Uncle John’s Log & Co.

I requested the newest book by Paul Watkins from the library, and they bought it for the collection. It looks like I’m about to complete The Ice Soldier in one week. It’s clear that this author has developed a following, which has scant meaning to any particular reader, and that he’s also earned heaps of critical praise, but so have writers I find unreadable. All I care to know is that I’ve found a novelist who consistently delivers the goods for me. That’s enormously satisfying, although I’m sure I’d require his remarkable verbal skills to adequately put my appreciation into words.

There seems to be two main reasons to own a copy of a novel. First of all, it provides the opportunity to reach out and connect at one’s own volition, like telephoning a good friend. And, of course, the other reason is to loan it to those same friends. I want to own this book, but it occurs to me that a measure of my fondness for my friends will be whether I convince myself to buy two copies…

Joan was sweet enough to bring Bruce to our home, on her way back from Indiana.

Bruce in our home for a visit. Today, tomorrow, and through Easter.

Father, I AM grateful to Thee,

From every shadow I AM free…

On my way to the pool today I saw Danny loading the John Deere that he’s hauling to Kansas for his son William. You have to know Danny to understand how a conversation about a diesel tractor can shift to theology within a couple minutes. He mentioned the concept that, at certain times, the fate of the whole world can hinge on a single prayer. Merton might have said that, and I don’t doubt it’s true. To believe otherwise would rationalize away the value of all prayer, wouldn’t it? A discussion of accountability followed and then salvation and then the loneliness of Christ’s path. I said, “But his mother was with him at the beginning, and right up to the end, and her role was crucial,” and Danny replied, “So, there you come full circle—with the potential of a single individual to contribute great good or great evil.” As I continued my walk to campus, I couldn’t help but wonder if the Father had tried to send His Son at earlier times, and an angel’s warning had been misunderstood or ignored, so the infant had been slain, along with the guardians. And then I was in total awe of the significance of parenthood in general… with the awesome responsibility of it all. I was filled with gratitude for having such a wonderful mother and happiness that she was still with us. I prayed that it would be so for a long time.

It took longer than I expected, but my drawing for the Housing Authority was a pleasure to execute. The illustration technique I used was directly inspired by my favorite masters of pen and wash—Jack Unruh, Ken Dallison, Joe Ciardiello, and Alan E. Cober. Dallison is known for his automobiles and Ciardiello for his portraits, but all of them have worked with great breadth of subject matter. I’ve marveled at their skill for decades, but they have a similarity of approach that is close enough to my own capability that I can relate to how they visualize and have learned from their prolific examples. Unruh is exceptional—equally adept at rendering people, places, and the natural world—and I could die happy if I gain a fraction of his ability. Cober, who, of the four, actually did die (happy I hope, although much too young), holds a special place in my personal history. At the height of our indecision concerning what to do about the crumbling situation at Wright State, Dana and I had the opportunity to question him at a workshop. He counseled us to trust and follow our instincts, so the two of us got out together. He was a great adviser to hundreds of talents over the years, and I’m grateful to have been one of them.

Days of mixed emotions as the year draws to a close…

I’m really excited about the wise, practical advice I’m getting from Twyla Tharp’s “The Creative Habit,” the best book on creativity I’ve ever discovered. Anyone who is remotely artistic or has even a modest hope of harnessing their creative abilities should read this book. I wish I’d read it 30 years ago—a silly thought, since she wrote it in 2003. That she’s been able to synthesize from her life experience such a down-to-earth approach is another form of genius beyond her greatness as a dancer/choreographer. Her counsel is so effective that I’m already getting noticeable results, and I’m only half way through the book.

In a previous entry I mentioned Paula, the state employee who was coordinating the KBBC when I joined the Commission at the end of the summer. I learned today that the cancer has advanced to the final stage and her family was gathering nearby to keep the vigil. My one long talk with Paula took place on what might have been the most exhilarating day of the year for me. She was very nice and very professional, believing she was making a routine follow-up call to introduce herself and offer her help within the Transportation Cabinet. I was totally lost, and it became clear soon enough that I wasn’t yet aware of the Governor’s appointment. We ended up having an amusing conversation after we put the awkward moment of embarrassment behind us. I looked forward to getting to know her and hardly imagined never speaking to her again. I don’t need to go into the memories from a year ago that this news brings to the surface. I just hate to be reminded that another family is facing a new year with the same tide of overwhelming sadness.

