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.
Archive for the ‘Death’ Category
Remembering Uncle Si
Tuesday, June 24th, 2008Tonight’s essential triviality
Thursday, June 12th, 2008• 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!
Various & Sundry, part seventy-six
Saturday, June 7th, 2008— 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!
Movie lover’s lament
Tuesday, May 27th, 2008His 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?
Memorial Day Musings
Monday, May 26th, 2008False happiness can be built on willful ignorance, escapism, denial, or even convenient lapses of memory. Lord knows I’ve indulged my share of each, and shall dedicate current efforts toward genuine balance and the renunciation of procrastination. The shallow gratification that accrues with patterns of creative avoidance is too thin to endure self-scrutiny. With every new commitment comes the potential for mishandled priorities, but also an opportunity to evolve greater accountability, and so I continue to make promises. Is there any other way to reinforce a level of personal integrity upon which true serenity can be achieved?
Each artist selected for the Maker’s Mark project was permitted to submit four concepts in the next round of approvals—which I did— and received the go-ahead for two of my ideas. Final pieces are due by the end of August. For my latest journal-cover assignment, I chose a more “tech look” than previous illustrations. Despite computer-related obstacles, I was pleased with the solution, but I haven’t heard from the client yet. However, I did hear back from the owner of “Song of America,” and his one-word response to my packaging layout for black-oil sunflower seeds was WOW, with 28 exclamation points. (Yes, I’m weird; I did actually count them.)
I suppose it’s time to move on. Just heard thunder again, so I’m commiserating with those who planned outdoor events for this holiday. Also thinking about America’s war dead, and remembering that, proportionately, most of them were from the Revolutionary War and Civil War. When computed in terms of today’s population, one gains the shock of how dreadfully huge a segment of our society was lost in both conflicts. May they all have eternal rest. We owe them everything because they sacrificed everything.
Happy Birthday, G-bo…
Thursday, April 17th, 2008My dad would have been 85 today. I’m not sure exactly why I choose to contemplate that, or perhaps it’s not a conscious choice, but rather a natural, reflexive thought—when the birthday of someone I miss this much sneaks up on me. The older I get, the more complexity I confront when I think about the ways his influence has affected me. I tell myself I would’ve surely arrived at the level of intimacy he sought from me, if indeed I was helping to celebrate his 85th birthday today…
then I stop to look at how significantly his departure has also shaped me, and I don’t even know who I would actually be if he was still here, 15 years after his final birthday. I had my cholesterol checked today and it was 150, due, I like to think, in large measure to the changes I began to make after he died, knowing I carried all the same cardiac risk factors and predispositions. Would I have changed my lifestyle so dramatically if I hadn’t lost him? It’s a question that can’t be answered. It’s probably a question that needn’t be asked. Anyway, I say to myself, “He would certainly admire your consistency in taking care of yourself physically.” That notion helps me stay motivated. He would want me to overcome the pitfalls of our mutual heritage, and to make the most of our best genes. Nevertheless, he would have equal concern for all of the “me” that isn’t physical. Staying in salubrious condition without a mentor is easy, compared to finding my way to serenity without a father, but that’s just the way the bunny thumps…
Various & Sundry, part seventy-four
Monday, April 14th, 2008— 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…
Saturday, April 5th, 2008
†
Charlton Heston
1 9 2 4 – 2 0 0 8
R
I
P
Various & Sundry, part sixty-eight
Sunday, December 9th, 2007— 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.
Grandma loves Johnny; Johnny loves Grandma.
Friday, June 22nd, 2007I have two cousins named Tom—one on each side of the family. Cousin Tom on Mombo’s side is my age, and he just had successful surgery to remove cancer cells. During his recovery, he’s been scanning and sharing some of his family photographs. I have to say it’s a treasure trove of images guaranteed to delight my Clan. I was particularly pleased to see a rare shot of me with my Grandmother Clara.
Both of our expressions are typical of pictures from that era. Years later we could be seen smiling for cameras. Although the complete photo also depicts Uncle Art, Uncle Pete, and young Tommy, I wanted to publish this cropping. Check out those fine little bibs!
