Last altered 8-19-08 12:12 pm, 2:40 pm, 6:51 pm

"Describe a time when you were incredibly tired...
SO tired, you truly had NOTHING left."

Tighten up your shoe laces, it's gonna be a long hike, folks.

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A scenario I repeated many, many times over just as many years was at the Great Sand Dunes National Monument in southwestern Colorado:

When at the 8,000-10,000 foot altitude, there is NO more difficult hiking than at the Great Dunes. Even when I was twenty one years old, even when I was bicycling as much as sixty miles in a day, even when I was not smoking, even when I WAS smoking AND jogging at the same time (true), nothing tested me more than those World's Highest Dunes. One of the gold medal Olympic runners did much of his training there. THAT should tell you something. Seriously.

The hike TO the Great Dunes (from the camp site) is about a mile, maybe more, across somewhat firm desert ground. You leave in the early morning to start your exploration - when the colors are soft, the air is cool, and you are rested. Deer herds are nearby, quietly chewing on bushes. They watch you pass by. Crazy humans are running and dancing and acting very excited about reaching those huge, beautiful mountains of pure sand... and they ARE MOUNTAINS.

Eventually, you leave behind the packed earth, stones, cacti, and deer, and reach a wide, flat, valley of sand. Further across, you meet a wide, flowing snow-melt stream running over that pure, tan-colored sand flat. It's as much as a couple of hundred yards wide, depending on the snows that last winter. Everyone takes off their shoes. It is pure joy. The stream is like meeting the Other Mother you didn't realize you had. "Veteran" campers don't leave shoes off for long, however... THEY'VE already had their feet sunburnt so badly (in years past) that wearing shoes was impossible for next couple of days. You are seduced. The cool clear water feels so wonderful and healthy and gentle, you forget that the intense sun is cutting right through the water and boiling your feet. On the other side of the stream begins:

THE Dunes.

They start small...we call them the "Baby Dunes"... varying 20-100 feet high. Little guys. At this point in the day, you still have plenty of energy and the "Newbies" of your group think this will be a breezy jaunt. (Veterans smile like slightly demented parents at their reactions, because we KNOW what's ahead.) If you want to get away from the "Sand Tourists" (and we always do), you turn right at the "front" Baby Dunes and head upstream towards the mountains (which reach 14,500 feet and stay snow-capped year round). This leg of the hike will typically demand another 2-4 miles of walking.

A couple more hours pass. You've been moving at a leisurely pace up the stream, but NOW you're feeling it - a little - and privately you're thinking "I need to decide when I've used HALF my energy if I ever want to make it all the way BACK.... .......Oh, the hell with it, I want to go way, Way UP THERE!" You bend your neck back, look up, WAY up, and, it IS a glorious goal, and, by god, you WILL make it to The Top... at least that's what the Veterans have told you, but...

oh my god.

It doesn't take 50 steps climbing up, before you realize the sand pulls at you as you move. You lose most of your stride to the sliding, sucking, dry sand on the steep inclines. If your step is 24 inches, by the time the sand does its thing to you, you've only progressed a difficult 6-10 inches. Even when you're down on "all fours" (both feet, both hands), it makes little difference, and for much of the day, this style is not possible anyhow - the sand surface is a burning 180 degrees. THIS place makes mountain hiking, even at much higher altitudes, feel like a stroll in Escalator Park.

Three hours later - HOURS - of very hard, non-stop work - up and down and up higher and down and up even higher and then higher and higher yet - losing most of your step every time - you've finally reached the HIGHER Dunes. You can't feel your legs, your canteen is more than half empty, you can feel the sunburn hiding in your skin, but you're proud of your lungs for not exploding, you're thinking of never smoking anything ever again, and it's again time to unload the sand from your shoes and socks before you make the final assault to the peaks.

On you go. You notice the enticement of reaching your goal gives you a little extra energy. It's not much, but you'll take what you can get. Each step is an effort. A REAL effort. You wonder if it's killing everyone else like it is you. You wonder if anyone has ever DIED trying this. You decide "Yes". But the sharp edge of the top peak is within view, and you hike on...

YOU'RE THERE!!!

Wait................. THIS wasn't the top at all!
There's another top, much higher, looking down at you with the powerful, subtle smile of its edge. Some see a smirk.

"I CAN'T make it. I CAN'T..." One by one, everyone else in your group makes the same discovery. You didn't have the heart to announce it to them down below still trying to get up to you. Let them find out on their own. You want to flop down on the sand, but it's too hot. You CAN sit down and re-empty your shoes and socks...but even then your feet must be held up off the sand. There is nowhere to crash. It's high noon. You've been at it four hours minimum - on a good day.

You go through this scenario two or three or four more times. "False Peaks" we call them. The Newbies are griping and bitching and claiming we didn't tell them it would be like this! Well, yes and no. We'd told plenty of stories over the years, and many of them were retold during the five+ hour drive from Denver. They just didn't listen... and what's the point now? We were going, we were camping for a week, and no one was going home early. Anyhow, the Vets KNEW that the New Kids would change their tortured tune by tonight. Now it was time to push forward to the real Peak. The Peak that let you look down to all the other peaks. This means another 3, 4, 5 False Peaks. It feels relentless... but you DO make it.

From way up there, you can see across the entire valley and its hundred square miles of pure Great Sand Dunes. It IS glorious. It truly, truly is. No one takes it for granted. Everyone stops, stares, and hears nothing but the wind brushing the sand. Some start wandering, looking for the Perfect Photo. Some photograph each other on the top... after all, THIS is YOUR Everest. It will ALWAYS be your Everest. And, in the quiet of this place, you can hear God whispering.

You are determined to "be" there as long as you can. We begin shooting high speed film of friends running and jumping off sand peaks into air with nothing below in the frame. Who has the insanity to dive off like Superman? There's one in every crowd. Others are snacking, rehydrating, massaging calves, facing into the wind. There's nothing here but the purity of the Dunes, and you.

You already know getting back to the campground is going to FEEL ten times further than what it took to get here - you've used WAY more than your "theoretical turn-back at 50%" energy. You're a little scared about that. Everyone sits on the top knife-edges of sand, soaking in a beauty like no other, and hoping the wind and the sun and the view and the success and your comrades will fill you with the energy you had early this morning after that cup of coffee and breakfast back at camp... hours & hours and miles & miles ago. And, it sort of does... maybe... for awhile. You hope. In the meantime, you all heroically discuss what it would take to survive a journey across the entire valley of Dunedom... but you know it would kill you. You'd never actually try it. It WOULD be a suicide journey. You already have the proof. Your body told you so. It's never done this before. Your body made you listen to it.

"YOU thought I was just here to tote your brilliant brain from class to class, didn't you? Well, WHERE WAS THAT INCREDIBLE BRAIN on the side of this Dune? It abandoned you, didn't it?! I want a little more respect from here on out!"

"You're right. I apologize. Thank you."

"That's more like it. You're welcome. Now let's stand up together..."

When a serious sand storm starts up on top, you can't linger. Real sand storm are not novelties - your eyes, ears, mouth, and cameras can't take it - not to mention the sand caught down in your shoes, and the grinding its been doing to your city feet. The low sand blasts your bare legs with a hotter, drier feeling of "pins and needles". The higher sand, when seen from a distance, looks like a gigantic 300 foot high surf wave constantly curling off the Dune top in one direction. You could hold out a drink can, and it would quickly be blasted to paintless.

The physical "orgasms" of this day-long effort are come when everyone starts running back down the high Dunes. This is running like no where else. Running down a 1,000 foot, 45+ degree slope, you will race at speeds you had no clue humans could actually accomplish. You think you probably aren't all that afraid (after all, you're on sand... what could happen?), and...

YOU TAKE OFF!!!!!!! GO! GO!! GO!!! GO!!!!

People always begin screaming the moment they leap into space, land lower on the Dune side, and the plummeting run begins. It is half from delight, and half from fear. You are immediately running at the speed of a car on a side street... your foot tracks reach 20 feet apart... it feels like you're in a jeep on the highway and someone just folded down the windshield!! and, though you don't sense it at first - because the roar of wind rushing past your ears has your attention - that lovely, simple, beautiful sand is sucking at your feet again... slowing grabbing you at an imperceptible rate compared to the top of your body... and you begin tilting forward during this screaming, hyper, insane run.... leaning MORE AND MORE FORWARD - DOWN - as your feet slow and move behind your torso which is accelerating ... you're leaning very forward... 500 feet... you're almost leaning down.... 750 feet... you could almost grab a Kangaroo Rat with your teeth as you race down the Dune... the wind holds you up for a little stretch - you can feel yourself "planing" - the wind is screaming around you - 1,000 feet... but you're going to CRASH and you KNOW it now, and there's nothing you can do... there is NO other way to stop BUT to crash, and you're thinking "THIS IS GONNA KILL ME, I'M GOING TOO FAST!!!!" but you keep running because you must and maybe it'll change somehow or you'll luck out and fall in a better way than you are imagining, and you look over and see friends losing it - screaming and crashing and rolling and screaming and tumbling and flipping like they HAVE been thrown out of a car... and then you feel it... you're going down... and you scream

"Oooooooooh SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITTTT!!!!!!!!!!!"

.........But there is a moment when you're still moving at that incredible speed your body has left the sand...

you're in the air............... and before you hit down...

... too bad you can't stay there like that..."THIS is nice..."

...and then all Hell breaks loose as gravity and the sand grab you everywhere, and you're being pulled down, smashed and tossed and spun within a rooster-tail torrent of air-born sand behind you, and you can feel it grinding at your skin, and there's NOTHING you can do about it but close your eyes!! so you fall, and fall, and fall, and roll, and roll, and flop, and smash, and slide, and scream, and slide, and skid, and skid................ until you STOP.

