Archive for the ‘Hunting’ 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.
 
 
 
 
 
 

Self-imposed deer hunting marathon

Tuesday, November 20th, 2012

Day One — Friday
A spike-head buck came down from Widow’s Knob behind me and took off back into the woods when I turned to get a look. I should have been more patient. Later, a doe came across Safariland from Robin Lick in my direction, and it seemed to be staring directly at me. When it turned slightly, I put the cross-hairs on and fired. She promptly pranced right back down into the thicket by the creek. Did I miss? After a 90-minute search with no blood sighted, I concluded that I had indeed. When I got back to the barnyard I decided to test fire my rifle in the silo field. From about a hundred yards, I didn’t hit the target area at all using the scope, but came within 2 inches of my bulls-eye with iron sights. That explains it. Lesson learned: don’t assume the scope is still zeroed in from the previous season. That evening I found a great spot near the borderline wash on the Brush Creek side of the tree tunnel. The only deer I saw came crashing down the gully at a full run, chased by three dogs. My luck was still cold.

Day Two — Saturday
Back at the wash, I saw one deer of decent size at Bottle Neck, but it was crossing fast enough to prevent a clean shot. That was it for the morning. That evening I was skunked back at Safariland. Tony came driving through with his ATV trailer about dusk, turned around, and left, waving to me. I didn’t wave back. Hey, if you are not going to hunt, then stay out of the Valley when others are waiting to spot a deer. I think he just drives around and drinks if he isn’t hunting.

Day Three — Sunday
I did not see a deer the entire day, and it feels like I have no more good joss in this valley. I set up at daybreak beyond Blue Bank, at the entrance to the long hay field, because Susan told me that multiple deer had been sighted along their lane, even at mid-day. Later in the morning, I worked the area near the collapsed tobacco barn, and went back out after noon for an hour or so, but no luck. It was back to the wash before sundown, the last place I had made a sighting. There is a certain sound of a deer moving through the woodland bed of dry leaves that gets my heart beating faster. It’s different than the sound of a squirrel, which is a series of abrupt rustles, rather than a more continuous brushing, punctuated with tree-branch cracks. That doesn’t mean a squirrel sound won’t occasionally bump the adrenaline; it’s an unconscious response. At one point, a squirrel ran down a fallen tree and nearly ended up at arm’s reach before it saw me. And then it began barking and hissing at me like I’ve never heard before. Well, at least I knew I had reasonably good concealment, but that was it for the session. Darkness was gaining on me, and I doubted a deer would now proceed into such a noisy scolding zone.

Day Four — Monday
At first light I headed back to the location I had mishandled on Friday, since it had offered the most action of the hunt so far. I discovered another good spot to view the expanse of Safariland, but there was no sign of deer all morning. I decided to climb up to the flat of Widow’s Knob. I got to see one deer when I startled it from its resting place, but, as usual, I don’t get a shot opportunity when that happens. I guess I just wanted to see if one was up there again, near where Marty and I once camped, like there was last month, when I was carrying my muzzle-loader. Finished the four-day hunt back at the Realm of Greystone, and was sad to lose the light without a sighting. Well, I’m a “next-time guy.” See you in December.

Agave Maria

Sunday, December 25th, 2011

Dana prepared an outstanding Christmas brunch for Terie and Marty’s morning visit, enhanced by my “Agave Maria” recipe which utilized the home-made tomato juice that she canned while I was in Michigan. We opened presents afterward, including a new air-combat video game for Marty that we shall properly inaugurate tomorrow during our PS3 Fest here at the Town House. Last night was another amazing Stew Eve gathering, with the Clan Hall packed with “grown-ups.” Only the members of our Louisiana outpost were missing. Brendan was home, and all the Louisville cousins were present. Mingus was pouring an excellent Bourbon Barrel Stout. Jerry R gave me a rifle sleeve for my muzzle loader (which claimed no venison this year), and Jeanne surprised me with a small picture of our mom when our dad first took her fishing. I had no memory of the image. All these details take on a new emotional significance in the wake of Mombo’s diagnosis of Alzheimer’s disease. Everything will change now, and yet everything remains the same as the family pulls together to manage her care, to collectively safeguard her well-being and dignity. God bless us everyone!