Many of Tom’s pictures show his father at various times in his life. Uncle Pete always had a handsome smile. Except for Uncle Art and Uncle Jack, I was mildly frightened of the other Seitz-family uncles, especially Uncle Pete. Don’t ask me why. Uncle Pete died before I matured enough to fully appreciate my uncles for their own unique personalities. Uncle Pete was a Marine during the Second World War, and, if I’m not mistaken, he fought at Iwo Jima (Am I now supposed to call it Iwo To?). I have no idea if he ever described his experiences as a combat soldier or wrote anything about it. He became a printer. We might’ve had some great conversations about the graphic arts and printing industries, but it was never meant to be. Tom still misses his Dad, and I know exactly how he feels.
More wakes to cross
Thursday, March 15th, 2007March experiment—day fifteen— I was able to take care of my physical fatigue with a good night’s sleep below an open window. I needed to find another way—perhaps not as foolproof—to deal with my mental weariness, and so we watched a DVD that Terie had recommended, Stranger than Fiction. It’s an exceptionally good motion picture and hits rather close to home for me. I’m feeling a bit disappointed about learning that another company is abandoning one of the well-recognized logos we designed in the 90s. On the other hand, I’m happy about Hayley’s honor. The director of our Community Arts Center abruptly resigned, so I’m concerned about how that will effect my scheduled one-man show in May. My dear friend Shirley C sent me an email today with news that her husband’s 48-year-old son died unexpectedly. It’s important for me to transcend these emotional cross-currents and maintain focus on the goals I’ve laid out for this month.
Today’s sight bite— Abstract patterns on the natatorium ceiling pass by—c-l-i-c-k—gliding, drifting, fading above my backstroke—as devoid of meaning as the non-thoughts in my mind.
Tomorrow— Bump the cadence, just like I’ve done when running negative splits in a 5,000-meter race…
Various & Sundry, part forty-three
Friday, September 1st, 2006— 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.
Cross dog
Wednesday, August 30th, 2006We keep death close by—in our literature, art, news, and entertainment… perhaps most of all, in our humor. We tame it, sterilize it, and box it, so we can sprinkle it like black pepper for a bit of “zing” on the tongue each day. Death is like fire—interesting to watch in a fireplace, safe and familiar at the tip of a waxy stem, but when it decides to run its own course, it can be frightening and devastating, quickly rendering almost anything hideously unrecognizable. When it slips its leash, death’s bite is excruciating, and the pain lasts a very long time.
Martin joined the Wednesday bike ride tonight, and I heard myself utter the typically hollow words of sympathy. It seemed like I was watching myself do it; it was not much different than watching others do the same thing… mouths moving without any words reaching my ears. I found out more information than I really needed to know about his son’s tragic accident at Red River Gorge, but human nature has a perverse way of investigating details when a friend is mourning… God knows why.
Leave it to me to have made unwarranted assumptions about the circumstances, imagining a noble, athletic demise. Leave it to grim reality to assemble a colder, inexplicable scenario. This is how death operates outside of its package. This is what death is like on the other side of the illusory boundary we convince ourselves will contain it, for our insatiable fascination and amusement.
We can be such fools… and we know we are.
Day of Death, Day of Life
Saturday, August 26th, 2006In 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.
My brother, my mate, and my true friends
Wednesday, August 16th, 2006Last night I stayed in Tipp City with my chum Bill and we enjoyed our shared anticipation for a September fishing trip to Michigan. Even though I failed to reach him by phone and he was bone tired from a day in the sun (after clearing fallen trees from the Great Miami with a chain saw), he welcomed me with a bear hug and set his last Bud Light in front of me—that’s what I call a friend.
It took me ten hours to get home from Ohio today. The joint in my rear drive shaft broke south of Kenton County, but I was able to arrange a tow and successful repair before the end of the day. I felt like I’d sweated off a couple gallons, baking on the shoulder of I-75. It was almost the exact spot where years ago a state policeman pulled me over after the Cincinnati Marathon to test my sobriety. Old “Ned” continues to give me fits if I don’t keep spending money on him that I’d rather not. I’m glad this didn’t happen yesterday with Mike.
Crucial to getting out of my predicament: 1) Dana insisting on Monday that I carry a cellular phone. 2) Being able to talk through the details of the breakdown with my brother Jay, an expert truck mechanic. I was so focused on his long-distance analysis and advice that I completely forgot that today is his 45th birthday.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY to my brother, “Bub.” I love you, forever…
Sitting for a long time at a garage in what barely passes as a “waiting room” can be a strange experience. I watched part of a “Gunsmoke” episode featuring Anthony Zerbe playing opposite himself in a split-screen double role, but my mind was on a personal crisis more critical than a broken pickup. I thought about the counsel of my best friends from youth. Each has his own brand of wisdom, having survived his own chapters of adversity. Both genuinely care about the particular challenges it’s my turn to face.
