Archive for the ‘Mombo’ Category

Sight Bites / First Batch

Saturday, February 18th, 2006

Man with his car in the ditch, waving sadly as he waits for a tow truck.

400 yards of footprints in the fresh snow, to find two brothers at Still-house Spring.

One of Dadbo’s last ‘coon boxes, rotting in a treetop along Sledding Hill Road.

Four tofu burgers frying in a skillet, beside a pot of Mombo’s vegetable soup.

Frank the long-shot candidate, grinning broadly from his campaign card.

The veteran Norwegian biathlete, collapsing to his knees at the finish line.

Chalkboard calculations and a Honchovian decision to define the day’s effort.

An ancient wheelbarrow and a gutted Gravely, rusting in the cluttered barn.

Tiny newborn bunnies, nestled for warmth in a bunting of mother’s fur.

Dana’s cranberry coffee cake, golden brown and fresh from the oven.

Well done, James

Wednesday, January 4th, 2006

Does my brother James realize the immeasurable contribution he’s made to the long-term viability of our Clan Council as a collaborative body of decision makers? In my appraisal, he sees his recent efforts—to bring both Mombo’s Trust and the Council Charter to fruition—as the fulfillment of a personal commitment to his mother. That it is, indeed, but so much more…

Captain Zero vs Marvin and Boop-0

Tuesday, January 3rd, 2006

One of these days we’ve just got to dig out all of Mombo’s photos of the “Blackboard Comics.” How many years has it been? Quite possibly it could take forensic expertise to read the dialogue.

Just in case you aren’t familiar with this long-running series, it just happens to be one of the most awesome collaborative formats ever conceived. Anyone in the vicinity above the age of six is invited to add a frame to an evolving pictorial narrative until the evolving chalk drawing has filled it’s designated space, followed by prompt documentation before anyone in the vicinity under the age of six follows his or her urge to be similarly creative.

There’s nothing like drawing with real chalk on real slate. It’s in my blood. On New Year’s Day we decided to mess with perfection and develop our strip in reverse. It was a space-western vignette, of course, due to the prevailing supremacy of a certain defunct TV show.

My 2005 Highlight Reel

Friday, December 30th, 2005

— Josh comes home to his Clan for a mid-deployment visit.

Mack stops by the Town House and we talk about my old saxophone.

Gov. Fletcher appoints me to the Kentucky Bicycle Commission.

— A major international Arts and Crafts exhibition unexpectedly comes to our attention.

— We hike back Horse Lick Hollow for Marty’s first visit to the Clan’s little “Pine Forest.”

— Seth and I complete the long-overdue “Pirate Revenge” video.

— I experience my first artistic fellowship with a group of Layerists.

— The exalted Plastic Mullet Series honors yours truly.

— I have the opportunity to design the poster for Sheldon Tapley’s painting.

— David treats me to another great hunting weekend in the Knobs.

— Jay and Glenda make their vows at a wedding ceremony in Liberty.

— Dana and I thoroughly enjoy listening to Gates of Fire on tape.

— After Aunt Alma’s funeral, Dana, Jerome and I pray at the Shrine of the Holy Relics.

— Caitlan takes us all to Oxford with her captivating England Blog.

— I discover the extraordinary young writer Paul Watkins and hook myself on his work.

— Marty and I conduct our first camp-out on “Widow’s Knob.”

— The Clan gathers for Mombo’s 80th-Birthday tribute at the Boone Tavern and Hotel.

— Dana and I celebrate our 23rd Anniversary in Augusta, Kentucky.

• • •  and the top highlight of 2005  • • •

Bruce battles through kidney failure, septicemia, and the various complications of severe pancreatitis to defy—by the grace of Almighty God—the medical odds against his survival.

Christmas musings

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.

Memories

Friday, November 25th, 2005

My mom has a blog. How about yours?

The augury of birds

Tuesday, November 22nd, 2005

When I saw huge crows crisscrossing above me, settling noisily into the tallest tree at McDowell Park, I knew that there was more than crisp November in the air.

…three, four, FIVE—the numerological indicator of change.

I found out Dana had called 9-1-1 so Bruce could be rushed to Methodist Hospital, and later I learned from Mombo that he was back in the critical care unit.

My prayer request is for stability and the resumption of his steady improvement.

