Uncle John’s Log & Co.

Hey, look, I probably get a buzz seeing famous people as much as the average guy, but I take absolutely no interest in celebrities just because they happen to qualify for the description. On the other hand, I really do like the stars I respect, especially if my admiration for them is rooted in the “silver age” of television, and I’d probably step on my Yorkie to shake the hand of Peter Graves.

When I learned that Johnny Crawford was coming back to Danville, I knew I had to meet him and experience his current style of entertainment. Like Kurt Russell and Ron Howard, he was a child star who kept himself on the rails, and he went forward to do an impressive range of cool things in his life as an artist, athlete, and entrepreneur. Most of all, he held true to his earliest passion—music.

If Dana didn’t fully appreciate how much I was looking forward to hearing Johnny’s vintage dance band, it was because I tried my best to avoid behaving like a groupie beforehand, but I think she understood when I dug out one of Dadbo’s old bow ties and taught myself how to tie it. It’s been quite awhile since the two of us had a nice picture taken, so I was tickled when Joan and Caitlan agreed to document our night out. Thanks, ladies!

The extra time for pictures cost us the opportunity to pick out a choice table at the Playhouse indoor theater, but I managed to discover an empty love seat near the stage. It was a fine spot to watch Crawford re-enact the period manners of a band leader from the 1920s and 1930s. We were treated to a superb group of musicians hired locally to become his vintage orchestra for the evening, including Miles Osland, Dave Henderson, and Rick Cook. Watching Crawford’s seat-of-the-pants coordination was a delight, and the entire effect was a testament to the sheer professionalism of everyone on stage. On top of that, the “CD Release Party” aspect seemed to put the star of the show in a heightened mood, and his vocals and repartee at the microphone were thoroughly entertaining. I think Dana would agree the only way it could have been more enjoyable is if I’d spent less time with the bow tie and a bit more with remembering how to do the fox trot. Maybe next time; I hope he’s invited back for an encore performance.

Years ago, when I fell in love with Danville’s brass band festival, I gained a new, profound regard for the quality of American band music from the mid nineteenth century to the era of The Great War. I also came to understand how much work it takes to resurrect all of the instrumentation to recreate a period sound. This summer, Johnny Crawford shared with our community the same preservationist spirit, and it makes me think he may be emerging as one of the country’s most important historians of our popular music, salvaging lost orchestrations and discarded arrangements of favorite dance tunes from that unique period between two World Wars. As David McCullough reminds us, Americans from a different period of our history were less similar to us than we like to believe. They lived differently, and they thought differently. It was the age of radio. Everyone aspired to be a musician, if they didn’t already sing or play an instrument. All popular music was music meant for dancing, and if people didn’t go out to dance, they probably were at a motion picture to watch others dance. There was a spirit in America that observers such as David Gelernter have told us is all but lost. Well, perhaps so, but not if Johnny Crawford has anything to say about it.

Don’t go ’round moping, hoping happiness will come.
That’s not the way; it doesn’t pay.
If you want happiness, help yourself to some.
Why don’t you try to take life the way I do:

Let the whole world sigh or cry,
I’ll be high in the sky,
Up on top of a rainbow,
Sweeping the clouds away.

I don’t care what’s down below.
Let it rain or let it snow.
I’ll be up on a rainbow,
Sweeping the clouds away.

I have learned life’s lesson: fighters who always win
Are those who can take it right on the chin—and grin.

So I shout to everyone:
“Find your place in the sun,
Up on top of a rainbow,
Sweeping the clouds away!”

— Month of June workout totals: Swim-1; Bike-7; Run-2; Lift-1; Yoga-0; Pilates-0; Lupus Drills-1

Just when I stopped believing in the impossible mission…
— Jim Phelps lives!

And so, finally, I became an artist when I grew up…
— The Brady portrait commission is done. There were many times during the course of the work when I questioned what I’d gotten myself into. I’ve always told myself I wouldn’t try to paint a likeness without a quality reference image. An accomplished portrait artist once advised me to avoid subjects who were deceased. On top of breaking those rules, I faced creating a full-color image from a black and white photo. “All’s well that ends well,” as they say, so eventually the creative torment and restless nights will be forgotten—until I get myself into the next pickle. Hey, I should look at it another way: If I can solve this puzzler and survive to reflect on it, the next project should prove to be easier. Sounds good in theory, but the important thing is that the recipient is thrilled with the result, and she called me again this morning to say so. Well, isn’t that what creating art is all about?

Major adventures in a time-machine collage…
— Dana gave this title to my wild dream after I described it to her this morning. Forgive me for describing it to you, too. After a crazy silent-movie chase through the restaurant zone with brother Fron, I found myself on a train with my Aunt Sis when she was young. It appeared to be some sort of troop train. As a soldier who looked like Gary Cooper told stories, I saw a uniformed, twenty-year-old Eddie (Dadbo) come into the passenger car dragging his canvas suitcase, with well-oiled, carefully combed hair and a grim expression. When I tried to “rewind” the sequence, I couldn’t control the timing, so the scene before me changed to a relaxed, fifty-something Dadbo packing for a business trip, but he wasn’t able to see me. I started to wake up, and, naturally, I couldn’t reverse the progression before the entire thing was lost.

Back to normal (whatever that is)…
— Bruce is home again after his latest ordeal. By and by, he seems to be in less pain and is able to climb stairs without difficulty. Joan and Caitlan stopped to wish him well on their way back from Hawaii. Dana and I were heading out the door, to hear the Johnny Crawford Vintage Dance Band at Pioneer Playhouse. Because we were all hosed down and ready for a night out, they took some digitals of us on the front porch steps, and I hope we get the pictures soon, so I can make a better entry here about a satisfying, memorable performance.

(Happy Birthday, Uncle Sam!)

V & S

Yesterday, upon learning about the demise of George Carlin, I wanted to make an entry here and tell everyone that I thought he and Bill Cosby were the funniest men alive back in the 60s. I didn’t do it, because I realized too many of my entries this year were about dead guys—and then I got the phone call from Mombo that Uncle Si was gone… When I was growing up, it wasn’t unusual for me to witness my mother’s older brothers lose their tempers or foul the air with colorful language—except for Uncle Si—and, if he did cuss a bit, it always came with his joyous laugh. I don’t remember ever seeing him blow his cool. I had the sense that he just didn’t sweat the small stuff, and it wasn’t until later that I learned he had endured some major troubles in his life like everybody else, especially in business. I could relate to him as someone who had chosen the path of self-employment, with all of its advantages and disadvantages. I wrote here about my Uncle Si on his 90th birthday, and I’ll let that stand as my tribute to his character. Our extended family won’t be quite the same without his large presence.

• Composer Earle Hagen just died of natural causes, a few days short of his 90th birthday. Hagen did orchestrations for Rodgers and Hammerstein and major Hollywood movies before he hit it big with television music. I guess my favorite is the theme he created for I-Spy. Better known for The Andy Griffith Show and That Girl, he will nonetheless be remembered in the annals of Clan Hayride Lore for writing that obscure crowd-pleaser, Rango.

• Now that I’m thinking about television theme songs, I finally realized why I like the intro for Firefly so much: Joss Whedon simply lifted the best musical attributes of Tennessee Stud. All artists steal from each other, right? A long-standing tradition.

