Archive for the ‘Dadbo’ Category
Sunday, December 25th, 2005
• Nobody can recite the Holy Bible like Charlton Heston, and I do mean nobody. Christmas morning isn’t set until I watch his performance of the Nativity verses, filmed at the ruins of a Roman amphitheater. Sometimes I just want to shut my eyes and listen to the masterful shift of his voice characterization from Angel to Blessed Virgin to Shepherd to Magi to the 12-year-old Jesus in the temple doing “my father’s business.” And I always enjoy how he portrays the angel telling Joseph that Herod “is dead,” almost as if the heavenly being takes grim satisfaction in the opportune demise.
• My TV-Show Fantasy Wish List for Santa: I want a sprawling hacienda like Big John Cannon’s, on a ranch like The Yellow Rose, with a horse just like Jason McCord’s, and a fully stocked pull-down gun panel like the one James West had. When I need to be in the city, I’d like a Robin Masters Ferrari so I can commute to my urban pad, just like the apartment Jim Phelps lived in, with a big John Gnagy studio attached, plus a closet with an Alexander Mundy wardrobe. I suppose that’ll do for this year, Santa, unless you want to toss in a hovercraft, custom-built by Benton Quest. I’ve been really, really nice.
• I don’t know how long ago the “Oyster-Stew Eve” tradition began, but now it wouldn’t be Christmas for me without it. We gathered once again last night at Mombo’s, and it was a full house with all the Hellyers in attendance. Bubb played the temperamental stew chef, but his main course was superb as usual. I could have done without the bizarre homily that gushed on about everyone’s favorite computer racketeer earning his media sainthood. Oh well, there’s got to be a reason church hierarchs would exile a pastor to the boondocks of rural Kentucky. After what I’ve learned about the downfall of the precious parish in Richmond, nothing is going to surprise me about the bewildering judgments of those running an institutional religion that long ago lost its way. Give me a simple family Christmas Eve, with loving hugs, wall-to-wall cousins, Yorkies under foot, Jaybon’s vino, mud room goodbyes, and the lasting brilliance of a Dadbo who combined the sleep-inducing benefits of warm milk for the kiddoes, with a dose of aphrodisiac for Mr. and Mrs. Claus.
Posted in Community, Dadbo, Family, Food, Holidays, Jay, Jerome, Mombo, Personalities, Scripture, Television, Wine | Comments Closed
Saturday, December 24th, 2005
I laugh to myself every time I think about it, and I’m not sure if I should, or whether a bit of angst is the more logical response—as if angst ever had a thing to do with logic. When I was finishing my last stint as a 2005 Red Kettle bell ringer, Jeanne saw me at the Wal-Mart grocery entrance. She told me she was thinking of Grandy-bo because I was wearing the Hudson Bay coat that originally belonged to William Breidenbach, and she remembered that Dadbo wore it for a few years after Dana gave it to him. She didn’t realize it was me at first. We were having a sweet brother-sister moment when my Rotarian replacement arrived, a lady who’s a top employee at one of our client businesses. Jeanne put her arms around me and gave me a kiss. I said, “See you tomorrow night.” It wasn’t until later that I recalled the odd look on the woman’s face when I handed her the bell and wished her a Merry Christmas…
Posted in Angst, Business, Community, Dadbo, Dana, Family, Jeanne | Comments Closed
Sunday, November 13th, 2005
After the Gallery Hop in downtown Danville on Friday night, I went to David’s cabin to prepare for the 2005 deer hunt. Before sunrise on Saturday morning, Greg and I crouched below the rocky outcrop and saw a doe move around the point. I thought the visibility was too dim for a clean shot and was comfortable watching her move on. Not long after that, David shot a doe at the front tree-stand with his antique double rifle. That position proved the place to be throughout the opening weekend of rifle season. Stuart took his eight-pointer there Sunday evening, but that’s a whole story in itself.
My favorite time of the weekend was Saturday evening, before the weather changed. I watched two squirrels frolic for over an hour among the dry leaves until they retired to tree-top clusters, each of my senses acutely aware of the woodland environment in all its minute detail. Venus pierced the gloaming as a fiery sun finished painting the autumn colors a more vibrant shade of orange. I saw no deer, but it didn’t seem to matter.
