“I have been told often enough that I have a sense of humor that makes strong men faint and women reach for weapons.”
— Gene Wolfe
If you enjoy a highly imaginative, superbly written short story, please don’t overlook Gene Wolfe. Best recommendation Bruce ever made to me.
Reading Blood Meridian and gorging on Red Dead Redemption with Marty’s PS3 at the same time?
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 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!
Out of the blue — a rare eagle-eye view!
Recently I had the great fortune to enjoy a flight in a small plane with a pilot who is a fellow bicyclist. Earlier in the summer he mentioned that I should go up with him, but I forgot about it until I received his invitation by email. I was excited to join him, and I was prepared to share whatever he wanted to do. Unexpectedly, as soon as we departed the airport vicinity above Junction City, he asked me what I wanted to see. And so I happily guided him to a destination in the Casey County knobs — for any red-blooded member of the Dixon Clan, it was unquestionably the “place to go.”
This is the part of the story where clearly I should provide some kind of apt description of just how magnificent that experience proved to be. Instead, I hope that a few pictures will capture the perspective better than anything I might write. I hadn’t been in a position to do any aerial photography for at least 15 years or more. At that time, I had borrowed superior camera equipment and was in an aircraft which enabled me to hang out an open window with Dana clutching my belt. Because I was on the clock for a client that day, the idea of heading toward Blue Bank Road wasn’t in the cards. This time around, I only had our inadequate digital, and the plane windows were picking up a lot of glare, so I did my best to grab some decent angles in the time available, falling short of the desired “full coverage.”
There was also a significant degree of turbulence that morning, and when my friend offered me the controls, I declined, believing that the constant bumpiness would deprive me of any true “feel” for whatever modest adjustments I would be brave enough to make. Nevertheless, one can’t ascend in a small craft without being gripped by the wonder of flight. We were soaring with the land, just as pioneering aviators had done. As we circled through Marion County, past Forkland and into the Boyle County I had crisscrossed on a bike for nearly 20 years, my “sense of place” shifted abruptly from a ground-based familiarity to an eagle-eye awareness. I was struck with the thought of my father leaving behind his life as a pilot, giving up flying after he had known these same awesome perceptions far more profoundly than me. Why? Was it the unpleasant “baggage” from too many wartime hours in the air? Was it the power of youth’s love for field, river bottom, and the woodland creatures of a surface world? Or was it something else entirely?
For John Edward, there must surely have been times during that first decade after the Pacific tour when he faced an opportunity to reclaim the sky. A different vision must have taken hold not long after he came home—a vision of family and fatherhood that had no meaningful role for skills he had learned, taught, and then relied upon to survive a hazardous duty. Perhaps he had read Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, the famous French writer and pioneer of flight who was lost over the Mediterranean in 1944. Of Saint-Exupéry, David McCullough says it best for me:
Central to all he wrote was the theme of responsibility. In The Little Prince, it is the fox, finally, that tells the Little Prince what really matters in life, by reminding him of the flower, the single rose, he had cared for at home… “Men have forgotten this truth,” says the fox. “But you must not forget it. You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed. You are responsible for your rose.” Writing of his friend Guillaumet, an intrepid mail pilot, in Wind, Sand and Stars, Saint-Exupéry said that moral greatness derives more from a sense of responsibility than from courage or honesty. “To be a man is, precisely, to be responsible.”
Responsibility. Any of us would be challenged to find another word that better fit the man we knew as Grandy-bo, Dadbo, Eddie … that handsome young man of the open sky who would return to earth and become the founder of our Clan.
Aerials taken on Sunday morning, November 6, 2011.
Click photos to enlarge.
This is Clan Valley — the place to go . . .
The heartland of our Clan, the vision of a man . . .
The Blue Bank Farm and family cemetery . . .
The “Heartyard” and home to our Clan mother . . .
The Realm of Greystone includes Knob End . . .
The former Cabinhood recently changed hands . . .