Dadbo once said to me after his buddy Joe died that a man is lucky to have one or two true friends in life, and now I know what he meant.
Uncle Art must have known about these things
Sunday, May 28th, 2006The discipline of aikido is known as a “soft” martial art, but during my period of training it became clear that the defensive moves were ineffective if executed without a certain vigor. On the other hand, an application of too much energy was counterproductive, impeding the ability to flow with the attack. The practitioner was at risk if he became the aggressor. However, by contrast, the dispatch with which one hopes to end an encounter is clearly not the finality of becoming a victim, and that necessitates learning how to find the proper way to redirect incoming force. There are times when you must step directly into the face of an assault to protect yourself. Much of my emphasis during that time of study was overcoming a natural inhibition to act, but with just the right amount of decisiveness. It didn’t come easy. It required focus, relaxation, timing, and fearlessness.
An even less competitive practice is yoga. If one seeks to “win” yoga, it immediately becomes something else. Nevertheless, most, if not all, yoga postures lose their essential value if one “wimps out.” But what’s the difference between pushing too hard and “surrendering” into the pose? Where is that elusive intermediate ground that exists between mere athleticism and withdrawing from the challenge.
People are surprised to learn that I haven’t cut my grass with a gas-engine mower for two or three years. I guess it’s been since my Uncle Art died. He gave me his Craftsman rotary push mower when he moved away from his house on Fernwood. He’d gotten away from relying on it when he wasn’t physically up to it anymore. I didn’t dedicate myself to using it until after he died. I don’t know how old the darn thing is, but I think he used it for a long time. Because I considered myself a “townie” like Uncle Art, and our yards were about the same size, I figured I would give it a try—as a quiet way to honor his memory.
Some things are easier than they look. Using Uncle Art’s lawn mower is not one of them. It’s tough. Or I should say it’s tough to use it well—in other words, to cut grass. It’s easy to push it very slow, but nothing much happens, and it’s not difficult to push it very fast, but the blades spin too rapidly to cut. I’ve learned that I have to find just the right inertia to get it to “bite.” The challenge is that this proper biting speed requires the most stamina. You don’t have to understand mechanics to know it must have something to to with the physics of “work.” Now I know one of the ways Uncle Art stayed trim and avoided the Seitz roundbelly. Undoubtedly, I need to sharpen the blades, but I know that same “middle way” phenomenon is there to experience in human-powered lawn mowing, too.
And the more I look around me or examine my personal challenges, the “middle way” and its mysteries keep perplexing me. How do people master it? How does the Indy-car driver learn the margin between being passed and hitting the wall or blowing an engine? How does the salesman find the sweet spot between an off-putting overconfidence and the telltale signs of desperation? Would my son Bruce have lost his life last year if he hadn’t achieved the rare zone between fighting and giving up? I once had a young cyclist observe the way I was hitting my brakes on a downhill curve, and he said later, “Just remember—speed is your friend.” Hmm. The way I’d heard it, “Speed kills.”
Eager or patient? Audacious or cautious? Assertive or receptive?
Seize the day, by God.
— or —
Let go and let God?
Somewhere in between, lad. Somewhere in between.
My fellow Americans
Friday, January 27th, 2006Seems like more than the usual number of thought-provoking statistics have come to my attention recently, or maybe I’ve just been paying more attention lately when I hear them.
I learned that 40,000 American are now over the age of 100. That’s rather encouraging. I suppose I’ve had that personal target myself for awhile, at least since I first learned about Josie Dixon’s longevity. Uncle Clarence is giving it the old college try. Each generation to follow will have a better shot at it.
More discouraging is the fact that 500,000 American children are now living in foster homes. One in ten children are born to teen mothers and it’s probably significantly higher in Kentucky. One in five children grow up in poverty, but it’s obvious that poverty is defined differently than when I was a kid in the 1950s. We ran barefoot in the summer, wore hand-me-downs, and got only a few new, modestly priced toys each year, and only at Christmas. In elementary school there was the opportunity to buy a popsicle in the afternoon (before or after recess, I don’t recall), and they cost a nickel. I don’t remember ever having one of those popsicles unless a friend shared one with me. I didn’t have the remotest sense of being “poor,” and, looking back on it, I don’t think we were. Today, many “poor” children have video game consoles, cable TV, and stylish clothing. To me, being poor in the 21st century is less about material things. 40% of American boys are being raised without biological dads.
