The Tree (6/52)

One day many years ago a man built a house and in his backyard he planted two trees. And over many years, the trees grew and grew and so did the man. HIs house grew, his family grew, and everything, even his business, seemed to be reaching for the sky. 

Year after year, the trees’ trunks grew fatter and taller and sprouted new leaves in the summer that provided shade for the man and his wife, then the man and his children, and finally, for the man, his children, and their children. 

In the summer, the man and his family, and then his grandchildren, would play in the shade of the tree, really enjoy and appreciate the shade provided by the tree. And sometimes, they would sit, just the man, or the man and his family, they would sit on the patio behind the house in folding chairs and watch the sun shine through the gaps in the leaves. 

The man spent many years mowing the grass underneath these trees. So many years in fact, that the man could almost predict the day when he would be mowing and see a leaf on the ground in front of him. And then, the man would rake the leaves into big piles and then put them into bags first. But later, many years later, the man would rake leaves into piles and the man’s grandchildren would jump into the piles so the man would rake them again over and over again. Sometimes, the man would even put the slide into the pile of leaves, and watch the grandchildren slide down again and again, and he would rake again and again. 

Until the leaves were gone and raked, then there were no leaves for the man left, just bare trunks and grey skies and partially eaten corn cobs nailed to the trees for the squirrels. Then the trees were alone until late in the winter when snow would come, then the trees weren’t alone because the man’s children and eventually his grandchildren would play in the snow beneath the trees and use its small branches for arms. The small branches that fell from the tree made the best arms for snowmen. 

The snow would melt and then the grass was brown and dead but not for long. The grass was not dead for very long because when the sun finally shone on the brown, dead grass it would grow and become green again and the man would start to mow. First, there was no shade, but eventually the leaves grew and the sun became hotter but the man was protected by the leaves. 

This went on for many years after the man planted the trees. The man mowed the grass under the trees and raked their leaves and re-raked. Until the man couldn’t rake by himself anymore. The  man raked but his grandchildren raked, too, and for years after this first year, the man raked less and watched more. 

Even though the man did not rake anymore, there were fewer leaves to rake anyway. The trees, specifically the biggest tree, was too big and too old and it could no longer support the weight of its mighty limbs. 

And so that summer, the view of the sunlight through the trees was obscured by arborists in the trees. The man’s view was limited by the arborists in the trees as they strung steel cables between their limbs and branches so the man could still enjoy the trees.

This worked, the steel cables strung between branches, it worked for some time at holding the trees together. But, eventually, the cables falter.  Like the trees, the steel cables started to deteriorate. 

However, now, the man was too old to take care of the tree by himself. So the man’s child and the man’s grandchild worked together to get the tree removed. 

They did it, the man’s child and the grandchild, they found another crew of arborists this time to cut the trees down. 

And when the arborists came to cut the trees down, they did so piece by piece. The biggest sections of the trees were sent to the woodchipper, but the small ones, the small pieces, those were left in a pile in the backyard of the man’s house. Now, pieces of the trees that once stood tall and proud many feet above the roof of the house, sat in an uneven pile in the dirt. 

The man, wanting to do something now that the trees were gone, gave some of the pieces, those pieces from the pile in the dirt, to a friend to make carved bowls and vases.  The friend made what the man wanted and the man had enough of the bowls and vases made to give to his family; he had enough items to give to his children and his children’s children. 

This man, the man who is writing now, received one of these vases. The vase sits on this man’s bookshelf and holds random items, some change and memory cards. That’s what is held in the vase. 

The man, he gave away all these items and kept one bowl for himself, for he and his wife. Now, the ground where the trees were once rooted is gone and the pile is gone, too. But the man, the man is still here. Though like the tree, he too will be gone one day. 

Like the man lost his trees, so too will this man, the man who writes, lose the man. But, he’ll still have the vase. Maybe, this man thinks, that will be okay. To have the vase even when the man is gone. Maybe, he thinks to himself, he’ll have more than just the vase. He’ll have memories of the trees.

