His friend was retired, divorced, with a grown daughter. Nobody knows the actual words exchanged, but it resulted in my Dad’s decision. Something like, “If that’s the way you feel, then don’t come back.” He never did. I’ve always seen it as a clash of incompatible viewpoints. “If you were a true friend, you would make time for me. You would want to be fair, and to preserve the bond we have.” “If you were a true friend, you would appreciate my life and not make demands. You would not keep score.” Naturally, I saw it Dadbo’s way. He had other friends who went the extra mile. In turn, he was generous and loyal to them until each went to his grave. For me, the two most fascinating questions in the human condition: What is unconditional love? What is true friendship?

Today’s sight bite— The huge crow, sitting on the street lamp bulb —c-l-i-c-k— and scolding me with his imperious “Haw! Haw!”

Tomorrow— Rifle match preparation, topped off with pure escapism . . .

Life lived

Saturday, March 27th, 2010

March Exercise V —day twenty-seven— Nothing could feel finer than the cool air under a warm sun, deep in conversation with my grandson, applying the seasonal mindset to some scheduled yard work. Yesterday I paused in my town walk to chat with the nurseryman from Harrodsburg who provided the library’s new landscaping. We shared our pleasure at the coming of spring, and I silently contemplated how fortunate he was to spend most of his time out of doors. Today I savored a few hours in his lifestyle and then logged a 16-miler on Hakkoch in the late light. It’s a wonder to be part of everything coming fully alive again, and this realization proves that all my fathers still exist within me.

Today’s sight bite— Tulip shoots, lilac buds, and jonquil brigades —c-l-i-c-k— March is going out like a lamb!

Previously on M-Ex— Endeavor to persevere . . . (3/27/07)

Tomorrow— More than one Sunday can possibly accommodate . . .

Kentucky March

Eating a novel Dadbo style . . .

Wednesday, September 2nd, 2009

I took more than a mild interest after learning Wes was a dedicated reader of Cormac McCarthy, but didn’t act on it until Bruce brought home The Crossing from Half Priced Books. Lordy. Haven’t let this kind of undertow take me down since I read everything I could get my hands on by Paul Watkins. Hollywood’s fixation aside, the man can flat out write.

Eliot’s lunker

Tuesday, May 12th, 2009

Cousin Dan let me know about a picture of his nephew Eliot (with an impressive smallmouth) that’s currently featured at the Bob Coan site. It’s been a while since I saw the lad, and—wow—is that generation maturing fast or what? Tom C responded, “That reminds me of the time Uncle Ed caught a big catfish in the Stillwater. Then he distracted me and put the fish on my hook and threw it back in the water; I was about eight.”

Dan thinks Tom’s recollection of my dad is a good reminder of “the kind of guy he was.”

It is, indeed.

Nice “hawg,” E.D.

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Vacancy of the heart

Friday, April 17th, 2009

dixon_gbo2.jpgFor the rest of my life I shall draw and paint pictures of my father. Of course, I can’t say I know what he’d think of that, but I suspect his feelings would be mixed. Modest enough to be uncomfortable with the practice, he probably would have approved, on the other hand, of my using his image as a mechanism for continuous artistic improvement. It’s natural for me to think about him on his birthday, what he would be like in his 80s, or how different my life might be if I still had access to his evolving wisdom, pragmatic perspective, and keen sense of leadership. Whether we comprehend it or not, each of us has a meaningful influence by our very presence in the drama of existence, affecting our world and others in countless ways. Perhaps our departure from the stage will be less profound, depending on how we have played our part. If one is as beloved as my namesake, the absence is a deeply felt void which sends ongoing ripples across the surface of family life.

Sabbath lamb

Sunday, March 8th, 2009

March exercise—day eight— Dadbo would have relished seizing a weekend like this for a constructive jump on spring, and now, as I type this entry after dark, that pleasant bubble of exotic air is being shoved aside by severe weather. Dana and I enjoyed our morning walk past the marina, out to the abandoned island resort, but we shared a desire to have hiked in a setting which might’ve done better justice to the unseasonably warm day. Nevertheless, the steep hills gave our hearts an overdue workout, in addition to the panoramic views of Herrington Lake.

Today’s sight bite— The squirrel, positioned under our damaged porch eave —c-l-i-c-k— balanced on a rotting slat like a springboard diver.