There's that moment of dead silence... like at the scene of any accident... when you try to assess if you ARE still alive, and, IF so, in how many pieces.

"I'm OKAY!"

It's time to laugh. Everyone else is claiming the same luck. No one needs a gurney. It's a good thing, considering your location.

Time to head further down on more Insanity Runs (which also means more UPS - NOT just downs - as you cross the ranges of Dunes) until you are back over the Baby Dunes and reach the stream bed. None of it is easy. You've worked really hard all day, you just didn't notice it at first. This is your last pleasant stop.

Your legs are rubber. Your arms noodles. Your neck a string tied to a helium balloon. You rest again. Here, you'll linger till the cows come home. You have about 2% of your strength left after this huge day of exertion - my god you had no idea what you were facing - you have 2% and you need about 15%. Well, it ain't gonna come, baby. You're stuck with 2%. The adrenalin of those screaming Dune runs has worn off. You ain't got nothin'. It's been a long, hard day. You look at your friends. Everyone is sun burnt, quiet, and wishing they could fall asleep only to wake in their tent tomorrow.

That Last Leg of 2-3 miles - down the stream, across the flats, and up the slow incline across the prairie towards the campground is an absolute, get-it-over-with, nothing-fun-or-funny-about it, I'm-too-tired-to-talk, I'd-rather-just-die, self-chosen Death March.

Once near home, even the final, small 6 foot rise from the prairie floor up to the camp site ground, is more than you are certain you can manage... and NO ONE has the energy to reach out a hand and pull you up. You understand. You couldn't do it either. The group is moving at the speed of kids standing in a line waiting to get vaccination shots... and no one is smiling, talking, or asking about cooking and night plans. You just want to reach the camp site. Everyone guzzles too much water, drops onto a horizontal surface - any surface off the ground - and falls deep asleep.

THIS is when you find out if you have sunstroke. If you can't lay down, if you puke your guts out, ache all over, your head pounds, and you wish someone WOULD just kill you!!!! - you have sunstroke. The next day will be a nightmare for you. If there's no sun stroke, in a couple of hours you'll be up again, moving slow but "better", going about quietly readying a meal, cold drinks, coffee, paper plates and plastic spoons. In an hour or two, the group is all back out again, and, over baked beans and Gatorade, The Trials of the Day will be told like competing Instant Legends.

"Oh yeh? You think YOU were running fast? Well, my EYELIDS were stuck open and FLAPPING!"

"Oh yeh? Well, I'm good at judging speed and I KNOW I was doing between 55 and 65 miles per hour!"

"Big deal. I PASSED you!"

"Shut up. I was the first to The Top..."

"WHICH top!!??"

"Hah ahahhaha yeh WHICH of those 800 tops we crossed??!"

"What the hell am I supposed to do about all these blisters on my feet? I WORE socks and shoes!"

You didn't stop and clear out your socks every so often, did you?"

"No."

"Remember when we'd stop to do that, and you said 'Come on! I can see the TOP! We'll get there faster if you don't mess with that stuff!'? Well, next hike you'll know better."

"Tol'ya so! Ha ha."

"F'you."

"Anyone got some Unguintene spray for this sunburn?"

"Oh oh. Oh god, my leg's going into a cramp!!!!"

"Straighten your leg, reach down, pull all your toes up toward you!"

"Shee-it. These Nu-Dunies..."

"It's working...the cramp is stopping!"

"Of course." (Veterans are somewhat smug)

"You remember the first time WE came... back in '69?"

"Yeh, and THAT was the LAST time I got stoned before a NIGHT Dunes hike!! Stupid drugs! What WERE we thinkin'?"

"I keep telling you... that WAS a REAL BAT, a huge one, it flew down and flapped in front of your face. I saw it! You weren't hallucinating!"

"Maybe YOU were! It sure SEEMED real to ME. I nearly had a heart attack, you know."

"It was HUGE!"

"The heart attack or the bat?"

"Yeh yeh yeh."

"What time is it?"

"Who cares?"

"...Right. Sorry. Gimme a couple more days to 'unwind'......................... 'UNWIND' - get it?"

"Very funny. More beans."

"Who's tenting with THIS one?"

"No way!"

"Didn't you find an arrow head out south of the camp site last year?"

"Uh huh. Sure did."

"Want to go looking tomorrow? I dunno if I'll be ready for the Dunes again yet."

"Let's play it by ear. I don't want to plan."

"Okay. I want to carry my camera equipment along. I'm glad you told me not to bring it today. No way would I have made it! That extra weight woulda killed me. No joke. You all would've had to leave me behind. I need a small snapshot camera for THOSE hikes!"

"Remember to NOT buy an electronic camera with any magnetic components. The Magnetic Fields are so strong out there in the Dunes, they completely destroyed my last Olympus! Dead. The camera shop told me it was unrepairable. They asked me what I DID to it. I didn't know! They asked if I'd left it laying around on a huge magnet or something. THEN I figured it out. I bought another, but I do NOT take it up there into the Dunes. Mechanical cameras ONLY! Guaranteed!"

"That is SO weird."

"I know. Oh! You ever seen what happens to sand when it's hit by a bolt of lightning? It has a name, I forget what it is, but it strikes the Dune and ENTERS it - fracturing the bolt as it travels deeper inside. Picture a tree branch, right? Well, if you find a hard spot on a Dune, it's probably the entry back-end of one of those fused-glass branches made by lightning."

"Fulgurites. That's what they're called."

"RIGHT!"

"I'd LOVE to find one of those!!"

"Me too. They have one on display at the National Park Welcome Center. And the display tells you to STAY OFF the Dunes during a rain/lightning storm!!"

"Well, duh!"

"People DO it!"

"There are idiots everywhere!"

"The thing is, hiking the Dunes is SO EASY when the sand is wet. It's like a roller coaster sidewalk. I've been out there AFTER a storm passes."

"I wonder how fast you could run down then?"

"Yeh, uh huh, right... You want to hit THAT "cement" at your - ahem - 65 miles per hour?"

"It's that hard?"

"It's that hard. You'd be Road Kill."

"I think I'm going on a Dunes night hike. Anyone else want to go?"

"Tonight?"

"Yeh. A leisurely one. Not to the High Tops. A stroll."

"Man, THAT sounds cool!"

"Uh...You better tell the Newbies what we do out there."

"Yeh, alright. Okay, we use flashlights to get across the prairie, then once we're at the stream and cross it, on the other side we each dig a hole in the sand... and strip naked... "

"STRIP NAKED?"

"strip naked"

"...and then we put all our belongings in the hole, cover it over with sand, mark it with a stick or something... and the entire hike in the Dunes is done nude."

"Nude."

"Nude. Naked. Au Naturale. Nada el Pantaloons. And, we sometimes use blindfolds - NOT because of the naked thing - but because we HIKE blind."

"Naked and blind? No way."

"Way. It's incredible. You're hiking in pure safety. You're blind and you're safe. What's gonna happen to ya? Trip over a tree? There's nothin' out there to fall over! And you can't get lost, because our tracks lead us back - that's when we use the flashlight and take off the blindfolds, by the way... ahem... unless there's a sandstorm - which erases our tracks - so we head back, find our buried stuff, dress up again, and get across the prairie. I am NOT gonna sacrifice MY parts to a sand storm!"

"I can see that..."

"And I want to CONTINUE seeing 'it'!"

"Good one."

"Thanks."

"I want to put my blindfold on again!"

"You're a riot, Alice, a RIOT!"

"No where else on EARTH can you do this!!"

"Tell her about Night Dunes Life before Nature Gurl gets too worked up."

"Oh... Okay 'E.T.'... we're not "alone" out there at night. All the Dunes creatures live under the sand in the day time. They're smarter than us. At night, they come out. There are these determined beetles that hike for miles all night long. I've followed their tracks and never reached the beetle leaving them. I kid you not! But the best are the Kangaroo Rats. They are really cute and ultra shy."

"Naked?"

"Of course they're naked!"

"Veerrry funny."

"We go on night photo excursions too. Take all the cameras, lenses, tripods, film, and go out to shoot long exposures. Some shots take up to an hour. We're shooting by starlight. On a bright night, we're using moonlight. That's all."

"What are you doing while that's happening?"

"Hiking. Watching meteors. Counting satellites. Stuff! What the hell. No one's gonna bother your equipment."

"One time I set up my camera, got the exposure going, then went out in front of the camera. The film can't see you during short periods and because of your movements, so you stay invisible, right?, and I began striking wooden kitchen matches and throwing them into the air. Those shots turned out to look like crazy intense meteor showers."

"Dang!"

"I'll show you those shots sometime."

"We've seen GREAT, REAL meteor showers too. In fact, one night I saw one come all the way down - it crossed the entire sky - and it hit in THIS valley! This one HERE!! It was something. I could see the different colored sparks in its tail. Different minerals burning away, I guess. I was struck silent."

"YOU?!!"

"Har dee har har."

"Drugs?"

"NO! NOT drugs!! Jeez!"

"Struck silent BY the meteor?"

"Yeh. That's why my head is dented like it is..."

"It's a good look for you. This place IS amazing!!!"

"I keep coming back. It took me at least five years just to figure out what NOT to do. Plus, I'm having my ashes scattered here. No doubt about it. I've already set it up, right Danno?"

"Uh huh. I'm the one giving him the final free ride to the top of the Dunes. Pass the coffee."

"I'm looking forward to it."

"Stop it! You're creepin' me out!"

"Oh, pleez. No worm food here!! Burn me, crush me, let me loose with the wind and the sand up there where we were today. I can't think of a better way to go or place to be. My dog's ashes are going with me, too."