On a Breath (5/52)

Some weeks just get to get away from me. So, instead of missing a post I’m going to share a story from my old blog that I had for many years. This week, I learned of the unfortunate passing of one of Colin’s high school classmates. The news was shocking and I thought this story about Dr. J was timely.

***

I saw Dr. John for the first time today since he left last week; his wife died on Friday. 

He’s a professor in a different program but has an office in the same hallway and occasionally we will talk as he comes and goes. Our talks are never long and rarely delve deeper than talking about the classes he teaches or the ones I attend. 

And so, today, as he walked through the door, I struggled with how to address the death of his wife. Before I could weigh my options he approached my desk. 

“Mornin’ Dr. John, how are you?” 

“I’m not sure if you know but my wife died last week,” he said with surprising bluntness. 

“I’m really sorry to hear that, I can’t even imagine.” 

“See, I know it up here,” he said as he pointed to his head. “But I just can’t seem to understand it here” he ended with his finger pointed to his heart. “By the way, can you open 304 for me, I have to give a test later.” And with that, he walked away.

I’m unsure if it was due to my lack of sleep or the sheer honesty with which he shared, but I could not stop thinking about our conversation. I decided to stop by Steve’s house on my way home to pick up my ax. I told him about Dr. John and questioned why he would share something so personal with me. 

“Sometimes people just need to say things out loud; it just makes you feel better.”  

Evolution of a Sportsman 1/3 - 4/52 (**Graphic Photos**)

It was the fall of 1988 and my Grandpa, then 59, was preparing to go on his first deer hunt. His father-in-law, Bill, who still worked the multi-generational farm, was getting too old to go out in the field. Ever since my Grandma and Grandpa were married, Grandpa was Bill’s hunting buddy, as he described it, because Bill’s other sons were not as interested in hunting. 

Even though it would be Grandpa’s first deer hunt, it was nowhere near his first hunt. From his telling, his Dad started him hunting from a young age but the focus was always on small game and birds. He and his friends would even break down their shotguns and stow them in their lockers throughout the day and then go hunt the fields around East High when school was over. 

My Grandpa’s love of hunting and fishing never wavered and continued throughout his adult life, but it did change. Over his years of fishing, he became an early adopter of the notion of “catch and release” especially with muskies throughout Wisconsin. He was also a lover of dogs and raised several dozen beagles training them to compete in field trials. In the telling of his deer hunting story to me, my grandpa reminisced on the final years of owning beagles. 

He said, “I’d load up some of the dogs in my van and drive around to the farms that looked like they’d have rabbits. Then I’d go up and ask if they’d just like to watch me work the dogs and not hunt. It was just as fun watching those dogs run around.” 

According to my Grandpa, the farmland available to hunt dwindled over the years as family farms were split apart and sold off. As the land went, so too did the animals. As a result, my Grandpa hunted less and less. That was, until Bill asked him to kill a deer. 

Grandpa’s homemade treestand.

In preparation for the hunt, my Grandpa made himself a treestand which was fairly easy for him to accomplish given he owned a sheet metal shop. He found the perfect spot for the stand on the and set it up a fews weeks prior to the season opener. 

The day of the hunt, my Grandpa got into the stand with his Deerslayer slug gun and readied himself for the hunt. Throughout the morning, he saw several deer on the hillsides around his stand but none were in-range. There was one big 10-pointer that came near his stand; however, as he turned to reach for his gun the deer looked up at my Grandpa, snorted, and then ran away blowing to alert other deer. 

It was at about this point that my Grandpa recalled a conversation that Bill had said to shoot the first legal deer he saw - there was no use in holding out for a bigger deer you weren’t sure would even come around. After his first encounter of the morning, my Grandpa wasn’t even sure more deer would walk the path in front of his stand.

So, later that day when a deer with spike antlers walked under Grandpa’s stand, he aimed right below the deer’s shoulder and shot at it. He then hurriedly climbed down to the ground where he expected to see the deer lying dead in close proximity. However, there was no deer in sight but he was able to pick up on a small blood trail heading into a briar patch. 