Tomorrow— Volunteer consultations kick off a week of diverse projects…

Various & Sundry, part eighty-one

Thursday, November 13th, 2008

 

Pearallel Universe, 2007

Pearallel Universe
John Andrew Dixon
Mixed media collage
25 x 21 inches, 2007
Collection of Saint Joseph Health System

— Month of October workout totals: Swim-3; Bike-3; Run-1; Lift-1; Yoga-0; Pilates-3; Lupus Drills-1

To the heart of the matter
— I believe the latest recommendation for adequate exercise is 30 minutes a day, 4-5 days a week. Although my workouts are longer than that, the totals are falling short by a long shot. Can I get the daily habit back to preserve my health?

More library deprivation
— It’s been nearly a year since the library hauled itself off to the edge of town, and, although I knew it would be a bit of a hardship, I didn’t expect this level of low-grade suffering. Man, had I ever come to rely on that nearby environment for a periodic dose of mind-restoring tranquility—the kind that is unique to a truly fine reading room. I’m thoroughly impressed with the design for the new wing, but Karl told me recently that construction was three-to-four months behind schedule, so now I have no choice except to hang on until spring. I must have that extraordinary place available out my front door again or I shall go mad!

Sweet Owen County
— On Halloween I made my return to Larkspur for another printmaking retreat. It was a special time with creative people whose friendship I value more each year. An exhibition at the vineyards was mounted to honor Wesley’s work, and I was invited to include four of my wood engravings, since he’s had such a profound influence on my development in that medium. I sold one of my remaining proofs of Waiting for Joe, in addition to an unframed print of Penn’s Store, the latter to a collector interested in acquiring examples of my final edition numbers. Now all I have to do is print more limited editions of blocks that I’ve only proofed so far. I managed to complete a small block of a tiger, but was unable to finish during the workshop my larger, more complex engraving of a paddock scene I shot the previous week at Keeneland. It’s my first attempt at engraving a human figure, plus I had to include a horse and a stone wall, too, of course. What was I thinking? When I get it done, I’ll spend a day in Gray’s shop and print another block or two as well. Dana and Lee came up to the winery on Friday night and got to meet Wes and hear Juanita perform. Make no mistake about it—one can develop significant friendships at every stage of life.

Feeling a trifle exposed
— County employees demolished the little retail cottage next door to “put up a parking lot,” and it’s as if somebody yanked my gym shorts down. Whatever meager backyard ambiance we possessed is now lost. Instead, we have more noise, urban light pollution, and litter. I remember the year we held an open house and backyard gathering for Brendan’s graduation from Centre. If I’m not mistaken, that was the summer Carol and Bob came to the Brass Band Festival and spent time with us in the backyard. There are circumstances when a setting is at its peak and one rarely knows it at the time.

Custom built for a guy like me
— In a perfect world, Gene Wolfe might have contacted me to ask, “What type of a story idea would you like for me to develop that would please your singular peculiarities?” He didn’t have to. He wrote Pirate Freedom for his own reasons, and I became the grateful beneficiary without ever having to request “an absorbing tale of spiritual contemplation, time travel, and the golden age of piracy along the Spanish Main.” Unbelievable!

Dr. Quest’s pear-a-power ray
— I finally sold the mixed media piece I called Pearallel Universe. It was completed around the time of the original “March Experiment,” was part of my KOSMOS show, and made it out to New Mexico and back for the SLMM anniversary (but not without sustaining some damage to the frame, which the Albuquerque Museum people were kind enough to repair). It was purchased last week by Saint Joseph Health System to hang at its new ambulatory care center in Jessamine County. A hearty tip o’ the hat to LexArts!

