Uncle John’s Log & Co.

I rode my mountain bike out to the cabin this morning for Shared Silence again. Dan W and I put in some saddle time afterwards, and it was a good workout. So now I’ve ridden almost 90 miles on knobby tires this spring in preparation for the road-bike season. I know, way behind schedule, but I’ve been convinced it was prudent this year to make sure my conditioning and balance were in better shape before I clipped into the pedals on “Teeka-Hindoh,” my Peugeot racer.

We had our Mother’s Day follow-up After Silence. I forgot to bring a picture of Mombo, probably because I was getting ready to leave on my bicycle. Obviously, when this idea of talking about our mothers came up, it never occurred to me that she might be in the hospital. When it was my turn, it was a bit difficult to get started, and I was nervous, but I didn’t choke up. It seemed like everyone else has extraordinary mothers, too—not perfect—but special. Not surprising, since these are some of the best people I’ve met in my life. Exceptional people usually have exceptional mothers.

I’m not in the business of comparing my siblings to each other, but more than once in recent years I’ve had the realization that the one person who reminds me most of my mom is my sister Jeanne. That, in combination with a recent conversation (about how much Jeanne has taken the lead in being there for Mombo over the past ten days), got me to thinking more about my kid sister—our “Pinkie.”

Growing up, “Little Jinny” was a kid sister, too. Both have keen perceptions and a deep faith. Jeanne almost matched her mom’s family of seven children. Like our mother, Jeanne is shy about her feelings when among others, reluctant to be critical, but quick with laughter, and nobody’s fool. She has devoted her life to her husband and family.

But Jeanne reminds me of our father, too. She carries many aspects of Dadbo’s temperament. Like him—and I’ll be brutally honest—she hasn’t always chosen the best way to manage her stress. She’s not alone in that. With Mombo’s heart condition, the evidence is now abundantly clear. Cardiovascular disease runs on both sides of our immediate heritage. Dadbo gave away so much of his magnanimous heart that, in the end, there weren’t enough beats left for himself. “Generous to a fault” is the expression. My little sis is similarly self-sacrificing, and it makes me love her so—but it worries me.

I’m also like that man I was named after. I worry about things.

Start riding a bike, too, Pinkie. I promise I’ll be there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dana took Bruce to St. Joseph on Monday for surgery on his arm that would facilitate extended dialysis. Unfortunately, his potassium level was too high, so he stayed until the following day. He had two dialysis treatments (Monday/Tuesday), and then he was in shape to get the procedure. It was a blessing that the surgeon found a way to work on the problematic left side. Bruce had been very reluctant to condone any vascular manipulation of his good right arm.

We broke away from Danville to be with Bruce after his surgery, and then got the good news that he was being discharged. It was complicated for me, because I was trying to remotely handle authorization for necessary revisions to the Band Festival poster, and also make sure the proof got back to Louisville. After we left St. Joe, it was time to pay a visit to Mombo over at Central Baptist. Both Jeanne and Joan were there.

Joan had already told us about the setback on Monday when Mombo’s heart rhythm became erratic. Dr. Martin said it happens in 25% of cases. They put her back on an IV and stabilized with medication. According to Joan, “She got a pretty African violet plant from the Gels Family. Many friends and family members have been by to see her, and she has had some welcome phone calls. She has been pretty wheezy, so they took x-rays,” which indicated fluid in her left lung. My mom told Joan she can feel the power of the prayers on her behalf.

We had a nice visit, but this is the part of the saga when my awe of modern surgical technique collapses into misgivings about extended stays in the hospital environment. Having just read Gladwell’s chapter on the powerful influence of context, from The Tipping Point, didn’t calm my apprehension. She doesn’t seen to have any appetite for hospital food, and she’s struggling with the motivation to get out of bed and walk. Mombo needs adequate care in recovery, but I can’t help but wonder how much the simple fact of just being in a hospital room can adversely affect a patient’s sense of well-being and resistance to potential complications.

I want Mombo out of that place as soon as possible…

The time was almost 9 pm when we got to visit Mombo on Saturday. It was so satisfying to see her in her own private room, with a minimum of medical apparatus. She was quite talkative and tried to sort out all the occurrences in what had been an incredibly long day that began when she woke up in the Care Unit. When she asked, “Was that today?” I had to say, “Must have been, since yesterday was your surgery, and you were knocked out until this morning.” Her look of astonishment told me that she was living in the middle of a whirlwind recovery, and I knew it was time for us to leave and for her to get some needed rest. Jeanne took a dinner break while we were there and was preparing to spend the night. As we were leaving, Mombo was having the nurse explain each of the medications she was being asked to swallow—precisely the kind of perpetual skepticism so essential in the hospital environment. I thought I might be able to rest easier. I figured she was in the clear.

On the way home we saw the awesome proximity of Venus with a crescent moon. This had to be the celestial image that inspired the Turkish national flag. What’s the story behind that? Dana saw her first “shooting star” as we crossed the Kentucky River. For some reason it made me think of when they were taking Mombo into pre-op. She had said, “I’m in good hands,” and I asked, “Do you mean with Truly?” She didn’t understand my question, so I whispered the answer in her ear. ”Your guardian angel.” She laughed, but I wasn’t sure if she remembered the name of her life-long protector.

