Uncle John’s Log & Co.

Dana hosted Clan womenfolk at the Town House on Sunday, and what better birthday present for Mombo than to meet a new granddaughter, Juliana Molina? Everybody noticed how she and Torrance Rylee made an immediate connection. Ah, what shall these two little ladies experience together over the next 82 years? It electrifies the imagination. When Belle was leaving, I said, “Beat those Ads,” and, by Jove, she almost did tonight, scoring 23 points in outstanding District play against her former coach. Nobody can say she hasn’t played her heart out this season.

Dana recently prescribed an in-house faucet replacement, and today was the deadline.

In 1922, the Town House was a very modern residence. Featuring four bathrooms, it was meant undoubtedly to be a showcase for indoor plumbing. Fast forward to 2007, and now we face dealing with four sets of 85-year-old pipes, valves, and fixtures. Although we both detest it, Bruce has more patience when it comes to tackling this sort of thing than I do. “Kicking and screaming” barely does justice to my attitude.

Plumbing for new construction is a trade I can somewhat comprehend. On the other hand, there’s a guy out there who we almost had to call—the kind of guy who would willingly crawl under the sink of a house built when Warren G. Harding was president.

On the Saturday before Christmas.

For money.

We all recognize, humorously, that there’s a bit of the exhibitionist in most plumbers, but what kind of freakin’ masochist would make his living repairing plumbing in old houses? (Brendan might have used some variant of fuck, but, trust me, I would never allow a word like that to appear in my blog.)

A beautiful basin with a big pitcher of water—not a bad notion of civilized living—until some twisted devil invented threaded pipes and called it progress.

Broadway Report
— The Library closed its doors on West Broadway for the next 13 months or so, and I don’t think it’s entirely sunk in for me yet. It’s almost as though somebody boarded up a room of your house and said you couldn’t use it for a year. Meanwhile, the noise and dust levels are increasing, as construction on the new addition accelerates. One bright spot—I got permission to scrounge ten wheelbarrow loads of limestone powder left over from the work of the big bedrock drills (necessary for the innovative geothermal system they’re installing). I’m not certain how it will come into play when I move forward on our brick and stone driveway, but a scrounge is a scrounge.

Graybeard Alert
— My sharp disappointment at having our Website proposal rejected by the Great American Brass Band Festival was assuaged by an unexpected packaging assignment from Burkmann. On top of that, the Graybeard Prospector had a productive outing yesterday after the Medicine Woman concocted another one of her marketing potions. Glad to inform all that things are percolating again in the studio, and I’m almost prepared to say we’re busy.

Mokrabo Safari
— This past weekend, I helped make good on Dana’s long-held vision for a “safari dinner” at the Blue Bank Farm. The weather was a bit chilly and windy, but what could anyone expect on the first Sunday in November? The evening sky was perfect, and the Milky Way was visible before the diminishing light of day was gone. I can’t imagine it was any more spectacular in Africa that night. With us were Joan, Janet, Jerome, Lee, and David. Good food, good wine, good music, good campfire, good friends. Sure, it turned out to be a lot of work, but a memorable time was had by all. Greg Brown gave us a scare when he disappeared, but showed up the next morning, thank goodness.

Art Update
— Participated in my third wood engraving workshop at Larkspur Press, and, to avoid the tiring shuttle, I pitched a tent between the shop and Sawdridge Creek, which gave me four days of immersion that yielded two finished blocks. It’s hard to describe, but I broke through to a new comfort level with Wesley, his indomitable wife Juanita, and all the regulars who return year after year, including Richard, well-known force in the literary scene. Juanita soloed Saturday night at the Elk Creek Vineyards, and then came back to the area the following week to perform at Richard’s traditional “First Friday” gathering in the cafe next to his Frankfort bookstore, which I was able to attend because I’d spent the afternoon at the Transportation Cabinet with my fellow bicycle commissioners. Wes and Juanita had gone up to Cincinnati for another workshop sponsored there by Jack, the former international banana-shipping executive who’s expert at so many things (including printmaking) that I can’t keep track. The evening of music and poetry was exceptional. Juanita, Kate, and I sat at a table reserved by Laura Lee, one of the most versatile designer-artists in Kentucky, who just finished illustrating a book for children. Richard acknowledged us as part of the Larkspur wood-engraving gang. Gosh, to be around this circle of talents is one of the most stimulating resources in my life, and I owe it to Gray and his rare hospitality.

