Uncle John’s Log & Co.

— Month of May workout totals: Swim-0; Bike-6; Run-1; Lift-0; Yoga-0

— Unimpressed by my exercise stats, I have to remind myself that it’s a big improvement over my uncharacteristically sedentary April, and that my workout log doesn’t include things like hauling truckloads of crumbled blacktop out to the asphalt plant. Well, I’m still blessed with excellent health, my weight is under 160, and I’ve got a 17.4 bmi. With everything going on around me, I have to be very, very thankful for that. So, now that it’s summer, it’s time to ratchet up the physical activity and get in shape. Muscle Club, anyone?

— If you aren’t reading Peat’s European journal, you’re really missing out. She calls it “The End of Fear is Where We Begin,” and it’s classic Peat. Her smile shines right through every word on the screen. And how about that KK? Can’t wait to see the BIG BLADE!

— On a recent solo trip to Louisville and back, I finally broke into the “Zero Hour” tapes that Joan loaned me a long time ago. Who knew at the time that Rod Serling had hosted radio dramas for talents like Jessica Walter, Richard Crenna, Keenan Wynn, Joseph Campenella, Brock Peters, and Earl Holliman? Apparently, over 55 hours of drama were produced, and, like so many things these days, it’s also available on CDs or as MP3 files. I still don’t mind listening to audio cassettes, but, come to think of it, if I don’t copy my tape of Heston reading the Psalms I’m likely to wear it out before long.

— I don’t think I’ve ever been this excited about an upcoming Brass Band Festival weekend, but I’ve never been the featured artist before. It helps to be enormously pleased with how my highly visible contributions turned out. I can go into the whole thing knowing that it’s my best effort on display. On the other hand, I seem to be feeling more and more awkward being in a position to take credit for things that come from the Source of all constructive influence, creativity, imagination, and beauty. I feel like I’m merely the object of good fortune, and, at the same time, I know well the moments of struggle, and the “means” it took to find my way over obstacles I wasn’t sure I could surmount. I well remember Danny D’s remark to me that “God doesn’t write songs or make movies.” Sorting all this out is why I continue to do it, I suppose, but it’s a bit of a roller-coaster at times. It felt like I could finally catch my breath this week, with Mombo home from the hospital, and supervision of the poster printing behind me. Some kind of balance has returned to daily life, deadlines are being met, and the outlook in the studio hasn’t been this bright for many, many moons. I’m not saying that Graybeard is dancing around his campfire, mind you. Things could always be better, but the worst is definitely in the past. In other words, I shouldn’t need to sell any more mediocre cartoons to a nephew any time soon. And I’m writing this with a calm heart, even though I didn’t sell a single collage from my KOSMOS exhibition. Well, enough of that. Onward and upward, as they say.

V & S

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.

Back during the 70s when I worked in acrylics, I once made a painting called “Blur-Head.” It could be a symbol of my life in 2007. I try to compartmentalize, but everything is just shmooshed together, as each day tumbles into the next, filled with unmet requests and rapid-fire deadlines. I can’t complain. It’s a product of my own intent to be busy again.

Ian was in Danville for a spell, and we met him in the gallery at the Community Arts Center. The lad looks slim and trim, and I was glad to see him. He liked my show. He walked home with us and had a chance to say hello to Bruce before heading down to the farm. I may not get to see him again before he departs for a big island in the ocean. Be safe. Aloha.

I won’t say how long it’s been since I was on a bike that wasn’t meant to sit on a floor, but I finally joined friends for a Thursday night ride out past the Rick Dees estate. It was an incredible evening, although I gabbed so much I don’t think I fully appreciated being out there. That’s ok. It’s a start. I feel like I have to build my conditioning from scratch. How did that happen?

During the time I’ve been actively blogging—since January of 2005—it’s never been this much of a struggle to make a regular entry. Something about the little calendar in the other format helped prompt me, but it’s more than that. Blogging is effortless when you know what you think or feel. This spring I haven’t allowed the mind-time or heart-time to catch up with myself. Hopefully that will change as I adapt to this new rhythm of daily activity. Forgive me if my notes here become a bit “blurred.” If that’s the way my life is right now, perhaps I’ll have more to show for it than a journal. There’s a logic and purpose to what’s happening lately. My profile is being elevated on multiple fronts, all at the same time. I need to resist the tendency to seek validation by writing things in a log. On the other hand, life without introspection is an alien existence.