Various & Sundry, part eighty-five

Thursday, December 30th, 2010

I do not write regularly in my journal… I see no reason why I should. I see no reason why any one should have the slightest sense of duty in such a matter.
—Occupant of The Hall Bedroom

— Year of 2010 workout totals: Swim-35; Bike-40; Powerwalk-3; Run-0; Lift-0; Pilates-0; Lupus Drills-0

— There is no good justification for having any of these annual numbers come in under 48. I managed to preserve some level of basic fitness this year, thanks only to continued pool access and my fondness for being on a bicycle, but I can’t kid myself—if I don’t reverse this slow decline in vigorous activity, I shall pay a price over time, and it will be a price I can’t afford. My hope for 2011: a new momentum of exercise that will result in a more balanced routine, with 7-10 pounds of weight loss by my birthday.

— The best exhibitions I’ve experienced this year? The ones that occur to me now are the Surrealism show at the Cincinnati Art Museum, the California Impressionists show at the Dayton Art Institute, and the Collage show at Northern Kentucky University. I shall not soon forget seeing my first original Schwitters collage or Cornell box. I am challenged to learn more about Louise Nevelson, Hannah Höch, Alfred Mitchell, William Wendt, Percy Gray, Matthew Rose, David Wallace, Cecil Touchon Janet Jones, Dennis Parlante, and Stephanie Dalton Cowan.

— One of these days I’ll start to fully comprehend what mobile technologies portend for my creative work style. Believe it or not, I still don’t know what to make of these changes in communications. They seem to be touching everything, even my annual experience at Barefoot’s Resort. Being able to have a MacBook Pro and access to a wireless broadband connection changes everything about staying on top of project priorities while out of the studio. Bullets showed me his Kindle and I liked it. I didn’t expect to. Everybody around me seems to have an iPhone. How can I stay abreast? How can I hope to remain a communication designer amid all these transformations?

— Dana’s blunder with the non-existent gas line sent me into a bit of a tailspin, until I realized that tearing apart my work space in the basement would probably result in a better situation after the dust settled. Lesson: disruptions can be opportunities. I need to embrace change more, as I used to do. Look at how Dana has taken on a new discipline with Bruce’s in-home dialysis. We all tend to make room for what we consider the most important things, and that includes procrastination.

— Very well . . . here I am at the close of another year. I can’t change a single thing about the past. In hindsight, the preceding weeks look like some type of malaise. Not that there haven’t been a few highlights, such as the Safariland Doe with my solo harvest at Blue Bank Farm, or the recent push to restore our conference room, but overall it has been a dismal quarter. Enough with the negative. I have the new-year opportunity to shake off the “humbug” and get it together. There’s always the historically strong motivator of Resolutions, to reboot my priorities and catalyze a new momentum that would carry me toward my 60th birthday in 16 months. Time to plot a systematic, gradient escalation to full engagement— physically and mentally —to balance professional, financial, and artistic activity. Reclaim it!