• Hmmm . . . now I’m beginning to wonder if Brendan swiped the 8-note melody of A Grandy-bo Christmas Surprise for his new podcast series.

From San Antone to the Rio Grande,
On mountain peak or desert sand,
Every outlaw feared the hand of danger,
This Texas Ranger—
Rango, Rango, Ra-ang-go-o-oh!

Well, Brendan has finally gone and done it. He’s found a way to combine most of his favorite talents—music, satirical writing, cartooning, comedic performance, creative collaboration, and your basic web magic. The end product of this fusion? An outrageous repository of droll hilarity known as The Children’s Hour of Knowledge. The site is co-produced with Stephen Heintz, and so far, it has two episodes. I haven’t heard anything quite like this since I listened to “I Think We’re All Bozos on This Bus” by The Firesign Theatre. (And that was 36 years ago—around the time I first started to make landmark journal entries just like this!). Go listen for yourself. Perhaps the best way to end this post is with an excerpt from my nephew’s biographical blurb: “In a perfect world, Brendan would be swiftly hunted down by those determined to keep it that way.”

— Month of May workout totals: Swim-0; Bike-5; Run-1; Lift-2; Yoga-0; Pilates-1; Lupus Drills-2

— When a boy makes his uncertain journey toward manhood, he will never forget the famous beauties that adorned his itinerary:
Charmian Carr — Connie Stevens — Donna Mills — Peggy Fleming
Diana Hyland — France Nuyen — Madlyn Rhue — Barbara Bain
Janet Leigh — Barbara Hershey — Julie Christie — Natalie Wood

— After nearly a month away from the weights, I found myself back in the gym yesterday, hoping to get my fitness regimen into balance. Hearing a Roberta Flack tune always gets me thinking of college days. Back in 1971, one of my earliest journal entries was about taking a date to see Play Misty For Me. The experience forever solidified my appreciation of Clint Eastwood as a cool dude, and I now regard that motion picture as the beginning of how he used his Dirty Harry appeal to negotiate with Warner Brothers a series of opportunities that would enable him to became one of the most extraordinary filmmakers of our time. If, like me, you have any libertarian leanings at all, you really have to admire a guy like Clint. He’s never been afraid to express his disdain for political correctness or those who shamelessly traffic in it.

— Not that there’s any reason for you to remember, but last summer I daydreamed in this space about my hope that a boyhood idol would eventually return to Central Kentucky (not as a mere beau, but as a performer). Needless to say, I’m thrilled to learn that my wish is granted. Johnny Crawford is best known for playing Mark McCain on “The Rifleman” from 1958 to 1963. Unlike today, it was a time when the quality of the typical child actor in Hollywood would raise the mental question, “Whose powerful uncle pulled strings with the producer?” Crawford was one of a handful of young television performers—Patty Duke, Ron Howard, Tim Considine, Kurt Russell—that were cast for their obvious talent. Throughout his run on the popular series, he not only held his own impressively with star Chuck Connors, but opposite a constellation of entertainment heavyweights, including Dennis Hopper, John Carradine, Martin Landau, Kevin McCarthy, Sammy Davis Jr., Buddy Hackett, Warren Oates, and Michael Landon. Trite as it sounds—those were the days. The tube was small, but the icons were huge.

— The passing of Jim McKay makes me think of so many entertaining Saturday afternoons in the 60s, as we experienced the infancy of sports-casting through his distinctive coverage. A decade later, any of us who were watching in 1976 will always remember his marathon reporting from Munich, when his place in the history of television was secured. McKay and the late Roone Arlidge surely redefined the medium during those years, and, ever since, I’ve been as equally fascinated by the technology and professionalism of sports broadcasting as I’ve been with what happens before the cameras in a venue of competition. So far, 2008 has been a great year for upsets—beginning with an exciting Super Bowl, and on through another horse racing saga that culminated dramatically today. Zito has firmly established himself as the preeminent crusher of Triple Crown dreams—a class act, in contrast to the trainer of Big Brown, who, with his arrogant posturing, disqualified himself for much sympathy. Instead of partying with Trump in Manhattan, he’ll be, as Marty put it, “just another sweaty guy in a horse stall” tonight. On the other hand, one has to feel sorrow for the Kent D family and be concerned for the talented stallion himself. Yes, there’s only one compound phrase for it: The thrill of victory, and the agony of defeat. Let the summer games begin!

V & S

His mastery of the medium speaks for itself:

Comedy — Tootsie

Suspense — The Firm

Action — The Yakuza

Adventure — Jeremiah Johnson

Drama — They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?

Epic — Out of Africa

Was there another consistently better than Sidney Pollack?

The tribute issue of American Rifleman came in the mail today, and I got a lump in my throat when I saw the cover. I’ll prefer to remember this as Chuck’s day, and not when Slick arrived in Danville to seduce the Wendell Ford Democrats. After Gore fell short in November 2000, Clinton immediately blamed the NRA and its leader. At the time I was still displaying a bumper sticker on my truck that stated, “My President is Charlton Heston.”

I remember writing in my journal about the first time I attended a Chamber of Commerce banquet in Danville, and finding it a powerfully positive experience, as I acclimated to a new community. Cliff and Jeanne were there, and the keynote speaker was a newspaper columnist from Louisville. It seemed as though everybody present knew him, except for me. Another thing I remember is how perceptive and funny he was. Here was a nice guy who had grown up along the Hanging Fork, who had gone to the big city, and who had made it big. I now believe that the perspective he shared that evening influenced how I would come to perceive the people of my newly adopted state. If I was wondering, “Just who are these Kentuckians?”—and surely I must have been—I could have done a lot worse than listen to the keen observations of Mr. Byron Crawford.

He called me yesterday for a phone interview, as he prepared to write a bike-to-work piece for his column in the Courier-Journal. On the eve of my annual conclave with the Kentucky Bicycle and Bikeway Commission, it’s interesting to think that my desire to make a mark on the quality of life in this Commonwealth might in no small way trace back to that night nearly twenty years ago when Byron came to town.

— Month of April workout totals: Swim-2; Bike-6; Run-3; Lift-4; Yoga-0; Pilates-7; Lupus Drills-4

— Most of us own something that we can use to save money and have fun at the same time. When we do, we feel more in touch with the sights, sounds, and smells of our natural environment. It helps us relieve stress, manage weight, and add years to our life. It easily bridges the age gap within our families. It enables us to more directly perceive our urban context. Sound too good to be true? Not at all. You know what I’m talking about. It’s your bicycle. May is here—National Bike Month. Don’t forget to wear your helmet.

— Speaking of bikes, the League of American Bicyclists has named Portland, Oregon a Bicycle Friendly Community at the Platinum level. Portland is the first large city in the United States to gain the designation and joins Davis, California as the only other platinum community in the nation. Combine that news with the side effects of a cross-country solo car trip, and perhaps Brendan will reconsider his conversion to motorist.

