My First Punch

How Luca’s Skull Got on My Car Grill

Drawing.  We relate to our world visually but many lack the ability to see and understand a lot of what is all around us.  Drawing is as essential as language and mathematics.  We dream largely in images, less so in words and numbers.  Drawing is a visual ability, analytical process and communication skill.  In the end it is the one final human activity that may not be mechanized or automated (I wonder…)

The first half of drawing is seeing.  Seeing is really a doorway to greater empathy.  We think we see just fine, we don’t.  As you learn to see better your drawing and writing skills will grow.  Perhaps there’s also a similar relationship with listening and music.

I believe anyone can learn to draw a reasonable picture, but only with some practice and, if they enjoy the process (that’s a big if, because it’s a little work at first.)  It’s easy and natural with children because it’s not a completive activity.   With some basic skills, a bit of effort and a little coaching, it’s definitely possible to create interesting even beautiful pictures.  Teaching other folks to see and draw is a pleasant challenge.  Helping folks to enjoy the process may be impossible.  Just one of those things – some like it, some don’t…  So I concentrate on trying to make it easy – but just north of boring – and fun.  

Diluting the taste of the inevitable (and necessary) mistakes, running alongside, hoping they can get going fast enough on their drawing bicycle to stay upright and start to pedal on their own before I let go. I’m still learning how to do that.   So far I’ve found that only a few students (seniors) who enjoy the process enough to willingly displace other enjoyable activities in their lives with drawing.  I hope I can improve those odds.  

We’ll see.

Along the way, I’ve met an author, YouTube teacher and artist, Danny Gregory.  He has a powerful message that I have adopted, “It’s not the picture, it’s the drawing.”  Not the product but the process.  Drawing is an activity like meditation, woodworking, knitting, gardening, etc. that keeps your thoughts in the present, not in the past, or the future.  One result is that we experience a more powerful awareness of the world around us.  We experience beauty and understanding on a higher level.

I knew growing up that I loved to draw.  Now, I have a deeper understanding of why.

Since climbing down from the trees and before agriculture, our species needed to hunt for food. Typically men and their male offspring were in charge of calorie-rich proteins, while females often gathered more nutritious, but less exciting, plants.

My ancestors went fishing.  For as long as I can remember, starting at 3 or 4 years old, I would go along with my grandfather and father to get bait and catch fish.  Over the years, l learned that the activity was as important as the catch.  Your success often hinged on how well you observed and learned about your quarry: time of the day, tides, diet, weather, habitat, and not to mention, your own patience.  Fishing with others fosters a kinship of shared experiences and knowledge.   Some of my best memories growing up were fishing with my father.  Many of my best experiences as a father were fishing with my sons and my niece. As an artist, I enjoy capturing the images of what I’d caught and finally, I love to cook and eat all sorts of fish.

I first learned about the country of Belize by reading an article in a fishing magazine back in the 1970s.  I talked with my dad about going there but it didn’t seem practical at the time.  Fast forward 50 years, when one of my sons told me about a “destination outing.”  He was going to a bachelor party in Belize.  A year later he returned there for more fishing and came back with great stories and pictures.  This year he invited me to accompany him.  I had to think (about 1 femtosecond,)  and got my passport renewed.  He planned the whole trip.

I finally visited that beautiful part of the world, we caught and ate a lot of interesting reef fish, and saw magnificent frigate birds up close.  But best of all, was the time I spent with my son. 

Short attention spans?  3.5 minute video is available at

Belize has a rich culture and history and some world class natural wonders we’ll see another time.  For the visually inclined here’s a brief slideshow of our adventure with some Belizean music.   Enjoy the pictures and thanks for traveling with me.

All that’s left of the old forests of Asheville’s Montford neighborhood are occasional stands of eighty foot oaks whose long, leafy branches furnish welcome shade and homes for a few native wildlife. 

Just listen to the morning’s opera libretto — choruses of song birds, woodpecker percussion, and high branch solos from sentry crows. Carefree squirrels love all the acorns, and chatter their news as they play.  They take every chance to arouse any remnants of gray wolf DNA in the many barking pet dogs walking on leashes, captive behind their smart fences, or imprisoned on screened porches.  

Some of the animal’s stories began long long ago. While their tales have been retold for thousands of generations, there’s always room for a new chapter. 

