That's life, Doc

Selfmade. Brilliant. Charming. Funny. A meticulous dresser. Flashy. Well travelled. Sometimes, you can throw all the adjectives you've got at a person, and barely scratch the surface. In his younger days, he could have been a movie star. More adjectives. He graduated second in his class, in an era where coloreds didn't go to medical school. He knew, fro the age of 12, that he was going to be a doctor, and be able to help people, instead of being forced to stand by and watch them get hit by a bus and die. Worked in the steel mills, piecework, to get through school. Bought a Harley with some of that money, rode it back and forth from Kenyon for undergrad and the University of Michigan in Medical School to Elyria, Ohio. He had tried OSU first, they weren't taking coloreds.

Fought through  Stage IV prostate cancer. Lived more than 20 years after he was 'posed to die.  Two heart surgeries, knee replacement, neck fusion. 

One of the first programs for mental health in Ohio. One of the first programs for unwed mothers. One of the first programs for drug abuse.  

More adjectives. 

I got no words.  Right now. No words that could properly represent this man.

I'll try a story about how he died. 

Last week, he was feisty. Giving eryone hell all morning, I was told. Said, to the lady who'd been there 3 times a day since he'd been there: "you need to come around more! I haven't seen you in a year!" 

Had a little pneumonia. Bounced back. Good days, bad days. Knew us. Didn't know us. Babbled some. Other times, De Niro: "I don't have any cash." "I just need to hold onto a little cash!" 

Three days ago, he declined a little. Less energy. Said he wanted to die. Just matter of fact like.

Next day, less responsive. I get a phone call. Meet for lunch. Hold each other up.

Next day, I'm there. Hospice day. Several hours of meetings in his room, with him laying, unresponsive, in his bed. Discussing what you discuss. With him right there.wish I had that do over. 

Several hours. Then, we are standing over him, talking about him. Telling stories. About him. Great stories, actually. Clear approbation. You see, his signs started sliding, so the Hospice nurse drifted over there. We followed, because even there, news of who my father was had travelled. Nurses and staff had beef great the whole time,  it today, they were always there, checking. Serving. Cleaning . Serving. We'll  come back to that. We were telling the Hospice nurse about what he had done, and as usual, SHINY. None of us can keep to the plot. Both of us finishing each other's sentences about what a great person he was. Don't need THAT do over. Then, I told him. "Dad, you've always been there for me. Your entire life has been about serving people, fixing them. You said you didn't want to linger if your mind was gone.  We heard you say you were ready to go home. We all love you dearly. If you want to go home now, that's OK" . Mom said that she loves him forever and that if he's ready, to go on home." Two big breaths. *drops mic*

I just have no words.

Except "thank you". 

Night, pop. Rest well. 

Cycles and cycles

Or something like that. think I jacked that title from a Grateful Dead song. I'm not a Dead head, but I've got friends who are.

Not to be Deadist, tho... 

This has been a year among years. Ages and lifetimes are passing in front of my eyes. As fast as they come and go, some, I've actually been ready for. As I've previously posted, several months ago, I moved from my home of almost 30 years.

Somehow, in the mix, I am still building a 1918 Harley Davidson BoardTrack Racer. It's coming along, though I have no photographic evidence. Ric and I learned that "Black Racer" is named Milton Halł. 

We learned about the Atlanta "Black Streaks". A "colored"racing team forum early in the 20th Century:

Feeling a thang coming on...stay tuned.

Been all over the Midwest, and back and forth to the south. I am always going to have a spot for my southern peeps. Politely tell you to go F yourself, in that awesome accent that I usually pick up in a hot minute. I got love for directness. Being a dense human being, I def got love for folks who say what they mean.

I've also been witness to a dear relative aging right in front of my eyes. Ages and lifetimes passing. This, I'm not ready for. How can one ever be ready for this? Been there, done that? Bullshit. And yet, if you pay attention, the man still drops bombs. We are sitting there, talking yaya, and he suddenly looks like Marlon Brando, emoting, and says "I just don't have any cash, and I'm sitting here in my pajamas."  Laughing, but that just yanks your guts right out.

We, as artists, are trained observers. We notice things.  We're human. So. Human. Feels happen. Art gets made. Maybe, it doesn't. But, life goes on.

"Dancing in da Sun" just came out of the Ohio State Fair Fine Arts Show.

 I was accepted to the Vanderelli Room's benefit show, recently. "Grandmother" is one of my favorites:

"Bluemoon Flower"was created for the Columbus International program:

Life does continue. Reminders to stay in the moment. The trick is, you have to be in the moment to notice. Or, they may just land on your front porch.

I heard a loud pop tonight, followed by skidding and crunching noises, right outside the door. I waited to see what direction to jump, but heard nothing else. At the door, I could tell nobody was getting out of their cars, so I called 911. Apparently, along with both drivers. Long story short, everyone is alive, maybe a broken leg and some concussions. And I need a landscaper. A couple feet to the right, and they would have hit a fairly significant tree. A couple feet to the left, and they might have cleared my front door.

The cycles of life. Moments in time. They all got blessings.  Just gotta pay attention. 

Peace.