“Fate is a name for facts not yet passed under the fire of thought—for causes which are unpenetrated.” —Emerson

A new and satisfactory pattern will emerge.

— Month of April workout totals: DON’T EVEN ASK . . .

— Well, it’s May—Derby Day at that—and I had my best night’s sleep in weeks. I even dreamed about my old employer in Evanston, with a very pleasant, lucid conversation. I’m glad to be comfortably back in the blogiverse, and it hasn’t had anything to do with News Bruiser’s recent excommunication. It’s had everything to do with a wild convergence of commitments in April that shoved aside all activity but the most essential. I’m pleased to say I was able to fulfill each of my pledges: to lead the annual meeting of our five-county Salvation Army, to participate in the spring conclave of the Kentucky Bicycle and Bikeway Commission, to attend the quadrennial national conference of the Salvation Army in Dallas, and to mount my first solo art exhibition since 2002. Whew… Can you believe I pulled it all off?

— The experience in Dallas was, without a doubt, the most powerful package of conscious-raising stimuli that I’ve had the privilege to absorb in many, many moons. An amazing line-up: Jerry Jones, Laura Bush, Rick Warren, Jim Collins, and Israel Gaither. Plus the many workshop sessions that astonished me with their solid informational excellence, including an opportunity to hear Stan Richards, a legend in the advertising world who would’ve been a prize keynoter at any professional gathering. He’s the creative mind behind the Army’s recent “Doing the Most Good” branding effort. On top of it all, we had the wonderful gift of time spent with good friends from Danville (nine of us were there), plus an exhilarating two days at the Anatole Hilton, which is like being inside a museum, because it has a world-class collection of Asian art distributed throughout the spacious complex (Reagan held the Republican National Convention there in 1984). And I haven’t even mentioned our evening at Texas Stadium: a picnic supper on the turf, lots of entertainment, and a chance to nose around an NFL locker room. Far too cool for a guy who can probably name less than a dozen pro football players. Eat your heart out, Marty… Oh, I forgot. You hate the Cowboys.

— Also wedged into last month was a particularly refreshing “Council Day” at the Valley. Both Terie and Bruce were there, and I don’t think that’s ever happened before. Makes me a bit prouder to be the namesake of the House of John. See you all at the next Clan gathering. Same time, same channel…

— After months of preparation, my exhibition at Danville’s Community Arts Center was hung and opened without any serious mishap. True, I had to abandon several items on my wish list, including a desire to display my first “Joe Box,” but, as usual, things worked out the way they’re supposed to, and the room was arranged with enough creations to satisfy my fondest anticipations. It was a delight to welcome lots of Clan and dear friends (plus many local poobahs were in attendance). Thanks to Bruce for his home-stretch assistance, and, of course, to my ”partner in all things,” who supported my preparatory effort for much of the year, and laid out a delicious spread of goodies outside the gallery on Thursday evening. Wow. This is not the end, but only the beginning of many more successful shows. Just take a look in my eyes. I can see the vision.

V & S

I put aside all my stresses for a day and a half and enjoyed the company of some very fine people who came to David’s cabin for his second spring rifle competition. After participating in the Saturday morning shoot with an Australian .310 Cadet rifle (tied for fifth place), I kept score in the afternoon for relay number two of the British Single Shot Sporting Rifle Match. With the miserable weather that blew through, we couldn’t have had better luck than when the rain stopped long enough to preserve the event as originally planned. David said he couldn’t have pulled it off without me. In spite of prior misgivings, I was glad to have been there, to have helped out my friend, and to have solidified relationships with some of the region’s top experts on Victorian firearms.

— Dana and I had an interesting conference yesterday. We met a guy at a Starbucks in Lexington, unsure about exactly how his role dovetailed with our new project for ftb-automotive. We thought he might be a bedroom Web designer, and he turned out to be a top executive with HOST Communications, one of the most prominent providers of interactive services in Central Kentucky. You never know.

— The Arts Across Kentucky deal came through, and I was able to get a drum-scan of my Band Festival poster art in time to touch it up and forward it on to the magazine for today’s deadline. Dana took time to revise my biographical profile, and it’s almost beginning to sound halfway credible.