Grandpa then did what any reasonable man would do; he crawled along the blood trail on his hands and knees. As he moved through the briar patch, he looked up, and simultaneously, the deer stuck its head above the thorns, stood up, and began bounding towards a fence which demarcated Bill’s farm from the neighbors who were all (in my grandpa’s memory) waiting on their side of the fence for a deer to run through. 

Grandpa took another shot and the deer immediately fell to the ground. He then turned around to grab his camera out of his pocket and, in doing so, heard a rustling behind him and the deer was gone again. 

Now, Earl (Grandpa’s brother-in-law) had eyes on the deer from his truck on the road as Grandpa chased after the deer on foot. As he ran, he got in range of the deer and finally took the shot that laid the deer down for good. 

They then gutted the deer, brought it back to the farm, and soon began the butchering process during which he received some ribbing from the family for shooting a spike (however, Grandpa will tell you that a biologist at the check-in station told him the deer was easily 3-4 years old and 200 pounds and said, “some deer just don’t grow antlers.”). My Grandpa says that they looked all over the deer and never found a bullet hole or a slug. Maybe it was stress that finally killed it? 

And then, for nearly 30 years, we Osborne’s did not intentionally kill a deer other than those hit by our cars until I started my journey to become a hunter. For me, it only took one shot to kill my first deer, but it did take three close encounters and two seasons before I was finally ready to pull the trigger.

School of Mike Murphy - Little Potted Plant (3/52)

I’m still getting a hang of this weekly writing. This week’s story is one that represents a very powerful moment in my career and I’m making sure that I do it justice. Check back in a day or two for the full story.

Edit: 11/8/21 at 11:35 - full story added

When I started my internship with Mike Muprhy in the fall of 2019, there were several “duties as assigned” that were wholly unrelated to speech pathology, or so I thought.

It was planned from the beginning of my internship that I would continue my outpatient rotation for 16 weeks instead of the usual 8 so that Mike’s caseload would have continuity when he left for a month-long vacation. 

Another SLP, who primarily worked inpatient rehabilitation, told Mike that she would supervise a student in his clinic as long as they were up and running by the time he left. So, Mike made sure I was ready to continue the treatment of our established patients and evaluate news as they were referred. 

This was no easy task as Mike’s caseload was eclectic from aphasia, to dysphonia, dysphagia, cognitive-communication and everything in between and mixed together. But, no matter the diagnosis, Mike had a way of making an impression on all of his patients in both big and small ways; he was able to make a connection. 

During the first week of my internship Mike told me that to work in this field, at a baseline, you have to really care about other people. And when a patient sits down across the table from you, you ought to ask yourself, and even them out loud, “what do you need? What can I do to help you?” Most importantly, Mike would add, “what is it that the patients are trying to tell you?”

That part of the job, the soft skills, that’s something I’m still working on and will continue to work hard at for many years. But the hard skills, knowledge of disorders and how to treat them, that part I understood and felt prepared to carry out in Mike’s absence. 

Other than maintaining Mike’s treatment caseload, he left me with an equally important task: caring for the collection of plants in his office. Now, this doesn’t seem like a big deal, and it really shouldn’t have been but I am a notorious plant killer. Really, I just forget to water them until it’s too late. 

Some of the plants were sentimental for Mike; not only had they survived several seasons of growth but they had weathered seasons in his career. One such plant was fairly unassuming. It had leaves like a hosta and sat in an old, yellow pot to which the planter saucer was affixed due to years of water and dirt mixing together and hardening. 

Prior to leaving for his trip, Mike told me to keep an extra eye on that plant as he had been gifted it by a patient (who received it from her great-grandmother) as a thank-you nearly 20 years prior. Since that time, he’d never once changed the soil or repotted the plant. I found this peculiar but it had obviously worked for nearly two decades. 

And so, Mike did eventually depart for his trip essentially leaving me in charge of his patients and his pseudo-greenhouse. While nervous, Mike told me I was ready and I took it to heart. 