Perhaps that meteor was in actuality a heavenly body. Truly was telling us my mother was “in the clear.”

Overwhelmed by the awesome developments of the past day, I have to stop and decide where to begin my account.

Well, it turns out that the timing of Mombo’s surgery had to do mainly with her choice to move ahead promptly. After some initial uncertainty, the procedure was planned for the next morning. Because her valve leakage did not justify repair or replacement, it was possible to use the “beating heart” technique—open-heart surgery that does not require the problematic heart-lung machine. I think this stroke of good fortune made all the difference over the next 24 hours. Can you believe it? While her heart continued to beat, Dr. Martin performed two by-pass grafts plus a mammary-artery splice. Amazing! He used a new less-invasive method to harvest an adequate section of vein from her leg for the grafts. She received one transfusion to keep her h-crit from dropping below the 30s.

Dana and I stayed at the hospital until 10 pm, and we got to see her twice in the ICU. During the second time, I could tell she was responding to our stimuli, even though she was still under the anaesthetic. Today Joan reported that at 3:30 am this morning, the ICU nurse woke her up to tell her that they’d taken Mombo off the vent. Even though it wasn’t regular visiting hours, she got to see that Mombo was awake and talking a bit. By 5:30 she was sitting up in a chair, speaking to Joan again. She says Mombo could remember her, me, and Dana being there at 9:30 the night before. Rachel came to visit at 9:30 am. According to Joan: ”They wouldn’t let us go back for a little while and we didn’t know why. Well, it was because they were taking out all her tubes and getting her ready to go to a room on the floor! We couldn’t believe it. This truly is a miraculous recovery. In less than 24 hours after they took her into surgery, she was back in her room.”

As I write, Mombo’s vitals remain good, and we’re getting ready to head back to Lexington for a visit.

My mother was in Lexington yesterday for a cardiac test, with the expectation that a vessel or two might possibly need a stint, but the results caused the doctors to schedule emergency open heart today. Such an invasive response to her symptoms was not anticipated. Certainly not by me.

Off to the city.

Mombo and I had supper together at the Hall Sunday evening and the farm looked wonderful to my eyes. Fron and Bubb were both mowing when I drove in, and Glenda has clearly added her effort to the flower beds. Bless them all for their care of the Clan Heartland. I used to have more pangs of regret when I made visits from my town-based existence, but now I just focus on appreciating the way things are, and that my mother has a beautiful place to live, and that the foundation is now laid for a new generation of stewardship. As ever, the Land awaits me. What shall I do about it?

— Month of March workout totals: Swim-3; Bike-3; Run-4; Lift-6; Yoga-8

— My body isn’t the same one I had ten years ago when I could run a 6:41 mile, but attention to physical fitness is the key to all my other areas of fitness. Lots of people talk to me about their desire to exercise more or to find the time to start again, and I tell them it’s “just a habit like anything else.” Motivation has its place, but for most regular exercisers like me, it’s just something we’ve learned to do by habit. If you don’t exercise, you’ve just learned to do that by habit instead, like the habit of not reading much or not flossing teeth. Replace an unwanted habit with a constructive one—easier said than done. As trite as it may sound, it usually comes down to the familiar Yoda quotation, “Do or do not. There is no try.”

— Naturally, I’m thinking about the March Experiment today. I recognized some time ago that it’s not really about breakthroughs in professional achievement. but rather about the consciousness of continuous personal awareness. That may sound like a particularly selfish pursuit—and it is. On the other hand, I’ve come to believe that control of self-awareness is at the foundation of sensitivity to others. Compassion is rooted in mastery over one’s emotional priorities. Perhaps some individuals are just born with a natural magnanimity. Since I wasn’t, I must take pains to find the necessary inner balance. Therefore—the exercise in March. Yes, I’m now considering making the practice an annual refresher.

— Mombo sends word that Joan, Caitlan, Janet, and Jerome have arrived safely in England, and Brendan met them at the airport. I hope he fixes them up with a blogging station, so we can get the latest news from London. Wow. When I think that it’s been almost 33 years since I was there, my eyes roll back in my head. I can’t imagine what it would be like to visit again. Many things would look the same (the museums and tourist sites), but other places are surely gone forever (those hip shops on King’s Road in Chelsea, etc.). Have fun, guys, and fashion your own memories!

— It’s April, my favorite time of year. Thinking of my family on holiday and having dinner tonight with my household has filled me with gratitude for wonderful things, especially with so many in my hometown mourning the senseless loss of Chiara Levin, a victim of wanton irresponsibility while visiting Boston last week. I am thankful for all the good fortune in my Clan, for my health, for the opportunity to live a creative, meaningful life in a decent community, for an extraordinary partner in all things, and for the Almighty who sustains me. I am truly blessed…

V & S

March experiment—day twenty-one— I’ve hit a set of conditions in the studio that dictate subjects for my attention that are different than I originally intended for this time of the month, and I’m trying to adjust. Heightened awareness is the key. I can’t lose the joy. I have to remind myself that in many respects, the external framework may be the least important aspect of the experiment.