In a cozy den in a crawl space underneath a student cottage at the edge of Montford live John and Paula Opossum.  The “O” is silent because about 225 million years ago the great mega-continent Pangaea slowly separated to form the continents of the Americas, Europe and Australia. Opossum’s marsupial ancestors wanted to follow their cousins the O’tters and the O’striches to live in Ireland.  But they only got as far as Alabama where they became roadkill and their neighbors just called them the “Possums.”  But the Montford possums kept the “O” because they still dream of getting to Ireland one day.  

Their life is easier now that John and Paula are both retired.  They live on crickets and acorns and Chipotle scraps the students throw away.  Still nocturnal, they don’t party as much now, and at Paula’s urging both are now attending the Retired Appalachian Critters’ School.   Three nights a week they follow the brook and culverts up the big hill and take classes on history, hang by your tail yoga, old music, and playing dead.  During breaks, they chat with friends about their aches and pains and how the kids never visit.

Thicker woods can still be found nearby on the shores of the French Broad River.  Evenings, some raccoons, opossums, white-tailed deer, brown bats and a few weary trash can urban black bears come down for a drink, and to tell stories about the old days and the great times they remember.  High up in their dreys, the squirrels are all asleep, exhausted from their day of taunting the neighborhood dogs, laughing and acorn-tossing.

Old John wanted to go down by the river again tonight to look for his raccoon chum, Murray.   He and Murray had gone to school together and he was the “best bud” at John’s wedding to Paula.  Whenever John leaves for some time with his pals, Paula tells him to be careful and stay away from any queen snakes.

Near the river bank John spots Murray laughing it up with two crows, his thick striped tail twitching.  

“Hey” said John.  “What’s so funny? Why are these crows down here on the ground?”

“Just be-caws,”  Murray smirked. “They’re just raven about being charged for their carrion luggage.”

John groaned, then laughed.  “Your crow puns murder me.”  

Most critters have some sense of humor and the smartest ones enjoy a little wordplay, but the bad jokes were too much even for the bats.  They squeaked overhead and returned to hunting fireflies who quickly scattered, turning off their tail lights.  

In the evening moonlight John and Murray watched a great buck drinking warily, pausing to sniff for danger.  His doe and fawn were close by in the underbrush.  Then suddenly he bolted and disappeared into the dark.

“Uh, oh deer” said John.”Not your puns, this time”

“Damn, I’m outa here,” echoed Murray.

A pack of hungry, tattooed, hillbilly coyotes were sneaking up with noses close to the ground and tails low and stiff.  “Fresh possum and coon will taste good tonight, eh boys?” snarled one.

“Not tonight,” thought John.

“Let’s go,” snapped Murray.  The crows had disappeared.

Up into a nearby chestnut oak the opossum and raccoon scampered alerting a pileated woodpecker who was trying to nap.  The coyotes circled the tall tree, looking up and whining.

“Billy Joe?  barked Jeb, the coyote pack leader.  “You forgot the durn ladder didn’t you?” 

Billy Joe just lowered his head and said nothin’.

“They’ll have to come down,” growled Jeb.  “We’ll jes’ wait.”

Meanwhile, John wrapped his strong naked tail around a high branch and lowered himself headfirst.  With one eye slightly open he whispered,“I’m dead if anyone asks.”  He grinned.  

Murray climbed up three branches higher, scanning the evening treetops, looking for his crow friends.  Nothin’ yet.

Then, after a few minutes, they heard, “Caw, caw, caw,” and saw a small group of crows circling their tree.  The crows settled and roosting nearby.

“Hey Murray,” cawed the head crow, “We see you and those stupid dog things down there.  We’ll wake up the squirrels be-caws they hate dumb dogs and they’ll be happy to distract them so you won’t be caw-t and can get away.”  

“Much appreciated,” said Murray.  He ignored the puns this time.

“Can they do that?” asked John, now with both eyes wide open.

Squirrels sleep very lightly and so were soon gathered in the branches just above the coyotes.  They chattered insults and some really nasty taunts so that even a few of the crows blushed.  Some of the younger squirrels dropped to the ground and ran close to Jeb.  

One of the squirrels snickered, “These red-neck dog cousins are even dumber than those Dobermans and Labradoodles up the hill.” Hah, hah, this is fun.”

Jeb hollered, “I can’t stand these friggin’ little pests. Let’s get ‘em boys!”  

