Uncle John’s Log & Co.

Janet and Jerome joined us at the Simpson cabin to open some bottles and indulge our Epicurean leanings. We stared with crack-&-peel shrimp and a zesty gazpacho, added a plate of fruit and cheese, which was followed by a main course of grilled ka-bobs with garden vegetables, marinated lamb and venison (from the 2004 Martini-Henry buck), plus asparagus pinwheels, red-cabbage slaw and Mexican jicama, closing with a frozen strawberry dessert. To accompany our extraordinary menu we tasted a merely satisfactory Californian chardonnay, an interestingly ancient South African cabernet, and a magnificent Sonoma Valley pinot noir, in addition to a bright, smooth sherry from Texas. Before our “guests” arrived, David provided me an opportunity to shoot my Enfield military .303 rifle and British “foxhole” revolver, both surprisingly accurate, once I learned the peculiarities of the sights. While we were up at the range, he tested his .577/450 double rifle and quickly nailed a small iron target at 300 yards—twice. This man is a sharpshooter. Maybe I can get Jerome to come earlier next time. I know he’d also enjoy shooting targets with these antique arms.

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

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.

Drove to Hot Springs yesterday via 25-E, which, during the daytime, is a much more pleasant route than the Interstate. It gave us an opportunity to locate the LMU campus and learn that it’s quite close to the Cumberland Gap tunnel. Much of the way I read to Dana from “Simple Loving,” a book that used to belong to Joan and Joe. By the time we arrived at Broadwing Farm, we were thinking sufficiently “outside the cube” to make our short breakout worth it, even if nothing comes of our appointment tomorrow. Bob and Carol had a delicious supper prepared and we talked until sleepiness held sway. Typically, we spent today in deep conversation, fueled by natural foods, fresh air, a majestic view, a run to the nearby coffee hangout, and a dip in the spring-fed pond. Carol turned us on to Sarah Susanka, Bob convinced me to start watching the series “Band of Brothers,” and Pete gave me some hemlock slabs from the sawmill for my woodcut experiments. The regional infestation has worsened to the point that he’s been forced to harvest a lot of hemlock from the forest, but the timber is being put to good use in building a horse stable and a third rental dwelling. This one will be called Cedar, and will surely add to the success of Poplar and Pine at Broadwing Natural Bath Cabins.

— Month of July workout totals: Swim-6; Bike-7; Run-2; Lift-3; Yoga-2

— As I continue to thoroughly enjoy my peak cycling season, I notice an increasing level of muscle tightness and pelvic inflexibility due to a decline in periodic yoga practice. Balance and discipline. Why is it so difficult to calibrate?

— On Saturday, when Dana baked Terie a birthday pie (Blue Bank blackberries plus organic red raspberries), I decorated the crust with her favorite thing that makes her happy.

— I seemed to need every available minute yesterday to meet my evening deadline, but I managed to complete three mixed media collage artworks, including a “Fifteenth Cosmosaic,” the largest composition in the series so far and the first to be executed specifically for public exhibition and sale. Dana and I hand delivered them to Kathleen, the coordinator for the Lexington CONNECTIONS show, and she accepted all three on the spot. Even though it was getting late, she was kind enough to spend some time providing framing advice. I’ve been concerned I haven’t yet developed the ability to frame my work in a manner commensurate with the quality of the art. I intend to rectify that with these pieces, which are due in the city next month.

V & S

It might have been one of those ideal days, had I not left up in the air my potential plans to attend a rifle match with David. Eventually the uncertainties seemed to resolve themselves by default, and I was able to focus my creative attention on preparing artwork for the Layerist exhibition scheduled this autumn in Lexington. At lunch there was an enjoyable Rotary program with bright, bubbly representatives from the “graduating” GSP class. Tonight we had a delightful dinner with Joan—lamb chops, sweet corn, plus Fron’s tomatoes with basil and cheese. To that we added red wine, soy yogurt over mixed berries, and good conversation about how our families ate when we were all kids.

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…

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, it’s true that we’ve cut back dramatically on prepared foods and eliminated almost all meals out.

The result— I’ve been eating like a king!

