child care (hairy chests, hot rods & reels) part 2

uncle in question asleep on the chaise, watched over by nephew (far left) and son (center, sitting on ground)

i recommend reading part one before embarking on this journey.

pulp fiction, part two

snapshot:  it’s winter, but no snowfall yet, rodney and i are standing in the courtyard parking lot of the “corner motel” in gillette, wyoming, which our grandparents own.   in this black and white photo we’re both bundled up in parkas and caps, i may have my mittens clipped to my sleeves; rodney has no gloves.   we’ve been interrupted by an adult (my mother, uncle, grandmother?  it is definitely not my grandfather, if it were up to him there would be no record of the people in his life) as we’re playing with parachutes that we’ve made out of handkerchiefs, string and a stone.  i don’t remember who knew how to construct such an object, but once we had them made, out we went to see who’s would work the best.   we can’t be any older than 6 or 7 and you can tell by the look on our faces that whoever thought a picture would be a good idea is living on another planet.  we have that particular glow that children surround themselves with when they are deeply involved in playing.  it is always best to leave them alone then.

my mother’s mother and step-father, through hard work and their tenacious character, scratched  a pretty decent living for themselves out of the red dirt of gillette, wyoming.  my grandmother had homesteaded with her mother and brother outside of rozet in 1924, moving from the fertile farmland of southwestern iowa to what is still considered the godforsaken plains of northeastern wyoming.  the land was cheap and new beginnings were all the rage.  my grandmother was divorced with two children (a daughter–my mother–and a son); once in gillette and only 28 she soon fell in love with my grandfather, who owned a gas station.  they went on to become respected citizens and business owners, you might even say pillars of the community.  they lived frugally, the one conspicuous display of wealth was a new car every year (paid in full with cash).  they had one son, my uncle (see photo above), who had one son (my cousin, also an only child, just two days older than i).  when my grandfather died he left a considerable sum of money to my uncle, as his natural born child, and left nothing to my mother or her brother.  my mother was hurt by this but said nothing, what good would it do to complain, she loved her half brother and money does have a tendency to spoil things, why let it get in the way of their relationship.

snapshot:  there is no photograph from this excursion rodney and i took with our grandparents, at least one that i know of, so this memory photograph, like the previous one, is in black and white.  my grandfather was a rock hound, an amateur lapidarist, a tinkerer with stones–in his garage he had a tumbler to polish them, a saw to cut them and if he was in the mood, he would make a piece of jewelry out of the stone for my grandmother.  i have a pair of agate cufflinks he made for me one christmas, it was his hobby.  they’ve been visiting us in rapid city, a holiday, a birthday, a religious celebration (although only i among all of the other relatives, actually attended a church on a regular basis.  my mother insisted that i have the experience of belonging to a church. when i would complain about going alone, she’d say that when i was 18 i could make up my own mind about god, but until then i would be going to church.)  they’ve picked up rodney and i — we are probably a few years older than the last snapshot — in their nash rambler and we’ve headed southeast out of town, looking for a dry gulch that my grandfather had heard was so full of agates that you could just pick them up off the ground.  we’re walking down a dirt road, rodney and my grandfather ahead of me and my grandmother–the two of us much less interested in this past time than we let on.  there are huge cottonwood trees shading the road and they separate it from the dry gulch my grandfather is now searching.  this particular scene is filled with dust, the warmth of the dirt road seeping up into my canvas shoes, my hand in my grandmother’s.

my step-father, however, was of a different mind about this, he knew the slight had hurt my mother grievously and so he spoke with my uncle (what i would have given to have been there when that conversation took place!) about the distribution of grandpa’s money.  a few weeks later, i received a check with a 1 and several zeros after it with a note from my mother saying that it was my share of the inheritance and to invest it wisely.  although i believe my uncle would have eventually (as he did) let this change of plan slide by, his wife, that paragon of everything housewifery, was furious.  ”we stole that money from them, it was rightfully theirs, and we had no reason to have interfered, we were (my step-father particularly) horrible people and deserved their opprobrium.”  whew.  that was all subtext though, because she continued to plaster over any bumps or flaws in her life with her perfection.  we only knew the truth because my uncle told my mother.