"......It IS nice up there..."

"Pass me your tobacco."

"Who made this coffee? There's GROUNDS in it."

"It's how we drink it here. Love it or leave it. Toughen up, wimp."

"Damned straight!"

"Skinny, get your guitar. We need some yodelling. I'll watch the fire."

"Yeh, get your guitar!"

"Ronno, you don't sing!"

"I KNOW, but I yodel, and I only yodel with Skinny. Love IT or leave it, baby. I'm gonna be lettin' loose with him as soon as he gets that Martin tuned up! You might want to go for a night hike now. This could git ugly..."

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As I write about the Great Sand Dunes, I'm writing just as much about Friendship, the Tests of Youth, Learning, the Passage of Time, and Mortality. It ISN'T all about fun there, or as we used to call it, the "amusement park" phase. That inclination fades after the first few days of camping. The mood of each person shifts...

That's what I want to write about next...

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Funny how the hardest work that took the most from you gave the best memories which will never leave.

Posted by Ronn Ives at 06:54 PM | Link

"Home" is easy to define, and, most of us are homeless.

"Home" was at a coffee shop with a best friend - debating, sipping, and smoking half the night, while joking with a favorite waitress.

... in a particularly good summer Climbing Tree with a spot high in the branches where a comfortable, hidden sit was possible. Birds were not threatened by you, alone, up in all of your tree.

... when you had spare time, and used it for absolutely nothing but walking fields with your dog, and when it felt right, both of you laid down in tall grass under the Fall sun, and took a short, shallow nap. Your head, laying on his belly as a pillow, moved slowly up and down with his breathing, while he felt the familiar extra weight on him.

... when you were with your loved one, doing anything you both enjoyed, and you might - or might not - speak. Words weren't used for filler, distraction, countermoves, or reassurance. You did not need them.

You found "Home" in another State.

"Home" wasn't a building or a even a belief, it was a condition. It grew from years of fine tuning love, flexibility, patience, and seeing your bigger picture. It can't be willed, and it can't be an accident. It takes years to build, and it can be stolen in seconds.

Posted by Ronn Ives at 11:02 AM | Link

This was just another day. Then, a bad thing happened to me.

It was my day off. "Off" means running errands, keeping appointments, and purchasing inventory. That's as close as I get to "off". This was an especially dull day, with nothing worth reporting.

Unrelated thought: I often misplace things.

At the last stop of my errands, I couldn't find my WALLET. "Oh shit. Oh SHIT!" Thus began my Day of Panic. I retraced every faux-memorable move my body made from the time of waking until frozen in fear upon realizing my life had suddenly, and without warning, hit a wall.

It's not the wallet. It's the STUFFING.

First order of panic: cancel the charge card, followed by calls about general i.d.'s, driver's license, insurance cards, tax #'s, conceal/carry permits, etc. etc. etc. (we're talking some heavy stuff), and finally, cash. Not much cash. There never is... but that was the least of my concerns anyhow.

I drove and called everywhere. I had people searching their entire businesses. I tore up our home. I was on phone menu/hold lines as I tried to get cards cancelled or reissued or whatever each card required to keep me safe, legal, covered... calm.

The stress was incredible. I could feel it twisting up in my shoulders and neck. I could feel my impatience with people SKYROCKET. I yelled at other drivers as I tried to get from one location to the next - all the while picturing someone - NOT an honest person - picking up my wallet and vanishing. I yelled at a robot voice at the Virginia Division of Motor Vehicles... which kept on talking as though it didn't care about me at all... the bastard!!

Hours are passing. Cards cancelled. I've been in "Phone Hold Hell" repeatedly now. I miss lunch. I get "the shakes" from lack of food. I could feel myself snapping into tiny pieces. It is no fun. I also feel bad because I wasn't staying cool and calm during this mess...

A great thing happened to me today.

I was near collapse - the kind of collapse where you end up thinking things like "I don't care anymore. Take it all, you bastards. Just make me unconscious..."

... and then, the phone rang again.

I'd sent LOTS of unfinished calls out there, and was waiting to hear from lots of people now asked to help (caught) in my web of wallet-life-or-death.

"Mr. Ives?"

Now, normally, if you even SOUND like a sales or donation panhandler, you're GONE. I don't even bother to say "No!" You're just GONE. Something - probably my desperation - told me to respond.

"Yes. Who's this?"

"My name is Kevin. I found your wallet."

"........................................................
.........................ohhhhhhhh man..."

He began to laugh. "Yeh, I can relate."

"Where are you? I'll come get it now! You have no idea what you've just done for me!"

He laughed again. "I DO. I'd hate for this to happen to me. I found it in the parking lot between two cars in front of the post office..."

"Yeh, I was there alright! I went to that spot TWICE, trying to find it! You must've already picked it up!!"

"I guess so. Where would you like to meet?"

It was MY turn to laugh. "Kevin, I'm on YOUR schedule, you're not on mine!"

"How about 4:30 in front of the post office?"

"Done. Look for a guy with a gray beard, gray ponytail, dark blue t-shirt, and blue jeans."

"Will do. See you then."

.
.

I couldn't immediately undo the stress. I was wound too tight. It was deep in my muscles now. I tried to loosen it up by doing other chores around the house, etc., but it didn't work. I went to the post office early.

While standing there, a panhandler approached me. He wanted 50 cents. I laughed. "Man, I lost my wallet today, and if you hang around long enough, you'll see the man who FOUND it RETURN it to me!"

We talked about that. It was the kind of event we could both count on one hand. His last time was also his wallet. It had twenty bucks in it, and he'd left it in a phone booth. Returning to search for it, he found it tucked away so no one else would notice it until the rightful owner came along and searched in a thorough fashion.

The panhandler left before Kevin showed up with the wallet. Kevin apologized that he'd had to go through it to figure out how to find me. "Like I'm going to complain?" I laughed. He mentioned there was some cash in there. "Not much," I said, "and I'm not going to count it."

He refused a reward, but I insisted that I mail him and his wife a gift certificate to my store. It's the least I could do. In his eyes, what he did was the least he could do. THIS has restored me. I'm still knotted up, but my wife will help me with that later on tonight. For now, I'll just sit at the keyboard, tell you about it, and memorialize Kevin - the guy who did the right thing.

Thank you Kevin.

Posted by Ronn Ives at 11:12 PM | Link

It's a gray, rainy day. The last few days have been especially gray for me in other ways. I don't need to go into it - just trust that I mean what I say.

Instead, I'll tell you about Vicki. I didn't know her. She emailed FUTURES "cold" this morning with an inquiry about the Jens Quistgaard flatware available. Yes, I still had it, told her so, and we arranged for a follow-up phone conversation later in the day.

With the info-exchange part of our conversation done, we began to chat. She reminded me - as she will you - of Priorities, and what I too often do not see in the daily grind of owning an antiques business.

Her Mother died. Vicki wasn't looking to sell anything nor trying to weasel free appraisals from me (some people do this under the guise of "I'm interested in purchasing so let's talk"). Vicki was looking to fill out a flatware set her Mother had purchased in the 1950's. Little did she know her Mom had purchased Jens Quistgaard, that Quistgaard would become a Godfather of Scandinavian design, and what she had was of quality. Hey, she grew up using spoons, forks, and knives. THAT's what she knew! That's all SHE needed to know - then. Kids are oblivious to these things.

Over the years, pieces of the set were lost (given away to be used at college, etc.). What was once a service for 15 (!) became minimal. She was now filling out the set because she loved it, and wanted to continue what her Mother began. NOW she wishes she could ask her Mom how she came to know these things, what did she give up in order to afford (what was even then) expensive flatware, and within what "circles" did she move to absorb this refined taste?

Vicki's siblings got together to deal with these possessions. They decided to AVOID an estate or yard sale. Despite MY ambivalent position within the World of Things for Sale, I was pleased to hear this from her. They did not want to conclude the adjustments of losing a loved one with what is normally an ugly, greedy, depressing "clearance" process of their Mom's final things. Instead, they agreed to divide it amongst themselves - with NO arguments - and that which they couldn't use would be given to those who COULD. Given.

Between our troubled economy and the well-established "Antiques Road Show" FEVER now spread to all Americans, it's worth noting they did not behave in this greed-driven manner. I honor their approach. (Should you want more RANTS on The FEVER, check my Archive sections.)

You'll think it odd, but I'VE NEVER been comfortable with estate sales or auctions. I'm sad at events which only exist because one person lost another. I'm sad when I see people pushing, shoving, and fighting over Things - including IN someone else's home, mind you - bitching and bartering to try and save a dollar - with the mourning family somewhere nearby. It disgusts me.

Have you seen the film "Zorba the Greek"? (GREAT film.) In it is a death bed scene. An old woman of the village is dying. All the other old women, dressed in black, linger nearby. Village unity? Tradition? Religion? Respect? No. The MOMENT she is dead, they rush into her home like screaming black vultures, and strip the place bare. The deceased is lucky to still have the hair on her head when they are done.

In OUR society, we do this with official public announcements. I know dealers who read the obituaries to try and get a leg up on other dealers who watch for estate sale notices in the newspaper. I'm embarrassed to be, in any way, associated with Vultures.

Vicki and her siblings did the right thing. Within my world, I try to do the right thing, too. I don't seek out tragedy and mourning. If I am meant to be a part of something, I will be informed. I treat people fairly and I rely on word-of-mouth. When I DO go into a home, it is with a sense of gratefulness for the invitation and the knowledge this is NOT fun for the family. I ask that the entire family be involved in and settle on how they ALL want to handle this predicament. Only THEN, if they need me, will I return and participate. If I personally can't help them, I refer them to someone I trust and respect who could do a good job under the particular circumstances.