Rotary Club was unusually interesting today. I was called upon to make an spontaneous appeal in support of The Salvation Army Summer Camp program. Then we heard from a hometown gal who’s taking Pioneer Playhouse by storm this summer, and that got me thinking about my young chum Andrew. Holly Henson, daughter of the Playhouse founder, gave her pitch about next year’s Raintree County 50th Anniversary Festival. She made us realize that in 1956, it was the most expensive domestic motion picture ever made, and that 40% of it was shot in and around Danville/Boyle County. She made what I thought was an amusing remark— “What if 50 years later everyone had forgotten that the movie Titanic was filmed at Herrington Lake?” Later in the afternoon, I had coffee with a rookie staff writer for the local newspaper to promote the “Share the Road Rally” in Frankfort next Saturday. I’m also in the process of raising the profile of the bicycling advocacy group that a few of us local cyclists have organized this year. We have some lofty goals, and decided it was time to “go public.” We’re committed to a long-term effort and agree it’s too late to put on the brakes now. We’ll press on and see what happens. After that, Dana and I cruised to Lexington for the Gallery Hop, grabbed dinner and a glass of wine at Alfalfa’s downtown eatery, and settled in for an Altman picture at the State Theatre. What a day!

It was our 17th Great American Brass Band Festival, and maybe the best yet for us. It will certainly be one of the most memorable.

— This year I composed the second poster in a commemorative series which will continue to highlight local artists, working closely with Phnomphone “Paul” Sirimongkhon, a popular painter in town. He’s a native of Laos and a graduate of Berea College. He works for Centre College as a graphic artist. I designed the souvenir pin and t-shirt with images derived from his featured artwork. The pin sold out halfway through the Festival, which has never happened before. The shirts, produced at the 10th Planet, sold well, too. (Oh yes… I found out that I’m to be the Featured Artist in 2007, so I get to play with myself—I mean, collaborate with myself.)

— We had a double table at last night’s picnic celebration, and our theme was a fitting tribute to South African guests Roger and Marcia Ingel, visiting from Durban. A maximum effort was made by all, including Janet and Jerome, and (sonofagun!) we earned the table competition’s “Best of Show.” I don’t think the picture does justice to how cool an impression it made, to tell the truth. Guess you had to be there. There were so many ingredients to the overall effect— the flowers, the place settings, the decorations, the food, the wardrobe, the signage. I created the graphics, and I hope it was an effective promotion for Dixon Design. In any case, although I was resistant at first to the idea of going all the way with our preparations, it turned out to be a lot of fun. I suppose we just love this aspect of the Festival as much as any.

I made mention last month that we’d watched “Out of Africa,” but didn’t say that it was primarily to conduct thematic research in preparation for this coming Saturday night. I admit it. I love The Great American Brass Band Festival. We moved to Kentucky the summer it began, and June in Danville has always been about the Festival for us. Nevertheless, I’m not a big fan of trying to orchestrate a picnic table concept, as much as I thrill to the atmosphere on Saturday night. There’s nothing like being close to the stage during what’s clearly the high point of the weekend, but all the preparations and distractions of making the table into a spectacle has never seemed to be worth the bother. Having said that, I can report that Dana has me completely caught up in getting ready for our African repast, including designing graphics for the table sign, and I’m starting to get excited about how it’s coming together. We’re sharing our table with David and Lee and their guests from Durban, South Africa. The competitive juices are pumping. Look out. I’m gonna kick down every other table like Jesus on a bad day!

• Made an expedition to Lincoln County yesterday and the result was an outstanding conversation with the head of the Industrial Authority and the new Director of Tourism. We’re in the door, and the timing seems perfect.

I was mildly astonished by the way downtown Stanford is coming to life this summer. I remembered my long-time pal Mark telling me about its quaint drug store and that it served the best chocolate malt in the region. I was so uplifted after the meeting that I decided to stop in and visit the soda fountain, and to see if he was right.

Unbelievably “oldendaydelicious”!