With the observance of her 15th birthday, my niece Hayley is on the brink of success as an athlete. She’s put in some hard work as a youngster, but is now poised to commence her career as an outstanding high school ballplayer. I watched her carry her team to a two-point tournament game victory yesterday as a freshman, and I can vividly see the potential, although I’m not knowledgeable enough to analyze her situation in detail. I’ll leave that to others. I just know how happy I am for her and how much I wish her well. A relaxed self-confidence is beginning to blossom, plus the capacity to turn on “the means,” when necessary. A good combination that will improve with more playing time, which she’s certain to get after a performance like her 14-point, 9-rebound effort last night. You got it, Belle— go tear ‘em up tonight!

Bruce has improved enough for probable release by the weekend. He’s still experiencing enough dramatic flux in his body temperature, blood pressure, and pulse rate to keep everyone on edge about his prognosis for 2006. It took our friend Nathan two years to recover some level of normalcy in his bout with pancreatitis, presumably a worse case than Bruce’s, and that included multiple surgeries. This gives me reason to have the long-term outlook for a positive outcome, to resist the tendency to fret about the periodic fluctuations, and to recognize that the Father has a purpose for this man that none of us can begin to imagine. It will just take time. Lots of it.

So… I’m juggling joy, sadness, hope, and fear right now, but behind that veneer of emotional energy is a core of Divine Love. I’m grateful that I grew up swimming in a lake of pure love. Not indulgence or sympathy or favoritism or the milk of human kindness. Love. The real thing. And I realize now that it’s the Presence of God in my life, and I’ve since learned how many others have struggled to adulthood without it. That is surely my greatest gift. Not my talents, or my excellent health, or my “good joss,” but the certainty of always knowing I am deeply loved, and it enables me to touch the Heart of Christ—if I remember to pay attention. If I relax, avoid the panic, and float in that vast life-giving ocean—an inner and outer home that’s always been there and always will be.

Inspired by David’s 103rd Psalm, I share this in the spirit of the early pilgrims, who used five kernals of corn as a symbol of their gratitude.

Kentucky Thanksgiving Prayer

Father, I see the first kernal and know Your forgiveness is complete.

Thank You for being a God

     Who absolves my sins

when I pledge in my heart to move forward with my life and trespass no more.

Father, I see the second kernal and know all healing comes from You.

Thank You for being a God

     Who provides complete wholeness

and grants me the trusting heart to accept that I may never comprehend Your divine wisdom

—whether to restore a body with Your grace, or bestow perfection with heaven’s embrace.

Father, I see the third kernal and know the redemption of Christ.

Thank You for being a God

     Who would offer Your only Son

to be a living mediator and the true path to Your everlasting kingdom.

Father, I see the fourth kernal and know Your love and compassion is without qualification.

Thank You for being a God

     Who invites me into Your heart

each time I accept the opportunity to serve Your children instead of thinking only of myself.

Father, I see the fifth kernal and know the blessings You provide will never end.

Thank You for being a God

     Who is eternally giving

and finds me worthy of Your unfailing gifts, if I can only remember to stop and ask.

Father, You are so magnificent.

Thank YOU, Thank YOU, Thank YOU, Thank YOU, Thank YOU.

Amen.

I think it might be a good idea to share—in its original format—my sweet wife’s most recent note about Bruce.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Dear friends and family,

It’s been nearly two months since I’ve given an update, but now Bruce is showing marked improvement. Today completes seven months in the hospital. At seven weeks, that seemed a long time, but I had no idea what we were facing.

In recent months, it’s been difficult to report because he’s teetered back and forth while battling infection. He would have good days followed by days of fever and nausea. It was hard think he was getting better when I’d see him get pints of hemoglobin, but he fought on.

About the time the infectious disease specialist was ready to throw up his hands in defeat, the surgeons declared that they didn’t want to set him back with another surgery, that they would stay the course. That was almost a month ago.

Since then, they decided to test out the pancreas by giving him juice. The next day, he was told to pick out what he wanted off the menu. This seemed outlandish to me, since he’d had nothing but ice chips for more than 6 months. His stomach and taste buds must have been in shock. He doesn’t actually digest what he consumes due to bypass tubing, but I would have thought a return to food would be more gradual. He is going easy on it since his basic nutrition is still provided by tube feeding. He still has frequent nausea, but the pancreas and blood sugar are not over-reacting to this new challenge.