On Sunday morning, sitting in the rain at the rear stand, I saw two does heading away from the knob-top clover field, no closer than 50-60 yards. Since I held a lever-action carbine with no telescope, it wasn’t a good shot for me (for the second time in as many days). Later, David was observing the area from the same stand at dusk, without a rifle. Firing his .45 revolver into the hillside, he attempted to spook a big buck moving on the same trail I saw my does. He was hoping to push him toward Stuart’s position at the front of the knob. It worked. As a result, enough meat became available that Dana and I filled our freezer and more, even though I had no personal kill this year.
When I was back in town someone wanted to know if I’d “shot Bambi,” and I sensed more clearly than ever the gulf between people who hunt and those who disdain it.
I went for decades without going on a traditional hunt, after putting it aside in my twenties when I chose to give up eating meat, but I never lost a respect for the tradition gained from Dadbo. Eventually I reintroduced flesh to my diet and became a fisherman. A profound reconnection with the natural world and an evolving appreciation of the shooting sports opened my mind to the idea of harvesting meat firsthand in the woods.
I honor the philosophical purity of strict vegetarianism, but anyone who consumes meat consents at some level to the killing of animals to sustain their life. Participating in the act with full consciousness, attuning the senses to a wild environment, experiencing the synchronicity of engaging a particular creature, and valuing it as a gift of nourishment from the Great Spirit is an activity that puts me directly in touch with ancestors—my hunting namesake, his Appalachian frontier forefathers, medieval Slovaks, first-millennium Norsemen, tribal Neolithics…
There’s no way to explain all that to someone who was never vouchsafed the hunting tradition. I’ll probably spend the rest of my life trying to understand it myself.
Posted in Dadbo, Dana, Firearms, Food, Friends, Hunting, Nature | Comments Closed
Monday, October 24th, 2005
I finally went into the Central Kentucky Wildlife Refuge. It’s a fact—I’d never been beyond the parking lot. Why? Because I always told myself that if I had the time, I’d rather go to the Blue Bank Farm to be in our own knobs. While that notion is essentially valid, it allowed me to stupidly neglect an extraordinary natural setting right here in Boyle County. I ran the picturesque trails with some friends. Some might say this was a ridiculously hazardous thing to do under the circumstances, since it was raining and there were roots, loose stones, and lots of fallen leaves on the trail. The downhills were particularly treacherous; there were places where it would have been almost impossible to stop, and even slowing down before a level spot made the footing more uncertain. You know what I mean if you’ve ever run down a really steep grade. I know runners who won’t run on anything but a paved surface, fearing injury. They won’t even run on grass, which is my favorite thing on which to run—always has been. I remember how uninhibited I used to feel after watching a Johnny Weissmuller movie, and I’d run barefoot at top speed across the back yard with a rubber knife and give the Tarzan yell, which I thought at the time to be an exceptionally decent rendition of the Hollywood sound effect (for an eleven-year-old Ohio boy it probably wasn’t bad). I felt swift—I never paused to consider how it might look as though I were standing still if one of the Vagedes brothers had been running next to me. They were all sprinters from birth and grew up to challenge the rushing and stolen-base records of their day. I was never similarly fleet of foot. I didn’t run track in high school. I said it was boring to run in circles, but the true reason is that I wasn’t fast. I thought I would do better at a longer distance. In the late 60s track and field competition offered nothing over a mile run, so I went out for cross country. The distance was two miles. Today a two-mile run is a track event. I was still slow, but I got to run on grass. Dadbo was supportive and said I had a natural stride. It was nice to have my father tell me that he enjoyed watching me run, but we didn’t talk much about cross country. If he came to observe any of our meets, he kept out of sight. He must have thought it might make me nervous if I saw him. I’m guessing it would’ve helped. If I’ve ever possessed “the Means,” it wasn’t back then. Most likely, Dadbo knew that. In any case, I was usually injured because I waited too late in the summer to begin my training. On top of that, I had inferior shoes and poor coaching. I’m still relatively slow, but I can take a medal in my age group now and then if I’m in shape (and only one or two good athletes happen to show up in my category). But I’ve learned to run without injury at last—and I can pull out all the stops on a slippery October trail run among my fitness chums, with the keen insights of Paul Watkins reverberating in my psyche.