When I strolled Main Street, thinking about the opportunities, I was transported back to when I was a 22-year-old vagabond in Europe, and the perceptions I’d get whenever I entered a new city. Back then I felt I could conquer any unfamiliar place in a matter of hours—Amsterdam, Zurich, Florence, Rome, Munich, Paris…

I’m 32 years older now, and my whiskers are a different color, but I reckon I can still conquer Stanford, Kentucky.

… graybeard prospector …

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.

What better way to assuage the knowledge of being another year older?

— It was a small group of local runners this morning, due to the Derby Festival in Louisville. I’m sure most of them were competing in the 13.1-miler, but my pals Don and Larry were doing the full Marathon. Mort and I did ten miles at a comfortable enough pace to talk the whole time, covering a range of subjects from mentorship, aging, rail trails, grassroots activism, minority politics, and the separation of church and state, which was a great way to start a birthday. After I got home, Lee stopped by to present her gift—a copy of The Emerald Book, which she found in her grandmother’s attic. It’s troubling to think it wasn’t so long ago that third and fourth graders were reading the poems of Shakespeare, Stevenson, Kipling, Tennyson, Coleridge, Hawthorne, Riley, and Emerson. It also contains reproductions of works by painters like Hals and Carpaccio, with short lessons in art appreciation. What happened to the idea of children having the imaginative freedom to be kids while they simultaneously advance on a gradient apprenticeship to adult culture? Instead, we have a glut of twenty-something adolescents attempting to understand the roots of Western Thought by watching a Brad Pitt movie, as primary schoolers learn that “fuck” can be either a verb, noun, or interjection. Does anyone know how we let this happen?

— Although we had a good turnout at our banquet Thursday evening, most of our strong Centre College supporters were absent because, unfortunately, we were competing with the appearance of Helen Thomas as part of their Press Distinguished Lecture Series. Not surprisingly, the veteran White House correspondent directed her criticism at the president, suggesting he follow the advice given to LBJ during Viet Nam and “Declare a victory and leave”. Please pay closer attention, Helen—that’s what our enemies may already be in the process of doing. Jordanian Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, in a desperate attempt to impede the steady rise of Iraqi democracy, revealed his appearance in a recent propaganda video. In another tape, Egyptian Ayman al-Zawahri pleaded impotently with Muslims to oppose our Arab allies, and he declared that militants have “broken the back” of the U.S.-led effort. In the face of such frantic attempts on the part of Al-Qaida to remain relevant in Iraq, now is not the time to abandon the fledgling coalition government.

— Terie and Marty came over for either a late lunch or an early dinner—not sure which—with berry pie and ice cream (I don’t do cake on April 29th, thank you). Marty described his new pc game, Rome: Total War, and we watched a classic M:I episode, “The System” (we used to call it “Johnny Costa” back in the 60s) while Dana and Terie finished the tuna melts, keeping an eye on the NFL draft at the same time. I’d already received my gifts of a wristwatch and set of Koh-I-Noor Nexis art pens from Dana. Terie and Marty surprised me with a Serenity DVD. Well, maybe my home is not a hotbed of high culture, but who can find fault with a full day of pleasurable cooleosity?

— Ok, it’s 54. Happy Birthday to me.

V & S

After the Shared Silence at Mack’s cabin, Bruce was the featured provider of words. I can’t remember ever having heard a more awesome extemporaneous commentary (and I’m even taking into consideration some of Uncle Bob’s and Uncle Clarence’s memorable remarks at family gatherings over the years). I actually started to tremble, and at least one person noticed that it probably wasn’t due to the morning air’s unseasonable chill. Dana prepared blueberry-walnut muffins, pecan coffee cake, and a variety of fresh fruit. Lee and David came for the first time, and it was standing room only. Without a doubt, it was one of those powerfully unique, you-had-to-be-there moments, and Bruce left everyone with the profound message that NOW is the time to make your mark as a creative being.

We’re about to go out the door now, to take Bruce for his first trip to see Kelley Ridge, and what a spectacular day to do it!