The Shire — newest addition to Clan holdings . . .
Thanksgiving Day! The Breidenbachs, Slugas, Schafers, Oldhams, and Dixons, plus Hank and George, too. I’ll leave it to my montage to capture the warm festivities:
No major outings today, since the B’bach family is settling into Thanksgiving mode, but we did have a good lunch with Lauren and Kellie at the Dos Coyotes border restaurant here in Davis. I continued to correspond with JMM, who is in LA for the holiday (both of us in the same state, but so far away). He responded to my curiosity about the California light with these wonderful words, “Oh yes, my friend, the light is different out here. When the early 19th Century painters took their stuff back east, people exclaimed that light simply does not do what it they showed it to do in the West. Imagine Half Dome or El Capitan revealed from a mile or two, but without air to blur and soften. Can’t be done, they said. From there, we seem to love our American West very much for its revealing Air (Spiritus) and the inspiring of it (Inspiritus). The freedom from the well-worn assumptions of the American East (which is hardly ever capitalized) is necessary for the likes of us that need a new perspective now and then. Your ideas are more likely to be met graciously out West.” Mike is doing fine, but he misses his late father, of course. Oh, I know how it feels. It’s nice to see Dana so relaxed and full of smiles during the lead-up to this holiday. I suppose that part of this adventure is meant as a distraction for us, as we observe our first Thanksgiving without Bruce. It is good for her to be with her family. For me, too, and it’s also a mini-sabbatical, as I spend valuable time with books about key Bay-area painters. Looking at reproductions of Thiebaud’s pie paintings while the house is filled with the fragrance of actual pies baking was almost beyond my endurance. When the young generations left tonight, Bill and I made dinner together. The four of us had a great evening of food, wine, and conversation. It was fun to hear all the old stories of the Breidenbach heritage and lore.
Lay in bed this morning, waiting for the sun to come up, so I guess my body still hasn’t adjusted itself to the time difference. On another level, I couldn’t wait for the day to begin — and what a day it has been! After preparing more revised documents for the Community Trails Committee back home (I’m all set up for online work in the Breidenbach office), we made an outing to the Crocker Art Museum in downtown Sacramento. I got to see my first Thiebaud and Kondos originals, in addition to many other stimulating artworks. I was stunned by a large Rockwell Kent (he painted the site in Greenland after reaching it by dogsled) and stumbled upon one of the most masterful watercolors I’ve seen in person: “California Oak and Carmel Mission” by Francis McComas. How could I have never realized that the capital of this unique state would have such extraordinary art to experience? Is the light different here? Something about the sun on the autumn trees across from the Crocker seemed especially unusual.
I got all excited and woke Dana up early when the sun rose over the Colorado prairie. After a long stop next to the stadium where the Rockies play (Coors Field?), we climbed out of Denver through the tunnel district and the 6-mile Moffet. What followed is impossible for me to describe… some of the most spectacular scenery through which I’ve traveled since my rides long ago across the Alps and along the German Rhein. A photo will need to compensate for my failure with words. There was constantly changing terrain, geology, and vegetation. I especially enjoyed the views from Fraser down to Glenwood Springs.
Dana and I are off on our Amtrak journey to California, with delays caused by freight trains as we enter Chicagoland. Marty will meet us at the station to share time during a short stop before we catch the Zephyr. Can we actually be celebrating his twentieth birthday? We managed to get some sleep on an overnight from Cincinnati (the Cardinal), but I don’t feel train-savvy yet. I also bit my tongue severely a few minutes ago and it won’t stop bleeding.