snapshot:  this photograph, also a memory only, is in color.  it carries with it the smell of a school cafeteria and the thrum of kid’s excited voices as they move between classes, sliding down the terrazzo flooring, the noise bouncing off of the metal lockers.  rodney and i are sophomores in high school and i, because of my height, have spotted him a few yards ahead of me in the hallway, surrounded by his friends/classmates.  i call out to him, “rodney”, and he turns to look and see who is calling his name.  when he sees that it’s me his animated expression turns to a stony glare and in the split second that this happens, i realize that we will never be friends.   we did not speak to each other again (unless at a family event and then it would be routine, formal replies to “how are you?” “fine.” “how’s school?” “fine.”).  my friends who knew both of us had no idea we were even related.

before you think, “oh robert, why, why are you telling us this?  it’s so personal, surely there’s another side to the story,” i want to share with you two letters that i received shortly after my mother’s death.  one is from my stepfather and enclosed with it was one my aunt had sent him a week after my mother’s funeral. let’s listen to aunt marilyn first, shall we?:

Sat A.M.

Hi Roy,

Just a short note along with the card.  I’m so sorry about Evelyn, but guess we all knew this was the way it was to be- We will truly miss her even tho she was so far away.

Ralph and Scrub [my maternal grand-uncle] arrived home about 3:00 yesterday–I’m so sorry that Ralph didn’t have the opportunity to see Evelyn one more time- This was his wish, but for some reason it was not granted [granted has been underlined by Roy]–

Evelyn and I had visited about Bessie’s Jade ring – We agreed Evelyn was to have it until she was finished with it and then it was to be mine – She said she would see to it that i did [underlined by my aunt] receive this ring – Since Ralph didn’t bring it home with him, I trust that you plan to send it to me – I will be watching [underlined by Roy] for it

Ralph tells me you are going to Colo sometime this summer and are planning on coming to R.C.  We’ll look forward to seeing you

Sincerely Marilyn

all i can think is that the lack of punctuation and the selective use of the dash indicates a rage bubbling just below the surface of this letter.  her cursive writing is like that of most educated women her age…the excellent palmer method, clear, slanted and concise.  as it would be.

on the day he received the letter, he sent it to me with this note:

Hi Robert

Just a note for to-day hope everything is ok with you.  im trying to stay busy but sometimes the place kind of closes in on me.

I got the enclosed letter from your Aunt to-day.  I want you to read the 3rd paragraph carefully.  I just couldn’t believe it.  I would like to hear your comments on this the next time we talk.  Your mother and I had never talked about this ring at all.

take care 

Roy.

i do not remember if the ring was sent to marilyn or not; i imagine that it was not.  this then is how my uncle and i stopped talking for nearly 15 years.  roy and i did manage to make that trip to colorado a couple of summers later, driving from the missouri ozarks across nebraska and into colorado up to wyoming and into south dakota.   i had sent my aunt a note that we were on this trip and when we would be in rapid city and that we would call when we got in.

“hi aunt marilyn, it’s robert.”

“rodney [her son] and maggie have photos for you of your grandparent’s grave, you can pick them up at the hobby shop.  ralph and i don’t have time to see you.”

o.k.  i call the hobby shop–this is what rodney had done with his inheritance (considerably more than i had received, but the amount never really mattered to me and to this day, i’ve tried to be nice to him and his ex-wife, maggie, whenever necessary); friends of his mother’s had owned the hobby shop on main st. in downtown rapid for many years, they were ready to retire, so he bought them out.

snapshot: there is no photo of our meeting rodney and his wife.  i will tell you that it was high summer in rapid city; the sun was beating hard on the pavement–there may have been some cumulus clouds on the horizon.  roy and i have had a wonderful trip together, we’ve visited friends in colorado (my mother’s ex-lesbian lover mary and her new partner); we’ve gone fishing and generally just shared the vista of the high plains with each other.  but now as we walk down the street from the motel where we were staying to the hobby shop, you can almost hear the spurs clanking, faces shaded from the noonday sun by cowboy hats as we draw nearer and nearer to…and were greeted (that may be too kind of a word) by rodney and his wife.  by blocking the door, they obviously had no intention of letting us in; rodney hands me an envelope with my name written on it in marilyn’s tidy script and said, “here are the photos of grandma and grandpa’s graves, we’re busy, good-bye,” and turned and went back into the store, closing the door behind them.