Vicki and I enjoyed chatting for quite some time. We sailed through such issues with great ease because our points of view were so close. She understood it takes a certain emotional toll on me to do my job: to be involved in others' losses, find the right things for MY store, spend my money, run this business, hope to pay my bills, and still hold to principles that allow me to sleep at night. Frankly, it's not always easy.

In the eighteen years I've been doing this, I would venture a guess I've met five people who actually understand and can express the deeper meaning of possessions, history, people, and their stories. Within them exists a reverence I would love to encounter every day. God knows I need the Lift.

I received mine today.

Posted by Ronn Ives at 11:03 PM | Link

July 4, 2008

For most of my childhood, July 4th holidays created "fun" memories... those early days in Indiana before fireworks were illegal, and, doggone it, we had the gawd-given right to blow our little fingers right off if we felt like it!

Indiana in the 1950's - Solid MidWest America - was perhaps THE definition of post-WWII U.S.A.. I don't know. Maybe EVERYWHERE was, somehow. It's ALL I knew at the time...but thinking back, it still seems like THE place to grow up (despite the rough winters, summer humidity, gnats and 'skeeters). (The film "A Christmas Story" is goose-pimply near-identical to MY early, northern Indiana life.) Our neighborhood was filled with young adults - younger than all of us reading this now - who'd survived the Great Depression and World War II. They were all busy making babies at the same time...especially in my neighborhood of almost all Polish immigrant descendants and dedicated Catholics.

Our neighborhood was an ant pile of activity. The kids knew none of the fears that are now so prominent. We didn't think about whether we were rich or poor. We didn't have to stay in our yard. The doors weren't locked. We could be gone all day. We had permission to go into anyone's home, and, other adults had assumed permission to discipline us. We played much the time... mainly out of doors, of course. We learned, by some weird childhood/genetic/grapevine-through-the-ages osmosis phenomenon, kid's Group Games - like "Red Rover Red Rover", "Hide and Seek", "Mumbly Peg", and our own version of Baseball. How DOES that happen? But, most of the time we made up our own games. There was "Sandbox Army Man Rubber Band Slaughter", "Catalpa Bean Slap Each Other on the Back Screaming Pain", "Metal Clamp-on Sidewalk Skating Until Your Feet Feel Numb", "Shake the Lightning Bugs to Death in a Jar at Night", and "Teddy Saves His Pee in a Mason Jar".

Uh... you did that TOO, right?

During the hot afternoons, the "popsicle man" (all of maybe 14 years old) came around on a special peddle bicycle-with-freezer vehicle outfitted with a metal ringy-bell and coin changer right there on the handlebar. You KNEW his name. THIS Big Kid mattered. The "Milk Man" came around very early in the morning when the birds were loudest and us kids were still forming a day-of-play plan. While he'd deliver the glass bottle/cardboard stoppered milk to the rear of each home, us kids would jump into the back of his truck and take big, clear, beautiful chunks of ice. This is what kept his milk cold. (No refrigeration in those early deliveries.) That ice was SO COLD in our hands it was painful, but was the BEST tasting ice of all time.

It was puuurrrrrrrrre.

Being Indiana - nasty hot and goddawful humid in the summer - the Mail Man worked hard carrying all that real mail (no wimpy "e"mail) in his large, heavy, worn, tan leather bag. Our Moms would always offer him ice water. I'm sure he accepted the refreshment in a democratic style, as to not offend anyone. (Hmm... you know....... A LOT of popsicle, milk, and 'male' MEN came around during the day...while our Dads were gone to work..... and... come to think of it, I've always had a special thing for mail order ice milk on a stick...

.....................................................nah...............

Anyhow, I still can envision nearly every square foot of that entire neighborhood and its surrounding fields and woods. Us kids LIVED there. We were ALIVE there. We were OF this land - manicured and wild both. I knew the bark's designs on each tree; where the first Lilly of the Valley, Crocus, and wild Apple blossoms would arrive in early Spring; which Lilac bush smelled the sweetest; where the grasshoppers liked to sing when the sun was high; where the wild Strawberries ripened best; which of all the trees first "turned" in the Fall, gave us the finest wild Plums, or held the vines that dangled the least tart wild purple Grapes; and, whose home or garage roof edge produced the biggest, best, most dangerous icicles during the rare, short, midday Winter melt.

.
.
.

We tumbled through those days of undistracted freedom without ever having to think about it. Our parents, Grandparents, and those before them lived, and died, to help make our taking these moments for granted. July 4th, for me, is NOT about frayed flags still flying over a fort. For me, now, July 4th is about all the people below those flying colors, living and dead, who made it possible for me to be oblivious and innocent - if for only a few short, sweet years.

Now it's on me to somehow do MY part for the next group - allowing them their chance to happily and securely take their lives for granted... for a few short, sweet years.

Posted by Ronn Ives at 07:47 PM | Link

The weather is close to ideal today - and I'm very picky. Last night, a rain washed out the smoke and pollen that'd been sent flying to us on the distant winds all the way from the forest and swamp fires of North Carolina. It also dropped the heat. Plusses.

Since it was a day off, I also did my Neighborhood Block Captain duties, and walked Civic League paperwork from Point A to Point B. The local odors were sweet and nostalgic. The air was very still. Flowers had invisible scents hanging in front of them that reached me at the street. A big green Dragonfly rode shot-gun for part of my walk. The neighborhood sounds were gentle and subtle... until I reached a home where contractors were replacing soffit boards, and then it was yelling: "Move that f*****' thing!" and "Where IS the g****** thing?".

I kept walking. Eventually, it was just me and the Dragonfly again.

That moment reminded me to watch MY mouth. It's not always the right time or place to be that kind of "expressive"... Habits can be tough to break. I've got grand kids coming for a visit again fairly soon!

---

I was thinking about a moment I had with Alexandra, my grand daughter, maybe a year ago. Her family was here on a visit, and every time we went anywhere, the kids were quadruple-strapped into their car seats, of course. Mommy is fast at this... but I, with little practice, was slow and clunky. I was trying to get Alexandra all strapped in, but it seemed to me I MUST be hurting her SOMEWHERE - what with all these daggone straps and buckles everywhere - so I kept asking her "Am I hurting you?" "Is THIS okay?" She would smile and say "It's okay"... and it was a type of smile I've seldom, if ever, seen. It's stuck with me since that moment. The smile seemed to be saying:

"Poor Grampa. He's trying so hard, but he's not good at this. He sure is worrying about me. He must love me very much. I love him too."

It was a surprisingly patient, understanding smile to be on the face of a four year old.

Eventually, she and I agreed I had it. "Is this good?" I asked.

She nodded and smiled.

I nodded and smiled back.

We smiled at each other.

Posted by Ronn Ives at 05:23 PM | Link

I live in a 1958-62 neighborhood, with a majority of "ranch" homes but a few modern "split levels" (which is what we have). I suppose the area is slightly higher end than what was considered “middle” class for its time.

Our neighborhood is as everyone else who lives in a nice mid-twentieth century neighborhood seems to describe. It's clean, pleasant, friendly, and seems to retain a certain attitude more conducive to humane life. However, I AM concerned about how this “feeling” is maintained. Older folks die. Younger folks take over. Behaving in a friendly, decent, community fashion is not genetic. How do we make sure that the children and new buyers are brought into the “fold” - and share the sense of pride?

Some people will never join up. That’s just a fact. As a member of the Civic League and other sub-committees (as is my wife), we see and wrestle with this issue. One thing’s for sure (despite the fact I was a great renter in my time): Rental properties tend to also be problem properties. Why? Renters generally have less at stake. They care less. (There’s NO reason for anyone to get their hair in a tangle about this statement. It’s a broad statement, but you know darned well it has truth to it.) You aren’t going to change those people. That’s that. Discourage your neighborhood from having rental properties. Write up a charter.

Moving on…

I think a few, simple, healthy gestures make for a cumulative, positive effect:

- Go for strolls. Don’t go for “power walks”.

- Use the various walking and driving routes, not just one.

- Walk your dog, and use a bag.

- Say “Hello”. Wave. Nod. Invite people to neighborhood events.

- CREATE neighborhood events!

- Drive slowly and carefully through your neighborhood.

- Take your sunglasses off when you speak to someone.

- Have your car window down when possible.

- Watch over the older folks. Offer to help. Involve the kids.

- Wave to the kids. Look them in the eye. Know their names just like you do the adults.

- Start a Civic League, establish a Neighborhood Watch, invite the kids as well.

- Start a “Welcome Wagon” program with your Civic League.

- Create a newsletter and a website.

- Have signs at the entrances to your neighborhood announcing when and where your Meetings and Events will happen. Give folks advance notice!

- If your garden is over-producing, bring food gifts to those nearby.

- If they're selling lemonade, even Kool Aid (for which I lost my taste about 50 years ago), stop and buy some.

- Hire kids to mow your lawn.

- Have neighborhood events just for them. (For example, we have an Easter Egg Hunt, a Xmas in the Park with Santa, Fourth of July cookout, National Night Out with the kids decorating their bikes for a parade and awards, etc.) Of course the adults are there, and end up mingling anyhow…

You get the idea. You probably have no larger an investment, nor a more important location in your life than your home and neighborhood. They are NOT self-maintaining machines. Think of them as you (hopefully) do your car. They REQUIRE your attention and involvement.

If you have additional ideas, please offer them to me for possible inclusion.

futures@exis.net

Put "Positive Neighborhood Suggestions" in the Subject line.