Here are the only other things I feel like mentioning today:

1) Mombo called with good news that Janet and Jerome have a strong position with a baby girl born in Guatemala this past Saturday. Everyone smile and pray hard.

2) Dana is showing excellent progress on healing her knee injury, with other beneficial side effects.

3) Uncle Norm closed on the Indy mobile home, and we’re all set for moving Bruce to Danville this weekend.

4) The Salvation Army dinner next month is shaping up to be the best one I’ve helped organize.

5) Friday Night Lights really is the most outstanding series currently on television.

— Month of February workout totals: Swim-5; Bike-2; Run-1; Lift-2; Yoga-0

— It was one of those days. A client rejects a journal cover illustration because she doesn’t understand my idea. Word arrives that I’ve been accepted as a full member of the Layerist Society, with eligibility for a national exhibition at the University of New Mexico. Do I drop my plan to redo the Band Festival painting at a larger size and accept my so-called “study” as the version to publish?

— Brendan’s Anacrusis stories have been quite good lately, on the eve of his departure for England, and I got a kick out of an obscure allusion to Benedict’s 9 that may or may not have been intentional, (but it doesn’t matter to me; I still enjoy thinking about what “The Mutants” could have become if Heroes hadn’t killed it, execution-style).

— A Mombonian Correction! She tells me that my entry of February 12 was in error, because she would not have dared go into that St. Henry pipe after a storm. “Don’t you know how scared of water I am?” she scolded me. Yeah, but I thought that was the reason why… Well, it’s how I’ve remembered the story all these years. My goof. I challenged her to set the record straight in her own blog, but she hasn’t done it yet. According to her, if she had actually tried the crazy act I described, she never would’ve made it to the end of the long tunnel alive, and I wouldn’t even exist today to botch her childhood exploits. Or maybe I would be the proud son of a legendary stunt-woman and, having followed in her footsteps, live on the beach in Malibu!

— After his examination, Jerome informed Dana that her knee was not injured as seriously as first suspected. Great news. Coincidentally, her rejuvenation diet is perfectly timed for the second of my March experiments.

V & S

With the “Compassion” exhibit over, Dana and I went to Joan’s Fourth Street duplex and joined her work crew (after I picked up my collage from EKU and we split a quick Chinese lunch). We tackled the kitchen wood-staining job and then I did various other tasks—took some steel wool to the leaded-glass window, primed some faux paneling in the foyer, put a second coat on the kick-plate, and touched up the mantle edging. We laughed when the disposal of a used paint roller triggered the unforgotten, ever-dissociated “Makko-Bird” declaration. The day flew by and I was totally beat by the time I realized I should quit. Undoubtedly my exhaustion was intensified by the fumes, plus the crash from a wickedly sweet bliss bar that Dana brought back from Starbucks. Joan treated us to a late Mexican dinner and we sang “Happy Birthday” to Mombo over the cell phone.

These must be the “good old days.”

Sometimes these deadline experiences are like chuting down a pipeline—there’s no thought to doing anything but surrendering to the power of the flow, all the time hoping you make it to the end of the tunnel without a disaster. Mombo used to talk about when she was a kid, and they would play in a rain-swollen ditch, letting the water suck them into a storm-water culvert that ran under the street. Long ago that image got stuck in my mind when I realized I’d chosen a deadline-driven lifestyle. So, for what it’s worth, that’s what the suction of a deadline is like for me. (Her story also convinced me that my mother really was a tomboy, in case there’s any doubt about it.)

And, so I made it to the end of the latest chute today, presenting my study for a painting I’m developing to feature on this year’s poster for the Great American Brass Band Festival. The new executive director is delighted with my approach. The idea has a focus on the music makers. I want to illustrate the intensity of the performances with a montage composition. I don’t know why I always have to complicate things, rather than come up with a simple idea, other than the fact that “less is more” is easier said than done. I’m excited about the idea of including Vince prominently in the artwork. He’s always been the inspiration for much of my toil on behalf of the Festival.

Now, all I have to do is complete the final version by the end of the month without getting stuck in that darn storm pipe.

— A Mombonian Correction!

Much is going on—my concept for the new Band Festival poster is at critical mass, I’m convening a cyclists’ meeting tonight to discuss our upcoming presentation before the City Commission, and the Medicine Woman is putting her moccasin firmly in the Graybeard Prospector’s hind end. That being said, I’m thinking about Seranus Victor Seitz, who turns 90 tomorrow.

My Uncle Si was born in the midst of the Great War, but the next time the entire world was back at war, he was more than old enough to sign up. Like Dadbo, he went into the USAAF and became a fly-boy. He named his fighter plane after his kid sister. Most of us learned about this only recently. Even Mombo had forgotten about it, and she was overcome with emotion when the fact resurfaced with an old photo. I think it has something to do with Uncle Si scrupulously avoiding any romantic entanglements before he shipped off. Apparently he didn’t expect to survive the combat that faced him. Neither did a lot of others, including the brass. These boys could “do no wrong,” because, hell, they probably wouldn’t make it back tomorrow anyway, so why give ’em a hard time? For example, when Uncle Si buzzed a control tower because some generals were up there and Uncle Luke was watching. I wouldn’t be surprised if that was one of the more tame episodes.