— NBC makes episodes of its series available online, so Dana and I just had to watch the season closer for “FNL” that we missed on her birthday. Even though it was inside a little box, and the video was kinda jerky and crude, and I was listening with cheap headphones, the finale choked me up. Peter Berg’s extraordinary show has me totally captivated. Now I’’ll be on edge ’til I find out if it gets picked up for a second year.

— This weekend is David’s scheduled event at the Simpson Range—his .310 Cadet and British Single Shot Sporting Rifle Matches. I’ll be combining some business with pleasure, and it’s certain to be a great time, but I have to admit I’m getting a bit concerned about how many days I have left to prepare for KOSMOS.

V & S

Last night’s Salvation Army Annual Dinner was a smashing success. Today I realized all the work for my May exhibition has to be completed and framed within two weeks, so we can leave for Dallas and the NAOC. We had a double birthday celebration this evening—the entire House of John plus David. Lee is in Virginia with her mother. I was having such a good time I forgot all about recording the season finale of “Friday Night Lights.” Must have been the Gnarly Head.

Ok, it’s 65. Happy Birthday to you.

— I’ve been trying to think of an appropriate way to tell Ian that I’m proud of his new workout discipline and to offer my encouragement, but I haven’t thought of anything cool or clever to say to him yet. Well, in the meantime, maybe this will do.

— One of the byproducts of March is an almost hypersensitivity to the ingredient stimuli that influence my state of being for each particular day—whether or not I’ve exercised, what I’m currently reading, whether I’m on the uphill or downhill side of a deadline, how much restful sleep I had, what kind of a movie I might have watched the night before, whether I began the day with a Rosary, what style of artwork I’m in the middle of, whether or not my Macintosh is acting up, etc. Being more aware of how these things affect my mood and powers of concentration is good, right? I used to just let each day find its own pitch without much thought to this kind of assessment, but now I know I can counter-balance various influences with music, poetry, prayer, stretching, dietary adjustments, or just a quick floor romp with a Yorkie. Nevertheless, there are still certain kinds of creative tension that have a tendency to throw me off my game, but I’m “getting there.”

— My talk seemed to go well enough yesterday morning that Milton wants to schedule it again as a “rerun.” I don’t think that’s ever happened before, but it might have something to do with only two other people showing up.

— Easter was a long day, but it felt like it flew by much too fast. When I waited to pick up Bruce from the hospital, I sat in the car for a spell, listening to my tape of Heston reading from the New Testament. Bruce was ready to go, but they failed to order the wheelchair transport to the exit. Such a silly regulation. I can stand to be around hospitals, but I don’t like them. As it turned out, Bruce didn’t feel well enough for the ride down to the farm, so he stayed home. We stopped in Junction on the way, to get Terie and Marty, and the four of us spent the holiday afternoon with Clan. I drank too much coffee and ate too much food. Had a very nice discussion with Peat about her job as newspaper editor next year. She’s laying the groundwork this spring, which is smart, and will spend some time in Europe this summer—quite a few Clan Kiddoes are following in my footsteps with travel abroad during student years. I found out that Seth has committed to Bellarmine. Looks like Sam Morgan will go there, too, and he’ll run track. We saw pictures of “Baby Molina,” and I got the data to do numerology charts for her and Torrance. Later in the day, I watched Marty conduct battles on the PC with ROME: Total War, and we played on the PS2 together, too. Our best boxing bout was Sugar Ray R against Sugar Ray L. Marty has moved to primarily sports video games because they require more controller skill, plus he’s getting more interested in the world of sport overall, which is having a bit of a spill-over effect for me. I actually cared who won the green jacket.

V & S

I found the mental break I needed by sitting down to write words for our circle of friends who gather at Mack’s cabin for Shared Silence. As you probably know, these talks are known locally as “After Silence.” It’s been four and half years since I did one of these talks. I intend to give due credit to best buddy Mike for many of the facts, observations, and speculations that I’m including. They’re borrowed primarily from an article he wrote last year for Dynamic Chiropractic. Bruce went to the ER this morning with severe pain and is spending the night in a private room. Originally he was going with us to the farm for tomorrow’s holiday with Clan, but now he may not be released soon enough. Hospitals exist in another world of time, and it’s a lot like the weather—no sense in worrying about something over which one has absolutely no control.

