We’re leaving together for our first journey north in quite a while, and, after the pattern of last year, I feel a bit rusty getting ready. Before our arrival at Bruce’s place, we’ll spend some time at the Menke Homestead in Dark County, Ohio. I met James Michael Menke in 1970 as a
fall-quarter freshman at the University of Cincinnati. After running
into John Michael Hoover (a grade-school chum from the community our
family had left six years previously), I soon became aware of “the
Mikes,” two quickly popular roommates living a couple dorm floors beneath me. Somebody must have considered it logical to pair a James and John without knowing that they both went by their common middle name of Mike. 35 years later, one Mike has long vanished, but the other is
still my “best buddy.”
Archive for the ‘Time’ Category
First 2006 road trip
Friday, January 6th, 2006My 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.
Day Five at Barefoot’s Resort
Friday, September 16th, 2005Yesterday’s conditions were spectacular—clear skies and calm water, so we got in a good day of fishing. The early-morning “zinger” was seeing a big pike with a half-eaten fish in the clear water off the starboard (shore) side on our way out to Yacht Entrance. It confirmed a positive turn in the ecology of the Les Cheneaux. Bill and I each boated a small salmon with some well-considered work in the zone off Boot Island. With the weather remaining glorious, we headed over the reef to “Salmon Alley,” hoping to find a Chinook near the shipping lane. JD came up with a decent Coho instead, the biggest fish of the day. When we snagged our lines in unfamiliar waters near Strongs Island, due to our worries about the presence of Indian nets at East Entrance, we figured it was best to call it a day.
Our good buddy Mike had arrived on Wednesday afternoon. He treated us to some perfect BBQ chicken from the grill that night. Mike doesn’t fish, but loves to relax near the dock while we’re out on the water, which I’ve come to learn he doesn’t do very often with his fast-paced lifestyle as a top salesman in the food service industry. Last night, after the five of us enjoyed an evening at the Islander Bar in Hessel, he dropped his bummer bombshell on us—a diagnosis of aggressive rheumatoid arthritis, a potentially crippling medical condition. It’s been difficult to think about anything else since, because now I can see he’s moving much too slowly for the dynamic guy I’ve known. I felt odd when he watched me do my third channel swim yesterday. Before supper on the day he got here, I discovered a ten-pound boat anchor during my daily swim—a quarter mile out, naturally—so I got the brilliant notion to carry it back with a lifesaving stroke. It didn’t feel very heavy at first, but it was a real challenge not to drop it before I made it back. I’m sure I said some kind of cocky remark to Mike after the meaningless feat, not aware yet of his progressive debilitation. The ego can be nothing but trouble, for the most part.
Today’s weather was almost as pleasant as yesterday’s, so we basically replicated the course of action from Thursday’s expedition. After a “strike out” at the “Booty Zone,” we tried “Salmon Alley” and Bob scored his first ever salmon, a nine-pounder. Bill came back with a small pink, and then I was “up to bat.” I targeted some work in 60-to-70-foot waters, but had no hits for the rest of the session. I remained in the captain’s role when we visited the bay near the dolomite-loading port later in the evening. I was still in standby mode until a few minutes after 8 o’clock when a fish with some apparent size to it hit the port-side “dipsy-diver” line. It’s a wild feeling when the adrenals kick in after so much tedious effort, but that’s what salmon fishing is all about. JD performed an excellent netting action to help get my King into the boat. It’s appearance—a skin tone that lacked a degree of silvery gleam—indicated it was on the way to spawning waters. When we got back, it weighed in almost 12-1/2 pounds, so I steaked out most of it, fillet-cutting the tail end. It seemed to take me forever. I’m pretty slow at the fish-cleaning table, but what need is there to be in a hurry?
Hot gates vs cool heads
Monday, August 22nd, 2005I can’t get “Gates of Fire” off the front of my mind today. It’s at times like this I could use a basic intellect boost (remember that Krell device in “Forbidden Planet?”) and coalesce all my fragments of thought to produce a single, coherent insight. To be more specific, I keep thinking of Thermopylae, and what it meant, and, beyond that, the place it holds in our history. How many times has it inspired those who faced impossible odds, or given meaning to sacrifices that would serve no immediate purpose other than to lay the groundwork for a subsequent overcoming, or compelled strivers to place the welfare of the many over life itself? And if so, it must be true that knowledge of the heroic feat was present in the mental quiver of an educated person. Is that still true today? If you asked a hundred Americans old enough to vote, how many of them would recognize the word “Thermopylae?” And of those, how many would know what it meant? And of those, how many could explain its significance to Western Civilization? And of those, how many would believe it was a positive contribution to the world that followed? And who among them might speculate with me about how the event had perhaps influenced Wallace and his Scots? Washington and his Rabble? Houston and his Texicans? Churchill, Roosevelt, and Eisenhower and the ordinary men they motivated to storm death’s sanctum on both sides of the planet?