The coyotes ran off in all directions trying to catch the squirrels, who were all laughing.

“That’s it.” said Murray “Time to get outa here.”  

He and John scooted down from their tree.  They knew a secret way up the hill back to Montford.  After a little branch hopping, Murray was back in his home territory, checking pet dishes left out on porches. 

John told Paula all about his great time with Murray — minus the coyotes, the crows and the squirrels.

“And no queen snakes,” he said to reassure her.

“Yes dear,” Paula murmured.

End

“Bats are all wings and never walk on the ground: the opposite of flightless birds.”  N. Audubon, 1803.

The Dodos are believed to have only inhabited the Island of Mauritius in the western region of the Indian Ocean.  The species disappeared during the mid-to-late 17th century from habitat destruction, hunting, and predators introduced by Dutch and Portuguese sailors.   It is an often-cited example of modern extinction.  

Growing up on a poultry (not chicken, please) farm near Cape Cod, I was well acquainted with flightless birds.  In high school I learned about large ostrich-like birds called Rheas that inhabited much of South America.  They and other species found in New Zealand, Australia, and Indonesia have all been largely eradicated by lazy, hungry human hunters.  On a trip to South Africa after college I saw my first wild penguins and lost my heart to these little birds that fly underwater.  

Eventually, I took my studies all the way to a doctorate in avian biology, ecology, evolution and extinction.  Mornings I listen to the chorus of birds outside my window and wonder about all those birds we’ve lost.   Many believe we are in the midst of the sixth mass extinction of birds and mammals.  In the last 600 years (things move slowly geologically) almost 200 species of birds have gone extinct.  Around 90 percent of those losses can be attributed to one species, ours. At academic gatherings, bird watchers avoid me.  They never want to hear about flightless emu-like, clawed, Cassowaries that have been known to kill human beings. Payback for the Dodos?  

Fast forward fourteen years after academia. I was working at National Geographic in Washington, DC.when we received two pictures of what might be the remains of large flightless birds.  They were reportedly taken on a beach on one of the Little Nicobar Islands just west of Malaysia in the northeastern region of the Indian Ocean.  Only the two photographs were available and the carcasses had disappeared.  Could they be related to the dodos, now extinct from a small island across a vast ocean over 3,000 miles away? Is that possible?

The dodos were evolutionary descendants of a spotted pigeon-like bird that populated the eastern Indian ocean and Malaysia.  Following ocean currents they must have migrated west as far as the Mauritius islands near Mozambique.  There, nearly 50 million years ago, they found an island that was so well suited for them that they slowly evolved into flightless birds that flourished in the fruit and nut rich forests, near beaches alive with small crustaceans and, best of all, with no natural enemies, until 350 years ago.

What if other descendants of the same spotted pigeon-like birds found similar habitats around Malaysia and evolved similarly to the dodo?   The grainy photographs of two of the carcasses showed large turkey-sized, stunted-winged birds with heavy curved upper mandibles.similar to the Dodos on Mauritius.  No current known species fit the description. Certainly nothing like that at the eastern end of the Indian Ocean.  Was this evidence I needed?  Could DNA samples be used in experimental efforts to regrow the Dodo species?  I was thrilled about the news and the possibility of a fabulous field trip to the other side of our planet.

Back in my DC condo I was all over Google trying to visualize the little Nicobar islands.  As I explained the fascinating possibilities to my roommate, her eyelids relaxed over her moist glazed eyes.  “When do you leave?” she finally asked.

Only our research group at National Geographic and a French group, from Sorbonne Université, had been notified.  It was headed by Pierre Chapelle, who I’d met years ago.  He was already working in the Mauritius Islands.  The race was on to get authorization for a month-long field trip for myself and an assistant to travel to Nicobar.

With our budget approved, bags of equipment packed, visas obtained, malaria, typhus and yellow fever shots, we were ready to go.  38 hours after leaving Dulles, and two stops later, we landed at 2AM in Kuala Lumpur.  Exhausted, we slept for almost a day and a half  as our body clocks tried to reset to the new longitude.  Mostly sunny, hot and muggy except for ocean breezes, it was  somehow different from hazy, hot and muggy Washington, DC.  A local travel agent was able to book us on a two-hop trip east to Banda Aceh across the Malacca Strait where we were able to squeeze onto a Sumatran mail and supply boat to the Nicobar Islands.  We spent most of our time on deck enjoying the lush green island silhouettes, green-blue water and sociable dolphins following the bow wake of our light cruiser.  After a two day trip we finally joined the Pierre and French research team already on Little Nicobar. 