March experiment—day fifteen— I was able to take care of my physical fatigue with a good night’s sleep below an open window. I needed to find another way—perhaps not as foolproof—to deal with my mental weariness, and so we watched a DVD that Terie had recommended, Stranger than Fiction. It’s an exceptionally good motion picture and hits rather close to home for me. I’m feeling a bit disappointed about learning that another company is abandoning one of the well-recognized logos we designed in the 90s. On the other hand, I’m happy about Hayley’s honor. The director of our Community Arts Center abruptly resigned, so I’m concerned about how that will effect my scheduled one-man show in May. My dear friend Shirley C sent me an email today with news that her husband’s 48-year-old son died unexpectedly. It’s important for me to transcend these emotional cross-currents and maintain focus on the goals I’ve laid out for this month.

Today’s sight bite— Abstract patterns on the natatorium ceiling pass by—c-l-i-c-k—gliding, drifting, fading above my backstroke—as devoid of meaning as the non-thoughts in my mind.

Tomorrow— Bump the cadence, just like I’ve done when running negative splits in a 5,000-meter race…

March experiment—day nine— Captain Zach and I talked “Army Biz” while we flipped pancakes for Rotary at KSD. When I returned home, I was happy to find a delicious meal, admittedly much more nutritious than what I’d been feeding to others all morning. Something about the full awareness of all the requirements for the Salvation Army banquet in a month, ongoing commitments to the Brass Band Festival, the delicate business of wooing a new client, the necessity of moving Bruce to Danville before the end of March, and everything else I’ve challenged myself to accomplish over the short term—well, it made me feel like I wanted to collapse this evening. Maybe I just need some rest.

Today’s sight bite— Three exquisite watercress salads with avocado and sprouts—c-l-i-c-k—prepared lovingly by Dana and Lee for our lunch in the mild air on the front porch.

Tomorrow— Back to the checklist, after a good night’s sleep…

March experiment—day four— Not much to report. Trying to get past that early sleep-dep hurdle without overdoing the caffeine. First half of today was invested with plotting the next few weeks of work at my collage station, and then we were in Lexington with our friends, the Simpsons, including dinner and a movie. Amazing Grace is worth the ticket price. Ioan’s impressive performance is what I would expect from him. I might say the same for Finney, but the truth is he knocked me out with his supporting role. If you are in England and he is performing anything on stage, go there—tonight!

Today’s sight bites— Reproductions of John Salminen’s watercolors, stopping me in my tracks—c-l-i-c-k—c-l-i-c-k—c-l-i-c-k—as I browsed the art magazines at Joseph-Beth.

Tomorrow— Time to put my rest break behind me and press on…

March experiment—day three— I awoke before the alarm, and I figured that was a good omen, but then I saw the full moon setting in the west, and it was awesomely huge, maybe the biggest moon I’ve ever seen. I don’t know what the heck that means, but I’m glad I was up early enough to view it, and then I ran four miles with my chum Mort, talking about the local bike initiative, politics, leadership, business development and the market jitters. It was great to start my day with a friend, and to close it down with one, too. I had another classic coffee-shop consultation with Danny this evening, bringing back a few pearls for my ongoing artistic investigations, and understanding better that the most effective way to infuse meaning into one’s creative output is to seek truth in the contemplative side of the equation.

Today’s sight bite— The enormous lunar disk—c-l-i-c-k—magnified above the blue-over-black horizon like a telephoto backdrop.

Tomorrow— Life’s teacher is where we spend our time…

Last evening, just as I was preparing to depart for a key presentation to the Danville City Commission, Dana was coming up the stairs and hurt the knee she’s been carefully nursing for a month or more. It was weird to leave the house with her sitting on the floor, the painful joint bundled in ice packs.

In my remarks, I provided a formal introduction to B.I.K.E. | Boyle County and our organization’s purpose and priorities. This was the fourth meeting of the newly composed city government. My friends Bill S and Dave A followed, summarizing our infrastructure recommendations and the diverse benefits of creating a bicycle-friendly community. The Commission voted unanimously to approve the “Safe Routes to School” grant application that we developed in collaboration with the city manager. As we approach the first anniversary of our local group, it was a great milestone for our pro-cycling advocacy.

When I got home I realized that Dana’s injury had taken a turn for the worse, so we decided to listen to Hayley’s tournament game on the radio instead of traveling to Garrard County. The Lady Rebels crushed cross-town rival Danville, with our amazing Belle putting the game out of reach in the second quarter (after a slow start). She ended up scoring 25 points, with a strong free-throw percentage.