Selective Memory
by John Andrew Dixon
mixed media collage on panel, 20 x 16 inches
created in August/September 2011, Danville
I’m pleased that a collage was chosen to be part of the second in a series of landscape exhibitions at the Community Arts Center. Although I continue to use found material as standard ingredients, the piece marks a departure from the direction of previous work. Inspired by the plein air activity of my friends (Dorothee, Marianna, Donna, and Mike), Selective Memory and Day Fulfilled (not selected) were created specifically for the opportunity and I pushed my technique toward an effect that fused both representational and abstract qualities. Framing the composition within a cosmic surrounding occurred to me as I thought about how to the best present the result. Dana, Mombo, and Joan came to the reception tonight. I was baffled by which inclusions were awarded cash, but the number of friends who expressed approval with my selection made me happy. The closest thing to this that I’ve done previously may have been 1525 Redwood, the house portrait created for Flo and Bill. I want to investigate this approach further with more landscapes (perhaps another real location) and with a still life, too.
The family gained a new Clansman during what proved to be one of the greatest Dixon celebrations of the new century. After a nuptial mass at Sacred Heart, everyone traveled to Knob End meadow in the Realm of Greystone for an outdoor bash that rivaled any milestone party of the past, including the Hellyer 15th anniversary and my 50th birthday at the tavern in Danville. Peat looked beautiful, the toast by James was awesome, Holly Jo at the microphone was a trip, and the dance floor was thundering into the night — with a very good time had by all.
For facebook users, my photos are available for viewing.
Brendan accepted my guest story and published
it today at his Anacrusis site.
Brendan concluded his micro-fiction project on Tuesday, after nearly eight years of creative ritual. Some new gigs are certain to fill the vacuum as he enters his fourth decade, and I expect to enjoy the product just as much. Anacrusis has been my Thunderbird home page for a long time. 
I don’t expect that to change at this point, but I’ll miss that daily curiosity until I finally get used to it, and yet I fully understand and appreciate his desire for resolution. Except for the rare Fred Rogers or Charles Schultz, few things are forever, and an artist really doesn’t need to explain each transition. Nevertheless, I appreciate the epilogue and accept his word of thanks. As for any debt, I’d say we’re more than even, after so many smiles, throat lumps, and catalytic jolts to my hair-trigger imagination. It’s an awesome body of work worthy of pride, NB, and I don’t doubt that others will be mining it for ideas well into the future. Good luck!
It was time to press homeward and leave our seaman apprentice to his shipmates. As Dana observed, it was a fine glimpse of both youthful folly and maturity in the rough. For me, the bottom line impression was his strong sense of purpose combined with a clear view that it is a privilege to serve. He is making the most of his opportunity, with no attitude of entitlement or cynicism. That’s more than enough to make me very proud, and I can’t wait to see where the unfolding adventure takes him. Lord, keep him safely guided on his voyage.
We scrubbed our original agenda to visit a museum and adopted a more relaxed plan to hang out in Evanston, see a movie, shop a little, and to gradually work our way north toward the base. We saw a matinee screening of “The Conspirator,” which apparently is not burning up the box office this weekend. I thought the opening depiction of the assassination night was interesting, but the courtroom scenes were uninspired. Admittedly, they are very difficult to pull off. When not scripted with the typically unrealistic dynamics, they usually play out with a certain monotony or stereotypical dialogue. Lumet’s “The Verdict” ruined me for life, I suppose. Overall, I enjoyed the production design and art direction, but the picture lacked the story-telling power of Redford’s early projects. I had a similar feeling when I recently watched Clint’s “Hereafter.” Afterward, Marty bought himself some sketching materials at Blick’s and surprised me with a set of colored fine-points for card making. He gave Dana a gift of Hawaiian coffee beans. When I got online, I discovered that Joan had emailed a wonderful account of goings-on with our mother at the Gels funeral. It sounds like she was in rare form and provided everyone a taste of the true “Jinny Spirit.” I hope Joan compiles her notes as a nice blog entry. Wish I could have been present, but we were exactly where we were supposed to be, and I pray for more such “Mombo Moments” to experience firsthand.