A new poll says that 91% of Americans believe in God and 87% think there’s a heaven. Only 67% believe there’s a devil, but 74% report they believe in hell.
Do I believe in heaven?
I believe in God, and because there is a God, there must exist somewhere in His creation the perfect abode for the soul… the highest state of being in unity with the Creator.
Do I believe in hell?
I believe in God, and because there is a God, there must exist somewhere in His creation a place where justice is meted out to those who commit the greatest evils… a place for those who ordered the trench assaults of World War I, for those who behead noncombatants in front of video cameras, for those who torture children and then, in response to their pleas for mercy, rape them to death.
And I believe there is a devil because of the previous sentence.
Legacy of a friend
Saturday, October 15th, 2005Just got back from my tenth participation in the Jackson Run, our most beloved local footrace. I ran with Dr. Elmer Jackson, co-founder with his brother Mack, my friend who died earlier this year. The race has been held in May for at least 25 years, but was postponed in 2005 due to Mack’s illness. The weather was so gloriously suitable today that Elmer declared the event would be moved permanently to October. It was a great turnout of Jackson family and friends, even though Centre is having Homecoming activities all weekend. My pal Jim M was awarded the first “Mack Cup,” which he’ll get to keep for a year until a new recipient is named. Elmer had a tough time maintaining his composure as he read an essay Mack wrote for a Sunday-morning gathering at his studio cabin. It was moving for me because I was absent that day. I donned Mack’s trademark “red do-rag and shades” and felt his presence during my entire run. I continue to think about the finish line that—sooner or later—we shall all cross.
They were gentlemen… and giants
Wednesday, September 7th, 2005I regret that my schedule today didn’t allow me to attend the service for Charlie Hazelrigg. Unlike so many others in this community, I never got to know him well, but I’ve had the pleasure of his kindness, charm, and wit on so many occasions that I’m feeling like I’ve lost another friend. I think he was the kind of person who had that effect on everyone who knew him.
He took a shine to Dana in the early 90s when he was asked to scrutinize her manuscript for a 64-page community viewbook we produced. His admiration for her writing skill had a strong and lasting influence on Dana’s confidence as a communicator, or that’s my observation, in any case. He never failed to ask about her when we chatted, and usually would make a characteristically mischievous remark about her good looks. That was the Dr. Hazelrigg I knew. I could imagine him as the young and dashing Naval officer… a ladies man, no doubt.
I’ve been a Rotarian for eleven years and the most memorable lunch program during that time was the meeting when Bill Balden and Charlie Hazelrigg talked about their recollections of serving in the Navy during the second World War. Balden was one of the first aviators to successfully conduct long-range bombing missions off an aircraft carrier and land at night without much fuel left. In an era of dangerous occupations, it was considered an outrageously perilous feat to achieve even once, and yet he made history by doing it again and again across the South Pacific. Hazelrigg had his ship struck by a bomb and a kamikaze plane off Iwo Jima, and the crew went on to accomplish its mission under his command. What kind of rare leadership does it take to face those circumstances and inspire men to surmount those odds?
Both Bill and Charlie are gone now. I’m proud to reside in the town in which they chose to live. It was a community made finer by their presence. It is a community now diminished by their absence.
A plasmatic stew of jolting stimuli and revolting news
Tuesday, August 30th, 2005
• Another portion of America is singled out by Mother Nature for a round of devastation and paralyzing emotional trauma.
• I observe in a mirror the image of my departed brother-in-law, sneering back at me as a pirate captain, his frame bristling with weapons.
• The pet cat of a friend is stomped to death by an angry husband, plunging her life into a miserable chain-reaction of self-rescuing actions.
• My Governor declares his daring intent to cast a wide safety net of pardons to spike the ambitions of the unsavory political boss currently abusing the office of Attorney General.
• Jeffrey and Lea’s dachshund “Odie” is slaughtered by a coyote in the woods behind their home at The Blue Bank Farm.
• Paula, the state employee who coordinates the work of the KBBC and assists those of us who sit on the panel, took indefinite sick leave with the news that she has pancreatic cancer spreading to her liver.
• My friend and favorite neighbor Danny is preparing to move his family to Kansas.
• Bruce‘s condition yo-yos from lucid progress to feverish setback, almost on a daily basis.
• We learn that Marty will be leaving Kentucky to live with his mother and her boyfriend in South Carolina.