— When the idea first came up about attending the “Get Motivated!” business seminar on my birthday, consent was based on the opportunity to personally experience a Colin Powell address. Indeed, the Secretary/General was amazing, but the entire day was far more worthwhile than I was expecting. I found myself equally enthralled with both substance and technique from a heavyweight line-up of highly successful leaders. Here are tidbits selected from my sheaf of scribbles:

 
     “Listen to your dreams, not your doubts.” —Robert Schuller
     “Understand your foundation of passion.” —Krish Dhanam
     “Don’t just learn something new, exploit it.” —Phil Town
     “Focus on an outcome as if it’s already happened.” —Peter Lowe
     “Every yes is hidden behind at least one no.” —Tom Hopkins
     “Transformations begin at home.” —Colin Powell

— Back to thinking about dual-wheelers . . . After two years of presiding over meetings, I’ve stepped down as chair of B.I.K.E. and passed the baton to my friend Steve. It won’t surprise you to learn that I’ll continue to work for greater “bicycle friendliness” here and throughout Kentucky. My hope is that all who have supported my initiative will offer the same level of encouragement to Steve.

V & S

I know I haven’t been writing much lately, but I recently promised myself that if I couldn’t dwell on positive things, then I best not record anything at all in this space. Although that may seem to indicate my prevailing mood, good developments continue to unfold. It is necessary to remain focused on practical goals. Each day sees progress on multiple fronts, even in the face of adversity. Extra time spent at the Blue Bank Farm, working on the stone flue, allowed me to overcome the deficiencies of my extended learning curve. Now I know I can complete the masonry job this summer according to my original vision. I helped produce a successful annual dinner for The Salvation Army, which fulfills a major volunteer commitment. Although I cut back on my involvement with the Brass Band Festival this year, I felt obligated to complete the poster series I started in 2005. That should be wrapped up soon, which clears the deck a bit more in favor of a greater commercial workload. Yesterday I woke up with a solution to the Town House storm water drainage problems that have bedeviled me for years. I’m reading Dr. Dyer’s book on learning to live one’s imagined life. Creating the prerequisite balance is a daily challenge that I can surely meet, but only through the relentless re-alignment of my inner thoughts and awareness, and I’m convinced that I shall do that only by truly accepting the all-sufficiency of God’s love.

Far away in the sunshine are my highest inspirations.
I may not reach them, but I can look up and see the beauty,
believe in them and try to follow where they lead. . . .
        —Louisa May Alcott

— As a kid, I think I first heard about Rube Goldberg from Mombo, and, although I never investigated his career in detail, he became another piece of supporting evidence with which I built the notion that I could grow up to be a cartoonist. The other day I was talking to a friend and fellow advisory board member at The Salvation Army HQ and learned he’d just attended the Rube Goldberg Machine Contest at Purdue University, where his grandson is an engineering student. Relying on their solid “home court advantage,” the Purdue team kept the prize at home for the third time in the last four years. My cousin Joe’s daughter, Michelle, goes to school at Purdue, but I’ve never asked him about her area of concentration.

— Watchmen is without a doubt the most satisfying “comic book” I’ve encountered since Joan and I discovered the story of “Superman-Red and Superman-Blue” at Pam and Lori’s house back in the 1960s. To call it a comic book will be off-target for those unfamiliar with the Hugo Award winning publication, which TIME Magazine included in its 2005 list of “the 100 best English-language novels from 1923 to the present.” When Brendan found out I’d never seen it, he dropped off a copy during his cross-country road trip. Thanks, NB. You know what I like.

— In less than a month, my level of inner peace, tenuous at best in this stage of life, was shaken twice. First I learned about my Godfather’s death in Ohio, which brought a deep sense of personal loss. I looked over some of his characteristic letters about dogs and gardening and things, traveling north with Dana to represent my Clan at a family service in St. Marys. Then came the aftershock news of Charlton Heston’s demise, a different kind of sadness, having of my own volition attached my spirit to his particular brand of patriotism many years ago. I took comfort in reading again the short letter he sent me around the time of his last public announcement. It was a personal note of appreciation for my having mailed him, over a period of years, a series of handmade birthday greetings. Greater consolation came in a message from my own Godson about my Uncle Don, and the statements Nic and his brother Seth made at Facebook about their regard for Mr. Heston, including recollections of meeting him with some of us who attended his book signing in Lexington. It was heartening to know that men of the next generation will value his enduring contribution to safeguarding the array of civil liberties we enjoy as Americans. Two resolutions honoring Mr. Heston—H.Res. 1091 by Congressman Don Young (R-AK), and S.Res. 512 by Senator Jim DeMint (R-SC)—were introduced this week in the two houses of Congress.

— Joan’s blogging has set a recent standard that can only be described as outstanding, and I need to regain my rhythm. Much to report about events in March and my current activities, but the emphasis remains with daily efforts to spin straw into gold. A life engaged in hustling after the next buck just seems to be the governing principle, or, as Mombo used to say when I rubbed the morning “sleepers” from my eyes:
Another day; another dollar…

V & S

†
Charlton Heston
1 9 2 4 – 2 0 0 8
 
R
I
P

— Month of March workout totals: Swim-1; Bike-3; Run-4; Lift-3; Yoga-0; Pilates-5; Lupus-3

— Another constructive “March Experiment” is under my belt, but it may be no longer accurate to call it an experiment. In its current form, the regimen has become more of an annual exercise. Perhaps next time around I shall discover and impose a breakthrough to make it truly experimental again.

— Brendan stopped by today on his way west (Way, Way West), and it felt good to personally wish him Godspeed. He loaned me his copy of Watchmen, and we also talked a bit about The Book of the New Sun. I asked him if he’d packed plenty of listening material. He said he would be playing his CD of a popular presidential candidate reciting “99 Bottles.” (Yeah, that last thing was a lame April Fool’s joke. I got Dana with a much better one this morning.)

— With the price of gold hovering near a generational high, the Graybeard Prospector turned over a new leaf last month, using every trick he could think of to see if he might stake some new claims. In the process, he connected with some new friends and old, including one from the Cincinnati days. His former pal Ray is working on a book with photographs of drive-through expresso shacks, which apparently are a feature of the American Northwest. Based on this information, it looks like Nephew B has hit the trail for the caffeine mother lode. We’ll see if he can stay clean and somber.

Five years ago — 4/1/03
— When will the turning point in the war come, and will we even recognize it when it does? Today the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs made an animated defense of Rumsfeld, Franks, and the war plan, in response to aggressive media criticism. It’s amazing to me how the press is behaving at a time of war… Today Dana and I had lunch at the Carnegie Club, listening to a superb presentation by Vince about the music of Duke Ellington, but a lot of it was autobiographical. He talked more than I expected about his youth and evolution as a musician, as well as his attitude toward teaching—clearly the real passion for him.

Ten years ago — 4/2/98
— The new Mac is sitting on a chair in the conference room, unpacked but unplugged. The workload is just now easing up enough to consider tearing into our current configuration… It’s time for me to set it up. I should be more excited, but I usually feel this way—a bit nervous—when I have to disrupt an existing system. The excitement will come later.

V & S

Before the month is over, I’m extending my personal Black History studies to include some outstanding African-American women.

Wow. Just finished reading Gene Wolfe’s short essay on J.R.R. Tolkien, and I just have to provide the link here. Amazing train of thought…

During this month I’m attempting to learn more about the African-American men that I revere most. It goes without saying, but aren’t Wikipedia and Google something else? I can’t imagine what it would be like as a young student, having at my disposal these remarkable tools!