He’s been off antibiotics for several days, and no fever so far. The pain is getting better, so he’s being weaned off the “patch,” and he’s asking for Dilaudid less often. His voice is now strong, and he is using a walker twice a day. His ability to concentrate is suddenly much improved.

I expect that he will go home soon, although having to travel for dialysis will be a whole new challenge. With the hospital bill alone over $8 million by last month, everyone’s eager for him to go home. Very few people, whatever their station in life, could handle the co-pay on such an amount.

Recently we were told that the survival rate for someone with pancreatitis this severe is about 1%—an eye-opening statistic if accurate. I tell you this so that you’ll know how vital your kindnesses to us have been. We will be eternally grateful for your understanding and support and for your thoughts and prayers on Bruce’s behalf.

With a grateful heart,

Dana

After yesterday’s race, I had lunch with David in Lexington and hit the gun show, where we bought supplies for our deer ammo project and I bought a soft case for my Marlin. Dana and I made a connection, drove to Indy, and visited with Bruce until late. Today he mostly wanted to sleep, so we headed to Ohio. I read the conclusion of “The Sparrow” aloud, and the two of us discussed its themes for quite a while. When we got to Sydne’s marriage celebration in Bellbrook, it was a surprise to see her in a wheelchair She’d almost lost a big toe in a freak picture-hanging accident (that’s our Sydne!).

At the reception I struck up a conversation with a local couple, and found it hard to believe that they were of the World War II generation, since they looked younger than that. After about an hour, Ruth got Barney to open up a bit and I found out that he was personally decorated by President Truman. He’d been wounded three times—once by a sniper—and had successfully stormed a Japanese pillbox with a flame-thrower before being captured and sent to a POW camp on the Malay Peninsula, where he’d been tortured for information. I could see that his fingers were permanently disabled. I felt honored to have met him and he just averted his eyes when I expressed my appreciation for his service and the sacrifices he made. His attitude was made clear when he reminded me that he’d lost a lot of buddies and then told me this story: When he met Truman he said, “Mr. President, I don’t think I deserve this.” According to Barney, Truman replied. “I don’t give a damn what you think. Your commander says you deserve this.”

Before we left, Ruth said to me, “He’s been through a lot.”

Bruce… Barney… What have I ever been through?

Earlier in the day I’d read in the newspaper about a staff sergeant from Indiana who’d been injured in Iraq during the invasion and was now on his second tour, having just single-handedly taken out a suicide car bomber before his convoy could be harmed. He was recovering from shrapnel wounds to his face and head.

My Lord… may this nation continue to deserve such men.

(Josh is due to arrive home today for his two-week leave.)

Dana and I took time tonight to have a nice dinner at Two Roads Cafe in Danville, sharing a Cabernet from my favorite Washington State winery, Chateau Ste Michelle. I remember first learning of it during a riverboat cruise we attended for the wedding rehearsal dinner of a former Centre intern. It wasn’t long after September 11 and I was wearing my flag lapel pin, which attracted a New Yorker who was present. He expressed his thanks to me for the show of support (yes, he took my gesture as personally significant to him—you have to recall the mood of the times), and we enjoyed each other’s friendship as he kindly introduced me to a family of reliably fine wines before we said our farewells later that evening.

When I think back to experiences like that, I wish that it was easier for us humans to discern the core essentials of life at times other than peril, tragedy, or loss…

