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.
Archive for the ‘Family’ Category
Gone too soon
Wednesday, February 9th, 2005Various & Sundry, part five
Sunday, February 6th, 2005— Last night Seth showed me a piece of his work that he’d done with a non-linear digital editor and I must say the young man has some clear talent for media. He achieved a nice level of dramatic impact by creatively combining words, music and existing footage. Impressive. The potential is there. I agree with Dana: Given these aptitudes and developing skills, his keen mind, strong voice, and natural good looks, he could chart a course in any number of broadcasting or communication fields. If he wanted to, and it appears that he might want to.
— I watched a stimulating presentation by Sam Harris on C-SPAN today.
First time I’d heard of him, so all I can think of initially to call
him is a “radical agnostic,” but I’d have to say he may be the most
thought-provoking non-believer I’ve encountered since Ayn Rand.
— Took part in the annual Super Bowl Sunday mountain bike ride in
Forkland. Can’t remember the weather ever being this mild, so Dan and I
opted for the longer 20-mile loop. We tackled some remote knobs I’d
never seen before, but fell behind the group, missing our last turn.
Ended up turning it into a 30-miler, with a stop at Penn’s Store. The
light was failing, but we warmed ourselves by the stove, had some good
conversations, and then set off to find our vehicle on Minor’s Branch
before it got dark.
Various & Sundry, part four
Thursday, February 3rd, 2005— Over nine thousand objects large enough to be tracked and catalogued? To a galactic neighbor, our planet must look like one of those Kentucky back-road junk heaps.
— Many, many years ago, when we were first allowed to operate the Sony reel-to-reel recorder, we taped numerous television theme songs and incidental music from our favorite shows. We became so familiar with the tape that each musical introduction seemed a natural part of the one to follow. We committed to memory lyrics and melodies, including those from obscure, ill-fated shows that we never even watched. Years later, Mombo surprised me by transferring that strange collection to audio cassette. To this day I occasionally pop in a tape when driving alone and I must admit that very few things in my life, including pop music contemporary to the time, will provide me such a visceral connection to my quirky adolescence. Love on a Rooftop, Mr. Terrific, The Shady Rest, Jean Gaston-Andre, Judd for the Defense, T.H.E. Cat, David Vincent, Rango, The New Number Two… I guess you had to be there. (“Ask the butler to lend you a buck, my dear!“)
— Before Mack went back into the hospital he was kind enough to look at my old Conn C-Melody saxophone (the one that used to belong to Uncle Luke), and became excited about taking it with him to Lexington for a discussion with his sax repairman. Turns out it needs very little attention to be perfectly playable, even after 25 years of storage. He had a setback in his healing not too long after that, but not before I had the opportunity to shoot his combo when they played at the open house for the new Community Arts Center in downtown Danville. I made a montage for myself and all of his friends as a focus for our positive thoughts and prayers for recovery.
Various & Sundry, part three
Tuesday, February 1st, 2005— Month of January workout totals: Swim-7; Bike-4; Run-3; Lift-6.
— Well, it’s the day to do that “first of the month” stuff: Total and evaluate the fitness workouts; adjust engine coolant and steering fluid levels; scan the hard drives; polish the cutlasses; check the hams.
— Bob and Meg sent me an article about John Evans (clipped from The New York Times) and his 37-year daily collage project. Synchronicity: Bob said that Meg had shown it to him on the same day he received my note about how I’d made the decision to gain control over my hand-made greeting card habit. At my 50th birthday party Bob suggested I scan my cards and publish a book. I’ve taken his advice on the scanning part. The article mentions that nobody was interested in doing a book on Evans because he wasn’t famous. After a publisher finally decided to produce one, he now admits it won’t make any money. Strange parallels. Like Evans, I’ve also had the recent urge to get rid of stuff, especially after helping to sort out some of the accumulation at the house that Joe Wood built. I might as well do it while I have the desire. It’s not my typical mode. But like Evans said, “What if my daughters and my wife had to deal with all this?”
— Josh has been staying in Kuwait and was scheduled to arrive in Iraq this week, so I wrote a note to him last night, thinking that he’d get it the first time he had a chance to check email after he got settled. My hope is that the atmosphere will have improved, now that the election has taken place, and that more Iraqi citizens will cooperate with the interim government and the coalition to provide information about extremists. Nevertheless, he’ll need to stay “on guard” for the duration of his deployment. I do look forward to hearing from him soon.