— Month of January workout totals: Swim-1; Bike-2; Run-0; Lift-2; Yoga-5; Pilates-4

— I’m barely hanging on to athletic respectability, thanks to Yoga/Pilates, but that doesn’t do much for my aerobic fitness. This hasn’t been one of my better annual kick-offs, “exercise-wise,” compared to the past few years. My hope is that our traditional Super Sunday mountain-bike ride will help me turn this around, because I have no intention of not being in decent shape this year. Good. That’s settled.

— “Health is wealth,” but here’s another important reason I need to stay in noticeably sound condition: the mayor asked me to think through the idea of establishing a permanent Bicyclist/Pedestrian Advisory Committee for the city of Danville. Sounds like he intends to take my recommendations to the Board of Commissioners as soon as I finish my homework. It came out of nowhere, but seems in sync with my desire to disengage at the state level to focus more on local action. As I’ve probably said before, my days as a Kentucky Commissioner are undoubtedly numbered, since the governor who appointed me wasn’t re-elected, and my term on the KBBC will expire before long.

— Seeing Ken Watanabe in Clint’s Letters reminded me of his other emotional performances in Geisha and Samurai. And then I became even more sad, because I recently found out that Hollywood set decorator Gretchen Rau died of a brain tumor. I was really wanting to enjoy more of her exceptional work.

— I’ve been hearing funny things about The Producers since I was a college student, but it never occurred to me that it would take 35 years before I finally saw the show. This evening Dana and I had fabulous seats at Norton Center for the excellent national touring production, and I don’t know if I’ve laughed that hard since I first saw Blazing Saddles. When I’m in the right mood, nothing is more hilarious to me than Mel Brooks at his very best. I’ve always figured he was a comedic genius, but after experiencing “Springtime for Hitler” tonight, I must appreciate that he’s a genius—period. I was reminded that, when facing down the wicked, many unavoidable things are required by our warriors, but art is the best—the only true—revenge, and satiric comedy may be the ultimate—the most difficult?—form of that. Would that every aspiring dictator could look ahead only to having his personality cult reduced to an object of ridicule and gut-cramping laughter.

There is no safety for honest men except
by believing all possible evil of evil men.
          —Edmund Burke

Rhetoric does not get you anywhere, because
Hitler and Mussolini are just as good at rhetoric.
But if you can bring these people down with
comedy, they stand no chance.
          —Mel Brooks

V & S

I haven’t posted one of these in some time, so here goes…

Message to Frankfort—
You can spend my money if it helps Kentuckians become smarter or healthier. Otherwise, back off!

Prediction: DEM Party Nomination—
Edwards will directly or indirectly throw his support to the Clinton faction, and he won’t wait much longer to do it. He needs to stay relevant and be tied to the winner. By supporting Hillary, he can do both, with enough extra percentage points to virtually ensure the outcome. It will happen before the so-called Super Tuesday vote, either openly or though the union clout he’s already in a position to maneuver. This will be enough for her to clinch the nomination when Obama loses steam after too many individual state losses. Edwards always knew he would be facing Clinton in this contest and entered the race prepared to strike a deal, if it came to that. He didn’t count on a “Ba-Rackstar” to emerge and knock him out so soon. He’ll take what he can get from someone who, ultimately, the Party will not bring itself to reject. He won’t easily forgive the young politician who ruined his campaign to be the Clinton alternative.

Prediction: GOP Party Nomination—
This is a tougher call for me to make tonight. McCain edged a surging Romney in Florida, thanks to the significant endorsements of a popular governor and Cuban-American senator. This trend could continue into next Tuesday’s vote, if numerous politicians across the country jump on McCain’s bandwagon. Romney’s potential to take a decisive lead depends on whether rank and file Republicans have forgotten McCain’s maverick actions against the conservative base as quickly as the Party establishment. Call me cynical, but I’m afraid they will, with too many worries about who can beat Hillary. McCain will win the big states next week in the winner-take-all format and seize an unstoppable momentum, unless Huckabee drops out and backs Romney, which I don’t see in the tea leaves. The right wing will wake up with a hangover and start demanding their kind of conservative as a running mate.

Prediction: General Election—
Too far away to envision the result, but much of the country will be bummed out when the reality sinks in that this election will not be about a new era of leadership. Basically, Republicans already hate the Clintons. Democrats will attempt to manufacture hatred for McCain. Turnout will rule the day. For way too long, way too many citizens have stayed away from the polls because they haven’t believed there was a meaningful difference between the tickets. The political-observer side of me looks at the logical eventualities and informs you, sadly, that next November is shaping up to be more of the same. On the other hand, my heart yearns for the kind of clear choice that a youthful idealist vs mature technocrat would provide. Obama vs Romney would truly be about the future, and it would energize a huge electorate like no contest the Republic has seen in a very long time.

Some things catch me off guard when they shouldn’t, like Brendan’s revelation that my visual style influenced his knack for strong image making. Well, there’s been plenty of artistic cross-pollination occurring within our extended family for quite some time, and his effect on the way I communicate with words has been equally significant—otherwise, nobody could stand reading anything at this site.

Brendan has his own way of describing the contemporary high-contrast style under discussion, but I’ve always called it “graphic illustration.” I’m no scholar, but it certainly has its historical pedigree in the printing arts (the anonymous masters of the 1400s, Dürer, Grien, up through the centuries: Rembrandt, Thomas Bewick, Rockwell Kent, Munch, the Expressionists, the Arts-and-Crafts printmakers, and the Bauhaus designers). Of course, the “look” has been radically influenced by photomechanical techniques (including cinema), and their appropriation by innovative artists and legendary illustrators (Warhol, Glaser, Otnes, Holland, Schwab). Few may give credit to the nameless pulp or movie-poster artists, but they also made their contribution to the style, as did the legendary comic artists, such as Harold Foster and Milton Caniff (genre exemplars of chiaroscuro, who probably had a more formative influence over generations of creative youngsters than the art history books).

I see it all as a moving stream of visual development in Western art, periodically spiced with Asian influences, but always a binary interpretation of how highlight and shadow define form. It’s how a visual decision maker has always tried to give the most simplified illusion of volumetric reality, by the handling of light sources, minimizing modeling, and harshly controlling the equilibrium of figure-ground relationships on a two-dimensional plane, culminating today in the ubiquitous tool of Adobe Photoshop (just as a reminder, I reserve the right, without warning, to squirt India ink in the face of anyone who uses Photoshop as a verb).

Wow, that’s an awfully wordy bit of rambling, and it could really use some editorial refinement. Naah. I’ll just click the “Publish” button instead…

Is it just me, or has this been a rugged year so far? Joan is emphatically right when she keeps an emphasis on life’s blessings, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t plenty of struggles along the way. I just spent the better part of a week scraping back together a functional workstation, and, as you’ve no doubt heard me whine before, my lifestyle dependency on computers is a major source of distress from time to time. For me, few things trigger such a sense of the forlorn. Perhaps it will continue until I learn to transcend it—or finally accept at an even deeper level that there’s a supreme power in control of my existence.