Posted in Dadbo, Exercise, Friends, Movies, Nature, Personalities, Playtime, Sport | Comments Closed
Thursday, August 11th, 2005
I’ve already mentioned that “Pirate Revenge” is done and ready for tomorrow night’s premiere. The family has previously seen a rough cut that’s pretty crude (home VCR edit with no sound track). On the surface, there’s nothing profound or meaningful to be found, because the “Houseboat Trilogy” has always been about indulging ourselves with a bit of silly entertainment for some good laughs and a few inside jokes. The original film was silent 8mm, shot in sequence during a 1971 lake vacation. It was short, violent, and very funny. The second part came 17 years later, when we celebrated Mombo and Dadbo’s 40th anniversary at Dale Hollow Lake. We’d made the shift to VHS by then, but it was also a spontaneous, in-camera effort, with some miserably poor post-production to spice it up. Now the characters from “Pirate Waters” had names and a context, so “Pirate Isle” was an instant classic within the Clan.
It looked like the next installment was going to be another of my many unfinished projects. I’d decided to shoot it more like a typical movie—get a lot of takes “in the can,” and then put it all together later. Seemed like a good idea at the time, but I didn’t have any capability beyond splicing clips from the raw Hi-8 footage to a home VHS deck. We recorded that master tape during a long weekend outing to Lake Cumberland in 1993. Brendan and I shot some filler months later, but basically nothing happened for nearly twelve years to bring the series to a conclusion.
But now, in the words of Petey the Pirate Urchin, “Everything’s changed,” because Seth rolled up his sleeves to reconstruct the entire production from scratch as a labor of love, adding his own natural sense of pacing and story coherence. The result goes way beyond my original vision for what was never meant to be more than another goofy contribution to the family archives, and I say that because the clean production quality of the Casablanca editing system at WREB lends an odd credibility to the composed footage. For me, this achieves two things. It provides a more satisfying entertainment experience rooted in our unique camraderie and shared humor, but, beyond that, it captures in one collaborative creation a intensely pleasurable look at the many raw talents and “playtime personalities” of the participants—the acting skills of Brendan in early formation, the not inconsiderable ability of his mother to craft a powerful characterization with minimal screen time, the hilarious histrionics of Jeanne, Susan, James, Jeffrey, Jerome, and others, the touching scenes of my parents together (demonstrating the typical respect they had for our endeavors by playing their roles straight), but perhaps more than anything, Seth’s embryonic media capability, which no one should fail to admire at his stage of the game.
Speaking only for myself, I think this oddball creation should be preserved and treasured forever.
Posted in Brendan, Creativity, Dadbo, Family, Mombo, Movies, Pirates, Playtime, Technology | Comments Closed
Monday, August 1st, 2005
— Month of July workout totals: Swim-7; Bike-5; Run-7; Lift-0; Yoga-0.
— The yew shrubs (taxus) in front of our porch had gotten totally out of control the past couple years. I figured I needed to either yank them out or do something radical with their appearance. On Saturday I sat and stared at one of them for half an hour, and then I attacked it with my old lopping shears. We’d seen pictures of how landscapers sculpt these bushes in the oriental style, then began to notice examples (Chicago, Cincinnati) in proximity to “Arts and Crafts” residential architecture. It was worth a try. I was pleased with the result, especially after I used shoe polish to camouflage the pruning scars. I have no idea how old these plants are, but they’ve reached nearly six feet in height and have to be dealt with.
— Bruce is doing better, now that he’s back in the hospital. It’s hard for me to see how they could discharge him last week without ensuring the continuity of treatment essential for his improvement. Much of the routine care he needed fell into disarray or was changed. If it hadn’t been for family…
— While Dana was having her Indianapolis adventure, I was trying my hand at topiary arts, making more stabs at getting back into triathlon condition, and spending some time at David’s range with my two carbines. The 1894s clobbered my shoulder until I learned to hold it correctly. David helped me take off the scope that Dadbo put on it, and that restored it to the desired simplicity. I’ve decided to learn to use this nice rifle with the naked eye. I don’t think I’d ever be comfortable with scope hunting, so I don’t intend to start that. If I can’t get a kill shot with open sights I intend to let the moment pass. The .30-caliber M1 was fun to sight in and proved to be far more accurate than I was expecting, probably due to the influence of some negative Rick Jason remarks published in a book about the “Combat!” series. Or maybe I just happened to get a particularly good example of the WWII-era design. I checked my notes and can’t believe I purchased that gun in 1993. That I just let it gather dust must have something to do with Dadbo dying less than a month later. (Interestingly, my father and Rick Jason were almost exactly the same age. I only just learned that he died in 2000 of a self-inflicted gunshot wound, but I don’t know any details.)