Uncle Si got to the skies of Europe as the Luftwaffe was fading into history. Air-to-air wasn’t the primary mission at that point in the war, so he provided ground support as a tank buster and dive bomber. But don’t be mistaken—the anti-aircraft defenses of a desperate Wehrmacht must have been pure wickedness. On top of that, Uncle Si said that every day he got into the cockpit, he might be sitting behind a new aircraft engine more powerful than the previous one he’d gotten used to. All he would know before takeoff was the numerical boost in horsepower. He told us once about the fine art of blasting a locomotive. The pilot needs to swoop elliptically at a low angle to avoid being caught above the massive steam explosion. You get the feeling he learned that by watching somebody else get it wrong, or perhaps he narrowly missed boiling himself like a lobster the first time he bombed a train. He tells stories like that without braggadocio, but you can always see the intensity in his eyes. Like most WWII vets, he doesn’t think of himself as a hero. In their minds, that word more properly describes all those pals that never returned. I guess you can’t differ with that kind of logic.

Uncle Si is known for inspiring a famous word in the Dixonary: Sicu. Basically it can be defined as a “lame excuse.” The original sicu was the time he said, “We’ll come down one of these weekends I take off.” It was no secret that Uncle Si might go months without taking a weekend off. It bummed us out to hear that, and so we were forced to bestow the dubious honor. Years later, when I was living in Dayton and my brother James was putting in long hours at AdMart, we laughed at my notion, “You’ll take off one of these weekends I come down.”

Uncle Si is one of those uncles that you love too much to ever tell him, and I know that doesn’t make any sense, but you just can’t tell a tough guy things like that because he’s made you tough, too, just because you’ve loved him. Like Mombo used to say, “Luke probably started the fight, and if Bob couldn’t talk them out of it, Si had to finish it.”

Eventually he helped finish the biggest one—over sixty years ago, up in the sky, above the devastated fatherland of his ancestors—but he came back home and made it to his tenth decade, with a sweetheart he didn’t think he’d ever get the chance to find.

God bless him!

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

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

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

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

V & S

At the end of the workday, Dana and I rushed over to EKU for the opening reception of the “Compassion” exhibition. I saw Beth and Jim at first, and was even more surprised to see that Mombo had come along with Joan. I felt oddly self-conscious, almost as if I was sure they’d be disappointed. It was a completely irrational thing, because everybody seemed to think it was an interesting show, and the best part was to be together and talk about it. My collage earned a hundred-dollar merit award. I also got to meet and talk to Dobree Adams. The head of the art department told me about the media and animation lab he’s currently setting up. After a quick inspection of progress on Fourth Street House, we had a yumptious Indian dinner with Joan and Mombo to top off a very special night. The others had to dance around the big news, because I hadn’t recently paid a visit to NFD, but I found out as soon as I got home —Brendan is doing it!

During my early six-miler yesterday morning, I couldn’t help but brag on my niece to the other runners. Boyle’s Friday-night win over Lincoln was a huge upset, and, even though the opposing team played poorly in many respects, it was an extraordinary thing how, at a point in the basketball game when her team could have resigned themselves to a loss, Hayley took a leadership role on the floor and sparked an improbable, heart-pounding rally. Joan and Mombo were there, too, and it was fun to share the experience. With the newspaper write-up on Thursday, it was a big week for our Number 3.

Mombo made a nice entry in her blog about her memories of St. Henry, Ohio. You should go there. I mean the blog, not the town, although it’s really a pleasant place to visit, too. I’ve always liked to hear stories about her years there. We made some photos in St. Henry on the day of the Gels 70th wedding anniversary.

I just learned from my good friend Bill Barefoot that two of the buddies we fish with in Michigan, JD and Jack, both lost their mothers within the past week. Bill sent the following message to me (and anybody else listening):

Cherish your mothers while you can.

Left to right: Mombo at St. Henry Church (where she was baptized in 1925); Mombo with her brothers Jack and Art (at the corner of Columbus and Sycamore Streets); Mombo outside the house where she was born.

It sounds strange, but President Ford never seemed like an entirely substantial figure in my personal perceptions. I don’t mean in the sense of credibility or political weight, but in the literal sense of being a real person. I happened to have been living in Brussels as a student worker during the second half of 1974 and missed those supposedly multi-orgasmic constitutional spasms of the day that everyone else can usually describe in great detail. As a result, the culmination of the Watergate crisis has always felt to me like a hazy historical event, and, by extension, the 38th President like a big pretend creature from a B movie, as though one of Ian’s old Frankenstein drawings had been put in charge of the government.

They didn’t consider us “interns” back then. The term was reserved for medical trainees and I was called a “co-op,” just like Mombo was back in the early 40s. As I’ve probably described before, I remember listening to the Nixon resignation speech as it was piped by loudspeaker into the morning streets of Amsterdam, while I leaned sleepily from the open window of a youth hostel, during one of my weekend forays into that Dutch shrine of “70s-ness.” So when I returned to the States before Christmas and finally took stock of President Ford weeks later, it was like, “who the heck is this guy?”