I remind myself that any flirtation with modes of complaint is without validity, for is there really a soul in the world who isn’t weathering his own vicissitudes? (Tom Cruise doesn’t count, dammit.) I think of my friends the Bells, or the school community in Marion County, or Janet and Jerome, and I can’t help but consider that much of life involves suffering. I suppose it’s about how we deal with it.

Take my niece Hayley, for example. Surely she had a much different expectation of how her 11th-grade basketball season would transpire, compared to the difficulties that came around the corner instead. A recent media story laid it all out before the public. Good grief. Nevertheless, among her top competitors, she still leads the area with an 80% free-throw percentage. Hardly anybody on the court has been pressured this winter as much as Belle, but she maintains her composure at the line.

Like I said before, it’s about how we deal with it. Keep plugging, “gril.”

— Month of December workout totals: Swim-2; Bike-2; Run-3; Lift-3; Yoga-8; Pilates-2

— Year of 2007 workout totals: Swim-23; Bike-58; Run-25; Lift-33; Yoga-21; Pilates-16

— This is the 70th installment of a series that has no meaning, other than it precludes me from using the word “sundry” within any other post. I was part of the Class of ’70 when I finished high school, and the seven has always been significant for me, since it’s my destiny number. This is the 763rd entry in this journal, which is a seven, since numbers always reduce to the single-digit sum for numerological analysis. For me, this is also the first day of a new year governed by the number seven. Other practitioners of numerology have marveled at the fact that Dana and I share the same annual number—not rare, but somewhat uncommon for married partners.

— The recent violent unrest in Kenya has provided days of concern for Dan and Sheryl’s Elizabeth, but word has arrived from Neil that she and her group are safe. It will be good to hear from her directly, and hopefully that will happen soon.

— I completed a twelfth work in my series of “Grandy-bo Variations,” but I won’t be including another in the current format for our Christmas exchange, because, for the past two years, my painting has ended up in the hands of a household that already had a “G-bo.” I’ve got to think of a better way to disseminate new pieces to those who haven’t received one, or switch to a medium that accommodates limited-edition printmaking for wider distribution.

(Variations on a Theme by
Grandy-bo, Part Eleven)

— NBC lives up to its reputation for prematurely yanking some of the best dramas on TV. In the spirit of keeping profanity to a minimum at this site, I’ll let another blogger express my profound dismay.

— During my recent morgue reorganization, I came across a post card written by Dana’s father in 1932 to his younger brother. Clearly, it was one of those items we’d rescued from a spasm of “movin’ madness,” before Aunt Marian and Uncle Dick gave up their home in Dayton and moved to San Diego. The card is from the Art Institute of Chicago and depicts a Vermont landscape Rockwell Kent painted in 1921— Mount Equinox, Winter. Almost twenty years after coming into our possession, neither of us remembers how it ended up in the reference files, but we both deemed it too valuable to exclude from the family archives. I put it on the scanner earlier today, never imagining that tonight we’d stumble upon Part One of the PBS documentary about Kent that I missed seeing earlier this year. Familiar with his work as a book illustrator and wood engraver, I knew little about his paintings, nor did I have a coherent appreciation for his life as an artist and adventurer. The man certainly had his flaws (addicted to infidelity and cruel practical jokes), but, Good Lord, what an amazingly prolific creative genius!

— Well, I’d better quit. Tomorrow begins a new cycle of productivity, and 2008 should be a great year. Nic and Michelle will marry, Marty will begin to drive, Peat will finish her degree, Bruce will get a place of his own, Brendan will publish his book, and the “Bay-bo Gril” will make her way to Yorkshire Estate. Follow it all here at Uncle John’s!

V & S

At last night’s deeply satisfying Kelley Ridge Open House, people were talking about Russia, and I said that I had no desire to go there, even as my long fascination with Russian art, music, and literature continues to grow.

Today I read the last chapter of Happy Ever After. If there was anything Tolstoy did not understand about life and human relationships, it is probably not worth knowing.

— Each time this year I’ve run the 5+ miles back downtown from the cabin, the time has felt shorter, even though I’m running pretty slowly these days. The silence transpired more quickly for me this morning, too. Milton handed out his periodic survey to the group, and I discovered a 1961 Horizon in Mack’s studio that had an interview with Andrew Wyeth, famous at the time, and now the greatest living American painter. I’ll have to digest the whole article during another visit, but I was able to scan a few stimulating quotations, and then Sara Jane offered me a new commission, with the freedom to interpret a photographic image with my choice of style—the perfect assignment. Everything conspired to boost my motivation to aggressively advance the Brady and Eckerle projects, plus my fine-arts enterprise in general. I couldn’t think about anything else as I ran home. So, why am I sitting here with this log entry?

— Cliff and I had a conversation about blogging the other day and it got me thinking about my string of 616 or 617 consecutive posts, and how important making daily entries used to seem. Brendan still refers to this site as a daily journal, but that hasn’t been true for well over a year. Once again, time is malleable, and, as Arnold has said, there’s adequate time each day for everything meaningful enough to do. Blogging isn’t about the time, but about having something worth saying to yourself, maybe worth recording, possibly worth sharing. I eventually figured out that doesn’t happen every day. When it does, not much time is required to get it down.

— Terie and Marty bought the M:I:3 DVD and left it at our house, so, late last night, I watched the J.J. Abrams picture for the second time, and I liked it a bit more this time around. I think Tom Cruise is the Burt Lancaster of his generation. Regardless of what I might think of his personal life, his work product demands respect. (Hey, not all celebrities can be a James Stewart or Charlton Heston; Lance Armstrong falls into the same category.) If Cruise had not become an actor, he would surely have been an Olympic or professional athlete in some discipline. He has the mentality and natural capacity for high-performance physical achievement. Although one of the least flamboyant stunts, his Chinese-village tile-roof footwork is probably the riskiest choreography in the movie. As I’ve declared before, I think he squandered the full potential of the classic franchise and put its longevity at risk, but this sequel is the best of the lot, the most team-oriented, and it fits nicely into our ancient family idea of an M:I Saga Series. In my opinion, Abrams is a creative, meticulous director with a feel for the spy genre compatible to Mission: Impossible—Cruise certainly can’t be faulted with his selection—but Abrams will need to have further honed his story-telling skills to do justice to his upcoming Star Trek feature, another Desilu-originated concept from the “silver age” of television.

— Local historian, R.C. Brown, is dead at 90. He once saluted me on a Danville street as, “Mr. Dixon, the Spin Doctor!” We often held different political perspectives, but shared a fascination with local heritage. I recruited him in 1991 to expound before a camera, as part of a fundraising documentary (the same program in which we cast Alyx as a child actress). He was in his 70s then, and I was young enough to think I might have a future directing videos (as close as I got to being Ken Burns when I grew up). Brown was the doctor, not me. He was from Ohio, too, but went on to get a Ph.D. from the University of Wisconsin. He taught history at Buffalo State College for 28 years. When he retired to our area, he rapidly became an authority and wrote The History of Danville and Boyle County. I’ll always believe that Professor Brown respected me as a talent, even though I consider his remark shaded by a mild one-upmanship. Perhaps he did understand better than most the true nature of my commercial craft, but I hope he wasn’t thinking of Victor Papanek’s quotation:

“In persuading people to buy things they don’t need, with money they don’t have, in order to impress others that don’t care, advertising is probably the phoniest field in existence today.”