Agent 86 vs the Prince of Glue

Tuesday, September 27th, 2005

Joan and I joked on Saturday about coming to the HUB as a couple of beatniks on open-mike night. That made us think about the demise of Bob Denver, who we remember as Maynard (to most of America he was Gilligan). Don Adams passed away yesterday. The back-to-back deaths of these 60s-comedy icons got me to thinking about how far we’ve travelled since sitting in front of the tube as adolescents. “Get Smart” was a cool, funny show, Agent 99 had sex appeal to spare, and I never felt self-conscious about watching it. It won Emmys, like our favorite drama, “Mission: Impossible.” On the other hand, wasting your time watching a show like Gilligan’s Island” was inexcusable. Mombo would scold us for being glued to the TV set. Shows like Denver’s became known as “glue” in our household, and you couldn’t deny the obvious if stuck in one. There weren’t a lot of choices if you felt like watching television in the 60s, and even after all these years, it’s hard to believe I allowed myself to “glue down” and watch so much junk like that. Now they’re called classics, and people in Hollywood trip over each other remaking them as major motion pictures.

Here we go again

Saturday, September 24th, 2005

Today had its ups and downs. I finished a 5-to-6-mile run to Millennium Park and back with a very sore hip (the downfall of Cap’n Lice haunts my soul, too.) I was impressed with Rita’s excellent photographic coverage of our Piratical Blowout earlier this month when Joan shared the CD with us while she and Mombo visited the studio. I was then dismayed to learn of my mother’s worsening muscular ailment. There’s a lot she can do from a dietary standpoint that will help her feel better, and I believe she’s prepared to make the commitment. Nevertheless, we still had an upbeat time at the new Hub Coffee Shop in downtown Danville. On our way out we saw Tony H on the street and he asked about Brendan. After we got home and settled back into the studio, we had a major computer malfunction, as bad as the setback that hit us last winter.

Home again

Wednesday, September 21st, 2005

After tasting my smoked salmon again, I decided that it
didn’t come out so badly (it should get better with some
practice). I unpacked, reorganized, and sorted through my
email. Read over and thought about the report James
prepared on Mombo’s Trust. Got a nice reply from Kyle (no,
by Heaven, he’s not a God-cursed Spaniard!) and learned
that BCA accomplished his assigned missions. Checked out
the “Invasion” pilot on ABC. Wasted my time; it stunk…

Labor Day with BJW

Monday, September 5th, 2005

After breakfast with Mombo, Joan, and Darb, it was time to shake off the corsair dust. Dana, Marty, and I traveled to Indianapolis and spent the holiday with Bruce. He was eager for activity, so we did a wheelchair trip to the fountain courtyard and took some pictures. Then Dana cut his hair while Marty and I watched the middle part of “Clear and Present Danger,” which features the Bogota RPG assault on the SUVs. Harrison Ford reportedly did his own stunt driving in the final escape. I knew that scene was coming up, but I’d forgotten how well it had been crafted. If Ford can use his clout to make sure “I-J-4” comes anywhere close to the excitement of that sequence, it won’t even matter if Indy has a beer gut. (But I’m certain that Steven Spielberg, George Lucas, and Frank Marshall couldn’t care less about my apprehensions when it involves their decision to monkey with that trilogy.)

Coming soon to an Eagle Nest near you

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.

Mombo-style recap

Tuesday, August 9th, 2005

Walie wanted to play with toys all day. APS replaced our crashed hard drive with an even bigger one. I had a 150-yard PR time in the pool during my midday workout. The American economy continues to grow. I solved the cascading style sheets problem in the preliminary Website for Kentucky Trust Company. Dana had an informative talk with a local man who recovered from a case of pancreatitis worse than what Bruce has. Seth helped me put the finishing touches on “Pirate Revenge,” the final segment of my goofy “Houseboat Trilogy” (originated as a teen not much older than he). Discovery landed safely and the astronauts held a press conference. Josh had another night’s sleep at the Blue Bank Farm.

Memorable day in the history of my Clan

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.