— Josh should be back in the States on leave by this weekend. There’s a tribute planned for the following Friday evening at Eagle Nest. That should be a memorable gathering and celebration. To top it off, it’s the World Premiere of “Pirate Revenge,” the family short we shot at Lake Cumberland a dozen years ago, but it was never completed as the last installment of the Clan Pirate Trilogy. Marty and Coleman were babies, Brendan was a squirt, and Dadbo made his final contribution to family creativity as “Frank, the old fisherman.” My, how time does fly…
V & S
Posted in Art, Brendan, Dadbo, Dana, Death, Exercise, Family, Firearms, Friends, Home, Marty, Personalities, Pirates, Television, Time | Comments Closed
Sunday, July 24th, 2005
The Clan Council made its historic decision to expedite the Living Trust on behalf of Mombo. After the meeting I finished most of the trimming in the cemetery and then picked a gallon of blackberries with Marty. Before leaving the valley, I took possession of Dadbo’s Marlin 1894s lever-action rifle—the one chambered in 44 Rem. Magnum. It’s the only firearm of my father’s that I ever had any interest in taking home with me. I’ll find a case for it and then test it out with David at his range.
Meanwhile, Lance Armstrong had a pretty good day, too.
Posted in Dadbo, Family, Firearms, Friends, Marty, Mombo, Personalities, Sport | Comments Closed
Wednesday, July 13th, 2005
Mack was buried in a family cemetery on his farm, as some day I will be at our farm (near the grave of my namesake). Mack was a generous man… no, more than that—magnanimous. The same can be said about my father. They also had in common a low-key personality that was somehow magnetic. They were both complex, multi-talented individuals with deep connections to the natural world. Whatever they chose to do, they did well—and they attempted many wide-ranging things. They also had a profound spiritual side to their character that was instructive by example, never overbearing. Until today, I hadn’t thought about how Mack and Dadbo were so much alike. Indispensable to their families, the void they leave can never be filled. It can only be honored. Mack was not a father figure to me, but perhaps a mentor, although I thought of him only as a friend, which, I believe, is all he would’ve wanted. And even though he defied the foe until the end—with his expansive optimism, quiet competitiveness, and good cheer—I think he knew that everyone in his world was watching how he countered death’s grasp, as we all must when our time comes, and continued to share his graceful spirit until called to run the unknown trail ahead of us.
Posted in Dadbo, Death, Family, Friends, Nature | Comments Closed
Monday, June 20th, 2005
After the Y2K doomsday scenario dissolved and then the family was unable to put together a comprehensive emergency action plan in the wake of September 11, I guess I’d had enough of preparing for potential calamity. But a recent warning from Frank Gaffney about the EMP threat almost makes me think I should become a card-carrying Crashologist again. G-bo used to talk about EMP as a clear and present danger, but never suggested what could be done about it at the personal level beyond the fundamentals. Maybe I need to look into this more deeply, although it probably comes back to the basics of surviving any catastrophe—clean water, nutrition, shelter, power, communications, medical care, and self defense.
I understand, dear reader, that you might see a name like Gaffney and think, “He’s one of those right-wing think tankers who’s actively helping Rumsfeld and Cheney reshape the entire U.S. power structure.” Just keep in mind that when I check out the Websites that work to expose all these scary conservatives, I usually say, “Wow, these guys are great!”