I prefer this one:

“The only important thing about design is how it relates to people.”

— Thomas Bewick, my newest hero, couldn’t escape the ongoing necessity of making money with “coarse work” (as his daughter called it), despite his artistic reputation and unmatched skill as a wood engraver. I wanted to return the library book and avoid fines, but couldn’t help myself, and finished the biography by Jenny Uglow this week. As I said previously, learning more about his life has reinforced for me the notion that, although everything changes on outward levels, nothing really changes in the human dynamics of making a living as an independent, creative craftsman. I was notably saddened when I learned that he never fulfilled his dream of having the cottage workshop close to nature described in his memoir:

“The artist ought if possible to have his dwelling in the country where he could follow his business undisturbed, surrounded by pleasing rural scenery & the fresh air and as ‘all work & no play, makes Jack a dull Boy,’ he ought not to sit at it, too long at a time, but to unbend his mind with some variety of employment — for which purpose, it is desireable, that Artists, with their little Cots, should also have each a Garden attached in which they might find both exercise & amusement — and only occasionally visit the City or the smokey Town & that chiefly for the purpose of meetings with their Brother Artists.”

Dana reminded me that we all tend to get what we desire if we want it badly enough.

V & S

— Month of November workout totals: Swim-3; Bike-2; Run-5; Lift-4; Yoga-1; Pilates-7

— The eleventh month rushed by too swiftly, and tumbling in its wake is my disposition of alarm at the churning pace. Nothing to do but accept that it’s gone and take stock of my affairs. On Friday I pinch-hit for David as a Rotary greeter. Saying grace is one task of the greeter, and perhaps I was a bit too creative with my public invocation. That I’m less self-conscious about such things is a sign of something meaningful, but I’m not in a mood to muse beyond that vague notion. After David got back from Georgetown, the four of us convened for a round of Mhing. Dana played as splendidly as I did poorly (couldn’t seem to get out of my nervous system Frank’s Shanghai from the holiday). Even so, it was an enjoyable evening because Mhing is such a great game.

— David, Greg, and I gathered at Simpson Knob the weekend prior to Thanksgiving, hoping for a significant whitetail harvest, but all we came up with among us was a little button buck that I took on Saturday morning. At first I thought his ear flicking at 50-60 yards was simply more wild turkeys at play, but then I could see his head, and eventually figured out that he was preparing to bed down for the day. I watched him for a while and knew his location on the ground would not afford a proper shot (actually, I thought it was a doe at that point in my observation). Before much long, I grew a bit impatient and decided to climb down from my stand to approach through the woods on foot like a true hunter. After carefully trimming off 10-15 yards from the total distance, keeping a tree between our positions, I crept around the oak and saw him stand up in alert. My Marlin .44-magnum lever-action carbine (the only Dadbo-owned rifle for which I held any interest) cracked in reaction to the animal’s movement, and he leaped away. “Missed,” flashed through my mind, with the thought lingering, especially after I reached the spot he’d just been, and just then I heard Greg call out my name. “Don’t think I hit him,” was my response. “Well, there’s a deer over here,” he replied in a matter-of-fact voice. Within an hour, I had given a chant to the Great Spirit and skinned my game with the new knife Greg had presented to me the night before. Later in the week, David reported that Greg claimed a button buck of his own at his brother’s farm a couple days before Thanksgiving.

— It doesn’t look like I’ll finish the biography of Thomas Bewick before it’s due back at the library, but I’m not sure I want to read about his demise anyway—I’ve grown much too fond of the fellow. For anyone who doesn’t recognize the name, I’m certain that his work will appear familiar. He single-handedly restored wood engraving to universal esteem in his lifetime and sparked the advancement of printing technology for the next century. He was perhaps the greatest graphic artist of his era—certainly in Britain—and, although he had flaws (as most men), he seems to have been a remarkably fine person worthy of emulation in numerous respects. Reading about his rise to artistic immortality reinforces two vital lessons that continue to clobber me across the skull like a ball bat: each individual who makes a constructive mark on culture inevitably deals with all the same nonsense, hassles, heartbreaks, and vicissitudes of fortune that everyone encounters, and through it all, continues to work his or her ass off.

V & S

— Alan Arkin will play The Chief opposite Steve Carell’s Agent 86.
— The new Sidney Lumet picture with Philip Seymour Hoffman and Ethan Hawke is reported to be outstanding.
— Brian Dennehy joins Pacino and De Niro in a crime drama by the writer of Inside Man.
— Karl Urban (Capt. Call in McMurtry’s upcoming Comanche Moon) is the new “Bones” in a big-screen Star Trek prequel by J.J. Abrams. Watch this guy.
— Looks like Clint Eastwood will direct Morgan Freeman as Nelson Mandela. Role of a lifetime?
— Marty favorite Dan Bradley, masterful stunt coordinator for the Bourne sequels, is Spielberg’s second unit director for the new Indiana Jones installment. Great choice.
— A sci-fi thriller that teams James Cameron, James Horner, Giovanni Ribisi, Stephen Lang, and Wes Studi? So far so good. Due in 2009.

With only 12% of the precincts tallied, Dana and I knew there was no Fletcher Miracle in the making, so we found a secluded table at Woody’s lounge to mourn the end of an era. After she ate her once-a-year plate of comfort fries and I cried in my Guinness, we both had it out of our systems. If you pay attention to politics for very long, you come to understand it’s just a big pendulum, and it will always be that way. Nevertheless, that doesn’t make it feel any better when things are no longer swinging in your direction.

— Month of October workout totals: Swim-3; Bike-5; Run-2; Lift-3; Yoga-1; Pilates-5

— The ongoing exercise program is finally back in balance, but I need to boost the total workouts per month to reach an optimum level. Exercising five to six times per week has become the new target for fitness and health. Anyone who combines that with a smart diet and minimal toxic challenges can achieve significant benefits of disease prevention, weight management, injury resistance, and a greater sense of well-being. It’s an absolute must for people with a sedentary occupation like mine.

— My Pilates class at the college is shaping up to be a satisfactory ritual. The best thing I’ve learned is that I can actually do it well enough to notice some improvement. Like many physical practices, one can take it as far as individual discipline and determination permit. So far, I like it enough to want to get better, and that’s the motivational fuel I need to keep coming back. It’s tough stuff, and I usually hit a muscular fatigue point or cramp before the hour is complete, but my hope is that I’ll move beyond that by and by. I still have a lot to learn about the techniques and philosophy that underlie the right approach to this. I’ve learned from swimming, cycling, and running that I tend to avoid research at first, because the complexity overwhelms my initial enthusiasm. I prefer assimilating things with a natural receptivity, but also realize that I might develop inefficiencies and poor habits that are more difficult to unravel later, if I don’t educate myself on the fundamentals fairly soon in the learning process.