My annual knob stalk
— My pals David and Greg are the sort of knowledgeable gun aficionados that know a bargain when they see one, so I was stunned when they gave me the gift of a 50-caliber muzzleloading rifle they just couldn’t pass up. When I recovered from the shock of their generosity, they taught me how to safely operate it—just in time for me to test it out during our recent Clan gathering, which happened to be the lawful period for using primitive weapons to hunt white-tails. I came as close to the moment of truth as I would that weekend when I cocked the hammer early Sunday morning, as three does crossed Robin Lick and made their way across a hay field, on the garden side of the Irrylynn gully. But something spooked the lead deer about 75 yards from my spot beside a round bale—my scent, the motion of my aim, or perhaps the pattern in my profile. She snorted an alert, danced a bit, and took off in the opposite direction, never presenting me an acceptable shot. As I say, that was the nearest I came to using my muzzleloader while I was in the Valley. Three weeks later I found myself back at Simpson Knob with my Marlin 1894S carbine, full of optimism for a freezer harvest, but I never observed a single deer in the woods, and neither of my two friends had the opportunity for a shot. This gives me a couple more options for success—this weekend at Blue Bank with the 44-Rem. magnum, and another December time slot with the Hawken-style that I’ve decided to name “Girty.” As much as I want to bring home some venison this year, there is nothing like having an excuse to be in the wild knob-lands at daybreak, whatever the outcome.

You’ll never walk alone
— Originally, our Hurray Day events were planned to coincide with the fifteenth anniversary of Dadbo’s passing, but we still wanted to have a family commemoration, even though the quarterly gathering was moved to the previous weekend. I was preoccupied with my tedious progress on the stone flue in the Hall, but I knew Joan was thinking about what to do, which is so typical of her desire to properly plan this kind of thing. We were listening to some old music and the tribute wasn’t on my mind when I suggested she experience Judy Garland’s stirring rendition of the inspirational song from Carousel. I’d never heard that version before, and Joan was out of the room when the CD track played. Had it been up to me, I don’t think I would’ve made the connection, but she realized it would be the perfect accompaniment to our outdoor service. I enjoyed spending some “palsy time” with my “big sis” for those two days, and it reminded me of how distinctive a life-long bond we share.

V & S

Find your place in the sun

Tuesday, July 8th, 2008

Hey, look, I probably get a buzz seeing famous people as much as the average guy, but I take absolutely no interest in celebrities just because they happen to qualify for the description. On the other hand, I really do like the stars I respect, especially if my admiration for them is rooted in the “silver age” of television, and I’d probably step on my Yorkie to shake the hand of Peter Graves.markandlucas.jpg

When I learned that Johnny Crawford was coming back to Danville, I knew I had to meet him and experience his current style of entertainment. Like Kurt Russell and Ron Howard, he was a child star who kept himself on the rails, and he went forward to do an impressive range of cool things in his life as an artist, athlete, and entrepreneur. Most of all, he held true to his earliest passion—music.

If Dana didn’t fully appreciate how much I was looking forward to hearing Johnny’s vintage dance band, it was because I tried my best to avoid behaving like a groupie beforehand, but I think she understood when I dug out one of Dadbo’s old bow ties and taught myself how to tie it. It’s been quite awhile since the two of us had a nice picture taken, so I was tickled when Joan and Caitlan agreed to document our night out. Thanks, ladies!

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The extra time for pictures cost us the opportunity to pick out a choice table at the Playhouse indoor theater, but I managed to discover an empty love seat near the stage. It was a fine spot to watch Crawford re-enact the period manners of a band leader from the 1920s and 1930s. We were treated to a superb group of musicians crawfordsinger.jpghired locally to become his vintage orchestra for the evening, including Miles Osland, Dave Henderson, and Rick Cook. Watching Crawford’s seat-of-the-pants coordination was a delight, and the entire effect was a testament to the sheer professionalism of everyone on stage. On top of that, the “CD Release Party” aspect seemed to put the star of the show in a heightened mood, and his vocals and repartee at the microphone were thoroughly entertaining. I think Dana would agree the only way it could have been more enjoyable is if I’d spent less time with the bow tie and a bit more with remembering how to do the fox trot. Maybe next time; I hope he’s invited back for an encore performance.

Years ago, when I fell in love with Danville’s brass band festival, I gained a new, profound regard for the quality of American band music from the mid nineteenth century to the era of The Great War. I also came to understand how much work it takes to resurrect all of the instrumentation to recreate a period sound. This summer, Johnny Crawford shared with our community the same preservationist spirit, and it makes me think he may be emerging as one of the country’s most important historians of our popular music, salvaging lost orchestrations and discarded arrangements of favorite dance tunes from that unique period between two World Wars. As David McCullough reminds us, Americans from a different period of our history were less similar to us than we like to believe. They lived differently, and they thought differently. It was the age of radio. Everyone aspired to be a musician, if they didn’t already sing or play an instrument. All popular music was music meant for dancing, and if people didn’t go out to dance, they probably were at a motion picture to watch others dance. There was a spirit in America that observers such as David Gelernter have told us is all but lost. Well, perhaps so, but not if Johnny Crawford has anything to say about it.