March experiment—day seventeen— It was a physically active day, which, after my morning run, I spent mostly outdoors. Our yard is a mess because 2005 didn’t lend itself to fooling around with the hedges and flower beds. Across the street, workers were removing the stained glass windows from the Baptist church in preparation for its demolition. JT told me that he won’t know whether we can get the surplus stone for my driveway concept until the Library board takes possession. The month of May seems awfully close in time, and I hope I can be ready to keep my end of the proposition. I couldn’t believe how fast those guys up on the cherry picker were working—real professionals. That must be an expensive contract.

I spent an hour or so away from my chores by going out to Chrisman Lane with Dan. We picked up litter as part of our “Friends of Mack Jackson” Adopt-A-Highway project. The two of us “drew a short straw” with our task of clearing a steep embankment of trash. It’s always tough to confront how disgustingly negligent people can be, but Mack would be happy with the effort of our informal group. If we keep after it on a regular basis, it shouldn’t be this bad again, I would hope.

I was worn out by the time Dana and I arrived at the English Country Dance with Lee and David, but it was a delightful event—even more enjoyable than the first time. It’s not something I’d want to do that often, but I’m starting to appreciate the simple, wholesome joy of it, and you can’t knock a Berea potluck spread. Yum.

Today’s sight bite— A misty Angus snout bursts with the luminous backlight of sunrise—c-l-i-c-k—as dark gray, plank-fence patterns and long, tree-shadow brushstrokes move rhythmically underfoot.

Tomorrow— Spend some overdue time with the Marty-Man, and slow down a bit before Monday hits like a whirlwind…

March experiment—day sixteen— Woke up thinking I needed to dissolve last night’s angst about how I chaired the steering group meeting. Rather than stew about it, I trusted the “in-nerd” and resolved it by 7 am with a note to the guys who were there. Simple—thank them and pledge to do better. You wouldn’t think that I’d be figuring these things out at age 53, but there it is.

On our way to and from the Rotary lunch, David and I nailed down our strategy for promoting my pen and wash commissions. The timetable will be a bit of a crunch, but it dovetails with the home stretch of my prevailing time-management experiment.

Had some major breakthroughs on the equine graphics this week, so I locked myself into a presentation next Friday. The practice of self-imposed deadlines is a delicate art. Too far out is another form of procrastination, but too soon can invite disaster. Exactly right is a proven stimulant to creative productivity and concept integration. I don’t always get it right, but I’m a believer. If you don’t have an external due date, you have to create your own. Sadly, I have a wealth of experience trying to avoid what should be a self-evident truth.

After my conversation with Dr. Williams, a wave of fatigue came crashing in from behind me and I had to nap before Dana’s tasty fish-with-wild-rice supper.

Today’s sight bite— A Martini rifle, a walking horse, a hunter and his warthog, ten smiling handgun competitors—c-l-i-c-k, c-l-i-c-k, c-l-i-c-k—a flurry of digital images that etch the memory.

Tomorrow— Nine-mile run at daybreak, yard work, house cleaning, fine art, and English country dancing…

March experiment—day eight— Don’t have much graphic product to show for myself today, but my time sensitivity, efficiency, and focus were on track. Much of the day involved helping sort out the high-res PDF problems associated with software upgrades. I made decent progress on modifying the project schedule for IFP, plus I had enough energy to swim a 450-yard sprint in 8:05 (a personal record), run the vacuum cleaner, and make a get-well card for my Uncle Joe, too. Had my first look at Paul’s unfinished painting for the Brass Band Festival Poster. The letter I sent yesterday appeared on the Advocate’s opinion page, which helps my effort to organize the local bike-ped task force. Before the library closed I treated myself with “FLIGHT, Volume Two.”

Today’s sight bite— A colorful, plate-size Greek salad that Dana made me for lunch—c-l-i-c-k—a joy for the eye and a treat for the tummy.