— I have Jerome and Janet to thank for my getting a large portrait commission—one of the Brady Brothers. I met with his widow last week, and we sorted through reference photos. She showed me an example of his artisanship, and it’s clear he was quite skilled with metal tooling and woodworking, even though he’d lost much of his left hand fighting the Germans in North Africa. She told me she’d never heard him complain or say he couldn’t do something. I guess that isn’t unusual for guys of that generation who came back maimed. They considered themselves the lucky ones. I’m glad to get this project as a launch-point for my portrait business, and what better way to kick-start this venture than to accept the honor of painting a Purple-Heart veteran?

— Today is election day, and I’m struggling to stay optimistic in the face of the overwhelming momentum to toss out a decent leader. Dana and I probably invested too much time in crafting our joint letter to the editor. Obviously, we remain loyal to a governor who kept plugging ahead during a difficult term in office. If Ernie is turned out, it will be in spite of his numerous contributions to improving our state government. If he wins, it will be one of the most remarkable political upsets of recent years. We’re hoping for a Harry Truman moment early tomorrow morning.

V & S

Bruce had his re-constructive abdominal surgery at U.K. yesterday, and it was a long Friday for all of us. I slept in a deep, dream-filled state, waking up to a bizarre, nightmarish memory (Dadbo being lost in a sinkhole at the farm), in addition to a separate—but quite lucid—idea about writing the definitive history of the anti-fluoridation movement, wrapped in a biography of our erstwhile friend and client, John Yiamouyiannis, the central figure in a decades-long struggle against the corruption of entrenched political power. Yes, it was a rather strange morning, but that’s not uncommon when I sleep like the trunk of a fallen oak on Widow’s Knob.

Bruce came through his latest ordeal with flags flying, although he’s experiencing a bit of severe pain that complicates matters, to say the least. Most of what was left of his long-idle large intestine was stapled to the ileum, and the bothersome contingency from 2005 is history. This should solve the problem of his chronic dehydration. There’s a portion of descending colon that could neither be utilized nor removed, so that segment remains, taking advantage of a previous drain-hole in his side to complete the overall plumbing design. Surgeon Chang seemed pleased with the outcome, considering the very real possibility that he might face no option except shrugging his shoulders and sewing up Bruce’s belly, had the scenario proved too dangerous or daunting. There was no way to tell how “do-able” the procedure might be until the team was inside. Everything was accomplished in less than three hours.

So, now he faces 5–10 days in the hospital. His summer fitness program should give him a distinct advantage in bouncing back. I’m praying he can win the coin toss, as far as the 50-50 chance for developing an infection following this kind of surgery. Once again, he stays on top of the odds, and successfully knocks off another obstacle in his marathon recovery from pancreatitis. The outlook for a potential kidney transplant has just improved significantly. Hang in there, my son…

~ The Saga of Bruce Joel

— Month of September workout totals: Swim-0; Bike-10; Run-5; Lift-7; Yoga-0; Pilates-2

— My exercise regimen is starting to come back into balance after a mighty season of cycling. The Wednesday evening rides are winding down. This week we barely got in a 20-miler before the light failed. Ernst and I managed an all-out sprint battle down Lebanon Road as a final salute to summer, but I still didn’t have enough to best him. It was a nice kicker to Sunday’s long ride. Although it was more windy than we expected, I got in a total of 60 miles, after I split off from the “Bardstown-to-Berea Century” group at Burgin. Ernst and the others continued east for the full 100. On another note, I’m making good on a challenge to myself by tackling the Tuesday-Thursday Pilates class at Centre. If I stick it out, I’ll eventually file an official report in this space.

— A huge Website proposal has kept us busy in the studio for a week or so, although I did temporarily fall under the spell of Ken Burns and watched a few series pilots, too (I may stick with a couple new shows if they aren’t yanked). For many years, Dana and I maintained a standard policy of refusing to propose visual concepts on a speculative basis. First of all, it seemed rather presumptuous to offer design solutions without adequate research and client consultation. Beyond that, it also seemed an unfair expectation—asking us to render our core creative service before making a commitment to hire us. Well, unfortunately, we’ve had to discard that practice during our lingering project drought, even though these types of competitive appraisals rarely involve comparing apples to apples. These days, everyone wants to shop for ideas and low fees, and it’s getting harder to remember when we could get retained strictly on the basis of our qualifications and past honors. It’s just one more aspect of our industry that’s changed radically in the new century. Many of the others are equally distressing. Meanwhile, I navigate the choppy waters and avoid hair dye, unlike Creed at Dunder Mifflin.

— Arts Across Kentucky finally updated its site with the fall issue, but offers no peek at my featured work. I continue to rotate layerist collages at the “Tree” without my first score. Wilma accepted my Band Festival painting at her new gallery on Main Street, and I’m optimistic about the potential for a sale. The “Egg” is the best downtown enhancement of the year, but the most exciting news item is the recent decision by Larkspur to upgrade the Manning job to a book project, with my most recent wood engraving, “Boss’s Bucket,” as the frontispiece illustration.

— Bruce has improved dramatically since he came home to Danville six months ago. The imminent surgery is a good measure of his progress, although the side-effects of dialysis are a continuous challenge for him. He’s able to exercise increasingly, and is much more energetic on a daily basis, both mentally and physically. To see him helping with the household drudgery, building a routine of creative writing, working on his car, composing letters to the newspaper, and more actively moving around the community is deeply satisfying to witness.

V & S

Although I’m actually sitting in my studio with fingers on keyboard, I’m not really here at all. In my mind I’m running across the state-owned meadows of Kentucky School for the Deaf, under the patchy morning sunlight of late September. The characteristics of the season remind me of my high-school cross-country days, but soon I’m catapulted back in memory even more. For the countless time in my life, I breath in the fragrance of fresh-cut hay.

The smell of hay… I’m an elementary-schooler once again, playing with my friend David Silknetter in the barn at his family’s farm on Route 48, just north of the old water-wheel landmark. Remembering Silknetter is to relive the angst of accepting and defending his childish fantasies, and to make the painful choice between placing trust in a friend or in family. It is foolish to believe these early experiences fundamentally shape our character, but naive to think they do not have some kind of influence. For me it came at a crossroads of my sense of the “world out there.”

“Real life” outside the nuclear-family nest was intriguing in part because it seemed more than a bit dangerous, and David’s appeal was his smug disregard for the forbidden. Part of the lure of building bale forts in his barn loft was linked to the stories of kids suffocating when their improvised warren collapsed. Certainly the smell of hay was the last sensation of their brief, tragic lives. I could scoff at such hazards by trusting David’s construction skill and his brilliant idea of positioning the deepest chamber next to a supply of air and light—the largest knot-hole in the barn siding. My trust would be well placed. Or would it?

When I came to accept my family’s conviction that Silknetter lied to me about his secret machine that wrote down the name of anyone who discovered our hay-bale tunnel, it was clear I would never play with him again, and the exposure of his deception would mean that he had no choice but to mark me as his enemy. Hadn’t I betrayed his confidence? How much do these formative judgments affect our evolving sense of the external world, the nature of human relationships, the relative surmountability of life’s dilemmas, and the stability of “things as they are?” Yes, I understood that the pitfalls of life were realities unconnected to Whittlin’ Jake’s puppet shows, or the nightly Old-West perils of a television backlot. The messy business of choosing new friends and confronting the unknown was real, of course, and part of a world that appeared, to a developing degree, forebodingly unpredictable. Boyhood imagination about such things can be a rabid creature when infected by rumors and fragments of truth… Or unexpected developments—like the time John Herman threatened to beat me up if my brothers continued to laugh at him. And they continued to laugh at him. It was a known fact that the real world had its share of John Hermans, and that rural existence was filled with grim eventualities. The Iddings boy had two fingers and a thumb chewed off by a corn-picker mechanism. A local farmer, a family acquaintance, had accidentally killed his own son when the youngster fell off the back of his tractor and under a hay mower. I eavesdropped with astonishment when the older boys talked about how Elwood’s brother had ”half his head blown off” in a shotgun mishap.