Ronn Ives at FUTURES Antiques

================================================

And I've now received a very good one:

"It's funny you have that article up there because all of my friends have become very envious of my neighborhood (which is a 1950's-mid 1960's neighborhood of ranches and split-levels in Northeast Norfolk called Camellia Gardens... they live in much fancier neighborhoods)...we DO all of the things on your list, at least on my block we do. We all hang out together, tonight we are hosting a little cookout, last night we roasted marshmallows at one of the neighbors' houses in the back yard...we ate a wonderful breakfast at the same neighbors' house by their pond that morning. The wonderful lady next to me makes all of us coffee on the weekends and we freely float in and out of her house, some of us bring sugar, others cream, and there's usually an impromptu breakfast too. We chase each others dogs down when they get loose, we watch the neighborhood kids when someone is in a bind, we definitely look after the older crew on the block by watering their flowers and running errands for them and just being there in an emergency or to simply to visit. We share plants and vegetables from the gardens, we stand on the curb chatting until well after dark on those long summer evenings and skateboard and bike in the roads...even at our age(!), we wave and chat with anyone walking by. Everyone has everyone else's phone numbers. We've all become much more than aquaintances over the past 5 years that we've lived here, so much more than good neighbors...these people have actually become friends. It's a warm and secure feeling knowing that someone is looking out for your house and for you. There are at least 7 houses right here on my block that I would not hesitate to knock on the door of at 2 a.m. if I was alone and needed help...and I know any one of them would take me in if something dreadful happened at our house. Nobody I know lives in a neighborhood like this, a neighborhood that has retained the charms of the quintessential, friendly 50's neighborhood...and the families range in age from the 80's down to the 20's. You really can't put a price on something like that, to me, it makes my little 1959 ranch worth DOUBLE what they say it's worth...which is why you'd have to really tempt me with something fabulous to get me to move out of my wee retro house...a warm, friendly, community oriented neighborhood is priceless and I feel incredibly lucky to have fallen in love with the perfect house in the perfect place.

I'll think of other ideas to add to your article and get back to you, but I HAD to share my little story. But for now, the burgers and hot dogs are almost done and my neighbors/friends are here so I must sign off! Enjoy your evening!

Melissa Searing"

====================================================

Posted by Ronn Ives at 08:55 PM | Link

April 4, 10:00 a.m. - stepDaughter Holly and Brian's son may now be here on the planet OUTside of Mom. My Wife Pat will be going to Charlottesville in a few hours. That's when I will get the news.

I have a bad headache. I ache all over, actually. The sofa situation yesterday battered me. Pat saw my knuckle last night and said "OW!" My right arm's back in the elastic support. My low back is gimpy and I'm moving slow. I don't think my headache is from my skull being suddenly jammed between the wood of the sofa and my Scion door jam (an appropriate term)... at least I hope not. I'm a mess.

I think of our new Grandson, and HIS first shock of entering this atmosphere... with its cold and hot temperatures, bright lights, loud sounds, strangers, hunger, messes, his inability to traverse terra firma, foreign languages, foreign sights, his bumps and scrapes... and I think "Welcome, boy. Take these. They are called 'band-aids'. Keep some near by at all times."

http://futuresantiques.com/items/main.php?g2_view=core.ShowItem&g2_itemId=15171

DON'T YOU WISH you could remember that weird, frightening first day of YOURS? I do... or at least I think I do.

Posted by Ronn Ives at 10:46 AM | Link

Apparently this disk on which I'm writing on is one of them 'self-cleaning' 3.5" floppies, because today I slid it in my old laptop, (if you knows what I means - ba da boom! Thank you, Thank you!) - and none of my other ponderins wuz there no more!

Dang Teknow-ologeez!

---

I feel like I'm walking in a fog. I went to bed at midnight (re-watched the great cat-n-mouse action/drama "The Fugitive" with Tommy Lee Jones and Harrison Ford), but got up at - ugh - 6:30 a.m.. I just don't do well with less than 8 hours, 9 is better, 10 does no harm. I've been known to sleep 18 (with no alarm & feeling less than perfect).

I had to be at FUTURES by 9:00 a.m. to meet a truck with men who were delivering a huge two-sofa set of spectacular 70's Milo Baughman minimalist shapes covered in honey-gold elaborate double-split bookend burled Olive wood. They are wonderful.

http://futuresantiques.com/items/main.php?g2_view=core.ShowItem&g2_itemId=1326

I spent yesterday preparing (stacking) the shop to make space for ONE of them - the larger one, 3-cushions, at 90". The mate is a 2-cushion 60". The 2-cushion became a reverse breech birth into my Scion. (Sorry, that's on my mind - my younger stepDaughter Holly has "scheduled" the birth of their son for tomorrow. My wife Pat is going up and staying the weekend. I... cannot (but maybe early next week).

"Be your own person! Start your own business!
See the WORLD!!"

Ahem.

So anyhow, the breeched sofa caused an excessively dilated Scion xB hatch lid, which I had to tie shut. Then it looked like rain... There would be a break of water any minute. Oh oh. I borrowed a tarp from Alvin, untied the hatch, diapered the exposed butt of the sofa, and again tied the hatch down until I could get it to the delivery room - which in THIS case is our home.

I watched the sky, listened to the mooing of the cows and the chirping of the crickets, noticed my right elbow actin' up, and decided I needed to get that sofa extracted from the Scion and into its crib as soon as possible. I tried calling a next door neighbor, but he did not answer. I called my crazy techo-loving pal Tom, who, like me, is in a private business...but has other people who share the responsibility. I don't. I asked him if he could meet me at my house (he works nearby) to help unload the sofa. He could. I put a note on the door, closed FUTURES ("Be Back 1:00 pm"), and drove away, waiting for the next labor pain. (I'd already crushed my right middle finger knuckle - no jokes - and my skull - between the sofa and the door jam - no jokes - AND goofed up my right elbow again, all while loading the smaller of the sofas onto the Scion.)

The water broke. It began raining as I drove away. It rained all the way home. NEVER doubt my Lumbago. Time was of the essence.

To get the sofa not only debreeched but into the crib, other furniture had to first be moved around in the house, and only then could we bring the sofa into the light of day. It took no time. It was ready to exit. We wrapped it in blankets, and carried it in. Now it's dry and happy though confused in the living room.

"Where's my bigger twin?"

---

I drove back to work. I tallied about 100 miles today... about $11 of fuel... in the SCION xB! Jeez. THAT hurts. So does my skull, knuckle, lower back, and elbow.

Oh m'god, it's true! I'm turning into an old man! I AM a Grampa, and three times over!!

...

...

I can live with that.

Posted by Ronn Ives at 07:41 PM | Link

Except for a rush-job to the P.O. yesterday, I did what I
said I would: stay home. And, I did get things done.....
a few things, anyhow. I'll take it. Thus is Life. I'll take it.

Life is no longer so simple or singularly focused that I can
enter my day believing I will have cleaned my slate by the
exit. That began slipping away from me during Grad School
as I not only continued creating Art, worked numerous jobs,
and taught, but began a national search for a Professorship.
I could feel the 25 hours jammed into my day. My life was
more complex and simpler during the days of Professing,
and I was learning that something had to give. I had no
clue how to proceed other than by saying blatant things
like "No" ...but it was a start. I believe empathy for my
students began teaching me how to better treat myself.

Once I went through the series of higher stress situations - the
next university job search, taking instead the public school positions,
marrying, step Daughters, my lower back making me a cripple, and the
very late discovery my source of Depression was another body failure, I
had no choice but to reevaluate what each day could - and COULDN'T be.

The Mind was very tough on the Body. The Body failed me a number of
times in its adult years, and none of it due to its age. The Mind got us
into this, the Mind would have to get us out. Saying "No" was only
sometimes the right answer... "Yes" was also a correct answer.
Sifting one from the other was the trick, and to this day it seems
like an ever-mindful challenge.

How DO we take care of ourselves? Is it through the defensive
acts of "No", or is it also through the offensive acts of "Yes" (he
asks rhetorically)? Editing isn't as difficult anymore. My slate is
always full - even when it doesn't look like it - and it's full of what
only I can see as the healthiest Balance I can chalk up for 24 hours.

If this is what comes with age - and it seems to be - then bring it on.
I don't want to go back.

Posted by Ronn Ives at 09:44 PM | Link

My wife and my home is a 1958 split level design. Our neighborhood was built 1958-62. Of course all the homes began as modern ranches and splits. Over the next half century, many, no, MOST, of the residents have worked overtime to “de-date” their homes. In Virginia, this means trying to make something 1958 look 1658 - by putting up fake shutters around all your glass, a brass eagle knocker on your door, a faux-horse tie pole (with mail box on top) near the door, using colors popular in 17th century Williamsburg, and, loading up the interior with plaid and dark wood wing-backed and lion-pawed things. Instead, why not buy a legitimate period home if that’s your fetish? Would you weld 1959 Cadillac fins on to a 1909 Rolls Royce? Of course not! Would you repaint a Van Gogh to match your sofa? I'd kill you.

Look, it’s like this: there’s only a relatively short period of time when people are “embarrassed” by their “out of fashion” car/home/whatever. Get some perspective. Before that, it was modern. After that, it is seen as anything from quaint to historically important, but the bottom line is MOST of the life of any object is MOST APPRECIATED when kept and cared for as what it was ORIGINALLY. World wide. Humanity wide. On top of that, the aesthetic of architecture has always concluded that the interior and exterior of a building should reflect one another - in a cohesive idea. It’s not complicated. See beyond your nose. Keep things in their era. Love them for what they were and still are.

The same can be said for people. You'll be happier. I promise.

Ronn.

Posted by Ronn Ives at 11:02 PM | Link

Yesterday I shot 17 photos. Go here, look, read, and click "next" for each one...
when you're ready.

http://futuresantiques.com/items/main.php?g2_view=core.ShowItem&g2_itemId=14336

Pass this link to anyone you want.