V & S

Support and resistance

Friday, October 30th, 2009

“The chief cause of stress is reality.”
~ Lily Tomlin

It’s hard to accept that nearly three weeks have flown by since Dana and I were traveling to North Carolina, bearing the brunt of a devastating tempest that left 35 homes “unlivable” in Casey County (based on information I learned through the Salvation Army). Since that stormy day I had two wonderful weekends with family at both Broadwing and Blue Bank Farms. Carol and Bob are as youthful as ever and at the pinnacle of insight. Shame on me for taking five years to make a return visit. I was delighted to see how they had displayed my drawing of the old barn, and Pete showed off my pen and ink sketch of the Vulcan stove from their early years above the French Broad. I couldn’t help but contemplate the decline in my sketchbook activity over the past year. During my two days at the Hall, I made an attempt to complete work on the rock flue, but ran into mortar problems again while battling Panyon’s tool thievery. My “Son of Dirk Man” character was a bit of a flop, compared to Jay’s Pappy, Mombo’s Rufus, and Clay’s Donkey Kong. Nevertheless, the day was noteworthy for the revival of our Clan Hayride—a “harvest jamboree,” as Joan called it—and also for her tip about Pandora.com. The Council voted to commission an illustrated map of Clan Valley. Wow, how do I come up with an estimate for that? (Lord, help me finish it quicker than my stone masonry!) Dana called me from town to break the news that our friend Irina had been discovered lifeless, the apparent victim of a heart attack. She was a year younger than me! It took four or five days for me to grasp the finality of losing her awesome talent. Early Sunday morning I decided to tote my Hawken-style 50-caliber down the Valley in search of venison. The ache of a gifted comrade’s passing was on my heart when treetops dipped to let the sun pour its precious gold into our beloved hollow. The goal of hunting for meat dissolved abruptly to a deep reverence for the beauty of our rural legacy and my gratitude for life. When I got up to move farther along the road, something caught the corner of my eye. Four good sized does were now moving purposefully across the hay field. Before I could swing my muzzleloader into play, all were into the wooded drainage. If I’d only lingered a minute more, I probably could have had my pick. The following days were tainted with sorrow, but the request to create Irina’s memorial keepsake helped me channel my emotion, although, sadly, the local printer once again seized the opportunity to complain about our predicable attention to detail. By week’s end, the fabulous distraction of sharing Rick H’s 50th birthday celebration was trumped by the news of Glenda’s bizarre mishap at the Haunted House, which resulted in her breaking four back bones. And this comes on top of her and Jay dealing with the aftermath of burst plumbing and extensive damage to their newly remodeled home. The Graybeard Prospector had the second of two successful networking sessions in Lancaster, and Sunday Silence at Simpson Knob was another welcome break, but the heightened oscillation of desirable and undesirable happenings is becoming too strange. All I want to do is immerse myself in the upcoming wood engraving workshop at Larkspur and try to take myself back to a point of quiet equilibrium. Well then, load the truck and go!

Legacy Artworks

Friday, May 15th, 2009

I now offer personalized watercolor artworks created by hand to commemorate highlights from any adventure experience, including a milestone hunt, trek, climb, dive, eco-trip, research mission, or sea voyage. My archival-quality originals are executed to reflect the “golden age of expedition-style illustration.”

I met Maria at the Safari Club International dinner. She won a commission through the silent auction held that evening. It took her a year to decide precisely how my donation should be redeemed. It took me even longer to deliver the finished work.

Six years after a hunt in Zimbabwe marked by disappointment and sadness, she had returned to the continent with a highly successful safari in South Africa. Ultimately, she trusted me to appropriately interpret her personal triumph.

This piece signifies a breakthrough in my long journey as a traditional illustrator that began with the home-study Course for Talented Young People in the 1960s. I wish some of my former instructors could see it.
Maria Eckerle Safari by John Andrew Dixon

Maria Eckerle Safari (detail) by John Andrew Dixon

 
 
Maria Eckerle Safari (+detail)
John Andrew Dixon
Ink, watercolor, colored pencil
14 x 11 inches, 2009
Collection of Maria Eckerle
 
 
 
 
 
 

Various & Sundry, part eighty-two

Tuesday, December 30th, 2008

— Month of November workout totals: Swim-4; Bike-2; Run-2; Lift-2; Yoga-0; Pilates-2; Lupus Drill-3

— Here it is, the tail end of December, without my making a full entry in well over a month. I suppose I haven’t had much to say, or maybe I’ve been bogged down in the same economic pessimism which seems to grip the country (and who needs to hear more of that?). Well, enough of procrastination. Let’s take an overdue look at some recent personal developments of a more positive nature:

— Bridget at Maker’s Mark® announced that The Mark of Great Art Website now lists the final disposition of our summer collection. Pursuit of Happiness is hanging at Cantaloupe (35 Charlotte Road, London) and The Mark of Stardom ended up at Toys (Calle Infanta Isabel, Madrid). I received good exposure in a feature about the London event, which was also used to raise money that provides visual art projects for people with mild-to-profound learning difficulties. You might agree that the article is not that well written, but who’s complaining? Those Brits don’t understand real English anyway, yuhknowhattahmean?