Talisman, talisman, grace my hand

Tuesday, July 5th, 2005

After a visit with Bruce, we headed northeast to Celina, Ohio, watching fireworks erupt 360 degrees into the night sky on our way out of greater Indianapolis. This morning we gathered with family in St. Henry for the funeral of Aunt Alma. Mombo gave a reading and was determined to get through it—for her sister—and she did. We viewed the extraordinary Munich-style stained glass windows at St. Bernard’s in Burkettsville and then made the short trip to Maria Stein to pray at the Shrine of the Holy Relics. There’s only one or two other chapels like it in this part of the world, and it’s so unusual that I have no idea how to describe it. In fact, it will take me some time to assimilate the experience, and the way it sent tremors through my spiritual, philosophical, and historical sensibilities…

Family matters most

Monday, July 4th, 2005

The nephrologist told Bruce that his kidney has a shrinking cortex with diminished blood flow, so the call was made to discontinue the anti-rejection medication. This is heartbreaking news, and it means that Bruce faces an indefinite period of life on dialysis. This will undoubtedly slow his physical therapy, but he’s a determined fighter, as we’ve learned, and has faced down every setback so far. Dana and I are leaving now for Indianapolis to go see him with my brother Jerome, and then the three of us will head to St. Henry, Ohio to pay our respect to Mombo’s sister, our dear Aunt Alma, who passed away before her 99th birthday. I’ve been fortunate to have many outstanding role models in my life. Aunt Alma and her husband Clarence have been two of them. Gentle strength was her shining attribute, and Uncle Clarence is the finest example of sustained poise that I’ve ever witnessed.

(ps — Happy Birthday, Uncle Sam!)

At the Great American Brass Band Festival

Saturday, June 11th, 2005

Because I’m not in 5k shape, I decided to lend a helping hand at the early “Run for the Brass” event, and we had a wild scene at our water stop. The unusual 2005 course had people lapping walkers while the leaders were moving in the opposite direction. A bit complicated, especially with participants crossing in front of each other to grab cups of water. So I had everyone yelling instructions in both directions, but the guys with headsets couldn’t hear us and just did their own thing—crazy! The rest of the day was ripe with superb music and the best of family and friends. The parade was fun, I got to meet the entire Helmers caboodle (Holly, Hayley, Halle, Hannah and Henry!), Bob got a new pair of Brooks at DBF, Marty and I grilled lamb kabobs, and then we all set up at our picnic tables (perfectly located on campus, thanks to Pat) in time for a delightful evening that included Mombo, the Simpsons, plus Joan and her chums. To top it off, Gov Ernie was there to smooze the crowd, we managed to sneak a little Mondavi Zin, some digital close-ups at the foot of the stage came together nicely, and I had an opportunity to straighten everything out with Chuck (we’ll be able to pick up our bronze bowl soon, consummating that long-standing barter deal that desperately needed to be resolved). BrassRoots and Rhythm & Brass were outstanding, so we want to go back to the Festival on Sunday to hear them again, along with the DiMartino/Osland Jazz Orchestra (DOJO).

I’d better stop rambling!

Another day, another dilemma

Monday, May 30th, 2005

Mombo seemed surprised to see me shooting with the digital camera at Eagle Nest. I suppose she’s gotten used to that 33-year-old Nikkormat FTn in front of my face. I enjoy the immediacy of digital, but haven’t shaken the nagging discomfort of feeling myself slip away from negative film. Polish cinematographer Janusz Kaminski (longtime Spielberg collaborator finishing up “War of the Worlds”) has his own more influential misgivings. He worries about “our ability to preserve history photographically,” and about “creating people who accept visually inferior images as the norm.” For me the economics are forcing a reluctant shift, so I should heed his concerns, maintaining a bank of quality images and making sure they outlive me. If “digital is degrading our aesthetics,” as Kaminski fears, there’s nothing I can do about it. I think it was already happening long before this particular development (probably began with the decline of the Arts & Crafts movement). However, I can refuse to give up my desire to document my family in a way that perhaps no one else in my generation is suited to achieve.