This is so strange to be in Chicago and to know that the entire Gels clan is in St. Henry to say farewell to Uncle Clarence. It’s great to be here with Marty and observe his new “military bearing.” The graduation ceremony at the training center was reasonably impressive, at least to me, if not to our advancing recruit. We had a huge Italian restaurant splurge in Lake Forest this evening. It felt less like a birthday celebration and more like a congratulatory gift to a young man who is making us proud. In any case, I hereby turn over my date of birth to the royal history books. (Dadburnit!)
Why did the royal wedding have to fall on my birthday and usurp its date forever? Why did a wave of tornadoes hit Alabama instead of Kentucky? Why did Uncle Clarence have to expire three days before I planned to visit him? Questions with no answers cluttered my mind this morning when I awoke early to prepare for our departure. It was off to Chicagoland for Marty’s graduation from USN Boot Camp. Dana, Terie, and I pushed steadily north through a barrage of rain storms. We saw our first-ever wind farm southeast of Gary. In spite of our best precautions, we hit rush-hour traffic on the Dan Ryan Expressway, but had enough in the tank to endure the gridlock. We finally settled into our accommodations a half hour from Great Lakes.
†
Clarence Gels
1 9 0 8 - 2 0 1 1
my uncle
and inspiration
R I P
March Exercise —day thirteen— It turned out to be a rough day for both of us, but especially for Dana. It had little to do with externals. It was just one of those days that keep rising to the surface in a long process of managing grief. We spent the bulk of our time at David and Lee’s cabin, helping them prepare for the rifle competition next Saturday. Dana and Lee worked on separate tasks. David and I took on a big two-man job and also fit in a little practice on the range. We left in time to get to Blue Bank for what was to be the first Mission: Madness, a ritualized screening of the entire seven-year run of Mission: Impossible. Because of my scheduling error, we arrived at an “empty” valley. Seeing the grave site, untouched since January, was enough to induce a fresh wave of sadness. We were unable to cope by plunging into the distraction of our planned episode-viewing shindig. The evening wound down from there, although I was able to complete my driveway hedge clipping and commence the spring pruning of the front-yard bushes. Even if I go about my own business, I believe we can still sense one another’s emotion. We ended up streaming an enjoyable movie, but, to be honest, we don’t really salvage these occurrences. We just ride them out and set our sights on the following day.
Today’s sight bite— Small steel targets in sun-dappled woodlands, —c-l-i-c-k— surprisingly crisp to the eye above my familiar sites.
Tomorrow— Back to the studio grind . . .
March Exercise —day twelve— Thematically, the best motion pictures often can be summed up in one word: Determination. Togetherness. Manipulation. Fortitude. Delusion. And, with the film that took the Oscar— Friendship. At least, that’s what I took away from The King’s Speech last night. Both men, in entirely different ways, put everything on the line in loyalty to their deepening friendship. Is it the highest form of love? I don’t know. Perhaps. There can be true love without friendship, but never true friendship without love. For some reason, it calls to mind the story of the split that took place between my Dad and a man that was his neighbor when I was a child. When we moved away and my Dad’s life became even more complicated, this man gave him an ultimatum. He’d had enough of making the trip to visit my Dad if the effort was not reciprocated. An impasse. My Dad was raising seven kids that he expected to be college bound. He was married. He was fighting the Cold War at work. His friend was retired, divorced, with a grown daughter. Nobody knows the actual words exchanged, but it resulted in my Dad’s decision. Something like, “If that’s the way you feel, then don’t come back.” He never did. I’ve always seen it as a clash of incompatible viewpoints. “If you were a true friend, you would make time for me. You would want to be fair, and to preserve the bond we have.” “If you were a true friend, you would appreciate my life and not make demands. You would not keep score.” Naturally, I saw it Dadbo’s way. He had other friends who went the extra mile. In turn, he was generous and loyal to them until each went to his grave. For me, the two most fascinating questions in the human condition: What is unconditional love? What is true friendship?
Today’s sight bite— The huge crow, sitting on the street lamp bulb —c-l-i-c-k— and scolding me with his imperious “Haw! Haw!”