Fast forward through the remaining two years of the Ford administration. Back then it didn’t take much to get me miffed about the national scene. I was still angry at Ford for endorsing mass inoculations to counter a Swine-Flu boogeyman, for his apparently feeble attempts to turn around the lousy economy that I faced as a university graduate, and his cold shoulder to the supreme Russian dissident of the century. I don’t remember what I thought about his pardon of Nixon—one more ghostly act from another dimension. I’d voted against Ford in ‘76 while living in Chicago. Not really in favor of Carter (it was hard for me to take Jimmy seriously), I’d lost my enthusiasm for the campaign after neither of my two favorites, Eugene McCarthy and Ronald Reagan, had managed to prevail into the home stretch. As unfocused as they were, you can tell that my political attitudes tended toward the radical, and that was the one thing Gerry Ford indisputably was not. When Carter began to “self-destruct in five seconds,” I took an odd measure of pride in the fact that Ford had carried Illinois.

Fast forward again to a newly minted 2007 with one less Former President. Clearly it’s time to reflect on his rightful place in history, and I’ve softened my viewpoint considerably. I should have liked him more. He deserved it. Nevertheless, I can’t help but think that all the kind and appreciative things being said about Gerald R. Ford would still be equally true if he had not sought to retain the Presidency beyond his short stewardship, and, as confirmation of his quintessential unselfishness and towering decency, had stepped aside with the same dignity with which he had taken office—to have recognized his unique distinction as Healer among our chief executives, to have recognized the ascendancy of national conservatism over his frayed brand of Republican establishmentarianism, and to have recognized it was time to decisively pave the way for the next necessary phase of post-Nixonian resurgence—a fresh and bold style of visionary leadership for America.

Mombo and Joan decided to travel with us, and we were in no hurry to make our way towards home. Yesterday was Uncle Bob’s 70th birthday, and I think that gave me the idea of our going to Yellow Springs and popping in on his son, Dan (not the type of thing you could do on a holiday with just anyone.) It turned out to be a wonderful experience, with an outdoor meal hot off the grill, and a rare opportunity to examine an extraordinary private art collection, including an astonishing series of wood engravings by Dearth. It was fun to talk to Elizabeth about her studies at U.C., and to wish Olivia well before she departs on her adventure to Spain. My magnanimous cousin gave me some pawpaw fruit as we were getting ready to leave, and he reminded me that nothing is more important than family. On the way south, we discussed the possibility of Darb’s relocation to the Blue Bank Farm, which, if approached with thoughtful planning and a bit of imagination, could be a win-win situation for her and the entire Clan.

Today was “Clan Pirate Day 2,” and there may never be a third at this scale. My personal opinion is that the abundant availability of alcohol is fundamentally incompatible with our thematic idea. Nevertheless, it was great fun in many respects, and the wide array of wenches, knaves, powder monkeys, and assorted nautical vermin will contribute many interesting additions to the family image bank. “Lady Virginia” was chosen by our jousting champion, who lost by a single point—a clear case of robbery. We celebrated a number of birthdays with Dana’s famous carrot cake, which we managed to decorate late last night in the motel after the original effort to make our own icing fell apart. A tip of the admiral’s leather hat to our very own “Stenchpit” and his “Lillie.” Without their monumental dedication this day and its memories would not exist.

I gathered with friends at the cabin early for Shared Silence and Milton’s summary of what we’ve learned about Process Theology—how the language of religion and the language of science can be translated into a third, new language that integrates spiritual, philosophical, and metaphysical concepts with the most current understanding of quantum physics and string theory.

I lent a hand picking up litter and trash along our adopted highway, Chrisman Lane (Kentucky 1273). When I first started doing this I figured I was making up for the candy wrappers I tossed on the ground as a kid and the beer bottles I threw at speed limit signs after I turned 18. I don’t know how many garbage bags it took before I figured I’d balanced my karma. Now I do it in tribute to my friend Mack, who I miss every time I travel his favorite road, one of the prettiest in Boyle County.

After sending out an email notice to areas cyclists, I made the drive to Blue Bank Farm. I mowed the Clan graveyard, helped Jeffrey pick garden vegetables, and brought some apples down from the orchard for Mombo. When I got back home, Dana and I finished cleaning up the porch and front yard before munching down on fresh tomatoes.

God — Friends — Community — Family

When it comes to the important things, days probably don’t get much better than this.

Tonight’s supper was simple, yet incredibly tasty, thanks to the addition of my brother’s garden produce. He offered us a couple buckets of veggies last night when we visited the Blue Bank Farm to dump yard clippings and pick a container of blackberries. It’s sad that I nearly forgot how good a tomato can taste. The generosity of Dadbo lives on in the heart of Fron…

Saw Nic with his long hair on the way into the Valley, and he helped me unload Ned at Ivan’s old repository. Mombo wasn’t home, but I picked up my copy of the legal papers, and got to see the Virginia E. Dixon Revocable Trust documents in their final form. Turns out that our family meeting wasn’t rescheduled after all, so we actually did miss it while getting settled in Michigan on the 16th.