V & S

Forgive me for yesterday’s wacky post. I’m rounding the final turn of a new wood block—the first I’ve executed outside the workshop environment. The spot I’ve set up in the little galley kitchen on the second floor is ideal. Painters need soft northern light, but the way the afternoon sun from the small window streams by my left shoulder is perfect for engraving wood. I can see each minute detail with total, three-dimensional clarity. Gray loaned me a magnifying visor, but I prefer the naked eye, as long as I have the proper light.

Why does wood engraving appeal to me? There’s something about the precision that satisfies an inner aspect, much in the same way that the spontaneity of collage appeals to another part of me. Perhaps Wesley put it best when he wrote, “Engraving is like drawing on a black board. Every line you make is a white mark on a black surface. You are adding light to darkness.” That hits pretty close to home for me.

On the other hand, it’s widely acknowledged that wood engraving is a demanding, unforgiving medium. I’m considered fairly decent for a “beginner,” but that’s because I can tap a lifetime of graphic investigation as I make each binary decision—black or white? I still have a significant mark-making technique to learn and “muscle memory” to acquire. I must also develop an even deeper resistance to haste. There are no shortcuts, “happy accidents,” or undo keys in wood engraving. Every mark must be deliberate. The process does not reward chance; it yields only to planning and tenacity. I find a challenge in all that, obviously, but I wish I’d been more strongly captivated by it earlier in my artistic life. After creating the lino block for Joan and Wayne’s wedding invitation, I abandoned printmaking for nearly 30 years. So be it. I’m slowly making up for a bit of lost time.

— 7:30 am, meet cycling pals for an early 30-miler with Scott Joplin’s Pineapple Rag in my head; 10 am, have eggs for breakfast and read the Band Festival tabloid with a feature about my poster art; 11 am, worship with Marty at the Salvation Army and hear my friend Zach preach; 12:30 pm, tear up old blacktop with Marty and empty first Ned-load of driveway debris; 2:30 pm, eat Dana’s turkey panini lunch on the front porch with Marty; 3 pm, tear up old blacktop with Marty and empty second Ned-load of driveway debris; 5 pm, go to Marty’s place to shower and play video games, 7 pm, watch “Scarface” and enjoy a lasagna dinner with Marty and Terie; 9:30 pm, head home to check email and read a bit before bed… If all my remaining Sundays were like this, I believe I could, to use a phrase attributed to the Marquis de Lafayette, “die ’appy.”

— Seth had his graduation celebration at Greystone on Saturday and it “marks the end of an era,” according to James. Mombo made an appearance, to everyone’s enormous satisfaction. Mike R brought his mom down from Ohio for the event, and he said he wants to commission a house portrait from me. Kyle D was there, and Seth passed the torch to a new student leader for the Red Kettle campaign in Liberty. Kyle said Captain Zach reported a $1700 total from our effort last season. We discussed ways to boost that in 2007. I got a bit of inside news about the new girls’ b-ball coach at Boyle. Cliff teased me about my Band Festival pin, but got my commitment to bring him a poster. Does that mean I get a new t-shirt in trade? When it was time to kick back with a beer, I had a good talk with Nic, and he shared a vision of married life in the Valley, and how he’s sure he can resist the professional pressures to value income over becoming a family man. I hope he’s right! Afterwards we stopped at the Hall and spent more time with Mombo, plus I had a chance to grumble to Joan about how the TV networks had squandered a massive line-up of talent over the past months (Haggis, Liotta, Madsen, Diggs, Daly, Hutton, Delany, Sorkin, Busfield, Goldblum, Stowe, Minear, Fillion—I can’t go on!).