You would have thought that I’d get at least one decent art teacher during my years in high school. No dice. And so I continued my bizarre attempt at artistic cultivation. I developed my own comic book characters, illustrated home-grown stories, and advanced my “Wanted Posters” into a state that was clearly an attempt at pushing my facial skills as far as I could handle without proper training. Nobody had ever told me about anatomy or life drawing. I absorbed the daily comics (I hated “Dondi” but studied the drawing). The unique intro to The Wild Wild West and the long-forgotten Lone Ranger animated series fascinated me. I became more and more interested in animation. I poured over the drawings of political artists—Herblock, Hugh Haynie, and Paul Conrad. I entertained the notion that I wanted to be an editorial cartoonist, and wrote letters to prominent exponents of the art form. But then something happened that would change everything. I saw an an advertisement from the Famous Artist School and responded. A representative actually paid a visit to our home and I begged my parents to let me give it a shot—the correspondence course that would give me the art instruction that I’d never managed to acquire. They said, “Okay,” and I will forever be grateful for this simple consent to expose me to legitimate art educators. I acknowledge now that the home-study “Course for Talent Young People” was an experiment, an attempt to market the successful adult course to a younger market. That meant nothing to me at the time. This was the school endorsed by Norman Rockwell! How could they deny me this opportunity? Well, they didn’t, even though my Mom had to cajole me into keeping up with the lessons. But a sea change had occurred. I was formally introduced to the world of art at last, fine and applied, and I was soon ready to make an informed decision about the direction of my artistic development. When my grandmother gave me a bulletin of classes from the University of Cincinnati, I was ready to choose a course of action—commericial art. No surprise. This was it! Everything else fell to the wayside…

Olden…

My wife Dana and I want to thank each of you—individually, in person, if we could—for your many messages of support. For now, please know that they are much appreciated.

Bruce was able to sit up and talk on Friday, but seemed tired on Saturday. Since we’d arrived in Indianapolis the previous Saturday with clothes for only two days, we needed to get home. We got back to Danville late Saturday, but didn’t get much sleep that night.

Since we hadn’t seen Marty during his spring break, we took him out for dinner on Sunday. During the meal we got the call that Bruce was failing (high temperature, growing infection, pneumonia out of control). We packed up and headed back to Indy. The message we’d received was so alarming that Marty and his mom Terie came with us, despite the fact that school would be back in session on Monday. This time we grabbed our dog, too.

Bruce was stable by the time we arrived, back on a ventilator, but blood pressure and pulse were erratic. By early afternoon, he was resting fairly well and went into surgery to remove a temporary stint (a possible source of the continuing infection) that is used for dialysis, and replace it with a different type. A permanent fistula was considered, but it was decided that he’s too ill to go under anesthesia.

He was sleeping comfortably last night with better vital signs. He’s still under heavy sedation, but he does react to his mother’s voice and can respond to questions with a slight nod. He’s receiving nutrition through a nose tube that goes directly into the small intestine, bypassing the stomach and pancreas. His nurse told Dana that patients with pancreatitis this severe sometimes remain in the ICU three months or more and in the hospital for months longer–a true test of endurance. Regular drives back and forth to Indiana will seem easy by comparison. On Sunday I got to talk to a friend who reminded me that a local acquaintance spent six months in the hospital with pancreatitis, and that it was two years before he was totally his old self. Bruce has the will to undergo a long recuperation if his situation can just stabilize, but I honestly don’t know if his mate has the stamina for what lies ahead.

It is at times like this that Dana and I are reminded how much we value our family (powerful, quiet support) and our friends (an amazing outpouring of affection).

We’re truly grateful for the positive thoughts and prayers. We’ll need them for some time to come…

(Dana helped with this entry.)

I was a patient in a hospital once.

Once.

I didn’t have much say in the matter, but I’m glad I was born. I had my tonsils cut out in a doctor’s office. I think it wasn’t much longer before they made old Dr. Ashmun stop doing that.

Over the years I’ve spent a fair amount of time in hospitals, especially when they started paying me to be there. But now I go primarily to visit people who haven’t enjoyed my extraordinary run of good fortune. That’s ok. I can stand to be around these places. (Like a mercenary must feel hanging around an ammo dump, I suppose.) I don’t have too many illusions left, as far as I know. I think I have a pretty good idea what these places can do and what they can’t. It’s a workplace. Some of these individuals can accomplish extraordinary things, and that’s true of many workplaces. It’s also true that some employees might be having a bad day, a bad week… or maybe a bad life.

If I make a mistake and publish a typo, everybody feels bad, but nobody has a funeral. I’m not an architect. My designs can’t fall down and kill anybody. But an architect has to have a lot of negligent people around if a faulty building gets built. In a hospital, one “oops” can be a life-or-death matter. We like to think those blunders don’t happen very often, but they do. In America. By nice, well-meaning people. If my streak is broken and I find myself in a hospital as a patient, I want a bodyguard.