Much of my time today was spent preparing to lead my first B.I.K.E. | Boyle County meeting in two weeks. With respect to this type of public service, my reflections during the recent southbound trip, after leaving Barefoot’s Resort on Saturday, have me convinced I need to focus on the tasks at hand and avoid the temptations that come with community prominence. This ego needs to be kept on a particularly short leash, so just get the job done.

It was fun to talk to Seth when I saw him briefly in the driveway upon arriving home—on questionable leave from GSP, but in the company of his smiling mother. That he was totally engrossed in his “eye-opening” academic adventure was evident. It’s great to see him grappling with his dreams. Set your sights high, lad…

There’s a particular stairwell connecting the upper and lower levels of the fitness center at Centre College that has a smell which takes me back to the old McKinley School, where I attended fourth, fifth, and sixth grades. You know what I mean; it’s one of those odor-triggered responses that has deep emotional characteristics. For me, it evokes the final years of pre-adolescence in my first hometown of West Milton, before our family moved to Tipp City, and the resulting psychological disorientation that came with being “the new kid,” just as puberty struck with a vengeance. I was twelve. It wasn’t an easy transition. Life deals many different kinds, of course. On a scale of ten it doesn’t come close to what others in my Clan have endured. I just happened to lose my best friends at the diciest time in a young man’s coming of age. In some unexplainable way I also lost my original identity. Honestly, I still have no idea how it actually affected my personality and my relationship to others. I just know it did, and that’s all that probably needs to be said about it. Fortunately, the summer of our disruption was fashioned into
an adventure of memorable proportions, with our transitional accommodations in the upstairs apartment of a downtown building perched ridiculously close to the major rail line. It must have been inexpensive, and only a boy could have loved it, although I understood how absurdly small it was for a nine-member family. We survived a hot summer without air conditioning by spending most of our time at the pool. It left me with a lifelong attachment to swimming, the most sensual of fitness activities, and further solidified a bond of five brothers, thrown more tightly together with our sudden isolation. I remember the day Mombo gave me hell because I walked three-year-old Jay to our developing home-site two miles out of town, indicating the age gap of the Brothers Dixon in those days. Side-by-side, we navigated a mutually unfamiliar universe of lifeguards, construction workers, shopkeepers, and strange neighbors. Thank God for the summer of ’64. As cohorts in adaptation, we had to make it uniquely our own world, and perhaps, to some degree, it also prepared me for the arrival of September, the end of childhood, and a school with new and different smells…

When the alarm went off I could smell that the air (coming gently through the narrowly cracked window beside my head) was perfect for an early ride, and I met my chums at the bike shop before 7:30. It was just a bit nippy for May, but I was dressed appropriately, having poorly overcompensated on yesterday’s run. We completed 32 miles through Mercer County and back, and the only problem we had was blundering into a long stretch of chewed-off road surface near the Beaumont Inn.

Mombo is native to another beautiful county named Mercer, in Ohio. I got to thinking that I’ve never known anything about this Mercer namesake, so, since I’ve been thoroughly “Google-ized” over the past couple years, I checked it out. As usual, it didn’t take long to determine that both counties, like many in other states, including Pennsylvania and Illinois, were named after Dr. Hugh Mercer, Revolutionary War commander and physician who fled Scotland as a refugee after serving as an assistant surgeon at Culloden. He distinguished himself in America as a patriot, and, after Washington promoted him to Brigadier General, gave his life for his adopted homeland in 1777—

At the battle of Princeton, while leading the vanguard of the Americans, his horse was shot under him, and he was compelled to continue the contest on foot. He was surrounded by British officers, who ordered him to surrender. Drawing his sword, he was finally beaten to the ground with muskets and his body pierced with bayonet thrusts. With five wounds in his body and two in his head, he was left for dead on the field. He was carried to a neighboring house. When Washington heard of the fate of his old friend, he sent his nephew, Major Lewis, to watch over the final moments of the dying hero.

This was the price paid for my pleasant life… riding my bike like a carefree boy on a Sunday morning. This was the price paid by the countless souls who bought my freedom with their most precious coin—life itself.

Last night before bed I read Ian’s post about his mother, and it would’ve buckled my knees if I hadn’t been sitting down. And then I had this dream where I was swimming in a pond and there was this powerful suction hole at the bottom that carried water a good ways off, and I got up the courage to swim into it and it sucked me through a tunnel and spat me out down a hill. Then someone else decided to try it (I won’t use a name), and they didn’t come out the other side. I had the horrible realization that the person had become stuck and was probably struggling and holding his breath, so I had to decide immediately whether to go in, too, with the hope of possibly dislodging him and forcing us through, but having the clear awareness that we would likely both be stuck and drown—or whether to do nothing—and I had to decide NOW. It was so frightening that I woke up and I haven’t forgotten about it yet. Sorry, I promise I won’t make a practice of recording my dreams here. Maybe all this is because I was talking to Mombo about that bad dream I had back in January.

An evening of scrounged Chang leftovers, Godiva chocolate, and microwave popcorn… Priceless.