—may contain spoilers—
I wish I had the capacity to take Pressfield‘s premise—that Leonidas hand-picked the 300 Spartan warriors, not for their own character, but for the character of their wives, mothers, and daughters, knowing that the ultimate victory would come to pass when the embattled Greeks took heart from the conduct of the Spartan people, which would in turn be based on the Spartans observing the conduct of the women who would survive their slain husbands, sons, and fathers—and apply it to the national dilemma we face today. I wish I had the ability to write cogently about our collective response to the public posture of American women such as Cindy Sheehan, Evelyn Husband, and Shannon Spann, and what it may indicate for our future as a society, and the longevity of the institutions we inherit from the ancients—from that time when the very survival of human freedom as a concept balanced on a spear point called Thermopylae.
There now. If you managed to wade all the way through that swirling, whiny muck above to reach this point, dear reader, all I can do is kiss you lightly on the forehead and say, “Thank you. Now, please go hose yourself off…”
The Curse of Cap’n Lice
Friday, August 19th, 2005Brendan set up a nice Web-based device for further development of our pirate concepts… better ration myself on that one. Makes me realize I could easily take a two-week vacation and devote it entirely to filling up a similar site with ideas from “The Legend.”
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…
Now, that’s more like it
Thursday, July 28th, 2005Bike, swim, run… within 24 hours…
Chapter Two— at long last
Tuesday, July 26th, 2005Our Comeback Kid
Wednesday, June 15th, 2005For somebody who just had his belly split open and rinsed, Bruce is doing remarkably well. His spirits are good and he’s more talkative than he’s been in weeks.
At the nursing station I saw a stack of papers, with rubber banks around chunks of it. Since I saw the top section had Bruce’s name on it, I asked if that one was his. “Oh no,” was the reply, “This whole stack is his chart, from the time he was admitted.”
All eleven inches of it.
Oldenday IX
Friday, June 3rd, 2005By adolescence, our collection of evolving characters and plot-lines had detached itself from playtime notions or other childhood limitations. We made an effort to shed not only elements of fantasy, but anything out of conformity to the “historical accuracy” of our invented world—the land of “The Pirates.” We used the term in its broadest sense. The band of half-brothers central to our story were not the classic “Howard Pyle types,” but true corsairs from the standpoint of their disregard for societal constraints or prevailing authority. Their adventurous conduct was governed by a common code of mutual survival and respect for each other’s keen abilities. That our story had no fixed beginning or end was well accepted by us all, and we felt free to add new personalities, ethnicities, and anecdotes, as long as they seemed to fit within a narrative continuum that was constantly pushing forward and backward in time. Revisions in service to coherence would pass muster and shape the new legacy. It’s hard to describe the shared excitement and the satisfaction of knowing that we could never be bored if we were together, because the joy of adding to our open-ended chronicles was just a collective daydream away. A mere suggestion could trigger a new layer of creative integration. I’m not sure when it happened, but we started to document a few things here and there, and before long it was apparent that there was no end to the depth and richness of the mosaic. I can’t say it was clear to us at the time that it would prove to be a lifelong pursuit, but we did appreciate its staying power and understood that it was certain to continuously improve. It’s no surprise to any imaginative individual that youth is often fertile ground for an enduring artistic vision. I just recently listened to Ron Howard explain that the premise of how he’d create his motion picture about the Great Depression derived from ideas he had in high school. By the time the oldest of us were settled into college life, we had quite a head of steam with our own story project, but we didn’t anticipate the explosion of development that was about to take place in “The Legend.”
Warm heart vs cold eyeball
Friday, May 20th, 2005I realized that our financial pinch has been going on for over a year. Lots of reasons for it. I just need to identify and deal with them, one by one. We’ve been giving away a lot of work, that’s for damn sure. I watched Rose interview Lucas tonight and was taken with the film maker’s remark about when he got started. He just expected his films to flop because nine out of every ten movies made are failures, but he learned the value of persistence and the importance of manipulating the system to one’s advantage, because talent and intelligence aren’t enough.
