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Archive for the ‘Death’ Category
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.
Various & Sundry, part twenty-two
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…
So long, my friend
Wednesday, July 13th, 2005Mack 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.
Don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing
Sunday, July 10th, 2005For the first time in a while, I felt like myself on a bike, riding through the stillness after daybreak—one of those quiet mornings when a triggered canine yelp ripples outward into the landscape as other dogs pick up the bark.
When I arrived at his cabin studio, I learned that my friend Mack had died yesterday.
Should any of your IM Force be caught or killed
Sunday, May 1st, 2005Got to thinking about Mission: Impossible, the classic series, the cool revival, and the prospect of a respectable Cruise feature at last (third time a charm?). Started surfing around and was stunned to learn that Tony Hamilton died ten years ago. I had no idea! He played Max in the 80s and worked “until his death from complications due to the AIDS virus in March of 1995.” I get really sad when one of my many favorite TV players passes on. Mission’88 should never have been cancelled. The network refused to give it a decent time slot and then leave it alone. It was better than most of what was on the tube at the time, and the Australian locations were fresh. Oh well, here are some other good shows that should’ve been given a better chance to stay on the air: The Yellow Rose (1983), Mancuso, FBI (1989), Ned Blessing: The Story of My Life and Times (1993), The Adventures of Brisco County Jr. (1993), The Byrds of Paradise (1994), and High Incident (1996).
Various & Sundry, part fourteen
Tuesday, April 19th, 2005— It’s a perplexing day when the media decides to focus on the naming of a new pope instead of the monumental story of the year: that Lance Armstrong will retire!
— Joan tells me it’s difficult for her to read this log on her computer because each entry is a single, horribly long horizontal line of text that scrolls endlessly. Must be a problem with her browser settings, and I hope it can be fixed. Don’t stop reading, Sis! I can’t afford to lose 50% of my fan base!
— I have no idea how it ended up in the library of the University of Indiana Medical School, or why it’s on display, but Marty and I couldn’t deny ourselves a close look at the death mask of John Dillinger. It’s got to be one of the creepiest damn things I’ve ever seen, not because of the casting itself, but how it was so amateurishly hand colored. And while we’re on the subject of creepy, you’ll find a whole archive of death masks at Thanatos.net.
— I remember Joe scolding me the time I made a condescending remark about Pookie, explaining that he just needed to find his identity as a dog, and, if we gave him a chance, he would. I never thought about Pookie the same way after that, and now it gives me a bit of pleasure (within the sorrow) to know that he got the second chance that Joe could see and I couldn’t.
— Bruce is breathing on his own and striving to gain the upper hand against his numerous infections. I try to accept how often they put him through yet another test, but that’s just the nature of modern pharmacological care. They try to match the drug to the bug. Dana is by his side at the hospital while I hold the fort at the studio. According to her latest report, he’s able to maintain a good, steady rate of respiration and cough productively, much better that when the ventilator was removed before. They’ve taken away the special bed that rotated and vibrated his chest. The PT seemed pleased that he’d gained strength since the previous therapy. The nephrologist cancelled the scheduled dialysis. Nobody has made an official statement that he won’t require it again, but the kidney numbers are normal. My son is a freakin’ warrior! God bless him up one side and down the other!
Saturday in the sun
Saturday, April 16th, 2005Marty and I agreed—it was a “satisfying” day. It began for me with the “Repair Affair,” Boyle County’s annual day of exterior house chores on behalf of those who can’t physically do them. Danville Rotary Club took primary responsibility for it this year and that’s how I got involved. We couldn’t have pulled it off without all the volunteers from Centre College (those students are something else). It was a good deed sort of thing for me and a welcome change of scenery. My friend Scott was there and said he was planning to attend the 30th birthday cookout for the Governor’s son at the Mansion in Frankfort. I told him to give Ernie and Ben my warm regards. I don’t get to hobnob much with Fletcher any more, now that he’s hit the political big time.
After lunch I picked up Marty and we went to the Blue Bank Farm to work in the orchard, which also happens to be our family cemetery. I’m late with the pruning this year, but we got through it all and had time for a hike up Horse Lick hollow for Marty’s first adventure to the Pine Forest, which we both speculate was near the sawmill settlement that used to be located back there. We saw a spot that looked as though a small twister had touched down and leveled a few pines, all in precisely the same direction. Also had a chance to confirm that the back edge of the hollow had been unintelligently logged. What a waste! We came back to the valley by way of Blue Bank’s ridge and the Buddha Trail, probably the most peaceful spot in Casey County.
It was good to see members of my Clan after a month of turmoil. I spent a few moments at Joe’s grave with my sister and learned the sad news that her pet Pookie had just died. Throughout the day, Bruce was never far from my thoughts. Dana called from Indianapolis and my heart went out to her.
Holding his own
Wednesday, April 6th, 2005I was a patient in a hospital once.
Once.
I didn’t have much say in the matter, but I’m glad I was born. I had my tonsils cut out in a doctor’s office. I think it wasn’t much longer before they made old Dr. Ashmun stop doing that.
Over the years I’ve spent a fair amount of time in hospitals, especially when they started paying me to be there. But now I go primarily to visit people who haven’t enjoyed my extraordinary run of good fortune. That’s ok. I can stand to be around these places. (Like a mercenary must feel hanging around an ammo dump, I suppose.) I don’t have too many illusions left, as far as I know. I think I have a pretty good idea what these places can do and what they can’t. It’s a workplace. Some of these individuals can accomplish extraordinary things, and that’s true of many workplaces. It’s also true that some employees might be having a bad day, a bad week… or maybe a bad life.
If I make a mistake and publish a typo, everybody feels bad, but nobody has a funeral. I’m not an architect. My designs can’t fall down and kill anybody. But an architect has to have a lot of negligent people around if a faulty building gets built. In a hospital, one “oops” can be a life-or-death matter. We like to think those blunders don’t happen very often, but they do. In America. By nice, well-meaning people. If my streak is broken and I find myself in a hospital as a patient, I want a bodyguard.
Bruce has a lot of people looking out for him, pulling for him, praying for him. Maybe that includes you, dear reader. I hope so. If it does, I hereby thank you from the bottom of my heart.
Everything coming to bear on Bruce’s critical condition: the drugs, the tubes, the pumps, the microchips, the highly educated minds… it’s all there to give him a fighting chance. And by God he’s fighting. When I walk into the room I just look past all the gear and all the reservoirs of heaven-knows-what, and I see the inner warrior holding his own, preparing to make his move, armed with the weapons of consciousness, unfettered by the constraints of time and space, fully aware of the only thing that matters…
Victory.