Tomorrow— Rifle match preparation, topped off with pure escapism . . .
March Exercise —day eleven— Something had me out of bed and down the street to the soccer field before daybreak, and it felt different than the prevailing energy of the regimen so far. Perhaps it was watching that “Wilderness” guy on KET last night, building by hand his cabin of spruce logs above an Alaskan lake. The brisk air actually felt pleasant, which is a good sign that my exasperation with winter cold has turned a corner. Later, I was glad I’d shifted my swim time from yesterday, otherwise I’d probably not have run into Mike N on campus. Another thing postponed to tonight was the dinner-and-a-movie to celebrate 33 years since our first date. We couldn’t think of anything more enjoyable than having a Japanese meal and seeing The King’s Speech.
Today’s sight bite— An amazing facial chord of sadness, fear, and determination on the big screen —c-l-i-c-k— in one of the past year’s great acting performances.
Tomorrow— The joy of pruning . . .
March Exercise —day nine— There is much for me to learn about adapting to the evolving field of graphic design. I simply don’t know yet what it will be like to make a living as a designer during this decade of the twenty-teens. I’ve given most of my creative life to that profession. There are things that I will do to keep pace with changes in the communication arts, but there are other things that I will watch pass by, with no intent to chase. On the other hand, I’ve determined to accept the challenge of learning entirely new skills and frames of reference for an emerging phase of life. I’m not prepared to disclose more about this now, but suffice it to say that I’m currently a couple years into a learning curve that will enable me to generate income in a completely different way. It’s something of which I’ve always been capable, and in which I’ve always held a strong interest, but advances in technology now make it feasible for me to follow my enthusiasm for developing such a new kind of expertise. I should be able to apply these new skills in earnest by the time I turn 60 years old. I expect it to become a vital part of my work-style into later years, and, when fully successful, to provide new levels of creative freedom. In actuality, there is no summer and autumn of life. There is only the promise of perpetual springtime.
Today’s sight bite— The brave blooms of March —c-l-i-c-k— that rear their purple heads when nothing else looks like spring.
Tomorrow— An important observance . . .
March Exercise —day seven— During the worst of our deep sadness, as I stepped back from a chasm of self-pity, I reached out to my brother, James. He listened, assessed, and loaned me a copy of a tiny book with an odd title: Who Moved My Cheese? The message is simple, but not simplistic, and its thought-provoking theme makes me think more about the true nature of change in our lives. It takes me back to a time when radical change was the norm, and I considered it my friend. One of my greatest blessings is knowing my brothers have my back, and no one has it more than my first best friend. I like what his daughter Rita said about him not that long ago: “The thing I admire most in anyone is my dad’s ability to weigh any situation and give the most level headed advice and explanations in an inspirational way—whether we are talking running, work, school, life, family, friendships—even love!”
Today’s sight bite— Pink-gold striations stacked on a slate-cold horizon —c-l-i-c-k— with Abe’s immortal address cast below as silver letterforms against a field of black.
Tomorrow— Find the cadence and crank harder . . .
March Exercise —day six— That feeling in the pit of the gut when one’s new car gets its first scratch on bumper, fender, or door— exactly what I sensed today after my well-meaning blunder rendered Dana’s refurbished Mac Pro unable to start up. Yes, it meant I couldn’t present to her a pristine configuration as the result of my several days of work. But that’s all. No need to get agitated… no need to react as I might have in the past. Finished is better than perfect. Apple anticipates such a thing with its “Archive and Install” option, so use it and don’t fret. I now can see how, in the past, something like this might have set in motion a spiral of self-criticism. And so I put my checklist in reverse, came to terms with a few hours of delay, and took Walie on a long, chilly walk around Bellevue Cemetery.
Today’s sight bite— Muted tones of stone the same colors as the variegated sky —c-l-i-c-k— constituting rows of aged grave markers in a sea of desaturated grass.