The State of the Artisan
Thursday, May 19th, 2005I’ve been dealing with vendors for 30 years now—printers, sign fabricators, product manufacturers, film labs, paper mills, display companies, et-cetera—and it’s true that “the more things change, the more they stay the same.” The landscape has been transformed (long gone are the typesetters, photostat technicians, and dot etchers), and new services never contemplated in the 70s are commonplace (stock photo agencies, Web hosts, and digital technology suppliers), but one simple fact remains. People who appreciate quality, pay attention to detail, and have respect for their craft are still the gold standard in the graphic arts industry. All the rest are just going through the motions, and will never understand what I’m talking about.
Cosmorama-dama-ding-dong
Friday, May 6th, 2005There’s a pattern that presents itself when I create one of my collage artworks, and it can be described something like this— As a concept gradually takes shape over a period of days, individual components are selected by contrast of color, size, and aesthetic associations, often involving the assembly of miniature configurations that will function as units. The formal compositional phase is then executed with intuitive dispatch within a concentrated block of time. After at least one night’s sleep, the third and final step is one of refinement, when the design is finessed with the placement of smaller elements to anchor the proper visual balance. Tonight I completed “act two” of the piece I’m donating to the Art-full Raffle (sponsored by the Arts Commission of Danville/Boyle County next week to raise funds for local arts scholarships).
Take note
Thursday, May 5th, 200505-05-05 . . . Cosmic!
[Permit me to sheepishly admit that I’ve been subsequently made aware of how a similar thing will happen every thirteen months for the next seven years or so, and my full-throated Banana-Man WOW is reduced to a low-key Ben-Stein wow…]
This one’s on the Haus
Thursday, April 28th, 2005Precisely three years ago, Marty and I spent much of our day documenting and dismantling my 50th birthday “Haus of Cards” retrospective exhibition. At the time I thought it might be the high point of my card-making activity, and I was probably right. After a peak of 309 hand-made cards in 1999, I created 166 in both 2000 and 2001, bumped it back up to 189 the year of my Danville show, but saw the total fall to 105 by the close of 2004. So far this year I’ve made 22, a far cry from those productive years, when I might top 50 or 60 cards by Brendan’s birthday.
Listen; partake not of quotations ye disdaineth, but believe
Monday, April 25th, 2005“Every noble work is at first impossible.” —Carlyle
His transplanted kidney declared a loss, Bruce nevertheless takes up the fight.
“An enterprise, when fairly once begun, should not be left till all that ought is won.” —Shakespeare
Branches of prayer extend as the roots of the faithful deepen.
“A good intention clothes itself with power.” —Emerson
Thirty-eight days later, when renal function is restored, doctors are heard to use the word “miracle.”
“The divine insanity of noble minds, that never falters nor abates, but labors, endures, and waits, till all that it foresees it finds, or what cannot find, creates.” —Longfellow
And to top it all off, a lost hat is restored!
Passing Olga
Sunday, April 24th, 2005I knew I’d been spending a lot of time at Methodist Hospital when too many people looked familiar. That was about two and half weeks ago. I saw a lady in the hall today, walking in the opposite direction. It didn’t surprise me to recognize her as one of the cashiers from the cafeteria, but I freaked myself out when I realized I knew her name. Good Lord… Bruce has been in there over five weeks.
Oldenday V
Monday, April 18th, 2005I 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…
At times like this
Tuesday, April 12th, 2005My wife Dana and I want to thank each of you—individually, in person, if we could—for your many messages of support. For now, please know that they are much appreciated.
Bruce was able to sit up and talk on Friday, but seemed tired on Saturday. Since we’d arrived in Indianapolis the previous Saturday with clothes for only two days, we needed to get home. We got back to Danville late Saturday, but didn’t get much sleep that night.
Since we hadn’t seen Marty during his spring break, we took him out for dinner on Sunday. During the meal we got the call that Bruce was failing (high temperature, growing infection, pneumonia out of control). We packed up and headed back to Indy. The message we’d received was so alarming that Marty and his mom Terie came with us, despite the fact that school would be back in session on Monday. This time we grabbed our dog, too.