Ronn.

Posted by Ronn Ives at 09:25 PM | Link

I was thinking of things my body - my senses - will miss, and the list includes (in no particular order):

The Fleetwoods music

The taste of old Cognac

Light - of almost any kind

The warmth & odor of a log fire

High altitude Aspen groves in the summer

Cab Calloway singing "Saint James Infirmary"

The odors of the Intaglio Printmaking art studio

Creating late night photographs in a quiet Darkroom

Reading

The songs of Mockingbirds, Grasshoppers, and Crickets

The sounds of flawless, powerful acceleration in a great car

The faces of those you love

A lively one-on-one discussion

Remembering - just remembering

Seeing snakes and lizards in the wild

The flavor of good coffee, good bread

Great Art of all kinds

Finding fossils

Humorous riffing and laughing with a good friend

The odor of old typewriter cases, closed up old cars,
a woman's hair, puppies, Lilacs

Looking at old photos on paper, including those of
people and places you don't know

The wind and the sun in a convertible during a
perfect weather drive on a perfect road

The odor of the Arizona desert after a rain

The physical demands of hiking the Great Sand Dunes,
yet knowing I am in THE place and THE moment with THE
people and THE self when every single thing is The Right Size.

Hearing yourself and your Other state your vows at your marriage

Listening to yodelling & singing of best friend Richard

Walking hand in hand with a child

Walking, and having hands to use.

Posted by Ronn Ives at 05:49 PM | Link

This morning at 9:30 a.m., I got a call from Fritz, the son of my good friend Fred.

I said "This call isn't good, is it Fritz?"

He paused. "No, it's not," he said.

"Late yesterday, Dad died on the operating table."

-----

The last I heard from Fred was three days ago:

"So who designed the chair set and who makes it????????? Fred"

We were trying to figure out the designer of a table and chairs set we'd just seen.

-----

It's time you knew more about Fred, and why that last question from him is a good representation of what he was all about.

In Memorium

Frederick Brandt was a design lover all of his seventy one years. He was also the Curator of Decorative Arts/Modern Design for the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts, and the personal Curator of the modern art collection of Sydney and Francis Lewis. Without the this museum, the Lewises, and Fred Brandt, modern design would've never had a home on the Atlantic coast any further south than Washington D.C.. Of this I am convinced. Without Fred's lifetime of efforts - guiding and advising the Lewises (and countless others) - the Virginia Museum would NOT have a modern wing, let alone a spectacular one.

His curiosity and love of modern thought and design is shown in his last quick email. He never stopped asking and learning. He and I helped each other with research, sources, connections, and shared our enthusiasm for twenty years. His own collection of Mission era design was astounding. He and I traded, debated, and hunted together.

If we went antiquing together, we had rules designed to keep us friends. One rule: we'd walk into a place, but one of us went left, and one right. We knew we were too competitive and couldn't stalk the same row/aisle together. So, we'd meet in the middle, alert the other to what we'd seen, and move on. At the end of the hunt, we'd compare notes and our "finds" side by side. We would also bid for each other at long distance auctions.

The Lewises were two of the wealthiest, most enthusiastic, and most powerful collectors of modern art in this country. They began the company "Best Products", which had a healthy life as long as they were in charge. I knew about the Lewises long before I ever met them. They were interwoven into my art history training as significant cheerleaders and funders of some of the most important art movements and architectural efforts of the 1960's and 70's. (From Warhol to Site Architecture Group.) I shopped at Best Products when I needed something because I knew how they used their wealth and influence. They helped artists and the arts. They felt indebted to their culture. They wanted to give back. When I had one of the biggest openings of my own art at the Virginia Museum, I skipped meeting folks like the Governor - and instead, asked Fred to take me over to the Lewises. THEY were who I wanted to meet and thank for their legendary careers.

Fred and I were very close friends. Though we lived a two hour drive apart, we used the phone and email a lot, and visited a few times a year. Each of us was always working on a research project, or some other point of shared interest.

I met Curator Brandt when he and the Curator of Modern Art at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts called me some twenty years ago, and asked if they could visit my studio to see my work. They had an exhibition in mind. We scheduled, and they arrived at my home. My home was, as it is now, full of my collections of not just art, but design. Fred, a collector himself, was blown away by what I had, what I knew, and what we shared. On that day, he and I found our Design Soul Mates in a region that often felt like a design desert. They (the Curators) liked my art, I had a resulting exhibition, it was a great experience (as were others), but my relationship with Fred was built on our shared enthusiasm of modern thinking and design, and our mutual love and respect of one another.

Only a few years ago did my wife, Pat, and I attend the funeral of Carol, Fred's nearly life-long wife, who we'd known and also loved for years. We all cried together, and tried to help Fred through a terrible time. Time passed and he formed a happy and vital relationship with his second love, Mary Lou. His kids and his friends were so glad to see him come out of his lonely blues. He even bought a silver Miata sports car, which he and Mary Lou loved taking on small trips. They were enjoying their new life together, moved into a new home, Fred was trimming down his collections (some of which I bought), and he and Mary Lou established a life together.

Fred was diabetic, and had blood pressure issues. He had not indicated to me he'd recently been feeling short of breath. When it felt serious to him - only a couple days ago - he went to his doctor, who scheduled surgery immediately. The doctors went in to repair clogging around stints they'd put in him awhile ago. There was too much scarring for repair, and the shock of this surgery killed him on the table.

God bless Fritz and his sister Karen. Fritz was barely holding himself together during our conversation, and I asked him if he'd rather I make the calls, but he said it was helping him get through the hours. I have contacted others via email. There are many, many people who need to know. We have not yet spoken with Mary Lou. It happened less than twenty four hours ago. Monday morning, I will help carry his coffin.

-----

I was
eating breakfast,
had the t.v. on,
I was planning my day
and working on my web site...
all my usual morning rituals... just like any of us... and then came The Call.

I will miss Fred in ways like I could no other. Close friends are too unique to be replaced. His death leaves another hole in my life and those of many others.

I wrote this for two reasons: in memory of Fred, and for you. Use these thoughts as you see fit.

Ronn.

Posted by Ronn Ives at 08:12 PM | Link

We had a very nice Thanksgiving with our friends last night. We go way back. We've been doing this since before the kids were born, and one of those babies is now closing in on her driver's permit.

We have our traditions. Within my relationship to these people, we've created many traditions. Some don't hold up over decades. Some give us a rhythm for maybe five years, maybe ten. We have built them for big antiques shows and what we'd do afterwards. (Some of these shows were many hours of driving away, and, if we worked really hard, might get the 120 acres covered in three days of major effort.) Others are slippery...and though we may think of them every year, the actual event may only happen every third year or so. You have only so many "third year or so's".

I stand back and I see children who've enlarged in all sorts of ways, adults who've earned more wrinkles, grayer and decreasing hair, who are wiser, funnier... MORE of whoever they were and now are ... and we try to find moments we can use as markers, like road mileage posts. "We've been this far now." What was that last mile like? Were you awake? Who drove? Any hitch hikers, breakdowns, flat tires, speeding tickets, rest stops?

Once the kids came along, some rituals were lost, and others were built in their place. Having never been a bio-dad, I haven't experienced that dramatic call-for-change, but have been on the other side of it, where it's clear those who must change are either trying - or not trying - to bring you along with the changes.

Traditions are lots of work. They AREN'T the acts of lazy, uncreative, brain dead dolts. They provide a small sense of "stability" in a world of constant flux... a world of Time bigger than most understand... Time most people fear.

So, we mark our calendars and set our alarms. We note ideas and events that somehow connect us well enough to do it repeatedly until it soothes and assures us we may have had a tumbleweed year yet somehow we're back again.

Next stops: Birthdays and Anniversaries, Christmas, Hanukkah, and New Year's.

Posted by Ronn Ives at 06:05 PM | Link

My wife, Pat, and I take three days off almost every year, and drive the Blueridge Mountains of Virginia during peak Fall color time. We've done it so often, we have finessed a list of things we need to do before we go and take with us. It began when I bought the first MX-5 Miata in 1992. The fact I had a RELIABLE CONVERTIBLE was what pushed this trip into reality. I HAD "rag tops", like a 1949 Buick, but you DO NOT take a car such as that anywhere but on nearby, safe roads. The Miata allowed us to just "take off" - without a worry.

"Set up our night stops, pack light, and leave the top down." That's all we demanded. Everything else would fall well enough into place. Year after year, we've seen that work just fine.

It's been so warm here, and we've done so many of these trips, it simply didn't even enter my head to look over our list this time. We packed light, I prepped the car and house, and we left after I closed FUTURES Sunday night. I had a slight nagging feeling I'd forgotten to pack something... and of course only thought of it once we were on the road and out of town:

Cold weather clothes. Undershirts, hooded sweatshirt, driving gloves, even a coat - all forgotten. "Gee, the packing looks especially tight and good this year! We're getting better at it!" Yeh. Right. The GOOD news was we just didn't need the stuff, UNLIKE EVERY other year we've done this. Talk about lucky timing. And, it was beautiful.

We'd been warned by those who live "up that way" that the trees weren't producing much color. THAT was disappointing to hear, but hey, we were OUT OF TOWN!! As it turned out, color WAS great (as you'll see when you look for yourself if you'd like. Go to "SHOP", go to page TWO, open Gallery "What I See", open the second Gallery "Miata Cruise").

The Trip/First Night:

Top down into the sunset and out of our region, speeding down the highway for four hours, north past Williamsburg, cutting through Richmond, stopping for dinner, skimming past Charlottesville, and on to the "kids" home nearby in a large country-burban gated community in the hills. We saw a big, handsome Stag deer standing on a small hillock, as if posing for the Disney follow up of "Bambi - the Adult Years".