Tomorrow— 28 years since my sweetheart and I went out on our first date…

— Month of February workout totals: Swim-5; Bike-4; Run-4; Lift-9; Yoga-5

— David and I spent most of last Saturday at the big National Gun Day event in Louisville. Anyone who has never attended a gun show should go at least once to experience the reality behind the propaganda and stereotypical distortions. The technology, heritage, craftsmanship, and diversity of enthusiasts must be appreciated firsthand. David said it was like visiting the Smithsonian and being able to pick things up without white gloves. I was amazed at one point to look down at a table of rifles and know they were collectively worth more than our Town House. I listened to an old man from New York discuss rare, obsolete cartridge cases. I listened to a guy with braided ponytail, tattoos and Harley shirt discuss arcane Victorian sporting calibers. I listened to a man who recreates authentic Kentucky flintlocks discuss the qualitative difference between his skill level and the work of the contemporary masters of the art form. I listened to a metal engraver contrast his techniques with the kind of wood engraving that I’ve done for printmaking. That’s a sampling of what I’m talking about.

— After the show, David and I drove to Campbellsville to meet up with the ladies. Our destination—Yorkshire Estate. The intent—to observe our first “Open That Bottle Night.” Janet and Jerome were splendid hosts, and the night couldn’t have been more delightful. We began with cheese, olives, and fruit, plus a Chilean Chardonnay, while an Australian Shiraz and a Washington State Cabernet awaited dinnertime in decanters. Using some of my Lake Huron fillets, Janet and Jerome prepared Salmon en Papillote, as Dana seared medallions of venison in balsamic sauce. Along with that, Janet provided some type of individual potato custard delicacies that were simply fantastic. Everything about the candlelight supper was magical, and it only got better when Lee served cookies and chocolate-bourbon cake with an exquisite desert wine brought back from South Africa. If we ever do it again, the evening will be difficult to top, but do it again we shall. Remember—the last Saturday in February is Open That Bottle Night…

— Sunday was another relaxing stay at Simpson Knob. After rediscovering the childhood fun of playing Yahtzee, Dana fixed a delicious broccoli omelette for the four of us and then worked on a food-club order with Lee while David showed me the rifle course he designed for the upcoming match he’s hosting. I shot well enough to think I might be capable of competing, but knew that I’d be spending that day with Clan instead, as a participant in “Operation Watershed.” Something has transpired so gradiently over the past couple years that I can’t say exactly when these exceptional people became two of our closest friends, but it just happened, and it’s gratifying to know that such deep relationships can develop at every stage of life.

— Well, I’m excited about getting a new client today—me. I woke up this morning dedicated to the idea of redesigning everything to do with how we position our design practice. Over the next 30 days I intend to conduct a radical experiment in time management that includes transforming our company for a new chapter of success. The rapid changes in software development and desktop publishing, along with the increasing perception of graphic design as a commodity service, has made it a necessity. Long overdue perhaps, but I’m not in the mood to look in the rearview mirror. I’m prepared to put all I’ve learned to the test, subjecting our own business to the same kind of analytical scrutiny that we apply to any other client. The timing is right. Stay tuned…

V & S

•   I flipped away the afternoon again at the Rotary Club’s annual Pancake Day, where I foolishly tried to expand my exalted reputation by attempting to make a cake with the shape of a Salvation Army Shield. I blistered the edge of my hand on the hot griddle and experienced the same agony of defeat as poor Lindsey Jacobellis. After that, Dana and I went into the city for the Gallery Hop, so I could participate in the reception at the Carnegie Center for Literacy and Learning. The “Art of the Alphabet” exhibition was a hit with all ages, and the original print of my letter H was the second one to sell. Steve Houston of Texas bought it for his daughter because all of the images present in the montage held significant meaning for him and his family. Quite remarkable.

… graybeard prospector …

•   Opening a statement from the Social Security Administration did not get my day off on the right track, and it began to go downhill from there. Fortunately, I was able to recover a bit by putting some good sales moves on the Republican candidate for Boyle County Judge Executive, who will definitely need a high-credibility graphic image as part of any success campaign to unseat the entrenched incumbent. After that, I attended the opening of “4 Seasons — 4 Directions,” Kathleen’s inspiring collage exhibition at Danville’s Community Arts Center. By evening, Dana and I were in Berea with Lee and David, eating delicious Thai food and learning English Country Dance—so the day ended fully back on its proper rails.