Bruce has a lot of people looking out for him, pulling for him, praying for him. Maybe that includes you, dear reader. I hope so. If it does, I hereby thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Everything coming to bear on Bruce’s critical condition: the drugs, the tubes, the pumps, the microchips, the highly educated minds… it’s all there to give him a fighting chance. And by God he’s fighting. When I walk into the room I just look past all the gear and all the reservoirs of heaven-knows-what, and I see the inner warrior holding his own, preparing to make his move, armed with the weapons of consciousness, unfettered by the constraints of time and space, fully aware of the only thing that matters…

Victory.

— Surprising as it might seem, I never read H.S. Thompson. Maybe it was because I had a back-stabbing co-worker in the 70s who carried on a lot about how great a writer Thompson was. Either that or I just couldn’t get past all the Ralph Steadman, which has been a bit of a mystery, since Steadman’s work was mildly influential for me at a certain point in my development as an illustrator (even though I found something fundamentally revolting about his style).

— Brendan’s new Idiotcam archive is positively super-dooper! Now I have only two major goals left in my life: building a home in the Knobs and making it into the exalted Plastic Mullet Series.

— Something about Mombo’s tribute has really sparked some childhood memories. For some reason I got to thinking about one of the most brattish (perhaps the most brattish) thing I ever did as a child. I was pretty young, so my recollection is rather hazy. I don’t think it was my birthday, so it must have taken place at Christmas. I do remember that I’d been agitating for the only toy I desperately wanted—a firetruck. My parents must have been anticipating the delight that would certainly result from their big surprise. Or maybe it was my Uncle Don who was behind it.

There it was! A bright red steel pedal-car-style fire engine complete with little wood ladders and a silver bell!

I threw a fit. Weeping dramatically, I let it be known that I was totally disappointed. How could somebody have gotten it so utterly wrong? That’s not what I wanted. What I wanted was a little firetruck that I could take out to the sand pile and play with! It was a bitter tragedy. No, it was the end of the world!

I don’t know how much longer it was before the replacement arrived, or what mixed emotions my tantrum must have triggered, but the Tonka fire engine eventually appeared, and it was a beauty. It even had a red hydrant that connected to the garden hose to supply a realistic fire-fighting stream. I have no recall as to what my reaction was. I hope I was appropriately grateful, but I may have just accepted it as merely just and overdue.

Both toys are long gone. Did the pedal car end up at the home of a cousin? Whatever became of the little fire engine? Either toy would be a valuable collector’s item today…

The Bluegrass Pike Gang was back at it again this morning. The sky is
now light when we start running. John H asked me how my spinning class
with Susan L was going and I told him it was getting a bit easier. Donna
A smiled and added that it all depended on how far you turned the knob on the stationary bike. “I just do what she tells me to do,” was my reply. John looked at me and
said, “Sounds like marriage.”

I maintained my pace over eight miles, but I could tell that I’d missed
my recent lap swims, thanks to the stubborn computer problems we’ve been
having. I’ve been convinced I should adopt a new motto: “Technology
sucks.” But then I realized that what actually sucks is our propensity
to become so dependent on technology that we’re thrust to the edge of
panic when it breaks down. And that’s where Bob Dixon’s more dignified
and appropriate motto applies: “Everything almost works.”

Yes, I got desperate enough to call Bob. He did his best to calm me down
and get me back on a problem-solving track. Together we uncovered enough
information to re-establish a functional Macintosh, but the true source
of the temporary limbo state is still unknown and I’m back to the
difficulties that bogged us down in the studio all week. At the end of
our last conversation before bedtime (for a night’s rest that almost
didn’t happen), he shared another computing maxim having to do with troubleshooting, “Everything you learned by solving the current problem
you’ll never use again.” Perhaps so. But I took away at least one
valuable thing from the experience. Being able to rely on family is a
genuine blessing, and my Uncle Bob always has and always will be a fine
and helpful man.

The rhythm of raindrops striking metal roofing punctuated each heartfelt expression rendered within the old cabin. Over the weeks, our group had moved from stunned disbelief to analytical precision. Every legal doctrine, ethical nuance, or metaphysical possibility was now open to full scrutiny. Lord, what has Mack set in motion with his generosity of spirit? I stopped to look around the room and was grateful beyond measure for such a circle of incredibly bright and deeply caring friends.

Man, that might sound sappy, but I felt it, I wrote it, and I’m sticking with it…