During those years I probably reached a turning point of which I was not consciously aware. In other words, which perspective seemed more inviting to me—the hidden potential of taking on the outer world, or the possibilities of fashioning a plastic inner world? How did I prefer to risk my creativity? When mixed with the harsh moral instruction and institutional propaganda of the 1950s, is it surprising that I found less comfort in the mode of an extrovert? Is it difficult to understand why I chose internal family mythology over practical community engagement, Hollywood over literary realism, art over science, seat-of-the-pants intuition over sober accountability? Or, had my gears been calibrated and set in motion long before? Was I already imprinted by an invisible heritage to turn and grind a particular way?

Oldenday…

Call it Nine-One-One
— Needless to say, our wedding anniversaries now tend to start out with a somber mood, but that’s just part of being an American, so we put it aside to begin our own joyous observance. We took a nice drive up Highway 33 after stopping at Shaker Village and then spent part of the day in Midway, where I made arrangements for the Damselfly gallery to display my wood engravings. We enjoyed the sunny afternoon together and had a delicious dinner at the Heirloom restaurant. In downtown Lexington we discovered the same spot that Dana’s parents stood for a wedding photo, when they eloped to Lexington many years ago. Several times, leading up to the event, we talked about having a picture made on our milestone day, but we didn’t even have a camera with us, so we had dessert, did a bit of shopping at Wild Oats, and then headed home.

Lalo the Magnificent
— Joan paid a visit and made a closing installment of anniversary gifts, even though she’d given us a new Mhing game back at the Seitz Reunion. She told me about the recent NPR interview with Schifrin. My favorite part was when the interviewer asked how he was able to move effortlessly from one type of music to another. Describing himself as a “chameleon,” he said he can do it because he’s able to see the “essence” of each form. That idea speaks powerfully to me.

Lust for Lit
— To have discovered the joy and consolation of literature at this stage of life is an unexpected blessing. I recently read my first story by Paul Horgan. Joan gave me a copy of Flannery O’Connor writings. Both are masters of the short story who happen to have been Catholic. A good friend of artist Peter Hurd (brother-in-law of Andrew Wyeth), Horgan also created little hand-made library-card pockets that now sell to collectors for $500 each. He died in 1995. I don’t know anything yet about O’Connor, but I read one of her stories and found it interesting, but just a bit creepy.

Lucky’s Day Wasn’t Lucky’s Lucky Day
— I didn’t even know about Smoked Mullet until the recent BillyBlues concert at the Constitution Square Festival. James and Susan urged us to come back and catch Aaron’s performance the next day. He’s obviously looking for that elusive “hit” for which nearly all young songwriters yearn. It reminds me of my conversations with Danny D about his long haul through the music industry. Danny hit paydirt overnight when he wasn’t much older than Aaron; he hasn’t seen anything quite like it since. I also remember how a friend of mine from Yellow Springs watched his son go to Nashville to strike gold, only to see him throw away the whole opportunity when the lad couldn’t steer clear of the whiskey bottle.

Kelly Watch
— Urban Picnic received a slideshow highlight by The New York Times, and the young talent from Danville was mentioned by name. Not bad. She’s one to keep watching.

Still Crankin’ Forward
— I’ve been ingrained with the committee approach through my board service and community involvement (Band Festival, Chamber of Commerce, Salvation Army, Rotary Club, etc.), but I’ve picked up resistance about going that direction with the B.I.K.E. group. The “c-word” doesn’t seem to have taken hold as a positive idea. Too many meetings. Perhaps a more workable approach is to have a volunteer “project manager” for each objective. Those people can “take ownership,” rally a few helpers to move the ball, and then get back to the steering group with a progress report. The whole thing reminds me too much of the foundering honcho system within the Dixon Clan Council. Hopefully Mombo’s new trust will be a better context for a workable committee arrangement. To be honest, I have diminishing enthusiasm for attempting to structure the cycling-advocacy team. I’d rather devote myself to individual creative and lobbying efforts, like our area master plan, a “share the road” promotional effort, and the planned multi-use trail along the new bypass connector. Although we’ve made some great progress, I’m somewhat weary after 18 months at the helm. I’d like to see a different leader with more management skill to succeed. This would free me up to work on actual projects instead of administration. Meanwhile, the need for studio activity outweighs all these other considerations. Where’s that old Graybeard when we need him?

V & S

— My cycling chum Bill S commissioned a hand-made card for his mother’s one-hundredth birthday. He’s a great guy who shares a lot in common with me. His daughter is a terrific designer that works for Lenox. Her new Urban Picnic design is being handled by Macy’s. When she was getting her education she asked me to give her an internship, but the workload couldn’t support it. I regret the missed opportunity to have experienced her talent firsthand.

— One of my primary community-service mentors, Carl M, who originally proposed me for Rotary membership, recently asked if I played golf, as we left our weekly luncheon at the Danville Country Club. I told him that when I had the available time, I much preferred to be on a bicycle. It was clear from our conversation that he didn’t think much of the sport, but remarked that I thought it was a “great game,” and, from time to time, I did enjoy watching the best players on TV. Well, I reinforced that viewpoint for myself over the holiday when I glued down with the head-to-head play of Mickelson and Woods. Anyone who can witness that level of psychological combat without total fascination should steer clear of golf in any shape or form.

— I’m not sure when I became hooked on short stories. Maybe had something to do with Brendan getting me addicted to very concise ones. I shall never read all the great American novels, but I do hope to eventually read all the best short stories ever written by Americans. If you have some favorites, let me know. I can’t get over the variety: Wharton — James — Hemingway — Thurber — Faulkner. And I’m discovering others new to me: Walter Van Tilburg Clark — Katherine Anne Porter. I’ve been aware of The Ox-Bow Incident and Noon Wine (Peckinpah’s lost rendition with Jason Robards is remembered by some who saw it as the finest television ever broadcast), but didn’t recognize those names. Yes, I know… I’m a late arrival at the grand old house of our national literature.

— I have to admit that, after 13 years of conditioning, all I want to do after Labor Day is draw, fish, swim, relax, and enjoy myself. Seeing the picture of the Adkins Family makes me realize how much my nervous system craves some sort of vacation. I decided not to make the trip to Upper Michigan this year. Being with Dana on our silver anniversary is more important. If we can pull ourselves away from the studio, we’re due for our own getaway. What can one say about a quarter century of marriage? I can write a bit, but not well enough to tackle such an assignment. It’s been more than that, too. A working partnership on all levels. An uncommon occurrence in human relationships. Beyond my capacity to summarize.

V & S