EVERY time we visit my younger stepdaughter Holly and her husband Brian, their Golden Retrievers, Bogie & Marlow, get all weirded out and have to be completely reintroduced to us. To everyone. Every time. THEY are One-Family dogs, with very little socializing to ease the SHOCK that many other creatures exist on Earth. Heck, we were there only a week ago, with the grand kids! It's as if it never happened with those two.

This time, Holly's Grandmother was also visiting, so we all settled in for the rest of the evening, chitchatted, and played with the dogs - once they were bribed with new toys Pat got for them. Our schizy Granddogs.

Sleep is always tougher when you're not at home. This time was no different.

Day 2:

It was a Monday morning for Holly and Brian. She left for work, Brian got on the computer (work), Grandma sipped her coffee, and we soon left to find a diner. Remember, we are in the mountains, and there are only a few small towns at some distance from one another now. It's not like you can be picky. I don't remember the name of the little town, but we found a place.

In this place was an interesting and frightening building we both photographed. (You can see those at the end of the Miata trip shots.) You will see white lettering and marks up the front of this red brick building. They note each hurricane and the height of its flood waters in that town, going back into the 1800's and right up to the last one. They always get hit. Bad.

One begins to think... These people keep rebuilding this sad, little, bedraggled mountain town over, and over, and over, and over... and over... when they're clearly in a deep and dangerous pocket of land. You can't conclude much, but you CAN conclude people stick with ideas more out of emotion than intellect.

Once on Skyline Drive/Blueridge Parkway, which is just high enough to create this scenery, we saw, felt, smelled, and heard a lovely Fall season in progress. Since it was a week day, the traffic was minimal-to-zero. It was great. The colors were as varied as Fall could ever be. We'd arrived in the middle of the changes. You'll see brilliant greens against fire reds and oranges and yellows, mixed with browns and blacks. The odor of Fall is also my favorite, and in a rag top you get it all. It smells of mellowing leaf death, the sun warming and speeding their passing. If one or both of us wanted to stop, we stopped. We had no agenda. We were where we were and it went no further than that.

I leave my cell phone off anyhow, but even if I did not, I would've during this drive. The Miata was a happy car, leaves fluttered in the air in front of us and over the windshield, and when we parked, a few would land inside the car. They are NOT removed during the trip. We allow them to become part of the interior. We sit on them.

We've done this often enough, there are places we remember as stops of former trips. We remember trees, rocks, and cliffs just as much as small towns or diners.

We saw Hawks, maybe an Eagle, plenty of small furry creatures, and lots of former animals now Crow food on the road... We saw a few people bicycling over the mountains (rough stuff), motorcycle cruisers, tourists, and surprisingly few sports cars with hardly any tops down. It should be a crime to leave a top up on such a day. We could drive for 10 or 20 minutes without glimpsing another person. We made numerous stops, usually for photos, and we had most of them to ourselves. It was ideal.

I didn't bring any music. It sort of slipped my mind, but I also just wanted the sounds to be those we and the planet made. The Miata sounds like a sports car when you "get on it", but during easy drives and coasting, it's nearly silent. This allows you to hear each leaf crunch under each tire. They sort of "pop" because the tire is only on it a split second. You hear the crickets coming from every group of plants, the wind rattling the leaves still attached, the crystal clear "caw" of a Crow hovering above you... and on you go to the next and the next and the next sensory moment that passes as quickly and easily as the air over the car and our heads.

Such is Life.

Night 2:

A motel in Lynchburg. Do you know Lynchburg? It's a large small town in Virginia, made "famous" by Jerry Fall-Well and his "Liberty University". Yeh. It'd be easy to think the town got its name from the hobby of its citizens, but no, it was merely named after some guy who started a commercial success of some sort - like every other town. You either name a place for yourself, or the place you loved so much you left it behind for good. Oh, OR you name it after some teeny tiny itsy bitsy moment that you and your neighbors blow up way the hell out of proportion, until it's seemingly significant.

One black stone is found on the ground, and in your stupor from lack of stimulation there, you find that so exciting you name the town after it. Blackstone Virginia.

You find a can of oil, and it's such a big deal to you, the town becomes "Oilville".

Don't ask me about "Goochland" Virginia. I have NO clue. It could've been a nickname for big, blood sucking mosquitos for all I know. "Jebediah, you haveth one big Gooch on your arm. You should swatteth it."

Washington was named after Washington. THAT is straight forward and not without it's justification.

Truth or Consequences New Mexico? Named after the old tee-vee game show. True. "Archaeologists theorize that this town's name was because they brought all their criminals to this town and tortured them until they confessed their sins."

Silverton Colorado. They struck silver. It almost became the capital of Colorado... but there were more rich dudes in the area that would became Denver. Gold's better than silver.

ANYHOW..................................................

We had a decent meal near the motel at an Appleby's, came back, strolled around in lovely weather, and visited the local bowling alley (near the motel) on League Night.

Though the place was packed with men fondling their big balls, it was clear they noticed us as being "non-Leaguers" - "outsiders" - "strangers". Since we were being noticed, I began making up a story about why we were present. Pat jumped in on the idea, and pretty soon we were ready to let them know we were NBC scouts looking for the "right type" of men for a reality t.v. show in the works - about Bowling. It wasn't about their SCORES, but about the colorful ways in which they behaved, argued, played, and fought. Line 'em up against the lockers and take photos of them with their balls hanging in their hands. We could have the place in a psychic tornado in no time. Everyone's games would fall to pieces due to lack of concentration. The local paper would get "wind" of this after our departure the next morning, and the town would be on bowling pins-n-needles for the next month, wondering if anyone made "the cut" for further interviews...

"I think I'll rename m'self 'Jimmy Pinkiller'!"

"Not me! I'm gonna be 'Ally Slayer'!"

"Dude. That's a CHICK'S name!!"

"Ain't neither! Take it back!!"

Day 3:

We woke to gray humid drizzle. Fortunately, our Fall color phase was over now that we were off the higher mountains. We had a breakfast at the motel restaurant, I again cleaned the bug guts off the windshield, and off we went with an adjusted plan to find an antique mall or something as we headed home - which was many hours of driving away.

Pat's portable toy, her GPS, is known as "Dave". "Dave" talks to Pat. We used and tried to use "Dave", but "Dave" didn't know they were ripping up roads and changing things since "Dave" came off the assembly line, so we dealt with it on our own. A very nice man let us into his mall an hour early, because we were from out of town and I was a dealer AND Pat was a kitchen designer and THEY were having a nightmare of an experience with the local contractors, so while I shopped, she advised the wife. I found very little, but it was a funny and nice experience.

We found other places as we travelled - from the very nice, to the old grubby geezer who could give a crap whether you were there or not - just don't interrupt his reading the latest hunting supply catalog.

"Gawd DAMM, Jimbo! Lookit this!! They's a-makin' camo skivvies! I gots'ta git me summa them!"

Our altitude and attitude changed as we went lower towards home territory. The woods became more tangled with undergrowth, everything was switching back to green and brown, the peanut fields were turning yellow, the cotton fields were dark brown with white cotton puff bolls, the towns took on more of a low income sheen.

"The Dairy Queen closed."

"That's too bad."

"Yeh."

We entered our area with the typical craziness of rush hour and the bad drivers we've come to expect. I must say, the drivers in Lynchburg - for whatever reason(s) - know how to drive. Perhaps it's the fear of Shunning. Whatever the case, it works.

Still, once you're home, you're Home. The door feels this way, the stairwell sounds that way, the bed is still unmade in the way you (I) left it. You can smell the 1937 bakelite phone, the slumping flowers in the kitchen window ledge vase, and the overall atmosphere of Our Life in This Place.

Still, if our house ever goes under water from a hurricane, I ain't stayin', I ain't rebuildin', I ain't puttin' measure marks on the outside walls.

---

(If you can't get out and enjoy Fall, at least do this. I feel better just LOOKING at these photos.)

Posted by Ronn Ives at 09:58 AM | Link

I was e-chatting with my friend from the Tucson desert days, Cynthia Gayneau, and I began thinking about how we, and others, saw ourselves during our time of study at the University of Arizona, and, how we, and others, see ourselves now.

Cynthia was seen as a fine art Photographer. She also ran a high quality matting and framing shop with her (ex)husband. (They did a gorgeous, very complex set of jobs for me, preparing my Art for the Thesis exhibition). They were also parents. This pretty much covered it for her in Tucson, at least as far as I knew. She loved music, but hadn't taken it to the big world yet. NOW people know her as a musician. She's made numerous albums. Now most people don't know about her Photography - and it's good photography.

I was seen as a fine art Printmaker, and a Graduate teacher. I also kept it known I was a reliable Jack-0f-Many-Trades type - which kept me in temporary and part time jobs. Without them, I couldn't finish school. This pretty much covered it for ME in Tucson. I loved design, I loved writing, loved hunting antiques, etc., loved collecting, loved cars, loved animals, loved films... but they were peripheral. They HAD to be. I KNEW WHY I was working my way through school and why I needed the particular degrees I sought.

(A couple of days pass before writing what is below:)

So where was I headed with these thoughts about how we are seen by others? It had to do with Aging. We grow, we move, we learn. Despite how it FEELS sometimes, we are in CONSTANT motion. We are never the same. It smacks us in the face - for better or worse - when someone responds to us as what we are at that moment... and, should that person never see us again, we are FROZEN in that moment... for better or worse... constructed of the material we offered and THAT PERSON was able to deduce and/or concoct at that time.