Tomorrow— The Monday discipline is applied again in earnest . . .
March Exercise —day four— Dana and I spent the evening with two of the couples who had shown us the most compassion during our winter of sorrow. Actually, there are a surprising number of these kind people, and they’ve helped make the unthinkable bearable. I’ve always been a bit uncomfortable with these types of dinner events, and didn’t know what to expect tonight. It turned out to be an unusual combination of in-depth personal discussion and mindless game-table recreation. We left with a few more discretionary dollars than we brought, and, more importantly, with the satisfying knowledge that our friends are sincerely interested in the process that will put our grief behind us.
Today’s sight bite— The stuttering dance of dice on a thick glass table top —c-l-i-c-k— like a drop of water in a skillet of hot oil.
Tomorrow— A matter of decisive internal orchestration . . .
March Exercise —day three— Morning flew away and my scheduled swim was on top of me before I knew it. College staffers were creating a stone perimeter in front of the pool building for what looked to become a flower bed around the sign. Seeing the men at work out of doors with gardening tools sent a low jolt of some unknown stimulant through my system that triggered preposterous musings about what might have been, had I chucked my day job years ago and become a landscaper. It brought to mind the words of my cousin Dan, when he informed me by email that he’d acquired rural acreage in Ohio: “I think the urges I’m having now were evident in your father when I was a kid, and my father and brother now. I don’t know why I so desperately want to have land that I control, and to provide food to my family and neighbors….but I do.” There is something profoundly misguided about my having had decades of access to one of the most tranquil of Kentucky’s natural havens and, so far, having squandered the opportunity to fulfill that same genetic compulsion. God help me.
Today’s sight bite— Hand-worn rakes sifting through clods of black soil —c-l-i-c-k— as landscapers prepare a new planter at the natatorium.
Tomorrow— An evening with compassionate friends . . .
March Exercise —day two— An early start and a full, productive day makes for a Marchesque mode, but the perceptual acuity will take a bit longer to secure. The recording session at the radio station went as well as I could have expected, convincing me that an affinity for media remains in the ol’ vessels. The positive results of Nic’s pulling two of Walie’s ruined teeth on Saturday before the Marty-Rah, and the subsequent course of treatment, are more evident by the day. She has a new level of spunk not seen in many a moon. All the little stinker wants to do is play with toys and try to slip out the back door. Causes me to regret the delay in seeking my Godson’s generous care. Also thinking of Marty today. Wish I could have some idea of what he’s gone through in his first three days of training. I can only assume that he’s tired, sore, and just a tad shell-shocked at this point.
Today’s sight bite— My disobedient pup, marching down the driveway without a leash —c-l-i-c-k— proving that spring fever can still hold sway at 13 years of age.
Tomorrow— Completion of the comprehensive checklist . . .
March Exercise —day one— Unexpected March is upon me. The day is marked by a rare, scintillating clarity that only arrives after a major storm front has passed through the region with its atmospheric cleansing. One mild day a lamb does not make, but this seems to be in contrast to the signal from Punxsutawney. I’d prefer to see the last of winter now. Yesterday, after an overnight stay at Blue Bank, Dana and I drove Mombo into town for her medical appointments during a heavy downpour. With Marty’s departure for USN training, plus two studio computers to configure, the close of February has caught me by surprise this year. Very well. Let us begin it all again.
Today’s sight bite— Vivid architectural facades bathed in pure sunlight —c-l-i-c-k— as I walked to the campus pool for my midday mile.
Tomorrow— Voice-over supervision for the bank’s Jacob T campaign . . .
So far, 2011 has been a peculiar form of hell, but we just keep putting one foot in front of the other. Spring is on the way, and time works its healing power, but there is a void that one can never get over. The hair-trigger for a deep sorrow will always be there under the surface. Such is loss, I suppose, and the longer we hang around, the more we shall know it.