… graybeard prospector …

— Month of January workout totals: Swim-5; Bike-2; Run-2; Lift-8; Yoga-13

— Most who know me are aware that I ran—this is where I always have to stop and clarify or say something like “traversed under my own power,” since “ran” is not appropriately descriptive nor entirely accurate—50 miles on my 50th birthday. Later that same year I finished the Chicago Marathon under five hours. That’s my experience with long-distance running. At times I wonder why I didn’t keep it up, but usually I just wonder why I still feel any need at all to stay in running, biking, and swimming condition to be within striking distance of performing a triathlon. Well, it’s important to cross-train, I tell myself, and besides, staying in triathlon shape is not extreme, it’s just what I consider the baseline of physical fitness. I used to think of extreme as my friend who completed over 80 marathon runs, including one in all 50 states and all 7 continents (yes, I know, Antarctica). Or maybe extreme could be defined as competing in “Ironman” triathlons—a 2.4-mile swim, followed by a 112-mile bike ride, and then a 26-mile marathon on top of it, all in one day. And then I heard about the Hardrock Hundred, a 100-mile race that takes place in the mountains of Colorado. Is that extreme or what? Actually there are those who don’t think that’s enough of a challenge, and push the idea of extreme out to the borderlands of madness—the World Championship Quintuple Iron Triathlon. Believe it or not, that’s a distance equivalent to five Ironmans. There’a guy from Louisville who did it. He finished seventh, with a time that set a new U.S. record. A 12-mile swim, 560-mile bike, and 131-mile run. After four days, nine hours, and 40 minutes, he hobbled across the finish line, his body well into the process of cannibalizing his own muscle tissue. Do you think that’s extreme? Now try this—next November there’s a race in Mexico that requires ten Ironmans in ten days, and the Iron Kentuckian is thinking about an attempt. When I heard that I thought about the Athenian warrior Phidippides, who ran what’s considered to be the first marathon in the year 490 BC. He expired. We’ll keep you posted.

— The previous blurb brings to mind a recent article in Money Magazine that one of our clients brought to our attention. Jason Zweig explains in “The Thrill is Wrong” that the new science of “neuroeconomics” is helping investors understand that brain metabolism may cause us to make bad money decisions in much the same way we make bad decisions about food, drink, drugs and sex. Maybe they should add exercise to that list.

— After delivering my finished exhibition print to the Carnegie Center, Dana and I had a nice carnitas dinner in Lexington and then settled down to watch a late screening of Memoirs of a Geisha. I knew I’d enjoy it—actually, much more than Marshall’s “Chicago,” even though it’s garnered less acclaim—as I knew I’d enjoy “The Last Samurai,” because I can easily overlook the flaws in a picture like this. When the production design for a Japan-based story is this awesome, I can never leave the theater disappointed. I must make a note to check out any movie with set decoration by Gretchen Rau. It bothered me that they cast the two female leads with Chinese and Malaysian stars, but I think I was bothered more by the idea of it, going into the theatre, than during the feature. Ziyi Zhang deserved an Oscar nomination. It’s a powerful story, probably a better book, and almost worth the outrageous ticket price. Ken Watanabe is excellent once again, and I always get a kick out of seeing Mako pop up with his trademark scowl, even for less than a minute of screen time.

V & S

We drove to Indianapolis yesterday to deliver late Christmas
presents and spend some time with Bruce. He seems to be doing quite well at home. I can’t describe how marvelous it was for Dana and me to eat supper with him, seated at his own dining room table, which he hasn’t been in a position to do for almost ten months. Source of all blessings, be praised!

While on the road today, we had lunch in the highlands of Louisville, at an eatery recommended by Brendan and Bob H, too. Although we had to wait awhile for a table, it was a tasty meal and a unique setting. There’s only one word that can adequately describe Lynn’s Paradise Cafe— PSYCHEDELIC!

— Year of 2005 workout totals: Swim-73; Bike-28; Run-41; Lift-22; Yoga-9

— Month of December workout totals: Swim-4; Bike-0; Run-4; Lift-3; Yoga-8

— I’m satisfied with how I was able to maintain a good momentum of swimming during an unsettled 2005 that didn’t exactly lend itself to regular exercise; plus I’m pleased with how I managed to regain regular yoga practice at the end of the year (it helps to be watching Lisa Bennett-Matkin). Nevertheless, an odd tenderness in the right knee will cause a delay in my return to running form, but I’m expecting it to be a huge year for cycling instead. Brian M gave me his “hardly used” Shimano pedals—look out!