— Seeing Jeannette at Greystone reminded me of last Friday at Rotary Club, when I was asked to “unveil” my poster art and make remarks. I did something I don’t remember having ever done so explicitly, and that was pay tribute to the divine source of all creativity. I wasn’t sure it had been the proper thing to do in that context, until Jeannette told me how much she was touched by it. That, combined with seeing two similar but different kinds of youthful self-assurance in both Seth and Nic, makes me realize I need to trust my instincts more, even though I might think I’ve made progress in that area. Drop the reticence and push it further. There’s no other way. The previous day I’d successfully shrugged off the inner wimp to address the Governor in public when he visited Centre for the “Get Healthy Kentucky” initiative. My comments met with applause. Come on, what is there to lose except self-doubt?

V & S

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

V & S

March experiment—day eighteen— Well, I may not have broken the back of the “Joe Box” dilemma, but I think I managed to harass a disc or two toward that goal. Joan and Caitlan stopped by on their way to the farm and delivered more boxes to keep things interesting, plus a weird hand-built crank wheel of some sort. Marty helped me clear a better work space for my 3D project in the coal bin. It’s been a while since he’s been in there, and he realizes that now he needs to duck to move around, too. He helped me carry furniture into the refurbished kitchen upstairs. Dana’s been working diligently this weekend with all the finishing touches. Life is quite good, if one puts emphasis on the blessings. At times it seems like three steps forward and two back, but things are moving in the right direction.

Today’s sight bite— The scrubbed green of winter abutting pastel blue—c-l-i-c-k—as I run the hilltop hay fields of KSD’s property.

Tomorrow— Internal and external agenda items expand to fill the day…

It’s our 24th wedding anniversary, but we no longer have this date to ourselves, of course; it now belongs to all Americans.

Dana and I opted for a day at home, trying to enjoy the familiar with mindful appreciation. I did some chores for her; she made two tasty meals for me. At the same time, I was trying to pack for a Michigan trip and finish framing the 50th anniversary artwork for the California B’bachs. I avoided the media all day, since there were already too many things going on in my head. I really had to quiet myself and beckon an Archangel, so I wouldn’t goof up, fall two stories off a ladder, and ruin the day.

Our intimate supper featured the last of my venison tenderloin, wild rice, and Fron’s yellow squash. Sliced organic strawberries in liqueur-flavored yogurt were an exquisite finale, and the bottle of Firestone Cabernet was pure velvet on the palette, shining like fiery blood before the candle flames.

— 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

In Lexington this morning, a commuter jet crashed while trying to take off from the wrong runway, killing 49 of the 50 souls on board. I bicycled out to Shared Silence, and left for Kelley Ridge when I got home, to help Joan get her armoire to the upper floor. I didn’t find out about the accident until she told me. Jeffrey had to leave, but I stayed and had lunch with her, Caitlan, Josh, Pat, and Verla. Caitlan and I talked about her internship, and I also found out that Josh will be working full time as a screen printer for the 10th Planet. Joan sent me home with gifts, including Berry’s book on Harlan Hubbard and two of Joe’s old wooden boxes that will enable me to create assemblage under the influence of Joseph Cornell. She also loaned me a James McMullen book which totally throws open my thinking with respect to a concept for the Brass Band Festival poster. I worked outside when I got home, swept the driveway, and finished stacking my salvaged bricks. I got an email informing me that the son of a cycling pal (Martin V of Burgin) had died in a rock-climbing fall. I helped Dana finish her food preparations for Bruce’s visit, just as he arrived. It seemed so amazing to have him here after his first solo Interstate drive in a very long time. It was only a year ago that he was still in the thick of a battle against potentially deadly infections, so this marks another important milestone in his slow recovery. Jeannette and Ben stopped by to see him and have a bite to eat. Terie, Marty, Joan, and Caitlan paid him a visit, too. It’s been a happy evening, in a house not usually so full of life, but I’m acutely aware of the overwhelming sense of tragedy that so many other Central Kentucky families must be feeling tonight.

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.

Arrived home after a day-long 700+ mile drive south yesterday, passing through areas in Indiana that we now learn were threatened by sniper fire. A man was killed on I-65 a couple hours after we drove that same stretch. And here we thought we’d picked the more favorable route, as opposed to the multiple construction zones and heavy truck traffic of I-75.