— I completed my newest wood engraving and returned to Larkspur for a day of printing on Gray’s antique Vandercook, a marvelous piece of equipment to which I’m blessed to be given access. No. 11 at the Paddock is derived from a digital I took at Keeneland during the recent Fall Meet. I also took the opportunity to finally create a numbered edition of Waiting for Joe, my first block under Wesley’s guidance. Needless to say, this low-res image is a poor representation of the actual engraving—

“No. 11 at the Paddock” by John Andrew Dixon

— Although my hope was to devise “The Original Joe’s Christmas Box” for our CAC’s holiday exhibition, I did manage to deliver Cosmic Cusp, a fusion of previous year-end compositions. I made the deadline in response to Dana’s suggestion, and the resulting piece is a stronger effect than the individual mixed-media components. That’s synergy for you!

— Sara Jane stopped by today to take her first look at my latest portrait commission, and it’s no exaggeration to report that she’s delighted with the result. Three Girlfriends is a departure for me. I haven’t worked with acrylics in ages, but I chose the medium for what I thought would be an appropriate interpretation of her original photograph. The picture of ladies posing dramatically on a beach suggested a series of translucent glazes to capture the luminosity of the morning surf, and lent itself to the back-lighting of the figures. I’m pleased that it worked out as well as it did, but I had the notion that if I patiently built up layers of thin color and milky washes on a smooth panel, I could avoid a brush-stroke technique (not my strong suit) and rely on years of experience handling liquid effects. I put in some necessary details with colored pencil, but the sealed acrylic surface made it more like “rubbing” tones and highlights, as opposed to typical drawing. In the final analysis, it proved to be a very interesting exploration.

— EKU’s Chitauqua Lecture Series Juried Art Exhibition (wow, that’s long) has once again favored one of my collage artworks. The upcoming “Freedom” show will include Fifteenth Cosmosaic, and I’m looking forward to the opening reception on January 23rd. As most people familiar with my work already understand, this series of spontaneous “mystical” compositions originated with graduation presents for my nieces and nephews. I’ve never been certain about how it might appeal to a public audience, but perhaps this is a good indicator.

— Three years ago I wrote about Paula, who lost a bout with cancer too early in life. During that time, the KBBC worked to find a way to put to good use the proceeds from the sale of the “Share the Road” specialty license plate. On December 11th, we finally had our public announcement of The Paula Nye Memorial Education Grants for bicyclist and pedestrian safety.Paula Nye Grants The endorsement of our effort by the Transportation Cabinet and current administration was not a foregone inevitability, but when they realized: A) Thousands of plate buyers had made a voluntary contribution to help make Kentucky roadways friendlier to non-motorized travel; B) The Commission’s intent to independently administer the allocation of funds would cost the state nothing; and C) The grant program was a fitting tribute to an employee who had worked to diligently promote highway accommodations for bicyclists and pedestrians … How could they not support our concept? To their credit, the Lieutenant Governor and the Mayor of Lexington were at the Horse Park for our kick-off event. Strangely enough, David D, the public information professional who had shown enthusiasm for our project from the beginning and had orchestrated the media splash, died suddenly at work a couple weeks before the scheduled announcement, and that made the event even more tinged with emotion than anyone could have expected.

— I came back to the Blue Bank Farm this month with a muzzleloader and tried my best to close the season with some venison. Didn’t spy a single white-tail, but had to hear about Greystone’s Astrea dragging in a ruined ten-pointer that somebody failed to successfully track after the shot. Such was my luck as a hunter this time around. I haven’t enjoyed being in the woods this much for goodness knows how long, plus I had the rare opportunity to hike the knobs with brother Fron, as we marked boundary lines and plotted a mutual strategy for selective logging throughout our holdings. I have no good excuse for not connecting my soul with the land on a more regular basis. I allow myself to forget how much I will always love those acres. Folly!

— There is much room for gratitude and optimism in the coming cycle. Nevertheless, there are many significant challenges for all of us to face in 2009. I know a guy as old as me who has been retired from GM for eight years. He’s a nice man, but did he genuinely work hard enough during 20 years of employment to deserve a big income and benefits from the age of 48 until he dies? That could easily be twice the number of years he put in as a worker, or, if he takes care of himself, even more. Now, it’s one thing to dodge Taliban rockets in God-cursed terrain. In my book those brave Americans have earned a more-than-decent pension. But assembling ugly, inefficient cars that most thoughtful people would rather not drive? That’s “a horse of a different color.” Our nation would’ve surely crashed decades ago if all corporations had been managed as poorly as the Detroit auto companies. And they want to continue juicing the taxpayers to avoid restructuring under bankruptcy? Now, that’s what I call audacity.