Dana is heading down to Campbellsville with Terie to see Jerome this morning, and I’m praying for the best diagnosis. Whatever happens, she’ll be dedicating herself to a natural recovery, and I’ll do everything I can to help out along the way.

— 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

Today I spent a lot of time preparing my application for full membership in the “Layerists” society. Thinking so much about my artistic intentions and work process has my head spinning. Truthfully, it started to whirl yesterday after my friend Captain Zach gave an inspirational speech at Danville’s Rotary luncheon. We talked about making a trip to Dallas in April for the national conference, and I’m pretty sure I’ve convinced Jeannette and Ben to go with us. Zach had his first tour of their home, and that’s always a treat for anyone. So far, that makes at least ten of us locals “thinkin’ Texas.” Then, later in the afternoon, the Captain phoned to share his excitement about the latest development—the youth-group proposal on which he and his wife have worked so diligently (and to which I donated a logo design) has been selected by the Salvation Army leadership for nationwide implementation. Wow! Club 316 is suddenly very big! In other words, “It’s MAIN!”

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!

I think I understand why writers must write. It’s really no different than why sketchers must draw or why dancers must move, but why do we read? Why do we engage in this intensely self-centered activity with books? And what’s even more perplexing to me is why our society seems to exalt this particular kind of internal isolation, because, for the most part, it raises a collective eyebrow at meditators or deep, introspective thinkers. It wouldn’t be considered socially acceptable to spend much time playing golf by yourself, or going to movies by yourself, or drinking by yourself (certainly not), but almost all of us feel differently about reading.

My friend Danny would say we must read to train and develop the mind—to understand influences and work backward to the early sources, the original premises.

My “big sissy” is a librarian, so I asked her, and she said that reading makes us a more interesting person—reading may be solitary, but it’s not inherently selfish.

Watkins, Wolfe, Hammett, Hemingway, Twain . . . Why do I read their fiction? What am I looking for?

Every so often, I find myself listening to the lyrics of Eric, a talented friend. He writes:

You can seek your life to find

Answers that satisfy your mind,

But Jesus spared your life by giving his,

And, Brother— That’s all there is.

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.

Ah, the Salmon Lords have smiled. Bill and I made our final trip over to the dolomite port last night and caught three fish for the freezer— 10lb-4oz / 12lb-8oz / 13lb-14oz. We’d decided to divide up the two sides of the boat between us, two lines per side, but after Bill had two straight catches on the starboard downrigger, he granted the next fish to me, regardless of location. It hit on the very same pole and was the biggest of the three! And so there we have it—another evening for the fishing log, and the kind of event that will keep us loving this sport and coming back for more. The fresh memory of it seems a bit unreal as we head south today through Michigan, and I try to jot a few notes for the record, with an image before me similar to that old Jackson Browne album cover, clouds like marshmallow baguettes lined up as an invasion fleet in a milky-blue sky, and golden-green trees stippled with burnt orange marching by, with an ochre crust of fading ferns beneath the old-growth cedars, punctuated by unreformed “dickhead” drivers cutting around us at high speed, as if it’s the only way to move with traffic, all the time LaSalle’s soft black head resting comfortably between us, holding her contented dog-thoughts of home…

Phoned into the KBBC conference out on the dock this morning, reminding me of taking the July call when I was here, while out on a boat with Marty. This kind of technology has just sneaked up on us, but would have seemed like Star Trek to me not that long ago. After that, Foot and I mounted our last perch run across Muskellunge Bay to the Point. I had one 11-inch baby that made the outing for me, although we were still hoping for a limit catch. They just haven’t bitten like that on this trip. Foot was miffed at hooking little channel cats and sunfish. I cleaned and froze the batch when we got back. Now we’re cleaning, organizing, and packing so we can leave as early as possible tomorrow morning. I guess I’m ready to depart, but I sure would like some “final night luck” later this evening and bring in a nice salmon.

A few days ago I sat out on the dock and wept without tears. It didn’t last very long. I wasn’t able to remember when or why until just now— I was reading the words of Paul Watkins. I should have known. Today I convinced myself to put on my wet-suit and get back in the water a second time. I needed some exercise and I figured it might be my last chance to do a channel swim. The water was quite cold but tolerable. I covered more than a half mile. Bill had driven into town. I honestly felt like I had that entire part of Michigan to myself, except for the geese, swans, and cormorants. The air temperature getting out of the water was more shocking to the system than the experience of getting in. The wind has continued all day and discouraged any fishing outings. Yesterday we caught several yellow perch, including Bill’s 11-and-a half-incher, probably the largest one any of our gang has ever hooked up here. Later, we reverted to salmon trolling again and that proved just as fruitless as Sunday’s session with casting rods. With a cold front predicted, we had to keep a constant eye on a changing sky. The two of us fished until dark and then came back to a deserted resort. I had to hold the spotlight so Bill could see the pier.