Anyway, it was good to back and find everything in order, although for a spell I thought someone had ripped off my favorite little galvanized bucket that I keep by the back door, until I discovered that Terie had used it to kindly water our flowers. She’d hidden it on the front porch.

Other than unpack, reply to a few emails, do a bit of yard work, and go for a cross-country run over at the Kentucky School for the Deaf campus, I didn’t accomplish much else today. Caught up on the Tour coverage at ESPN.com, VeloNews, and then watched the recap on CBS at 5 pm. Tomorrow I’ll have to do an entry on the race and start transferring my recent hardback-journal jottings to this log.

I don’t think July gets much nicer outside than this. I devoted much of the day to dealing with the west-side landscaping at the Town House. This is the zone that’s been the scene of two stolen property “ditches,” and it had to be opened up. Our neighbors hired a guy to clean up the brush on their side, so I followed up today with a drastic shrub trim on ours. The results are dramatic. Nobody is going to use that area as a hiding place now.

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!

It’s been sorta push-push lately, so I think I’ll pause in Sabbath Mode until I restore both physical and cognitive abilities, and then it’s back to the grind.

“Why should I hasten to solve every riddle which life offers me? I am well assured that the Questioner, who brings me so many problems, will bring the answers also in due time. Very rich, very potent, very cheerful Giver that he is, he shall have it all his own way, for me.”

— Emerson

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

It’s happened a second time within eight weeks—more property dumped in the gap between the Town House and the building on the corner next door (this time a pile of antique silverware). While I was waiting at the police department, a nervous guy with extensive rune-like tattoos started a conversation. I think he might have been a crime victim and it looked like he was there to turn in a list of stolen items. He was telling me now crazy a place this was, a conclusion he’d formed after living here a month.

“People do meth. I’ve never even seen meth. They snort it at work. People drink and drive all the time. I don’t even drink. I’m from New York. This place is crazy. It’s like it’s a no-consequences town or something. If you get caught drinking and driving in New York, you don’t get your license back. Not like here, with multiple offenses before they do anything. It’s crazy.”

I didn’t know what to say. How bad will it have to get in Kentucky before we experience the kind of enforcement crack-downs that have already taken place in other areas of the country? How bad will it have to get in Danville?

It really hit me hard the other day that it’s been over four years since Dana asked people to kindly submit their collections of my hand-crafted greeting cards for the birthday retrospective at Grayson’s Tavern. Inexcusable! I promptly decided to finish my delinquent documentation effort and return every card to its rightful owner.

While we’re on the subject of a ton of bricks, the Boyle County Library took possession of the church across the street and immediately put up a chain-link fence. Members of the congregation had been picking apart the facade all month, perched precariously on aluminum ladders. It was a bit scary to watch. The Library folks obviously wanted to put a stop to any makeshift salvage operation that might continue, semi-authorized or otherwise.

Remind me sometime to fully describe the phenomenon of “scrounge madness,” related in its deviant nature to “movin’ madness.”

I’m waiting to see if our standing request yields a formal result. The expansion committee was thrown a curve the other day when Fiscal Court magistrates declined their appeal for financial support, voting instead to use County employees to haul off debris. Sadly, that may knock out of contention my brilliant idea for a recycled driveway, but at the same time curtail any similar display of “scrounge madness” on our side of West Broadway.

— 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

Two incidents contributed to a higher level of perceived insecurity here on West Broadway.

The other night, somebody broke into the public library just to steal the loose-change jug at the circulation desk. It had been a well-known, symbolic part of the fundraising drive to build the major expansion toward our home. It was the second time the jug was stolen. After the first time, it was attached to a drawer with cable. The burglars took the drawer, too. The result: library managers have said they won’t put out a third jug.

Yesterday, while Marty was helping me trim back the heavy bushes between the Town House and the CPAs’ building next door, we found a discarded purse. The driver’s license was still in the wallet, but no money. It was hard to tell how long it had been there. It was immediately taken over to the police department. Marty shared a few insights into the behavior of crack addicts that I wished he didn’t have at his age. The result: when Dana had to walk over to the ATM last night after dark, I tagged along and packed heat in downtown Danville for the first time in recent memory.