i wish i could remember what happened next.  i do know that we spent the night in rapid, and we may have had plans to stay a little bit longer and poke around and see the sights (we did drive by our old house up on willsie street), but the next morning, we both got up about the same time and packed our bags and left.  i haven’t been back since.

yes, yes, i know, it’s titled pulp fiction, and i know you’re sitting at your computer reading this and wondering how this will all come together and i’m not sure there is a clear connection.  i know that my aunt and my uncle hurt my step-father in two different ways:  my aunt’s venality is clearly the most obvious, but the worst to me though was my uncle’s silence through all of this.

but i do know this.  rodney should have spent some time reading those pulp fiction magazines of his father’s and taken to heart the lessons that were plainly spoken in those pages; about how real men treat each other and how, in spite of differences, everyone deserves your respect.

leaf and feather

 

little moments.   unexpected relationships.   a leaf, a feather, concrete.  it’s remarkable to me that a leaf has so much in common with a feather, is it not to you?  a lost feather is to a bird what a fallen leaf is to a plant.  and there is the why, of course, oftentimes unanswerable, and granted one could argue, “well, that’s nature taking its course,” but to the plant and to the bird, is it not much more?  i may be imposing myself upon these living beings (can a plant be a being or is it a just a living thing?  discuss.)   existence or nothingness, cycles (for every season–already running through your head, we are after all, filled with the triteness of our everyday existence and we cannot help but skim it off  the thoughts that are always so close to the top of our consciousness, that deep, cool pool–yes, in all of us.  i guess one could argue that that is what separates an artist from the rest of us–the ability to express themselves without resorting to the tried and true; dipping their hand down into the darkness and grabbing at what lays there and bringing it into the light of our consciousness;  our responsibility to listen, see, touch, feel.)

time stands still (storm clouds & other weather patterns)

the contents of a purple spiral notebook started this:

not all revolutions are organized, some are more organic, & as they develop momentum they attract more & more participants (often without even knowing they are part of this revolution.)  such is my case.  oh, i knew something had changed (& changed dramatically,) but if you had asked me at the time, say shortly after september 1973, how i felt about being a part of this major shift in the social fabric of our country, i would have had to say, “what shift?”

i only knew what had happened to me.  none of my friends were political, although we knew we wielded a certain power (& still do) & maybe we were cognizant of a force, an energy that propelled our lives as a group; we were more vocal, less afraid, ready to stand & fight if needed (we did, respect followed.)  we were suddenly everywhere.

one of the reasons, i believe, that the movie “the wizard of oz” is a favorite of so many of my fellows (& fellowettes, if i may) is that dramatic shift in tone from the black & white kansas scenes & *bam!* like that, the technicolor of oz.  that well describes what was happening in cities around the country after the new york summer of 1969 & the stonewall uprising.    lives lived in black & white were suddenly awash in color.  you may not be able to grasp the difference or even care, but i’ll tell you this, it was grand.  it was liberating, it was freedom,  it was ownership, it was time.

this change may not have seeped into the hinterland & consequently there was a great migration (a watershed, a deforestation, a culling); new arrivals everyday, trains, buses, beat-up old cars (& new ones too);  the ellis island were bars & restaurants & maybe a friend who had made the move the year before.

it seemed at once completely open & yet still hidden (the sex part.)  it was the attraction of one to another that dragged behind the social movement; there was still so much condemnation of the physical act hanging around inside our minds that moving our love to the front still seemed too difficult a task.

we could not reconcile our desire with our upbringing.  (substitute the plural for the singular.) at first i fell in love (a lot,) but not everyone fell in love with me, which i could not understand in light of the revolutionary zeal swirling around us.  wasn’t it supposed to be different?  why would we want what they had?  but there were these barriers, social, political, cultural that many of us still carted around & threw down around us when the need arose (and oftentimes when it did not.)

although i had a rich circle of friends (not money-rich, well some, but mostly we were all working, scraping by, there were still road blocks to hiring in fields outside of what was expected: waiter, hairdresser, florist, designer, clothing salesman,) i often found myself alone.  i walked along the lake shore, i rode my bike along the lake shore, i took the bus along the lake shore, i sat in my studio apartment on the 11th floor & watched the sun set in the west.