V & S

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

Various & Sundry, part sixty-seven

Saturday, December 1st, 2007

— Month of November workout totals: Swim-3; Bike-2; Run-5; Lift-4; Yoga-1; Pilates-7

— The eleventh month rushed by too swiftly, and tumbling in its wake is my disposition of alarm at the churning pace. Nothing to do but accept that it’s gone and take stock of my affairs. On Friday I pinch-hit for David as a Rotary greeter. Saying grace is one task of the greeter, and perhaps I was a bit too creative with my public invocation. That I’m less self-conscious about such things is a sign of something meaningful, but I’m not in a mood to muse beyond that vague notion. After David got back from Georgetown, the four of us convened for a round of Mhing. Dana played as splendidly as I did poorly (couldn’t seem to get out of my nervous system Frank’s Shanghai from the holiday). Even so, it was an enjoyable evening because Mhing is such a great game.

— David, Greg, and I gathered at Simpson Knob the weekend prior to Thanksgiving, hoping for a significant whitetail harvest, but all we came up with among us was a little button buck that I took on Saturday morning. At first I thought his ear flicking at 50-60 yards was simply more wild turkeys at play, but then I could see his head, and eventually figured out that he was preparing to bed down for the day. I watched him for a while and knew his location on the ground would not afford a proper shot (actually, I thought it was a doe at that point in my observation). Before much long, I grew a bit impatient and decided to climb down from my stand to approach through the woods on foot like a true hunter. After carefully trimming off 10-15 yards from the total distance, keeping a tree between our positions, I crept around the oak and saw him stand up in alert. My Marlin .44-magnum lever-action carbine (the only Dadbo-owned rifle for which I held any interest) cracked in reaction to the animal’s movement, and he leaped away. “Missed,” flashed through my mind, with the thought lingering, especially after I reached the spot he’d just been, and just then I heard Greg call out my name. “Don’t think I hit him,” was my response. “Well, there’s a deer over here,” he replied in a matter-of-fact voice. Within an hour, I had given a chant to the Great Spirit and skinned my game with the new knife Greg had presented to me the night before. Later in the week, David reported that Greg claimed a button buck of his own at his brother’s farm a couple days before Thanksgiving.

— It doesn’t look like I’ll finish the biography of Thomas Bewick before it’s due back at the library, but I’m not sure I want to read about his demise anyway—I’ve grown much too fond of the fellow. For anyone who doesn’t recognize the name, I’m certain that his work will appear familiar. He single-handedly restored wood engraving to universal esteem in his lifetime and sparked the advancement of printing technology for the next century. He was perhaps the greatest graphic artist of his era—certainly in Britain—and, although he had flaws (as most men), he seems to have been a remarkably fine person worthy of emulation in numerous respects. Reading about his rise to artistic immortality reinforces two vital lessons that continue to clobber me across the skull like a ball bat: each individual who makes a constructive mark on culture inevitably deals with all the same nonsense, hassles, heartbreaks, and vicissitudes of fortune that everyone encounters, and through it all, continues to work his or her ass off.

V & S

Thanks for nothing

Thursday, November 22nd, 2007

“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 IX

Sunday, April 2nd, 2006

•   I attended the SCI fundraising banquet with David and Al. It was held at the U of L University Club. There could not have been a way for me to have anticipated the rare atmosphere, nor to have imagined what the unusual niche group of world-traveling hunters and big game enthusiasts would be like. I must say that I was a bit nervous by the time I set up my small display for the silent auction and my prototype commemorative illustration came under continuous scrutiny. I could also feel the observant eyes of my two friends—watchful, but always supportive. I’ve been to a few high-potency political and charitable fundraisers, but I’ve never been to one that so relentlessly milked dollars from the ticket-holders—with separate silent and live auctions, plus raffles of every sort. After a long cocktail lead-in to an impressive gourmet dinner, the expert monetary squeeze of the high-rollers lasted well into the late evening. Participants stuck around as numerous donations of custom firearms, art, jewelry, exotic hunting excursions to New Zealand, and full-blown safaris in Africa went for a fraction of their value. There were times when it seemed as though my offering was about to completely fade into the periphery, but before the evening was over, it drew a flurry of bids. The winner was an avid African hunter, female, gregarious, and rather attractive (at least she seemed to be attracting the attention of more than one distinguished-looking gentleman). My donation went for about a fifth of its declared value, which wasn’t out of character for the event. The final result reinforced Al’s opinion that my concept might have more appeal to women or to the wives of hunters—that it might be positioned best as personalized art appropriate for a gift or tribute. The entire experience gave me much to ponder…