Oldenday IV

Sunday, April 17th, 2005

You would have thought that I’d get at least one decent art teacher during my years in high school. No dice. And so I continued my bizarre attempt at artistic cultivation. I developed my own comic book characters, illustrated home-grown stories, and advanced my “Wanted Posters” into a state that was clearly an attempt at pushing my facial skills as far as I could handle without proper training. Nobody had ever told me about anatomy or life drawing. I absorbed the daily comics (I hated “Dondi” but studied the drawing). The unique intro to The Wild Wild West and the long-forgotten Lone Ranger animated series fascinated me. I became more and more interested in animation. I poured over the drawings of political artists—Herblock, Hugh Haynie, and Paul Conrad. I entertained the notion that I wanted to be an editorial cartoonist, and wrote letters to prominent exponents of the art form. But then something happened that would change everything. I saw an an advertisement from the Famous Artist School and responded. A representative actually paid a visit to our home and I begged my parents to let me give it a shot—the correspondence course that would give me the art instruction that I’d never managed to acquire. They said, “Okay,” and I will forever be grateful for this simple consent to expose me to legitimate art educators. I acknowledge now that the home-study “Course for Talent Young People” was an experiment, an attempt to market the successful adult course to a younger market. That meant nothing to me at the time. This was the school endorsed by Norman Rockwell! How could they deny me this opportunity? Well, they didn’t, even though my Mom had to cajole me into keeping up with the lessons. But a sea change had occurred. I was formally introduced to the world of art at last, fine and applied, and I was soon ready to make an informed decision about the direction of my artistic development. When my grandmother gave me a bulletin of classes from the University of Cincinnati, I was ready to choose a course of action—commericial art. No surprise. This was it! Everything else fell to the wayside…

Olden…

Oldenday I

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…

Dedicated to the reality of the good life

Saturday, March 5th, 2005

I’ve spent a surprising amount of my day updating our family Website, “Clandestiny.” Joan wrote a wonderful poem, a tribute to Mombo for her 80th birthday celebration, so I put that on there. She’s so much more talented than she gives herself credit for. Today would have been Joe’s 57th birthday, so we talked briefly on the phone. We’d already agreed that it was appropriate to change the home page, even though it’s hard to remove Joe’s picture. I hesitate to put a link to the site. It’s really a private family newsletter. Those who are interested know how to get there. I wrote, “How superb a world of human feeling our Divine Source has crafted for us, that we can travel from such sorrow to such joy in so short a time, now that our Grammo has celebrated her milestone of years, which enables us to celebrate a milestone of family love.” I truly mean that. With each family event, happy or sad, our connection to each other deepens, while at the same time we draw apart as households. I suppose it’s just the natural course of things, even within close families. I wrote an open letter to the Clan last fall, and only one person replied, but already I think that much has improved for the better, despite our devastating loss. It should work that way, I guess. It has to.

Various & Sundry, part seven

Tuesday, February 22nd, 2005

— Surprising as it might seem, I never read H.S. Thompson. Maybe it was because I had a back-stabbing co-worker in the 70s who carried on a lot about how great a writer Thompson was. Either that or I just couldn’t get past all the Ralph Steadman, which has been a bit of a mystery, since Steadman’s work was mildly influential for me at a certain point in my development as an illustrator (even though I found something fundamentally revolting about his style).

— Brendan’s new Idiotcam archive is positively super-dooper! Now I have only two major goals left in my life: building a home in the Knobs and making it into the exalted Plastic Mullet Series.

— Something about Mombo’s tribute has really sparked some childhood memories. For some reason I got to thinking about one of the most brattish (perhaps the most brattish) thing I ever did as a child. I was pretty young, so my recollection is rather hazy. I don’t think it was my birthday, so it must have taken place at Christmas. I do remember that I’d been agitating for the only toy I desperately wanted—a firetruck. My parents must have been anticipating the delight that would certainly result from their big surprise. Or maybe it was my Uncle Don who was behind it.

There it was! A bright red steel pedal-car-style fire engine complete with little wood ladders and a silver bell!

I threw a fit. Weeping dramatically, I let it be known that I was totally disappointed. How could somebody have gotten it so utterly wrong? That’s not what I wanted. What I wanted was a little firetruck that I could take out to the sand pile and play with! It was a bitter tragedy. No, it was the end of the world!

I don’t know how much longer it was before the replacement arrived, or what mixed emotions my tantrum must have triggered, but the Tonka fire engine eventually appeared, and it was a beauty. It even had a red hydrant that connected to the garden hose to supply a realistic fire-fighting stream. I have no recall as to what my reaction was. I hope I was appropriately grateful, but I may have just accepted it as merely just and overdue.

Both toys are long gone. Did the pedal car end up at the home of a cousin? Whatever became of the little fire engine? Either toy would be a valuable collector’s item today…