The French group were camped in the highlands at the edge of a tropical forest about three kilometers from the beach.  They were all happy to share some of our Kentucky bourbon and Doritos.  Their English was much better than our high school French which improved while poring over our notes and photos, sipping our bourbon, and pouring some budget Nuit St. George red and unchilled Chardonnay, brought by Pierre.   Then, about dusk, it happened.  First, we heard a strange high pitched barking sound..  

“Really big bats. Don’t worry, zey only eat fruit and berries, but sometimes zey are attracted to zee sound of our voices, AND zey can see!  Fais attention.”  said Pierre.

“ Silencieux!  Zey vill be soon disparu.”  Some of the bats had wing spans of over one meter.

Then, out of the near darkness I heard and felt leather-like wings flapping.  Suddenly there was a large winged, puppy-sized animal on my shoulder.  

Was it trying to eat my ear?  I screamed.

Only Pierre’s french army knife with its multiple corkscrews was handy.  I grabbed it and slashed where I thought the beast was.  It was gone. 

Only surface scratches — from the bats or the corkscrew?  Doesn’t matter.  Pierre soaked his handkerchief with some leftover Chardonnay and wiped my neck wounds.  Most everyone was laughing.  Now, finally, I thought, I had a good story to tell at those faculty dinner parties, when I get invited.   

After 11 more days of searching for surviving dodo ancestors, we gave up.  My “red scratches of courage” were nearly gone. No scars.  Sigh.

Pierre and the French team returned to their “research” in Mauritius.  I made it back to Washington, DC with a new French Army knife, courtesy of Pierre, and material for an exciting YouTube video that my roommate only watched once. 

End

Note,  I am indebted to Michael Crawford (NYer cartoonist, and jazz lover (1945- 2016) for the concept and image of the French Army knife. 

Last Bottle of Wine

No time to finish it before our demise.
Never get to say those “thank you’s” and “goodbyes.”
We leave a mess for others, with lives of their own, 
To cry and compose some words for our tombstone.

Fast, if we’re lucky, and mostly unexpected,
Then, we’re gone.  Unnoticed, by most, unaffected.
Remembered by a few, once in a while, 
Until soon they’re gone too.

The ripples from our pebble in the pond.
Don’t go very far before they’re gone.

That’s it, say goodbye to harmony and strife.
Unless you hug the pillow of an afterlife. 

Life is really very simple.
It’s right here, right now.
Just being the best we can be.
Kindness and generosity.

Laughter and good home cooking
And the taste of wine we favor
After all our hard work.
So happily others can savor. 

Cheers

Air Lingus was having a special.  What could be simpler? Not much and not far.  First stop, Tipperary (not far, get it?) Day trips and visits to Castles and historic sites, rolling rural hills filled with sheep and charming towns and cities.  Nice BnBs and nearby pubs, so no driving.  BnB owners were happy to call ahead to my next destination.  Rented a French car and drove on the other side of the road for 10 days.  I did climb in the passenger side a few times, and clipped rear view mirrors twice.  My journal/sketchbook was always with me and evenings I would ink and color my sketches.

Fast-forward 15 years,  our good neighbors are planning a trip to the emerald isle so I found that old journal.  And, if you want to see a brief slide show, I’ve posted HERE.

My Spring 2019 course: Every Picture Tells a Story: Writing Memoirs From Family Photographs is a renewing and enjoyable exercise.  Turns out you actually have to write the story that each photo holds and good writing is challenging.  Photos, smells and music have a magical way of re-flooding our minds and feelings with times gone by – nostalgia for sure, but real memoir food.  Best of all, our wonderful instructor (and class) were willing to tolerate my quirkiness.

My tribute to pal Nelson Sartoris is presented here.  (Bugle music…)

Nelson is Part of My Silhouette

by Bill LaRocque

As a portrait artist, I’ve learned that the outline of a subject has to be done right.  It’s a big part of how we recognize each other. We are shaped by our surroundings. Each outline or silhouette exists only within the defining negative shapes that surrounds it.