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 twelve— This dismal weather is starting to get to me. I’d rather be forced to wear a heavy coat and gloves, if it would get me a blue sky. Continued to use my time matrix to chip away at projects, not all of them money-makers. Took the equine-packaging job from sketches to electronics this afternoon and that’s an important step. After five o’clock, I tried to finish cleaning up the front yard, but it started to rain. Didn’t that happen yesterday? Tonight I sat down again with “FLIGHT, Volume Two.” This collection doesn’t seem as awesome to me as Volume One, but I’m enjoying it immensely. That’s just the way it is with sequels, I guess. I can’t help but observe how much some of these artists have been affected by the drawings of Bill Watterson. Reminds me of when I look at political cartoons and realize that an entire generation of editorial artists have been influenced by Mike Peters and Jeff MacNelly.

Today’s sight bite— Sky like a canopy of yellow-grey bruises—c-l-i-c-k—with a tree swaying the way a nervous man shifts his weight from one leg to another.

Tomorrow— Wake up to the stationery bike and another gym workout (try to catch
Sebastian Junger on “Washington Journal”), and then get in some billable time before the Salvation Army executive committee meets…

March experiment—day ten— Tackled the lopsided landscaping in front of the Town House porch (between thundershowers) for most of the day until it was time for our trip to Richmond. We had a pleasurable “first-date observation” at the Punjab, and then attended the St. Mark’s annual theatrical performance—my sister Joan’s last to organize there, before she moves on to new adventures.

Today’s sight bites— Pre-teen waiters with slabs of cake—c-l-i-c-k—greasepainted faces caught in a spotlight crossfire—c-l-i-c-k—button-breasted singing maidens—c-l-i-c-k—a wide-mouth “Master Colin”—c-l-i-c-k—and the joyful expression of a mentor surrounded by her proud students.

Tomorrow— Early morning ride to Mack’s cabin, as well as a few stubborn issues in the studio to solve…

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…

Man with his car in the ditch, waving sadly as he waits for a tow truck.

400 yards of footprints in the fresh snow, to find two brothers at Still-house Spring.

One of Dadbo’s last ‘coon boxes, rotting in a treetop along Sledding Hill Road.

Four tofu burgers frying in a skillet, beside a pot of Mombo’s vegetable soup.

Frank the long-shot candidate, grinning broadly from his campaign card.

The veteran Norwegian biathlete, collapsing to his knees at the finish line.

Chalkboard calculations and a Honchovian decision to define the day’s effort.

An ancient wheelbarrow and a gutted Gravely, rusting in the cluttered barn.

Tiny newborn bunnies, nestled for warmth in a bunting of mother’s fur.

Dana’s cranberry coffee cake, golden brown and fresh from the oven.

— When I got up at 6:30 to check the weather, the wind with light rain was enough deterrent for me to call off my scheduled run. I guess I have to admit I’m not as hard-core as I used to be. Dana and I did yoga instead, with the Charles and Lisa tape, waiting for live TV coverage showing the return of the Kentucky National Guard’s 623rd. Josh and his unit had some initial delays in getting out of Iraq, since they had to fill up a plane first, but he’s been back in the States for a number of days now, and was supposed to fly into Louisville this morning. When he touches down and is greeted by family, it will mark the end of his perilous overseas deployment. Welcome back, Josh!

— Last night Hayley’s team met its match with some athletic, high-pressure ball players from Lincoln County High. Our Belle displayed some skilled moments, but most of her minutes showed a hesitancy that comes from inexperience with competition at this level of intensity. She faced a energetic, senior-dominated squad. I think she also defers too often on the floor to older teammates, rather than place more confidence in her own leadership, which she’s more inclined to do when she’s not nervous, and then she shoots more, finishes her powerful drives to the basket, or finds an open player. When she performs that way she usually has a high-scoring game. The consistency is sure to come, but she needs to find a way to bear down and trust her own abilities. I wish she had a better coach, and some day she will. She has a lot of basketball ahead of her. It will be a joy to watch.