Foot sounds serious about starting his little house next year, talking to Mr. Hill when he stopped to discuss sand-truck access to the adjacent property (apparently the neighbors want to create a beach like the natural one here at this resort). The contractor said he was no relation to the Hill who originally owned the entire island. He and Foot looked at the spot where the A-frame will be sited. Hill said that code compliance and getting a permit will be more difficult than the excavation. He seemed like a nice man with helpful advice. His own father also bought lake frontage not long after Bill’s parents first came to Hill Island in the 1950s. My friend hopes to sell his business in Ohio and move up here to manage the resort within five years. His dream excites my own desire to have a retreat in the woods, but the inner determination to reverse my personal downturn and accomplish that goal must come from inside me. At the same time, I have concerns for my friend. Earlier this year, Bill quit smoking for 12 weeks—long enough to live as a nonsmoker—but he started up again after a quarrel with Amy (their first?). Much buried tension in the man, like there was in my dad, and perhaps more than a little rage; it bubbled to the surface last night when I touched on a political subject. Like most proud Americans, the direction our country is moving disturbs him and he takes it personally, and then hides it inside. Stress and cigarettes—an unhappy combination. There’s little I can do about it, of course, and the same is true for my family members who smoke… too many of them… but how can I be judgmental when I have unmanaged problems of my own? Ok, where do I start? Review priorities and take even greater control over my use of time. Should I curtail many of my extraneous activities? Should I suspend this online journal? Is it time to set a few simple, practical goals and then banish all conflicting objectives until they’re achieved? Mike spoke to me about the misconceptions of setting priorities and defining daily tasks. He has decades of experience and impressive, tangible results to show for it, so put his advice to the test, and for God’s sake forget about sharing it in a public log. If I don’t take this last opportunity to gain command over my financial status, I’ll face radical changes over which I’ll have minimal capacity to direct. I must prove I can make a few specific things happen in my life that are essential, and that means everything else has to be put on hold. Period.

I guess we can say history was made yesterday when JD and Bob came back from the waters near the dolomite port with two large King Salmon caught by casting with light tackle from a small aluminum boat. Now everything we’ve learned about salmon fishing has been turned upside-down! No one has ever caught salmon with any other method than trolling in the conventional manner. With both fish to his credit, JD takes the 2006 Fish-Off Championship hands down. For the record, the method was Bob’s idea, and they waited until their last day to test it out. What a shocker! They endured rough conditions on top of it all, and reportedly had an anxious time motoring back with their life jackets donned. Well, it’s all documented now; Foot and I said good-bye to our chums today, anticipating the traditional “phase two” of our stay. We wasted no time using the Sartoris Technique out in the channel, but no nibbles, no nothin’ was the result, so we shifted gears and set off for Port Dolomite in a small craft, intent on duplicating or outperforming JD’s effort. We worked and worked, saw salmon rolling at the surface, even jumping, all points of the compass, cast after cast, with pike poles and dipsy-diver rods from the Sylvan, wrists getting tender, my hands on the verge of cramping. We watched the “Maumee” out of Cleveland come in and dock. I never knew exactly how these big ships did it—they come in fast, spin clockwise and then back into the loading area, with empty holds ready to be filled with high-grade dolomite for the steel industry. We kept fishing the entire time without a single strike, even though we knew the elusive creatures were close at hand. We saw them, breaking the water, as if to mock us. JD’s extraordinary “final night luck” was beyond our acquisition.

JD and Bob had a long and disappointing early excursion that took the wind out of everyone’s sails, as far as any enthusiasm for fishing, and so college-football-watching took over as the main activity of the day. When Bill, Mike, and Jack decided to go into town after the first round of games, JD and Bob proceeded to go on their “casting for salmon at the dolomite port” mission, which they’d been talking about all summer. I have to hand it to them—they haven’t given up. They’ve been gone for a while and what they’re trying to do is totally unprecedented in the fishing annals of Barefoot’s Resort. I was happy to stay here with my drawing tools and a Paul Watkins novel.