& i wrote about it.   i wrote so i wouldn’t forget, regardless of its literary merit (i’m only publishing it now for illustration,) & granted i did not write about it enough.  the lingering fear of loss (my first journal stolen in an armed robbery months before) a brick wall.

friends & lovers (but never classified as lovers, but what else to call them?  we made love once, twice, weekly, on occasion, whenever we were lonely or would find ourselves at last call & why not?  it beat being alone,) came & went.

i’ve been thinking about the loving part a lot this week, due in part to the discovery of this old purple spiral notebook (originally marked for french 361, explication de texte, my sophomore year at moorhead, oof, stendahl’s “le rouge et le noir” & camus & balzac & “fleurs du mal” a spectrum of french literature, en francais,) but instead of finding graded papers inside, i discovered bits & pieces of time.   standing still.  the weather captured in a single line, my feelings, & my life in my early twenties, a window display for passersby to peer at & wonder if that outfit would look good on them.

but i cannot find the words to talk about that loving or perhaps i do not want to find the words or even this could be the wrong place to discuss the loving.  so many times it was desperate, clinging, hopeful (this one!), so many times it was wrong, it was forced, it was forgotten.  all of our expectations were based on what we had seen growing up, we had no role model for love (or for sex, i make the distinction, because as men, there is a distinction, please don’t try to deny it.)

i envied those in committed relationships, but felt stifled when i thought i might be in one (this before i did finally, completely fall in love,) i desired the continuity & yet fought against it as if it were the reason we rioted for our freedom (which may yet be true.)

perhaps you can understand this apparent storm cloud of conflict that still rages within me & perhaps you can’t.   it does not matter to me, but what does matter is that time did stop this week.  i looked at these jottings & notes & lovers that came & went (some i remember, some even still alive & friends, & others i have no memory of,) & while storm clouds roiled & tumbled (ink scratches & squiggles like the lines above) in real life, i was able to look to my past & see my future.

what painting are you?

let’s say you’re being interviewed by barbara walters in prime time & not on “the view”  (it could happen.)  she’s asked you about your  success at/in/because of ________ & you’ve plugged your most recent book/movie/stage play/feat of heroism & then she pauses, looks you in the eye as she licks her lips (you know what’s coming, her publicist gave your publicist the list of questions ahead of the interview, but because your private jet was late arriving in nyc & your iphone/blackberry/android ran out of juice, you had just received them minutes before the interview, but you did know she was going to ask you this):  “wobert, what painting are you?”

it’s not “what tree are you?” & consequently it’s a much more difficult question to answer.  if you’ve any relationship with art, the answer suddenly becomes fraught with pitfalls & potholes.  there are  so many to choose from!  they each represent such diverse emotions!  if i say ______ by ___ _______ will i sound elitist?  but if i try to identify with my market share, & answer _______ by ____ _______, will i be perceived to be common by my peers?  but i like them both, you opine!

“today, barbara, i am _______ ________ by ______ _______,” you state, “but tomorrow or even later today, i might be ____ __ by _____ ______, because i am many different paintings & could not possibly choose just one to represent who i am.”

this is me today:

fernand léger 1881-1955 french, composition indienne, 1942, oil on linen, h 940 mm w 800 mm, signed and dated

atelier fernand léger, no. 134; galerie louise leiris, paris; perls galleries, new york; thomas gibson fine art, london

literature: georges bauquier “fernand léger”, le catalogue raisonné de l’oeuvre peint.  maeght, paris 1998.  tome vi, 1938-1943, no. 1095

ain’t that a shame

last night our next door neighbors tom & bill (not their real names.  all the names in this post have been changed.) threw a going-away party for our neighbors, mary & joe (one house over) who have lost their home to foreclosure.    shit happens & this post is not about the whys or wherefores of mary & joe’s financial management capabilities.   all we know (or care about) is that they’ve been wonderful neighbors over a decade of living in our community.

the evening started out on the patio accompanied the tinkling music of the fountain & the setting sun.  as the beer & wine began to ease conversation, the 9 of us gathered around the table & shared stories about our day/week/month/job/or lack thereof/the crazy neighbors/the noisy neighbors/the messy neighbors & how we’re suddenly the ‘old’ people in the community as many of those who came before us have either died or moved into ‘assisted living’ facilities (which was also a topic of conversation.)

as usual with summer in southern california there was a mash-up of patterns (plaid & stripes & florals, both hawaiian & mainland) without much to-do (it’s been my experience that they invariably sort themselves out.)