— I made more progress today on remodelling the small kitchen off our upstairs conference room. It’s hard to explain why it’s been so neglected over the years, but this is the year to complete the project. It’s proven in many ways to be the log jam that impedes the last phase of physical organization that has to take place for us to have the kind of studio space we always intended for the Town House. I also wrote an email to the chairman of the Library expansion committee describing our desire to recycle some materials from the demolition of the church to take place across the street this summer. We’d like to take stone, brick, or both, and create a rubble-style paved driveway. I think there’s a good chance the project will get a green light, but it’ll take some “Clan-Power” for me to pull off my end of the deal.

V & S

Earlier today I wanted to take advantage of the mild weather and paint the porch eaves. While grabbing some newspaper to put underneath my paint can, I noticed a story from December, 2004 about the Danville-vs-Boyle-County girls basketball game. Hayley scored five points. I’d just been thinking about going to her game tomorrow night. And then Jeanne pulled in the driveway, so we started looking at the details of the story, sizing up the opposition.

Cosmic.

— 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

Day started out great when I got tricked into an eight-miler, even though my head meter was stuck on six. By the time I got home, I was psyched to make some art, and then I found out the good news—Dana had just blown town and would be back to Danville by evening, which means Bruce has improved enough to say “Go home, Mom.” Better tidy up the kitchen!

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.

— I reconfigured the screen saver on the Mac G4 Mini to display a sequence of abstractions by Kurt Schwitters. I can’t say why, but, as far as motivating me to make art, nothing of late has been more inspirational to me than the rule-shattering creations of this early 20-century master. One could say he basically invented the medium we know as collage (he certainly was the first to perfect it), and it won’t hurt if I can subconsciously absorb a wee bit of his genius. Did KK really go to Newcastle? My God, that’s the repository of the Schwitters “Merzbarn,” one of the most genuinely innovative artistic concepts of the last hundred years! I may never get to see it myself… Go back there, Caitlan; it’s in the Hatton Gallery at the University of Newcastle!

— Don’t know any details, but it seems as though conditions are imploding at the school where my sister Joan has worked for many years. I feel bad for her because I think I know what she’s going through. Dana and I still refer to the “Golden Age” at Wright State University Communications (where we first met) before that department went into a nose dive. Things were never the same. Some of our coworkers saw it coming early and escaped most of the madness. Dana and I saw the handwriting on the wall before many in our group, but we still had to endure six months of collapse until we made the leap and started our partnership and studio. Several of our friends tried to make the best of it and had to experience a lot of nastiness before what was left of our creative “dream team” had been totally dismantled. A few of us from those years started our own companies and continued to work with each other sporadically, and we keep in touch as friends to this day. Since then I’ve learned that good working relationships and situations can rarely be sustained indefinitely. Everything always changes. Undesirable situations can improve, but, unfortunately, great situations inevitably decline, or even crash and burn. There’s been quite an ebb and flow in our clientele since those days (26 years ago). It’s not that existing relationships will sour, but it’s more often a matter of the natural, dynamic flux in any organization’s personnel equation. Never underestimate the wake of change that can occur when outstanding people move on with their lives. It can cause a “brief, shining moment” to fade into personal mythology. The silver lining for me—I still have my “partner in all things” and my Clan, and that’s as close to permanent as I’ll ever know.

— Today Dana told me that Bruce had a bad night, but pulled through without having to go back to the hospital. He gets into vicious cycles of fever, nausea, low red cell count, weakness, low blood pressure, and then sometimes passes out when he tries to stand up, if he has the energy to move at all. I don’t know the actual sequence of it, but he manages to will himself forward, or he relies on his mother or Pam for the encouragement to ride it out when this happens. It apparently has something to do with dialysis, or the lingering infections, or another factor I’m not aware of. He told Dana this past week how much he wants to feel good again, and that he’s not giving up. Dana will stay with him until he improves enough that she can turn her role over to someone else. Until then, she must be there while Pam is at work. Meanwhile, I continue at the home-front and make my effort to get work, be productive, juggle the volunteer commitments that have a momentum I can’t control, and resist the kind of distractions I’ve always invited to avoid facing—right now—the full emotional impact of bearing life’s load (for example, making overly long blog entries).

V & S