When I overheard Mike and Bob discussing sales goals, Mike said something so clear and plain-spoken that it hit my brain like a laser— “First you set an objective, and then you devise the strategy and tactics to achieve it.” I realized how reactive I’ve been in my professional life, rather than proactive. Mike knows what he’s talking about. After years as a leading sales executive for M&M/Mars, he now works directly with the owner of a top food distributor in the Midwest. We talked a lot today while Bill, JD, and Bob were out fishing. I know I can learn a lot from Mike if I open up. He’ll be more than pleased to give me advice, but do I have the discipline to use it? During a 90-minute phone call with Dana we confirmed the do-or-die aspect of what we face together, and the need for total open-mindedness in our problem solving, to turn the situation with our studio around.

Bob and I were up early and put the rowboat in the water. Bill (Foot) found oars and an anchor locked in the unused shower house. I figured that with six guys, we needed a third small boat for fishing in the channel. Most of the perch caught while we were up here in July were taken between 8-11 in the morning, including that memorable outing Marty and I had with Sartoris on July 21st. It’s time to duplicate that success, if I can. At least we have the “elbow room” now and the Sylvan can be used exclusively for salmon runs. Before long, five of us were “fanning at the plate” out in the channel, so we gave that up and had a fair amount of success with another run to Connors. Nobody got skunked this time. Bob had multi-species and Foot caught an 11-inch perch—a nice fish by any standard. I had only four keepers. It’s frustrating for us not to have found the “zone” yet.

We arrived here last night after enduring a terrible day for driving—downpours, wrecks, closed lanes, fog, detours—you name it. Settled into Cabin One about eight hours after leaving Tipp City and twelve hours after leaving Danville, the longest I can remember it ever taking to get to Cedarville. We got organized in the traditional pattern without having to discuss it, and I reacquainted with Jack, Bob, and JD, who had left together early and arrived much sooner. All five of us piled into the Sylvan today and boated to Connors Point to begin taking on the perch in earnest, but only Bill and I caught keepers. In the evening we mounted our first salmon expedition, but had no luck, even though it proved to be a decent shakedown. By the time we got back, Mike had arrived and had a crackling campfire going. Back at home, Dana is hosting her book club, if I’m not mistaken, so she’s with her good friends, too.

On my way to the U.P. and my favorite fishing resort. Outside the reach of the InterWeb, it will be a week or so before I can update this log.

I went to the Leadership Boyle County reunion Thursday evening and I was the only member of the 1990-91 class that showed up; that seemed way too strange. Almost anybody that sees me anymore starts talking about bicycling. This has to be good, but I also remind myself that I don’t make a living that way. I’ve got to balance this out somehow.

So how did I spend my day? I finished writing up bicycle project suggestions for the new Leadership class (as requested), and then I joined a group that rode the 47-mile round trip to Forkland for the “Great Outhouse Blowout.” I won’t even try to describe that event, but it was actually much nicer than I was led to believe, and the live music was outstanding. We were trying to be clever and avoid the rain, but we were just lucky instead. Although we crossed patches of wet pavement, it never rained on us.

Hugh (my friend the mayoral candidate) was at the festival and he pulled me aside to say he wants to talk about the meeting I had with the Danville City Manager on Wednesday about B.I.K.E. Hugh showed up and sat in on the meeting, but I’m not sure what he has on his mind, so I’d better chat with him soon. The subject of the meeting at city hall was the downtown Streetscape Project. We were seeking the formal inclusion of B.I.K.E. in the planning process, but it seems we’re too late to hold an official “stakeholders” meeting with the consultant. We did learn that there will be two public meetings in October, so we’ll plan to show up in force to advocate for a design approach that is bicycle friendly. Much of our group’s effort is now taking place outside of meeting time, and we’ve decided to converge monthly instead of every two weeks, as we’ve been doing all summer. B.I.K.E. now has three committees coalescing to take on the top priorities that came out of our deliberations last month. Maybe this means I can delegate more and start to diminish the time I spend with this activity, but I doubt it. I just need to stay organized and be efficient when I’m thinking about it.