3 out of 6 men sported moustaches (including the author.)  do you think it’s a grooming trend or is it just a reflection of the times we came of age in?  (that would be the ’70s for the uninitiated.)

another stat:  4 out of 7 men in attendance are bald/balding (including the author,) but not in denial about it & are rather celebratory about their lack of hair.

the table was beautifully set, sparkling & shimmering with candlelight & silver & shiny ceramics & the scent of roses & decanted wine filled the air.  the pitcher of lemon water sweated sweetly on its trivet as we juggled & giggled our way into our chairs.

there was no need to talk about the elephant in the room (not the republican elephant, although we did discuss politics — surprisingly not everyone is a bleeding heart liberal in our group, but everyone was respectful of the opinions of others & if we didn’t completely convert those on the right, we at least all agreed that government should help those who need it most; the indigent, the poor, & those whose disabilities inhibit their independence.)

bill, one of our hosts, hails from the eastern seaboard & illustrates his conversation with a bevy of gesturing that not only emphasizing the point he is makng, but also is extremely entertaining.  if you comment on it, he’ll just say, “what?”

it was good to spend time with all of our neighbors & celebrate new opportunities & reminisce about much of what is past & salute our departing friends with a hug & a smile.

what happened?

"nous somme" (we are) original drawing by Mike Tracy

a few weeks ago, for a video project at work, i spent several hours watching unused footage from a documentary about the childhood of artist _____ _____.   because i have worked for the family of this man for many, many years, some of what i saw & heard was already familiar to me, & although i am familiar with his work, his writing & much of his life, i still find little revelations popping up in his story-telling (truth & fiction) that are completely captivating & charming.

even when the tale was one i’ve heard or read several times in the past, he could & did sometimes add a little nugget not revealed before that made the telling all the more revelatory.  & naturally, as he was never without a pencil & a pad/sheet/stack of paper, he would draw to illustrate (sometimes) what it was he was talking about; at other times he would draw almost as if it were an automatic extension of the words not coming from his mouth (letting the drawing do the talking.)

as happens whenever you have this kind of familiarity with a subject, what may on the surface seem/be familiar, depending on what’s happening in your life, the moment/the word/the deed may resonate more deeply with you than it had in the past. so during this several hour project i found myself listening to little explosions of truth that seemed directly aimed at my own life.

i believe we can all agree that that’s what gives reading/watching/listening (i.e. involved in the enjoyment of the arts) its purpose (resonating with our lives.)  those moments when you discover yourself inside a work of literature, art, music, dance.  it could be that you recognize yourself, a characterization, a reflection of your personality, the resolution of a problem in your life in the words/thoughts/deeds/movement of an artist.

this is what i heard in one of the videotapes:  “my wife & i decided early on that we did not want to argue, ever.  instead of asking why, we ask ‘what happened?’ and that has made all the difference in our relationship.”

no accusatory ‘why?’ instead the engaging ‘what happened?’  tell me what happened.  that simple turn of phrase completely diffuses any situation & puts you both on the same side.  of course, it takes some strength of character to manage that, because aren’t we all wanting to be on the right side?  the side of reason/truth/beauty?  but by simply saying ‘what happened?’ you balance the scales & can calmly proceed to learn to meet head-on & manage the little conflicts & upsets that plague all relationships.

warning:  it’s not as easy at sounds.  i am still working on bringing that phrase to the light of day.  i will say that i am at the point of at least recognizing that it’s an option & i believe i may have used it (it works!), but don’t expect overnight success.   you may expect a softening, a deflation of overwrought emotion, a stillness will descend, a conversation will follow, resolution will be at hand (easily in reach, instead of a distant shore.)

tell me, what happened.