Bruce liked animals, games, martial arts, music, entertainment, and public policy, but he was first and foremost a voracious reader — went cover to cover through the Holy Bible at the age of nine, and figured he had read through it again at least ten more times. Beginning as a child, he consumed three to five books a week through much of his life. It was only natural that he would devote himself to writing. Keeping in mind his great love for dogs, here is something penned by his alter ego, Elbo C. Buckminster:
“I agree with whiners, of the last few generations at least, that life is a bitch. But I’m not whining when I say it. Maybe the first person to utter that phrase was misunderstood, maybe wasn’t whining either, maybe, as I, realized that the spark of physical in this plane is protected by Nature, the bitch-goddess, sharp-toothed and warm-teated. And, like any bitch, when her offspring are threatened, Nature doesn’t retreat. She bare her teeth, she threatens, she snarls — and she bites. She won’t give up, no matter how overmatched, until the threat leaves or until she is torn to bloody shreds. So count on Life, your bitch-mother, for she’ll not abandon you easily. But respect her. If you misbehave, she may snap your little puppy head off.”
As most of you know, Bruce lost his solitary kidney in his mid 20s and spent 71 months on hemodialysis before gaining a transplanted organ, which would serve him for eight years, until he lost it while battling the devastating inflammation of his pancreas that left him gravely ill, hospitalized, and clinging to life for nearly a year, during much of which he could take no food or water by mouth. By his own account, “I died a few times — three or four, I don’t know — and at least once they were ready to call the time of my death, but one of the ICU nurses refused to give up on me; I guess she felt I still has some fight in me, and she was right.”
Indeed. When he was finally released to tenuous home care, we were told that he was only the second patient in the 100-plus-year history of that Indianapolis medical center to survive such a severe pancreatic hemorrhage. We never learned anything about that other person, but we came to know a Kentucky man named Nathaniel who defied similar odds at UK Medical Center well below one percent, and he helped us preserve hope during Bruce’s darkest days. That was 2005. But even more significant to us than Nathaniel’s kindness — and, of course, the support and encouragement of so many friends and family — was Bruce’s own valiant, grinding effort to meet daily challenges more daunting than it seemed any human being should have to face.
Later (this was 2006, April), to a standing-room-only group of us who met on Sundays to share silence, in perhaps the most awesome extemporaneous public commentary I’ve heard — one of those powerfully unique, you-had-to-be-there moments — Bruce told us that he made it through those grueling months by virtue of what might be understood, as he put it, “lying fallow,” a spontaneous, involuntary suppression of normal cognitive and emotional activity, and I have no reason to doubt it, since he retained only a partial memory of the ordeal. There were times he was so fragile that the doctors could give him no pain medication, even after major surgery. Dana and I will always remember that during the worst of his pain, he told us that he was able to endure it by reminding himself that Christ had suffered even more. Any faith in the future we managed to keep was inspired by this, Bruce’s own profound inner focus and his refusal to quit. Bruce wrote:
“Perhaps this is what Jesus meant when he said, ‘if you but had the faith of a mustard seed’—not belief, but faith. Faith doesn’t require belief, but a deeper knowledge, an intuitive awareness of possibility, even a denial of reality. Faith flies in the face of truth. So while I feel in my bones the existence of a being we, in our ignorance, call God, and the existence of an energy level beyond this lowly one of rock, flesh, and death, I refuse to qualify, quantify, or classify it, because to do so takes me further from the truth, not nearer.”
At long last, he was discharged to confront what he knew to be a difficult three-to-five-year recovery at best, with more surgeries and a relentless cycle of dialysis. Family and friends— that was five years ago. In fact, he went home after that first long hospitalization on Christmas Eve, and that was exactly five years ago this past Christmas Eve. Bruce had completed that journey of recovery, had made a transition, with his mother’s help, to a new, less debilitating method of in-home care, and was optimistic about his chances for another transplant, with a return to school to fulfill his original goal of becoming an English teacher. And then, after all that, the earthly saga of Bruce Joel Willoughby came to a close — when his soul abruptly flew from a physical organism compromised by so many years of precarious health.