Posted in Crashology, Current Events, Dadbo, Family, Personalities, Political Affairs, Technology | Comments Closed
Wednesday, April 20th, 2005
When I was a preteen, Dadbo brought home a carload of aerospace magazines from work. Did I cut out all the cool pictures of rockets and supersonic aircraft? No… I cut out and saved the marketing symbols and corporate trademarks. I can’t explain it, but I always had an affinity for letters and graphics (the GE emblem on the refrigerator intrigued the heck out of me), but I had no clear comprehension of either the fine or applied arts, any sense of the distinction, or what an artist actually did for a living, other than maybe draw cartoons, paint signs, or think up a few crazy advertising ideas like Darren Stevens. My junior high art teacher had worked as a commercial artist before switching to art education. She didn’t actually instruct me in any specific graphic arts techniques, but I did gain one valuable thing from her—she made sure I understood that commercial art was a viable aspiration for a talented person. But there was something else between the lines, as though it was our secret, this notion that commercial art wasn’t exactly noble, that it wasn’t real art. Hmmm, so what was real art? Didn’t have a clue. Norman Rockwell? For petesake I didn’t even realize who Bob Clampett and Ralph Bakshi were poking fun at when they created a cartoon character called Go Man Van Gogh (the wild beatnik artist on “Beany“). I just knew that I was fascinated by comics and advertising art and loved to study lettering and draw words as pictures. I remember painting the word “ICE” with watercolors, adding the archetypical mounds of snow and ice-cycles around the letters. It was almost a right of passage. Weird, eh? I had four different art teachers in four years of high school. I hate to be unkind but each one of them was worthless. I had talent, so there was no reason to spend time with me. It was more important to babysit the goof-offs who took art as a “cake” elective. No wonder I sent off for the Famous Artists home test. I don’t think I even realized how desperate I’d become. What others might have viewed as crass merchandising was a Godsend for me. The individual attention I got from instructors in far-off Connecticut was something I’d never experienced before. And even though the course introduced me to both the fine and applied arts, there was something about commercial art that made me feel at home. When I saw the classes offered by UC I didn’t get the same electricity from reading about figure drawing, painting, or printmaking like I did from discovering that I could take design fundamentals, typographics, photography and film/animation. I was pumped! I wanted to go to college so bad I turned cocky and couldn’t wait to blow my hometown and head for the big city…
Olden…
Posted in Art, Creativity, Dadbo, Education, Letters, Personalities, Television | Comments Closed
Monday, April 18th, 2005
I regret that I didn’t pursue animation. Yeah, I know, it’s not fashionable to have regrets. I suppose there are self-actualized individuals who’ve genuinely reached the point of “no regrets,” but I reckon that with most people who purport to have no regrets, the claim is wishful horseshit. You have regrets when you fail to go after a skill or livelihood that necessitates beginning when you’re still young. For me it’s sailing, horseback riding, martial arts, and animation. Don’t get me wrong; it’s never too late to start doing anything you’re passionate about, but you have to face the fact that there are certain things that require a lifetime to get good at. Now I admit it’s true that Yukio Mishima didn’t start to train in the martial arts until he was 40, and still became a kendo adept, but he also flipped out and disemboweled himself in public, so I don’t think I’ll suggest him as a role model. There have been rare exceptions among artists (like Grandma Moses? Who else?), but the fact is I made choices that removed me from the world of animation, even though I’d art-directed a corporate animation for Rand-McNally at the age of 24 and had come to the attention of Chicago’s top animator. It’s not complicated—I out-smarted myself and stopped animating, just like Dadbo decided to become an engineer instead of pursuing veterinary medicine. Regrets don’t have to be debilitating, but most likely there will be something you’ll abandon and wish later you hadn’t. Just make sure it isn’t one of the “big things.” Never turn away from your true passions. So… I can’t sail, cycling is the closest I get to real riding, I’m still an Aikido white belt, and I’ve learned to live without animation, even though I still dream of having gotten rather good at it. I contemplate taking the time to study Tex Avery, Jay Ward, the TerryToons, and all the classic cartoon arts or immerse myself in the works of Jordan Belson, Saul Bass, or Hayao Miyazaki. Fortunately I still hold on to my greatest touchstone. I continue to draw with my own hand…
Olden…
Posted in Angst, Creativity, Dadbo, Movies, Personalities, Priorities, Time | Comments Closed
Saturday, April 2nd, 2005