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Don’t go ’round moping, hoping happiness will come.
That’s not the way; it doesn’t pay.
If you want happiness, help yourself to some.
Why don’t you try to take life the way I do:

Let the whole world sigh or cry,
I’ll be high in the sky,
Up on top of a rainbow,
Sweeping the clouds away.

I don’t care what’s down below.
Let it rain or let it snow.
I’ll be up on a rainbow,
Sweeping the clouds away.

I have learned life’s lesson: fighters who always win
Are those who can take it right on the chin—and grin.

So I shout to everyone:
“Find your place in the sun,
Up on top of a rainbow,
Sweeping the clouds away!”

Various & Sundry, part seventy-seven

Friday, July 4th, 2008

— Month of June workout totals: Swim-1; Bike-7; Run-2; Lift-1; Yoga-0; Pilates-0; Lupus Drills-1

Just when I stopped believing in the impossible mission…

Jim Phelps lives!

And so, finally, I became an artist when I grew up…
— The Brady portrait commission is done. There were many times during the course of the work when I questioned what I’d gotten myself into. I’ve always told myself I wouldn’t try to paint a likeness without a quality reference image. An accomplished portrait artist once advised me to avoid subjects who were deceased. On top of breaking those rules, I faced creating a full-color image from a black and white photo. “All’s well that ends well,” as they say, so eventually the creative torment and restless nights will be forgotten—until I get myself into the next pickle. Hey, I should look at it another way: If I can solve this puzzler and survive to reflect on it, the next project should prove to be easier. Sounds good in theory, but the important thing is that the recipient is thrilled with the result, and she called me again this morning to say so. Well, isn’t that what creating art is all about?

Major adventures in a time-machine collage…
— Dana gave this title to my wild dream after I described it to her this morning. Forgive me for describing it to you, too. After a crazy silent-movie chase through the restaurant zone with brother Fron, I found myself on a train with my Aunt Sis when she was young. It appeared to be some sort of troop train. As a soldier who looked like Gary Cooper told stories, I saw a uniformed, twenty-year-old Eddie (Dadbo) come into the passenger car dragging his canvas suitcase, with well-oiled, carefully combed hair and a grim expression. When I tried to “rewind” the sequence, I couldn’t control the timing, so the scene before me changed to a relaxed, fifty-something Dadbo packing for a business trip, but he wasn’t able to see me. I started to wake up, and, naturally, I couldn’t reverse the progression before the entire thing was lost.

Back to normal (whatever that is)…
— Bruce is home again after his latest ordeal. By and by, he seems to be in less pain and is able to climb stairs without difficulty. Joan and Caitlan stopped to wish him well on their way back from Hawaii. Dana and I were heading out the door, to hear the Johnny Crawford Vintage Dance Band at Pioneer Playhouse. Because we were all hosed down and ready for a night out, they took some digitals of us on the front porch steps, and I hope we get the pictures soon, so I can make a better entry here about a satisfying, memorable performance.

(Happy Birthday, Uncle Sam!)

V & S

Tonight’s essential triviality

Thursday, June 12th, 2008

• Composer Earle Hagen just died of natural causes, a few days short of his 90th birthday. Hagen did orchestrations for Rodgers and Hammerstein and major Hollywood movies before he hit it big with television music. I guess my favorite is the theme he created for I-Spy. Better known for The Andy Griffith Show and That Girl, he will nonetheless be remembered in the annals of Clan Hayride Lore for writing that obscure crowd-pleaser, Rango.

• Now that I’m thinking about television theme songs, I finally realized why I like the intro for Firefly so much: Joss Whedon simply lifted the best musical attributes of Tennessee Stud. All artists steal from each other, right? A long-standing tradition.

• Hmmm . . . now I’m beginning to wonder if Brendan swiped the 8-note melody of A Grandy-bo Christmas Surprise for his new podcast series.