Bruce was stable by the time we arrived, back on a ventilator, but blood pressure and pulse were erratic. By early afternoon, he was resting fairly well and went into surgery to remove a temporary stint (a possible source of the continuing infection) that is used for dialysis, and replace it with a different type. A permanent fistula was considered, but it was decided that he’s too ill to go under anesthesia.
He was sleeping comfortably last night with better vital signs. He’s still under heavy sedation, but he does react to his mother’s voice and can respond to questions with a slight nod. He’s receiving nutrition through a nose tube that goes directly into the small intestine, bypassing the stomach and pancreas. His nurse told Dana that patients with pancreatitis this severe sometimes remain in the ICU three months or more and in the hospital for months longer–a true test of endurance. Regular drives back and forth to Indiana will seem easy by comparison. On Sunday I got to talk to a friend who reminded me that a local acquaintance spent six months in the hospital with pancreatitis, and that it was two years before he was totally his old self. Bruce has the will to undergo a long recuperation if his situation can just stabilize, but I honestly don’t know if his mate has the stamina for what lies ahead.
It is at times like this that Dana and I are reminded how much we value our family (powerful, quiet support) and our friends (an amazing outpouring of affection).
We’re truly grateful for the positive thoughts and prayers. We’ll need them for some time to come…
(Dana helped with this entry.)
Various & Sundry, part thirteen
Friday, April 1st, 2005— Month of March workout totals: Swim-7; Bike-3; Run-3; Lift-7.
— Time to boost my running and cycling mileage. Plenty of mild weather ahead; no more excuses for the recent pitiful stats.
— Today at my Rotary luncheon I sat next to a retired English professor who’d served on a nearby ship during the battle for Iwo Jima. It caused me to think of Josh, with the profound hope that in 60 years, he, too, might be enjoying a pleasant meal with his friends.
— We’ll be heading back to Indiana tomorrow to visit Bruce. His ongoing exhaustion remains a concern to us. We can’t overlook the steady improvement, though, even if the pace has been tortuous.
— Stalin supposedly scoffed, “How many divisions does the Pope have?” More than adequate, as we’ve come to see, with the collapse of Soviet Communism in the 1980s, due in part to the bold stand for human freedom taken by this Polish priest turned world leader.
Seeing Danny
Thursday, March 31st, 2005March goes out
like a lamb (he pronounces too smugly).
What a glorious day to walk to campus and swim my first laps since making the decision to switch from the Wellness Center pool. I saw a friend on the way, so we chatted, although I should correct myself and point out that a conversation with Danny can hardly be called a “chat.” In 10 to 15 minutes we touched on Bruce’s ordeal, prayer, grace, the soul, despair, suicide, Socrates, Hunter S. Thompson, Hemingway, St John of the Cross, the death of Terri Schiavo, eternity, Thomas à Kempis, and the origins of monastic life. There’s never been time for “small talk” when Danny and I see each other, which isn’t often enough. When I got to Centre the water temperature and chlorine level were just right. The sun was pouring through the skylights. Even the shower-head couldn’t have been in more satisfactory adjustment. When I tested the speed of my freestyle stroke, I matched my personal-best, single-lap sprint time. Perfection.
September, 1997
Tuesday, March 29th, 2005I was just thinking back to a Labor Day weekend, seven and a half years ago. I’d just completed an annual event called the “Pound & Pedal” (which has a bit of a reputation in Central Kentucky), and was faced with a trivial choice: should I stick around to enjoy the post-race festivities or go home with my wife Dana?
Permit me to back up a little. In the P&P, two partners compete with other teams by alternating running and cycling— four five-mile legs for a race total of 20 miles. It’s fun if you get in shape for it. The guy who starts out on the bike drops it at the five-mile mark for his teammate, who picks it up and cranks it to the half-way point before his running cohort arrives. It works out best to have the stronger athlete start out on foot (similar to one of those mathematical story problems on an IQ test). With the exertion behind us for the day, my chum Roger had the blender fired up for the cactus juice, and the hot tub was being uncovered.
It was just about that time when we got the phone call. Bruce was going immediately into surgery. A matching kidney had become available. He’d made the nontrivial choice of accepting the sudden donation.
We dropped what we were doing and headed toward Lexington, with the full realization that another decision even more intense had been made at the same time. We found out later that the parents of a 13-year-old child (who’d reached the end of a life that was undeniably too short) had just given the difficult go-ahead to the ever-waiting organ harvesters…