Although my mom provided a truly rich atmosphere for mental play and my dad revealed for me his familiar world of nature, I look back at times with wonder and some amusement that I ever arrived at any sort of creative legitimacy, given the odd character of my early visual stimuli. I always had chalk and my own blackboard, and was given free reign to inhabit the world of my own imagination, sharing it with a captive sibling audience. I suppose we were rather sheltered. It was no surprise they thought I was a real artist. I recall almost no access to books with “serious” artwork. A bound collection of Currier and Ives reproductions was about as close as it got. I don’t remember any childhood visits to art museums or even going to a library before attending school. There was really nothing about art to learn on television, except for the exposure to Walt Disney, or a glimpse of illustrations in the books read by Captain Kangaroo, or, eventually, Jon Gnagy’s “Learn to Draw.” At least I understood that Yogi Bear and the Flintstones wasn’t about art. We didn’t get a daily newspaper. And so it was a monumental event in my life when Uncle Art delivered a stack of Saturday Evening Post magazines and a year’s worth of old Sunday comics. I must not have had a bit of interest in anything else until it was fully absorbed. For a time, that was the pinnacle: Walt Kelly, Al Capp, Milton Caniff, and, of course, those magnificent Rockwell covers…
Posted in Art, Creativity, Dadbo, Family, Home, Mombo, Personalities, Television | Comments Closed
Thursday, February 24th, 2005
The media overhyped the president’s “summit” today in Bratislava. If there really was some sort of significant impasse between the two leaders, the meeting would have never taken place. More important was the Bush speech in the open air before the Slovak people. Most of us in the States have no appreciation of how closely the nations which threw off Communism listen to the words of a visiting American President (or how closely the Russians do, as well). For me, focusing on the event causes a reflection on my Slovak ancestry. I must often remind myself that my father was half Slovak, and I haven’t even begun to figure out the implications of this genetic heritage.
(ps— Happy Birthday, Grammo!)
Posted in Birthdays, Current Events, Dadbo, Family, Political Affairs, Presidency | Comments Closed
Wednesday, February 9th, 2005
Danville lost another fine man this week, my friend Morse Marcum. If Dadbo had grown up in Kentucky, he would’ve known all the things Morse knew. We had many enjoyable lunchtime conversations about wildlife in the knobs, tobacco, timber, horses and mules… But there was one specific interest that only we seemed to share among locals: murals. Every time Morse would visit a town that had a mural he would bring his excitement to me and we would brainstorm about creating a mural in Boyle County. But we never found a patron. Rest easy, Morse. If I ever get to do another mural, I’ll surely dedicate it to you.
Posted in Art, Community, Creativity, Dadbo, Death, Friends | Comments Closed
Sunday, January 23rd, 2005
This morning I decided to go out to the Jackson farm before sunrise to run some of the cross-country trails before friends gathered around the wood fire in the cabin for “shared silence.” I suppose I’ve run in more frigid conditions, but not recently. The raw intensity of these workouts are impossible for me to verbally capture, but they come loaded with rich sensory moments, like the crunch of refrozen thaw under foot, the visual pattern of animal tracks in the dusty snow, the sound of startled ducks temporarily fleeing the nearby wetland, and the massive heads of the horses as they surround and nudge me, wondering, perhaps, if I’ve come to deliver their overdue ration of hay.
It goes without saying that these stimuli make me feel very close to nature, and her power. I can’t say I particularly enjoy the cold. I realize I don’t have the same resilience as my father had. I know that, because I spent too many hours shivering, watching the steam of his breath, as he repaired rabbit pens or some other winter task, when I desperately wanted to seek the warmth. On mornings like today I think about whether he might have had similar experiences as mine, moving through nature on his cold, all-night ‘coon hunts (ventures that I was never equipped to endure at the time).
Years ago I came upon the words of Robert W. Service and shared them with Dadbo at Christmas, but we never got to talk about those poems of the Yukon. I just knew it was his life-long dream to visit the far North Woods. He never did, but I like to think that my gift enabled the same vicarious experience that Service provides for me with lines like these:
"The winter! the brightness that blinds you,
The white land locked tight as a drum,
The cold fear that follows and finds you,
The silence that bludgeons you dumb…"
On mornings like today I think about my friend Mack, the man who created the trails. As he confronts the foe of cancer, much too far from his cabin, I run them in the bitter wind for him, because I can.
Because I must.
Posted in Dadbo, Exercise, Family, Friends, Nature, Verse | Comments Closed