We are here to comfort each other in sorrow, but more importantly, to celebrate Bruce’s life, to be inspired by it, as I have been, and to accept that some things can never be understood on this side of the curtain. It brings us once again to the words of Cockburn, who Bruce admired most as a musician and songwriter (and it went well beyond their sharing the name of Bruce):
An elegant song won’t hold up long
When the palace falls and the parlor’s gone.
We all must leave, but it’s not the end.
We’ll meet again at the festival of friends.Smiles and laughter and pleasant times—
There’s love in the world, but it’s hard to find.
I’m so glad I found you; I’d just like to extend
An invitation to the festival of friends.Some of us live and some of us die.
Someday God’s going to tell us why.
Open your heart and grow with what life sends.
That’s your ticket to the festival of friends.Like an imitation of a good thing past,
These days of darkness surely will not last.
Jesus was here, and he’s coming again
To lead us to his festival of friends.
Bruce was troubled in body, but strong in spirit. One didn’t have the sense that he was in decline, but quietly fighting toward a crest, ever determined, never in retreat, but slowly gaining ground, inch-by-inch against insurmountable odds. Always the chess player, he would find a way to extend the end game one more move, one more cunning evasion against near-certain checkmate, yet unafraid of passing, if a stalemate was declared. I doubt if there was anyone except his mother who really understood how hard he tried, including me, but I never lost sight of how incredibly remarkable he was among everyone I’ve ever known. There were times when it seemed he held intact his presence here by sheer force of will. For me, he always will be the true “Impossible Missions Force of Nature.”
It is fitting that we close with Bruce’s re-creation of his summation from those memorable words he delivered in April of 2006, which he titled, “HAH! MISSED ME AGAIN.”
“I leave you with this thought: If you have unfinished business in your life, get to it. Be it mending relationships, expressing yourself creatively, getting involved in community service, going for your dream job, returning to school, or losing weight — get to it. You may not be rewarded with a better economic life, or a longer life, or a happier life, but I guarantee you will be rewarded with a worthwhile life, a satisfactory life, whether it end tomorrow or ninety years hence.”
†
Bruce Joel Willoughby
1 9 6 6 - 2 0 1 1
son, brother, uncle
and Clansman
R I P
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!
Teachers and school boards should embrace comic books and graphic novels as a “gateway” literature, helping children transition towards more complex narratives and helping boys catch up with girls in reading achievement, according to a new study.
—Giuseppe Valiante, Postmedia News
I was thinking it might be about time to add another entry about “The Legend” to this neglected series, but then Joan passed along a link from the Vancouver Sun that forced me to ask a question: Were comics a key aspect of my own progress toward literacy?
It’s gettin’ kinda hazy, but I recall being heavily into the Hardy Boys as a pre-teen, and comic books were a treat, like the Saturday morning “Treasure Chest.” (Remember Chuck White, or This Godless Communism?“) As readers, we used to add little summary cards to our handmade “books pocket” —until junior high years and the move to Tipp City, and then the comics craze struck with a vengeance. We even managed to scrounge funds for subscriptions! (Jimmy Olsen? What were we thinking?) I recall few youthful activities as pleasurable as absconding with an “80-Page Giant” of Bob Kane Batman stories after school (on a day that I’d made a midday trip to “Jointer’s” lunch counter). DC reigned supreme, but we still liked Casper, Wendy, and Hot Stuff, too. We couldn’t get our fill, so we hunkered down with Superman whenever we made a visit to Pam and Lottie’s. “Superman Red and Superman Blue” was the pinnacle experience. Sadly, for me, everything was downhill from there. And when someone let that litter of kittens make a stink of our comics box, the era came to a ignominious close. I moved on to Edgar Rice Burroughs, Jules Verne, and Raphael Sabatini.
Should I be marked down as a statistic?