I wasn’t able to spend last night working on my two “Photorama” collages for the Clan graduates, since we spent the evening with the Simpsons watching “Out of Africa.” It forced me to complete the gifts today, but everything worked out fine. After an eight-mile morning run, I was able to focus on my intuitive sprint to the family deadline—an ideal circumstance for creating this particular type of artwork—as well as getting to savor one of the only flawless motion pictures made in the past 25 years.

25 years… that’s Brendan’s lifetime, and includes the lifetimes of all the Clan youngsters present at our celebration for Nicholas and Caitlan. And speaking of Brendan, I got to see him in action with his new camera, an impressive piece of equipment. As I shot with my vintage Nikkormat, I felt like a geezer driving around in a dusty old coupe. Ah well, at least I didn’t say, “No, sirree-Bob, they don’t make ’em like this anymore.”

It was fun to eat good Chinese food with Nic and Josh and Marty, too. Nic was having a great day, one that will last long in the memory bank. I wish my Godson well as he prepares to begin his studies in veterinary medicine. I really didn’t get to chat with Oxford-bound Caitlan, but, actually, I really didn’t get to talk to many of the others either, including my mom, but that didn’t stop me from simply absorbing the magnitude of the good family vibes, before it was all over much too quickly.

Dana just left to drive Bruce back to his home in Indianapolis. He seems very weak, but in reasonably good spirits.

I could accept that few members of my extended family were able to make the same trip while Bruce was in the hospital for the better part of a year. It’s much harder for me to understand how only three of them—Joan, Brendan, and Caitlan—could manage a visit while he was in the hospital for more than a week, right here in Danville. Mombo stopped by today, but just missed them. I think she feels very sorry about it.

Nobody likes hospitals, except perhaps for some of the people who work there… perhaps… However, there’s got to be more to it than that.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m part of a wonderful Clan, but life can be strange, and certain things happen that just don’t make any sense, and probably never will.

During Easter Mass I was noticing how much little Connor looks like his grandfather did at about that age, especially when my brother Jeffrey was soothing him. I was reminded of the old 8mm silent film that Mombo shot on another Easter, 45 years or more in the past. Little Jeffrey was so disappointed he didn’t find the biggest basket he cried and ran out of the picture. The technology used to document family images has come a long way over the years, to the point where Rita can now produce and present for holiday viewing an audio-visual DVD which archives a Clan event that took place just last month.

The torch has been passed in many ways…

I’m happy to learn my Uncle Joe is home from the hospital. I also read that 95-year-old, legendary coach John Wooden made it home from a recent stay in the hospital, too. Hospitals aren’t very good places to be, unless you have no other choice. I hope I always have another choice.

I took note of the Wooden announcement because I’ve been thinking about something he said. Not sure if I remember it correctly, but his point was that you haven’t failed until you start finding something or someone to blame. I think his message is that you remain on a success track as long as you continue to strive by looking within yourself to correct your own mistakes and deficiencies.

I haven’t gotten to know Uncle Joe as well as some of my other uncles, but he’s always been a great example to me as an innovator, by the way in which he set his goals high, and by never being afraid to learn something he didn’t know how to do. When I think about how he lifted the roof of his bungalow with truck jacks to enlarge his house by adding another story, it nearly blows my mind. All my life I’ve admired how he relied on himself and finished what he started.

Mombo and I were talking about that kind of stick-to-it-and-get-it-done capacity the other night, and how I was still trying to learn it. She said, “You must get that from me.” I disagreed and told her I couldn’t blame anyone else for my own history with unfinished projects, but that I was determined to put the habit behind me one way or another.

I told David today that I have no thought of giving up the goal of finding a niche market for the style I’m currently calling “Legacy Artworks.” Coming up with a name that isn’t already taken has been difficult, and it’s possible I haven’t even begun to solve the equation of how to market this type of illustration. Like most things, I’ll just need to chip away at the challenge. Goodness knows it’s not the only iron I have in the fire this year…

— Dana and I had an impromptu dinner with Mombo last night and I took the opportunity to show her my example of “Legacy Art.” I’m starting to wonder if that’s the best terminology for it, but I haven’t come up with anything better. I like the non-specificity, and the wide range of niche markets it could cover. When Seth saw it, he thought the style might appeal to high-end extreme sports devotees. The first example does have an “Indy Jones” visual flavor to it, and that could be appealing to any number of different target audiences—pilots, speed-boaters, racers, sailors, deep-sea anglers, climbers, divers, skiers, eco-trekkers, equestrians—I don’t know, as long as they have some dough and are fascinated enough with the significance of their own exploits to document themselves with an uncommon work of art. I need to define my ideal, well-heeled “mark.” How does “Raiders of the Flossed Mark” sound? Ooh, that was bad. See yesterday’s entry…