— Once again, my family had its annual Hot Wheels car race. When I try to explain this event to the uninitiated, the listener nods politely and probably can’t get past the idea of little boys playing with toys. My description fails to capture the rich generational traditions, the competitive repartee, and the comedic tone, not to mention the feast of delicacies, snacks, and tempting junk-food delights. And we have our announcers—two of them—so jaded and sarcastic that “real-life” fans would have long ago beaten them to a pulp in the parking lot after their summary dismissal by speedway executives.

— I humiliated myself last night by making the classic blunder of bringing a movie that I’d never watched to a get-together with friends. William H. Macy let me down with his dreadful “The Cooler,” and who in the world wants to see his saggy buttocks anyway? I suppose we salvaged the evening to some degree by attending the wildest midnight scene in Danville—the annual three-inches-of-confetti-on-the-floor bash at the Hamlins. It’s rowdy, loud, and lots of fun, if you don’t mind digging the little colored stuff out of all those personal nooks and crannies that WHM so gratuitously displayed to the whole world.

— I finished another Grandy-bo piece this morning (my tenth) that Caitlan ended up getting during the Clan’s Chinese (Chine-Yine) gift exchange. I’m finally achieving the loose, spontaneous style that I’ve been after for quite a while. Rita’s photo show was particularly moving for me, as though my torch had been passed to a new generation of documentarians. She’ll get better at editing down her images to a more focused presentation, but it was the kind of montage that I used to have such a passion for, and I’m happy that someone else wants to pick up where I left off. Now, if I can only convince her to take over the Seitz Reunion portrait…

— Our family gathering today was filled with much love, perhaps more that usual, if that’s possible. The gesture of generosity that was extended to Dana and me took us by surprise, and brought emotional closure to a holiday season that had seemed somewhat diminished by an inability to carry out our usual traditions at the Town House. What a thoughtful, caring thing to do! It made us realize that a tough, draining year was behind us at last, and how much everyone has missed Bruce.

V & S

• Nobody can recite the Holy Bible like Charlton Heston, and I do mean nobody. Christmas morning isn’t set until I watch his performance of the Nativity verses, filmed at the ruins of a Roman amphitheater. Sometimes I just want to shut my eyes and listen to the masterful shift of his voice characterization from Angel to Blessed Virgin to Shepherd to Magi to the 12-year-old Jesus in the temple doing “my father’s business.” And I always enjoy how he portrays the angel telling Joseph that Herod “is dead,” almost as if the heavenly being takes grim satisfaction in the opportune demise.

• My TV-Show Fantasy Wish List for Santa: I want a sprawling hacienda like Big John Cannon’s, on a ranch like The Yellow Rose, with a horse just like Jason McCord’s, and a fully stocked pull-down gun panel like the one James West had. When I need to be in the city, I’d like a Robin Masters Ferrari so I can commute to my urban pad, just like the apartment Jim Phelps lived in, with a big John Gnagy studio attached, plus a closet with an Alexander Mundy wardrobe. I suppose that’ll do for this year, Santa, unless you want to toss in a hovercraft, custom-built by Benton Quest. I’ve been really, really nice.

• I don’t know how long ago the “Oyster-Stew Eve” tradition began, but now it wouldn’t be Christmas for me without it. We gathered once again last night at Mombo’s, and it was a full house with all the Hellyers in attendance. Bubb played the temperamental stew chef, but his main course was superb as usual. I could have done without the bizarre homily that gushed on about everyone’s favorite computer racketeer earning his media sainthood. Oh well, there’s got to be a reason church hierarchs would exile a pastor to the boondocks of rural Kentucky. After what I’ve learned about the downfall of the precious parish in Richmond, nothing is going to surprise me about the bewildering judgments of those running an institutional religion that long ago lost its way. Give me a simple family Christmas Eve, with loving hugs, wall-to-wall cousins, Yorkies under foot, Jaybon’s vino, mud room goodbyes, and the lasting brilliance of a Dadbo who combined the sleep-inducing benefits of warm milk for the kiddoes, with a dose of aphrodisiac for Mr. and Mrs. Claus.