I UNDERSTAND why some parents looked at me - their Daughter's Date - with hesitation. They were sometimes justified. None of us like being stereotyped, but at times we ARE how people see us. There WAS a time, short-lived though it was, when all those square adults needed to be concerned about my effects on their kids, and even knowing I couldn't "make" anyone do anything, I WAS a Catalyst... an Opportunity for a risky behavior... just as someone else was for me. For some of those people - to this day - I remain that boy who drank, used drugs, had unprotected sex, and drove a car without enough experience or common sense. I'm that memory - and it's less than a great one. It's NOT the one I would now choose for myself. IF I could fix all those memories, I would... but I can't. Those turds will always lay there stinking along the old path.

Others know us before such times, and can forgive us some moments as aberrations on our longer path. Others know us as who we were yesterday, and give us the chance today to prove it wasn't an aberration. For the person you meet tomorrow, it's all up for grabs again. And again.

All I've ever been able to do was be as honest as I can at that moment, and, when possible, use the past and the future to help guide my present. Gone is the young teen who sees no further than my nose tip and evening. I survived that time, gratefully. Some of my friends did not. They exist in memory as little more than a goofy pal who drank too much and stole a car, only to be chased by police and die in a crash... later to be viewed by friends in the morgue or casket. THAT is their legacy.

What the hell WAS their role in Life? To become a Lesson, I assume - to live in memory as an example of certain poor decisions that never work out well for anyone. They offer us examples of stupidity and a choice towards the opposite. In the end, they fell on grenades for us. How else could their lives have meaning? However, they were NOT Heros. They were Sacrifices.

And I'll say it again: we ALL travel through our lives in a constant change of states.

When someone categorizes you in one way, it can feel unfair. What do you EXPECT them to do? Fill in YOUR blanks FOR you? Hopefully NOT! We have the opportunity to expand ourselves outwardly - but only if we choose to do so. If you are remembered at all, much of it is made from your decisions.

When someone recognizes me as ONLY an antiques dealer, or only as an educator, or artist, long hair, sports car driver, or as an age, gender, race, or, or, or ... I have no immediately reasonable choice but to let it be what it is and elaborate if I'm given or I take the opportunity.

I'm what I call a "T-shirt Whore". I'll wear ANY T-shirt, I think. If it has an interesting or odd picture or phrase on it, it's ON me. It is my way of dealing with (not explaining) the surreal reality of first impressions, mixed messages, irony, and the dangers of the world working in such a manner.

This attitude was also a HUGE part of my creating so much Art under various names and personas.

(I realize I am not bringing these thoughts around to a neat package with a bow on it, but I AM swirling around a group of ideas about identity and learning to live with them.)

I've been SO wrong with my first impressions of some people, I DON'T trust my initial judgement as a valid tool. I suppose that's a good thing. But, I have been conned by enough people in various ways throughout my life, that caution drives my reactions... like any of us, right?

Or wrong?

Posted by Ronn Ives at 07:19 PM | Link

My Wife and I have begun watching the 5 dvd set of the first season of "Leave it to Beaver". I've been struck by the shows in ways I didn't expect.

I grew up with Beaver, Wally, Ward, June, Eddie, Whitey, Larry, Judy, Lumpy, Tooey, Old Gus, Ms. Canfield, and all the other residents of a town you’d of liked to know...well, except for that weasel Eddie. I continued to grow up watching the reruns. Then they stopped altogether, and since I’ve never had cable t.v., “Leave it to Beaver” became a memory from as much as half a century ago. Last week we began renting the dvds. The visual quality is top notch... but that’s not why I mention it here.

From the very first show, they hit the road running – it was a high quality character based family comedy and drama. No, NOT the sort of comedy OR drama we think of now. No one is the wacky drug addict next door, no one is blown away, and no one dies of an incurable social disease. It’s a softer look at life, and frankly, more accurate as far as life seen through the eyes of flawed but decent, protected children and their flawed but decent parents, relatives, and friends. I was the same age as Beaver, and Wally would’ve been an okay older brother to have, if I'd had one... but that’s not why I love this show – and I DO love it, perhaps more now than ever.

I love it because it has Heart. It’s not a sit-com, not a gag-a-minute, and isn’t full of dirty words, slapstick junk, and caffeinated action. It’s an extremely well-written weekly story about people who try, fail, succeed, fail, try again, and keep on moving forward and growing up with a certain amount of faith that, with effort, things DO improve for you and those you love...and some of it is even fun.

If I had children in the house, I’d own this full set of dvds, and we’d watch it as though it was airing new and at the same time every week, just as it was intended. It would be a family thing. It would bring all of us pleasure, that
I know.

The show has become an Icon, that's for sure, but its "image" has been stripped to a mere portion of its reality. It's much more than what people seem to now choose to remember or notice about it. That's a shame. Ward didn't always wear a tie, and June was not a robotic servant... but the entire neighborhood DID drive 1957 Fords. (Ford was the sponsor. Talk about early, blatant "product placement"!)

You know, if we NEED Icons, but in the process of our creating them, we strip away anything that doesn't support our current (social/fashion) need of limited truth, we're pathetic.

It's a messy world - admit it, learn to live with it, and maybe even be mature enough to find a wise and forgiving relationship to its true nature.

I recently heard on the NEWS that during Mother Teresa's life, she'd had many, MANY doubts about religion, faith, and God - and, her doubts increased as the years passed. This has The Church very concerned and doubting her qualifications for Sainthood.

Good God!

Complexity and truth upset many people. It's not what they want. They want concocted, simplistic "heros". They are pathetic.

Instead, why not be grown ups about it? Use the facts about great people to help your children understand that flaws and doubts do NOT cancel the good created by these heros. They worked with, through, above, and around their doubts and problems. They lived with flaws, and still reached goals. Why should we deny them their humanity? It strikes me as insulting to those people. And, why should we make kids think they are excluded from doing great things through the implication heros have no flaws... and children WILL come to this conclusion, because they KNOW they have flaws.

Finally, how do we approach our heros in a COMPLETE fashion without sensationalizing the "dirt"? We stop pretending it's unusual or exciting. It's common. We ALL hold potential for good, dull, and evil.

ALL.

Let me say that again: ALL.

And THIS is written into "Leave it to Beaver"... in a softer manner.

Posted by Ronn Ives at 09:16 AM | Link

"Shaman Aura Ives of Rockaplenty's Ain't She Sweet and High Roller". Shaman was my son with four legs. He was also a big, handsome Gordon Setter dog.

Today marks the tenth anniversary of the day Pat, my Wife, and I took Shaman in to begin receiving radiation and further surgery for his cancer.

I don't have a lot to say about it, but it does feel both shorter and longer than a decade.

I fought for Shaman his entire life, and we came out the winners. He was born with no immune system to speak of, so life was a struggle, but remained a joyous one for him - and his attitude was contagious. This trip to North Carolina was our last big bout. It was such a huge, traumatic event - especially for him, but also for me - that it would linger for some time, even once it was over. Unlike the rest of my years of making every effort to keep him alive and happy - which I'd never doubted - I had my doubts this time. It was going to be a terrible experience for him. I was the only one who could decide if the benefits would outweigh the costs. Pat was a huge help through this.

Shaman went through six weeks of absolute physical torture. We were allowed to go down to North Carolina only once during this period (visiting for a few hours on a Sunday), before the effects were becoming visible. Pat took a photo that day: (Go to "Shop", Go to page 2, Open "What I See" Gallery, Open "Family" Gallery, go to page 2, see photo top row middle.)

His lead doctor (he had an entire team) told us she wouldn't allow a follow-up visit because if we saw him as he would soon appear, she knew we would try to scoop him up and "save" him from what he was experiencing. "He will look like a Holocaust victim" she said. Instead, she called at least twice a week to tell me what was happening and how he was doing. On top of that, he had a few emergency surgeries, and of course I was informed after those events. As we walked out of the building after our initial delivery, with Shaman remaining there, I was crying before we got to the car. "I don't know if I'm doing the right thing!!! Am I????!" I asked Pat. I could tell she wasn't sure either, but now was the time for comfort and faith, not a change of mind. It was our hearts talking, and they had to be quieted - for him.

I counted the hours, days, and weeks. You have to understand he was not just my dog. He was a part of my family, and couldn't have been closer to me if he'd been my human child or left arm. I've had many dogs in my life. I've loved them all. But, Shaman was part of my Being.

When it finally came time to bring him home - where he would then need recuperative care from us - my lower back went bad on me again, and I could barely manage moving. Pat, without blinking, said she'd drive the Ford van alone the six hours down to pick him up and bring him home. She also tape recorded the entire conversation with his lead doctor, so I could hear it. This was one of the times Pat became my hero.

Shaman was a wreck. In those six weeks, he'd come to believe that when any human was near him, it meant pain. He had the clearest case of Post-Traumatic-Syndrome I've ever seen. Of course that changed within a few days - he knew better. He just had to realize he was Home again, surrounded by the love and care he's always known.

Don't get me wrong. The University of North Carolina Vet School is perhaps the most impressive and humane animal hospital on Earth. But Shaman still faced what he faced, and it was awful. And THIS was a guy who LOVED people and LOVED going to his home Vet and LOVED seeing everyone there every time.

Was it worth it? I believe he would've said yes. Once he was rested up and found his Home still "here" - unchanged and waiting for him - he gained weight, and returned to his strong, joyous self. We had our routines, games, health maintenance schedules of pills, diets, injections, etc.. He became big, happy, and bright once again.

Those six weeks gave us two more years.

His decline the last few weeks was difficult, that's for sure, but he never again experienced anything equal to the treatments that began 10 years ago today.

He died quietly at Home, in our arms, with no one else there, and me whispering it was okay... I loved him... he could go now. And he did.

We should all be so lucky.

Posted by Ronn Ives at 10:35 AM | Link