— I haven’t mentioned it, but after the events of the weekend, I was stunned when my pal David decided to present me with two unbelievably nice gifts—a pair of early 20th-century British Enfield military firearms, an officer’s revolver and a bolt-action rifle. I still don’t know what to say to him. He must appreciate the portrait that much, so I really shouldn’t joke about it. On my part, it’s a genuine attempt to find an unmet need in the art world, and I’m not going to put the venture aside just because I didn’t set the room on fire with my initial foray into the marketplace. It gave me pleasure to complete my first in the series with my friend as the subject. Now, the next step is to execute the second under the supervision of my great white huntress. That sounds much more provocative than it’ll play out, I’m sure…

— Yes, I really shouldn’t joke about my effort to reposition myself as a commemorative illustrator. Beside the fact that it wouldn’t amount to funny, the objective tends to epitomize everything that’s held me fixated for over a month, which actually turned out to be a rather serious project of self-study and introspective behavior modification. If poking fun at the pursuit would help my evaluation, than I’m all for it, but I’m more inclined to start looking at the lessons learned and assign myself some new action items to preserve my momentum. One of the primary things that came to light was how much doubt and fear I’d allowed to penetrate into my outlook, workstyle, and personal ambitions… mild, perhaps, but insidious nevertheless. That just has to go, and there are still pockets to root out, but at least I’ve developed the sensitivity to identify and counteract such an undesirable emotional undercurrent. It’s been a major source of wasted energy, as was my habit of distracting myself. It’s amazing how many typical trains of thought and everyday diversions seem trivial to me now, or at least unfocused. I’ve known for awhile that the pattern was there, but it took a diligent effort to unwind the nature of the chain reactions and recognize the old ruts for what they are. Once again, I come back happily to Emerson:

“Profligacy consists not in spending years of time or chests of money,—but in spending them off the line of your career. The crime which bankrupts men and states, is, job-work — declining from your main design, to serve a turn here or there. Nothing is beneath you, if it is in the direction of your life: nothing is great or desirable, if it is off from that…”

V & S

March experiment—day twenty-five— I spent my 30 minutes of silence at Mack’s increasingly dilapidated cabin praying fervently for my uncle, who’s fighting his way back from critical care, so he can get the heart surgery he desperately needs.

I ran back to Danville afterwards, just as I had run the five miles out to the cabin, but my legs became alarmingly stiff at nine miles or so and I had to walk a bit. I smiled to think that only a few minutes before I’d been advising J M on how to accomplish his 50-miler next month. Obviously, I’m no ultra-marathoner these days. When I mentioned it to Dana at breakfast she reminded me that it’s been four years since I did mine. True enough.

After the silence, our friend J R (Buck) shared eloquent words about how an aging athlete faces the traumatic decline of the physical body. Fortunately I have no experience with this subject, so far. Uncle Joe does—more than he deserves.

For decades, there was no greater advocate for physical fitness in Southwestern Ohio than Joe Sullivan. He’s had a positive influence on hundreds of educators and literally thousands of young people. He introduced things like tumbling mats and trampolines to the region and designed numerous state-of-the-art gymnasiums. And that doesn’t even touch on his contributions to coaching or his achievements as a college professor. You would think that he’d earned some points that would spare him the pain and indignity of a physical breakdown—he of all people, but it looks as though the Lord makes no such deals. Grace, on the other hand, is another issue.

I will continue to pray the Hail Mary for Uncle Joe.

Today’s sight bites— The march of ditch clutter, to the lower left of my stride, a parade of Newport packs and green Mountain Dew bottles—c-l-i-c-k—Little Caesar’s cartons—c-l-i-c-k—blue Bud Light cans—c-l-i-c-k—Long John Silver’s boxes—c-l-i-c-k—red McDonalds French-fry pockets—c-l-i-c-k—Arby’s bags—c-l-i-c-k—dip containers, soda straws, and orange candy wrappers—c-l-i-c-k—with the helpless notion that I should at the very least interpret all this as an artistic statement, an homage to Kurt Schwitters called Scenic Kentucky Highway 52…

Tomorrow— Drawing a good friend in Africa, plus an important call to Virginia (the Mother of Presidents, not Mombo—the Mother of Me—although that’s not a bad idea)…

• Accepting family as her top priority, she put her competitive spirit on standby, but never lost her love of fair play, teaching us that wholesome fun is an essential part of life.

• I could’ve become a quitter, but she helped me overcome discouragement born of self-doubt to meet a commitment and to fulfill a goal.

• When almost everything in the world of my youth said,
“Be cynical, or pessimistic, or both,” she was my reliable source of optimism, like a spring that never dries up.

• “Anything worth doing is worth doing well” was not a stale platitude for her, and she nurtured a regard for craftsmanship. If I distorted that gift into perfectionism, it’s not her fault.

• Quick with praise and slow to criticism, observant eyes without guile and easy laughter is her trademark.

• Pious, yet mischevious; dignified, yet unpretentious; she is naturally self-sacrificing, but nobody’s fool.

• When something bothers her, the discomfort is usually directed inward. If she’s called upon to render judgments, they’ll be reluctant, fair, morally sound, and never demeaning.

• Her belief in me has always been iron-clad, devoid of showy affection, but as steadfast as anything in my life.

• If you’re up to no good, and you see her spinning that broom—trust me—just dive overboard…

HAPPY BIRTHDAY to my “Mombo.” I love you, forever…