I saw Joan’s mention of Aunt Carol’s game.

Beverages included? What about spices?

Ok, ok…

If I spend any more time, I’ll just keep fiddling around with them, so here are my picks—

Corn, tomatoes, spinach, almonds, eggs, cheese, avocados, vanilla ice cream, strawberries, and raspberries.

And we get to share, right?

How about if we add to the game?

I wasn’t there at the genesis, but what if we discovered a chest on Magic Island containing three books—a Holy Bible, the Complete Works of William Shakespeare, and Webster’s Dictionary of the English Language (unabridged)—and each of us could pick three additional books, which the chest would produce for our group library. There would be no other books on Magic Island—for the rest of our lives.

What three volumes would you choose?

Here are my selections—

The I Ching (or Book of Changes), The Odyssey of Homer, and James Clavell’s SHÕGUN.

When faced with picking books with pictures or books with words, I chose words. When faced with making more universal choices or being selfish, I decided to be selfish.

What about you?

Would you pick a how-to book, a cookbook (not a bad idea), or a collection of reproductions? Literature? What about a book with blank pages—no other books on Magic Island means just that—or a work you’d want the other inhabitants to read?

Nobody knows how long the chest’s magic will last.

Hurry, but choose wisely…

Yesterday I went to church at the Salvation Army, which inspired me to write a Thanksgiving prayer, so I treated myself to a sandwich at my neighborhood hang and wrote it out. I saw Tim and Jo Ann, learning that they’d been able to buy the infamous “Banker’s House” on Perryville Road and were in the midst of moving. They said that if they didn’t do it before the holiday, they might be too busy until January (Jo Ann) or April (Tim). Yep, that sounds about right for those two. I wondered how far into seven digits the sticker price climbed. They asked me how Bruce was doing. Given Tim’s long, long recovery from his accident, these are two people who understand the meaning of “slow progress.”

Afterwards I puttered around at home, taped plastic around the air conditioner in the mud room, and managed to fit in a nice cross-country run on Mack’s Trails with Milton and Jim before joining the Strocks for an evening of relaxation. Terie invited me to share a delicious birthday dinner for Marty—venison chili with cornbread and salad, followed by cake and ice cream (mounds of it!), plus a DVD thriller with Kathryn Morris.

Later on, Marty and I both realized we were still in front of the tube watching, for no reason, a Will Ferrell movie with Mike Ditka that stunk to high heaven—because we politely assumed the other wanted to—so we promptly re-adjourned in front of the PS2, enabling the Galactic Empire to capture Hoth, the ice planet, and closed our night with a burst of energy.

Moral of the story— If you’re going to eat two bowls of chili, birthday cake and Breyers, be sure to run hills for five miles first.

Or maybe eight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

• An excerpt from Dana’s most recent update:

“Last night Pam went out to celebrate a new job, and I prepared a
gourmet meal for Bruce—venison medallions with balsamic reduction and
celery/pear puree, plus a side dish of steamed fresh beets.

“Pam came in after I’d gone to bed, so she wasn’t apprised of the menu. In the middle of the night when she helped Bruce with the ostomy, she saw what she thought was blood and called the doctor. At 5 am, she woke me and said we were to take Bruce to the ER. I drowsily pulled on my jeans, put on shoes, and drove them to the hospital.

“While we waited for results of ordered tests, we were all talking and
Bruce said something about having beets for dinner. Then it hit us. It
wasn’t blood; it was beets. We all were laughing when the resident came back in, and we confessed to the false alarm, which was confirmed by a negative result on the test for hemoglobin.

“Our mirth was short-lived, however, as they had determined that his
white blood count was too high. They said they would start him on an
antibiotic and send him home. Later they said they wanted to keep him
for diagnostic tests until tomorrow. By this evening, they’re saying he might stay 3 to 5 more days.”

(The “headline” is Bruce’s quip, so he’s keeping his sense of humor.)