I cannot describe myself without understanding how I was and am shaped by others around me.  But this is not about me.

I have been supported, challenged, and inspired by some and gut punched by others.  It’s all there in my silhouette. By the time you get white hair, you’re all done growing and changing for good, bad or meh, that’s pretty much it?  Right? Nope.

I was formed by my good parents, partners, family and friends, teachers, sargeants, coaches and supervisors, artists and scientists and even politicians.  And I haven’t forgotten the bullies and bandits, tyrants and lackeys. Somewhere in that mix is me… I think.

Retirement provides time to pause and reflect.  As a consequence a lot of old men are grumpy. Our diminished physical abilities, hearing, and memory are not who we were.  Many don’t talk very much or easily share our feelings. That may be a mistake…

Retiring to Asheville and OLLI a dozen years ago I left a career where I was surrounded increasingly by millennials.  Now, I found a community of folks about my age, still smart, creative and engaged.

There was one grouchy old coot I took a liking to right away.  He spoke up in the classes, was well informed, cynical and funny.  When we were able share a few personal details, I was surprised. He was an academic, whom I would normally avoid, but in chemistry, my undergraduate major.  We both appreciated Darwin and had little patience for religion. We admired many of the same OLLI instructors and liked mexican food and a beverage or two.

Then, about five years ago he started to write poetry.  Ha ha. Seriously.

Many of his pals at our geezer school (all literate and creative) were encouraging him, but very little rhymes with N-phos-phon-omethyl-glycine, OK, “drag queen” or “string bean” do but that doesn’t make any sense.  So, he took on other topics: culture, laments, aging, god, reveries and mortality to name a few.  

His beloved mom was nearing her centennial milestone and he wanted to, at long last, impress her.  So he set about the major task of publishing a book of his verse. No, not a blog, not a long e-mail or Facebook post, something she could hold in her hand.

Three years ago, he did it.  He reinvented himself as a sensitive, articulate, witty, parnassian published scribe all without losing his grumpy side.  His mom glowed and his friends rejoiced. Nelson smiled, with eyes a little moist. (OMG, some of that rhymes…)

Here’s what he taught me.  There’s a fascinating artist within us all.  Often as a child, that creative being is caged and assaulted with cruel remarks.  But it’s still there, alive. As a flower can suddenly bloom when nurtured and inspired, the most wonderful stories, paintings, music, quilts, or coq au vin are created to admire,  (Yikes, not again?)

Nelson stays informed by reading hardcover books, the New York Times, and by sitting under a tree and watching as slowly birds reappear and start to sing and the fronds of friendly ferns unfurl.  He knows almost all the bird species names. I just know their given names: Pete and Marjorie, Karen and Scout. Acid or base, balding or gout, happily, there’s no topic we can’t banter about. (Last rhyme.  It’s Miller time.)

Short Attention Span Seniors  – I get it.  That was a little long to read.  Here are some nice pictures of Nelson as a lad and way past full grown.  Chairman of the Chemistry department is now a poet, for real.

ALSO! His second book is even verse than his first and available on Amazon.  I did the illustrations.

The hilarious story (above) that you just skipped reading is now posted on the Internet – your grandkids can help you find it. https://boomrbill.com/

More, Better. I think technology (creative inventiveness) and humor (the olive oil and garlic of life) enable our survival. Two heroes, Bill Gates and Dave Barry both recap way better than I.

I wrote a long summary about a week ago that, upon rereading, was so tedious and sniveling, I deleted it. I’m very happy to have been granted another year and to have spent it with my wonderful partner, SAM. For all my complaints (don’t get me started) I’m a lucky bloke, but my seat belt is fastened… I’ll leave it at that.

Thankful. I enjoy and am nourished by my men’s group brothers and our weekly discussions, my drawing, wood crafts and occasional writing, and especially our UNCA and AACC classes – both participating and leading.

Last year’s river cruise was a luxurious learning experience through the center of Europe. Also, I collaborated with one of my best pals to illustrate a beautiful collection of his poems that are both fun and profound at the same time.  Plug (Amazon link to On Wings of Words)

So welcome, 2019!  We could use some better news this year (and you know what I mean.)  Looking forward to Trump’s resignation, 5G, Star Wars IX, The Webb Space Telescope, a hair growth lotion, and going fishing.   

Thanks for stopping by and reading all the way down to here. Some pics below…