Dr. Wesnick vs the Brigadier
Saturday, January 29th, 2005Mario at Anacrusis reminds me of when my niece Kristi sponsored an interactive story at a defunct site called boards2go.com. I started an SF tale that lasted only 3 segments, without anyone else taking interest, before the whole thing imploded. Somehow I never mangaged to save any of it, but the directory still loads from the Wayback Machine, in case there’s a wizard out there who knows how to get deeper into the archive (if it even exists). I still remember that an embryonic plot idea involved the conflict between the commander of a secret brigade and a pompous Dr. Wesnick, the lead physicist on a government project to perfect the “Quantum Coil,” which could inject a paramilitary team into “the Outer Zone.” Wesnick presumed the Brigadier was being paranoid when he questioned the randomness of the energy profile captured by the coil’s “wave discriminator.” Why of course, reader, the signature was being proffered by sinister lifestreams, and the fun was about to begin…
Taking to one’s bosom
Thursday, January 27th, 2005I was only half paying attention to a sound bite on TV featuring the new Mrs. Donald Trump, and in some sort of accent she gushed about “all the wonnerful mammaries” associated with her recent wedding. When I told Dana why I was laughing so hard, her reply was, “John, she was saying MEMORIES.”
A visit to the cellar
Monday, January 24th, 2005After the open house for David’s retirement from National City, Dana and I had dinner at Freddie’s with David, Lee, Gary, and Trish. Afterwards we regrouped at the Town House for dessert, so I opened the 1997 bottle of Nichelini Cabernet, which had been waiting patiently for a celebration. My goodness, it was even better than I was expecting. RWB certainly knows his wine. We all enjoyed a welcome break from recent tensions. David asked me to show Gary and Trish my first wood engraving, and so I made my typical awkward attempt at juggling personal pride and sincere humility. You’d think that by now I’d feel more natural when it came to discussing my art.
Cold fear
Sunday, January 23rd, 2005This 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.
Vic Vega vs Napoleon Solo
Saturday, January 22nd, 2005My grandson Marty has discovered Quentin Tarantino, so first of all he screened Kill Bill: Vol.1 for me and then Reservoir Dogs. I didn’t know what to expect, since I’d never seen one of his films, not even Pulp Fiction. Marty has watched an alarming array of violent action flicks, beginning too many years ago, and now, at the age of thirteen, he can calmly dissect and critique motion pictures that have trailers I might not be able to handle so well. I’m not quite sure what to make of Tarantino. Marty finds his work more complex and intriguing than the typical fare he’s been used to, and I don’t doubt that’s true. For me, his movies mesh artistry with depravity like the teeth of a rusty zipper. A generation ago they said the same thing about Peckinpah, I suppose. Good Lord, when I was thirteen I had my hands full with The Wild Wild West and The Man from U.N.C.L.E.
Various & Sundry, part one
Friday, January 21st, 2005— I’ve gotten a week into this experiment and have yet to properly thank Brendan, my undaunted sponsor and kind host. So far so good. I managed to solve most of the anomalies I was experiencing by updating the firmware on our Netgear firewall/router. Although I began my first private journal in 1971 and have maintained regular entries for the past 20 years or so, this online record of thoughts is a new and stimulating venture. In time I’ll gain a better sense of how its public nature affects the tone and quality of my postings.
— Last weekend our family gathered at Kelley Ridge for a mighty demonstration of Clan-Power to achieve as much physical transformation as possible. Uncle James mused that it was the kind of event that could inspire Clan legend. With the bitter wind knifing through us as we split and stacked firewood at the edge of the ridge, Seth replied, “You won’t ever hear me talking about this day.”
— There hasn’t been much of a downside to my accepting an invitation to join the Rotary Club ten years ago, but I am beginning to notice something. One of the serious drawbacks to building relationships of affection with a bunch of great old guys pushing 80 is to witness their failing health. What have I gotten myself into?
— As true as it is that there’s no greater love than to lay down one’s life for another, I want Josh to accomplish in Iraq what he was trained to do and then safely return to his family. That is my simple prayer. I’m not precisely sure what he was trained to do, but I know that living and working each day in harm’s way is a given. I’m reminded of the closing line in The Bridges at Toko-Ri, “Where do we get such men?” The answer to that question is the same with every generation, and, as far as I’m concerned, no poet has described this vital breed more eloquently than Katharine Lee Bates when she wrote, “Oh beautiful for heroes proved in liberating strife, who more than self their country loved and mercy more than life!”
Deep sigh
Tuesday, January 18th, 2005Today’s Anacrusis story made me think of seeing Ben Shahn’s work for the first time as a callow teenager, when I took the Famous Artists School’s home-study Course for Talented Young People and discovered the concept of creating artwork in service to the advancement of social justice. The whole idea seemed so phlegmatically self-evident at the time.