From San Antone to the Rio Grande,
On mountain peak or desert sand,
Every outlaw feared the hand of danger,
This Texas Ranger—
Rango, Rango, Ra-ang-go-o-oh!

Happy Birthday, G-bo…

Thursday, April 17th, 2008

My dad would have been 85 today. I’m not sure exactly why I choose to contemplate that, or perhaps it’s not a conscious choice, but rather a natural, reflexive thought—when the birthday of someone I miss this much sneaks up on me. The older I get, the more complexity I confront when I think about the ways his influence has affected me. I tell myself I would’ve surely arrived at the level of intimacy he sought from me, if indeed I was helping to celebrate his 85th birthday today…gbo.jpg then I stop to look at how significantly his departure has also shaped me, and I don’t even know who I would actually be if he was still here, 15 years after his final birthday. I had my cholesterol checked today and it was 150, due, I like to think, in large measure to the changes I began to make after he died, knowing I carried all the same cardiac risk factors and predispositions. Would I have changed my lifestyle so dramatically if I hadn’t lost him? It’s a question that can’t be answered. It’s probably a question that needn’t be asked. Anyway, I say to myself, “He would certainly admire your consistency in taking care of yourself physically.” That notion helps me stay motivated. He would want me to overcome the pitfalls of our mutual heritage, and to make the most of our best genes. Nevertheless, he would have equal concern for all of the “me” that isn’t physical. Staying in salubrious condition without a mentor is easy, compared to finding my way to serenity without a father, but that’s just the way the bunny thumps…

Various & Sundry, part seventy-two

Saturday, March 1st, 2008

My log is currently suspended for the annual March Experiment.

— Month of February workout totals: Swim-3; Bike-2; Run-3; Lift-2; Yoga-0; Pilates-3; Lupus-1

— If I accomplish nothing else over the next 30 days, I must find “the means.” I won’t try to define exactly what that means (hey, is that a pun?), but most of you know what I’m talking about. It can look like ferocity, but mere ferocity is no match for the kind of unrelenting competitive intensity that Uncle Don held out as mark of the victorious spirit. Well, maybe I did just define it. All I know right now is that I need to regain the source of it, and the man who coined the term is in the hospital and probably dying. He is my Godfather, and from him I inherit the challenge of “the means.” James and I were talking about him this morning when we accompanied Joan to inspect Joe’s Riverland. It was a wonderful outing that combined the gentle Lamb of March and memories of our lost Clansmen with an enduring camaraderie that is too rarely enjoyed (and I don’t mean scarce, but rare). I’m so glad we did it.

— Speaking of Joan: she uncovered this NPR feature that makes me think we might have been among the last of the “Oldenday Players.” This closing thought sums up the sad, ironic state of current affairs:

…in the rush to give children every advantage—to protect them, to stimulate them, to enrich them—our culture has unwittingly compromised one of the activities that helped children most. All that wasted time was not such a waste after all.

— Wow, did I ever miss the mark at the end of January when I failed to predict that the majority of Democrats were finally ready to kick their Clinton habit! Rather than Senator Obama’s campaign suffering from too many losses in too many states, it appears that the exact reverse has taken place, and now Hillary faces the need to complete an urgent end-zone bomb to stay in contention. Too bad that more conservative Republicans didn’t rally to Romney sooner and offer to the nation the kind of clear ideological choice that a Barack-vs-Mitt face-off would provide.

— Dadbo once gave us an item of firm advice: never work through a general contractor. He learned that lesson the hard way when he and Mombo built our house on the Shoop Road lot. The truth of his warning was born out last week by my experience with one of our clients who’s completing a new dental office. Due to the construction manager’s faulty information and his cover-my-butt attitude, what could have been a perfectly handsome interior wall treatment will fall short of what we worked to achieve on our client’s behalf. It makes me wonder how many other compromises they were forced to swallow in order to get the doors open on time. But maybe I’m missing the whole point—they did what they needed to do to achieve a massive relocation, with a net gain of significant improvement. What’s wrong with me? Done is better than perfect!

— On Saturday, March 8th, the Community Arts Center will hold its annual benefit and live art auction. According to the Center’s promotional material, the artwork is from some of the area’s top artists, and I can’t disagree with that, even if the list includes your humble correspondent. The online photo gallery offers sneak previews of artwork that will be on the block, and they did a good job of putting together that feature for the Website. The mixed-media collage I donated, Then Sings My Soul, was created nearly a year ago for KOSMOS: Discovery and Disclosure.