graybeard prospector

From Hell, to the Swaziland frontier, and on to Heaven

Monday, March 27th, 2006

March experiment—day twenty-six— Some days start out bad and get worse. Today started out awful, but improved dramatically by evening. I feel fortunate. There were times when a morning like today’s might gnaw at me for a long time. It may seem obvious, but if you wake up to a spoiled serving, you need to deal with it head on, rather than letting it just sit there and rot.

Today’s sight bite— My smiling friend, with an African tracker and 1906 Oberndorf Mauser—c-l-i-c-k—proudly displaying his trophy impala in the harsh KwaZulu-Natal landscape.

Tomorrow— An early checklist of leftovers, to make way for a full day with the pen and brush…

Wood smoke and orange hats

Sunday, November 13th, 2005

After the Gallery Hop in downtown Danville on Friday night, I went to David’s cabin to prepare for the 2005 deer hunt. Before sunrise on Saturday morning, Greg and I crouched below the rocky outcrop and saw a doe move around the point. I thought the visibility was too dim for a clean shot and was comfortable watching her move on. Not long after that, David shot a doe at the front tree-stand with his antique double rifle. That position proved the place to be throughout the opening weekend of rifle season. Stuart took his eight-pointer there Sunday evening, but that’s a whole story in itself.

My favorite time of the weekend was Saturday evening, before the weather changed. I watched two squirrels frolic for over an hour among the dry leaves until they retired to tree-top clusters, each of my senses acutely aware of the woodland environment in all its minute detail. Venus pierced the gloaming as a fiery sun finished painting the autumn colors a more vibrant shade of orange. I saw no deer, but it didn’t seem to matter.

On Sunday morning, sitting in the rain at the rear stand, I saw two does heading away from the knob-top clover field, no closer than 50-60 yards. Since I held a lever-action carbine with no telescope, it wasn’t a good shot for me (for the second time in as many days). Later, David was observing the area from the same stand at dusk, without a rifle. Firing his .45 revolver into the hillside, he attempted to spook a big buck moving on the same trail I saw my does. He was hoping to push him toward Stuart’s position at the front of the knob. It worked. As a result, enough meat became available that Dana and I filled our freezer and more, even though I had no personal kill this year.

When I was back in town someone wanted to know if I’d “shot Bambi,” and I sensed more clearly than ever the gulf between people who hunt and those who disdain it.

I went for decades without going on a traditional hunt, after putting it aside in my twenties when I chose to give up eating meat, but I never lost a respect for the tradition gained from Dadbo. Eventually I reintroduced flesh to my diet and became a fisherman. A profound reconnection with the natural world and an evolving appreciation of the shooting sports opened my mind to the idea of harvesting meat firsthand in the woods.

I honor the philosophical purity of strict vegetarianism, but anyone who consumes meat consents at some level to the killing of animals to sustain their life. Participating in the act with full consciousness, attuning the senses to a wild environment, experiencing the synchronicity of engaging a particular creature, and valuing it as a gift of nourishment from the Great Spirit is an activity that puts me directly in touch with ancestors—my hunting namesake, his Appalachian frontier forefathers, medieval Slovaks, first-millennium Norsemen, tribal Neolithics…

There’s no way to explain all that to someone who was never vouchsafed the hunting tradition. I’ll probably spend the rest of my life trying to understand it myself.

Opening Day

Friday, November 11th, 2005

It’s that time of the year when I join friends who appreciate the Kentucky Knobs at daybreak, the code of the hunt, and the taste of venison. And it’s about a lot more than ammo and camo…