— Month of August workout totals: Swim-4; Bike-7; Run-1; Lift-2; Yoga-7

— I saw Sheldon at the gym again this morning, well into Brian’s strenuous workout. I’m convinced that Sheldon really wants to get in shape. If Brian was putting me through that routine, I’d be having a tough time of it, too. Sheldon is one of the best fine artists in this part of the United States, but that distinction doesn’t exempt him from his sedentary profession. Good for you, my friend. Health, wellness, and life extension are something we can all be pro-active about, and that’s the service Brian provides. He’s one of the most fit young men in this part of the United States. On Wednesday night he came flying by me and called out, “Hop on!” I was already pedaling hard, but took the challenge to catch his draft at nearly 30 miles per hour. I could only “suck wheel” for a couple hundred yards before I fell apart. Man… Now that’s cycling.

— The Breidenbach 50th Anniversary collage had been sitting on my art board all week, so I set myself to the task of completing it this afternoon. While she was making constructive comments, Dana accidently smeared some fresh ink. She felt terrible. All I could say was “Just leave the area.” I wasn’t sure what to do at first, but within several minutes I managed to clean and repair the damage—with no indication of anything having gone wrong. I flashed back thirty-two years, when I’d doctor the dates on European rail passes. Yes, I could’ve been a master forger… I might’ve even become a David Halifax!

— Hugh (my friend the mayoral candidate) stopped by while we relaxed on the front porch this evening to enjoy the most refreshing air we’ve had in quite some time. We got to talking about the Town House, and tapped his wealth of knowledge about the history of local real estate. Our home on West Broadway was built in the 20s by W.A. Walker for a railroad man named Arnold, who also had a twin dwelling constructed for his daughter on St. Mildred’s Court, close to campus. She married a Bush Nichols, whose brother, one of Danville’s only Republican mayors, lived in the house across the street from ours. The Arnold daughter died at a young age. The second wife and widow of Bush Nichols still resides in the Twin House today.

— We haven’t indulged much network TV in ages, but last night Dana and I found ourselves glued for 90 minutes. We watched three consecutive episodes of “The Office.” Actually, the term “glued” is not correct usage. This might be the funniest show since “Seinfeld.” If that’s the case, it’ll be impossible to ignore.

V & S

We keep death close by—in our literature, art, news, and entertainment… perhaps most of all, in our humor. We tame it, sterilize it, and box it, so we can sprinkle it like black pepper for a bit of “zing” on the tongue each day. Death is like fire—interesting to watch in a fireplace, safe and familiar at the tip of a waxy stem, but when it decides to run its own course, it can be frightening and devastating, quickly rendering almost anything hideously unrecognizable. When it slips its leash, death’s bite is excruciating, and the pain lasts a very long time.

Martin joined the Wednesday bike ride tonight, and I heard myself utter the typically hollow words of sympathy. It seemed like I was watching myself do it; it was not much different than watching others do the same thing… mouths moving without any words reaching my ears. I found out more information than I really needed to know about his son’s tragic accident at Red River Gorge, but human nature has a perverse way of investigating details when a friend is mourning… God knows why.

Leave it to me to have made unwarranted assumptions about the circumstances, imagining a noble, athletic demise. Leave it to grim reality to assemble a colder, inexplicable scenario. This is how death operates outside of its package. This is what death is like on the other side of the illusory boundary we convince ourselves will contain it, for our insatiable fascination and amusement.

We can be such fools… and we know we are.

Bruce spent most of the day resting. He wanted to leave for Indianapolis after tonight’s concert. Quite some time ago, as a 40th birthday present for her son, Dana got tickets for a rare Bruce Cockburn performance at the Kentucky Theatre. Lee and David decided to go, too, and the five of us drove to Lexington for dinner at Natasha’s before the show. We had a great meal and great seats. Bruce was clearly pleased with his gift. Early this morning on her way to work, Joan dropped off hers—an excellent copy of “Walden” that belonged to Joe Wood. At lunch, Bruce and I had a good talk about writing as a subtractive process, and the necessity of brutal self-editing (not unlike the practice of “design refinement” drilled into me as a university student). I’m finally beginning to fully appreciate Bruce’s artistic spirit. My anticipation for his creative output is a familiar craving with which I’ve learned to live. I respond to artists in one of three ways—indifference, inspiration, or demoralization. Although Bruce Cockburn’s sensibilities tend to fall a bit farther to the left than mine, he doesn’t fit the description of a stereotypical liberal musician. Experiencing his creative energy inspires me to my own art, and maybe that’s one more thing my son and I have come to share.