— Go back another year to the first March-X and that’s when I helped organize some local cyclists that would form the B.I.K.E. | Boyle County group. On March 11th, the local organization devoted to cleaning up and preserving Clark’s Run (C.R.E.E.C.) will host a community forum that will focus on trails and greenways. B.I.K.E. has not only promoted the idea of safer, more bicycle-friendly streets and roads in Boyle County, but has always hoped to collaborate with community partners as a catalyst for planning a network of shared-use byways and connecting trails.jadixonkbbc.jpg Yesterday I finished a draft of our comprehensive recommendations to kick-start the development of a community master plan that envisions much more than the construction of a few off-street recreational trails. The process will take leadership, commitment, and years of effort. Available funding will go to the localities which combine a strategic vision with constituent support. It’s a challenging goal, but many places have already done it. Some of you know that from your travels and vacations. Those communities improved the quality of life for their populations and, at the same time, attracted visitors, new residents, and employers. Can we do it here? Stay tuned. Bye, everybody!

For the despondent, every day brings trouble;
for the happy heart, life is a continual feast.
          —Proverbs 15:15 (New Living Translation)

V & S

The “kk dilemma” plus another March-X

Friday, February 29th, 2008

I think I’ve accepted that happiness is not a state, but an event that should be savored each time it occurs. May we all be blessed with many regular occurrences, and learn how to pursue their arrival.

Kyle is right, and probably Caitlan knows it deep within, but part of coming to terms with that eternal “kk dilemma” is understanding that we aren’t called to perfect ourselves with a single endeavor or cycle of accomplishment. It’s more about the will to strive—and the steady commitment to a more difficult path—than it is the measure of any product at intervals along the way.

There’s one thing this graybeard has learned—the key is Balance. But, as I’ve so often stated, “Easier said than done.”

I recall a time in my own studies when I received the second of my two most treasured letters from Dadbo. The first was when I was an adolescent, but this second note was in response to my angst at the tremendous rigor of my undergraduate program. I could dig out the correspondence and include a quotation, but I won’t. In some ways, the message that sticks with me now (and always) remains more profound. He took time to reinforce for me the old wisdom of “all work and no play.” It was a lesson about Balance—a lesson that he was still learning at an age (then) that was a bit less than mine (now). Within a relatively short time, he would suffer his first heart attack. Easier said than done.

Nobody worth listening to will tell us the journey toward balanced self-refinement is an easy one. I’ve had my periods of 60-to-70-hour work weeks, as well as my indulgent—and ultimately pointless—excursions into doubt, fear, and denial. I guess it’s part of the terrain, or it was for me. Sometimes there is no discernible outward difference between compulsive depletion and focused commitment, or between apathetic procrastination and therapeutic relaxation. I hate to admit it, but it’s not always inwardly apparent either, although it usually is. The conscience is rarely fooled. Nevertheless, the intuition of the heart is not always equipped to pinpoint the nature of its discomfort, and can only signal that something doesn’t feel right. We must continue to train our faculties of spirit and intellect to solve the puzzle of personal destiny. And, take it from me—the whole thing can still look like a miserable mess without the proper physical component. It’s quite amazing how a brisk walk, a long bicycle ride, or a mile in the pool can provide a fresh perspective on most troubling situations (not to mention the value of sound nutrition and a good night’s rest).

My mind is running this course in part because I’m using Leap Day to prepare for a third annual March Experiment. I’ve decided to pull away from the online journal to enable a more sustained level of active concentration. Whatever can be temporarily set aside for intensified focus needs to be put on hold during the exercise. I’m beginning to get excited about it, feeling the positive anticipation that comes with diving into the regimen, much like putting on the wet suit for a Lake Huron swim, realizing it will be cold, but concerned more with the determination it will take, after the initial plunge and past the inevitable yelling of an underwater “fuck,” to gain the efficient forward momentum required to cross the channel safely, with no thought for my turning back, because mental defeat is unthinkable—no obstacles exist but the outworn patterns of consciousness.

Nothing is impossible to the man who can will.
                                    —Mirabeau

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