Halfway through Mike’s absence, a new patient was referred to the clinic after experiencing several TBIs related to her active lifestyle. A few months out from her most recent incident, she found herself struggling to keep up with her work and frequently got lost while driving from location to location for her horticultural job. She was also a single mother and worried about how she would be able to support her family should her memory difficulties persist. While her boss had previously been lenient regarding her performance and work hours, he was starting to cast a more watchful eye. 

In the first week of therapy, after her evaluation was completed, my supervisor and I began to walk the patient through all of the normal treatment modalities. We worked on utilizing external memory aids, simplifying her daily schedule, sleep hygiene, etc. While she reported some improvement, it felt like we couldn’t fully get her to the place she needed or wanted to be. One day, she said that she was worried that “this was it” that she’d never get better and she would continue to feel isolated. 

While we had attempted every treatment strategy in the book, we weren’t able to make the connection she needed. Thankfully, for the both of us, Mike’s return was only a few days away. 

When he returned, and before her next session, I made sure to discuss her evaluation and our treatment goals to which Mike seemed displeased in a way that said, “why’d you pick her up for therapy?” Trying to save face, I reiterated her assessment scores and said it was well within the range that would benefit from intervention. Mike didn’t disagree but I felt that he also understood what I had discovered without ever meeting the patient. 

So, when she showed up for her appointment we got right to it. We reviewed what we had previously instructed her on and she and Mike went through the usual pleasantries. In the process, she told Mike of her horticultural occupation and the little potted plant came up. 

She asked, “why haven’t you repotted that plant after so many years?” 

Mike looked at her, glanced towards me, and then began the telling of the story of how he acquired the plant from an early patient of his, but, when the story was supposed to be over, he continued and said (something to the degree of): 

“No matter what happens to that little plant, it keeps surviving, just keeps going” he paused, “a lot like my patients.” 

During this telling, my eyes were fixed on Mike. And as he said that line, I looked towards our patient who was now sitting tearfully in her seat. She said, “just like me..I’m good, I’ll be okay.” She then wiped her eyes and asked to hug both Mike and I. Soon after, she stood up, and I walked her out of the office into the waiting room. 

When I got back to the room, Mike was still sitting in his chair in the same position he always did while talking to patients: leaned back with a leg crossed and his interlaced fingers wrapped around the front of his crossed knee. 

He looked towards me and said, “we’re going to be thinking about that one for a while, aren’t we?” 

Since that day, I reflect often on that therapeutic moment. Now, in the early stages of my career, I can be obsessed with the research and ensuring my practice is up to date and evidenced-based; however, it’s important to remember that, really, most patients don’t need a journal article. What they need is to make a connection with someone. 

The fish of 10,000 casts (2/52)

It was Saturday, October 23rd and my Dad and I were driving northeast towards Sturgeon Bay to fish for smallmouth bass on the big water the next morning. Being that it was the last tourist weekend in Door county, and a Packer game was scheduled at home in Green Bay the next day, hotels were hard to come by and we were planning to stay in a town neither of us had heard of before called Two Rivers. As we drove northeast from Madison, I couldn’t help but think back to the last guided fishing trip in Wisconsin I had been on nearly 9 years prior.

In 2012, I skipped my Junior year homecoming dance to go on a northwoods fishing trip with my brother Colin, Dad, and Grandpa. Our goal was to catch a musky but I’m not even sure we got close. On the very first night we arrived in Minoqua, we launched our boat (a 1970’s algae-green Starcraft) and took a short ride around the lake. A few minutes into our cruise on the lake, Granda requested to captain the boat. 

“I know exactly where we are on this lake,” he said to my Dad. 

“Oh really,” my Dad said, “then what’s right in front of us?” Likely wondering what, if anything, Grandpa saw because he was functionally blind due to macular degeneration. 

My grandpa looked ahead through the layers of hoods on his head  (it was snowing in early October) and said, confidently I will add, “nothing but water, all clear straight ahead!” while gesturing forward with his flattened palm like he was going to part the lake in front of us, a la modern-day, midwestern Moses. 

Unfortunately, Grandpa was totally oblivious to the rocky island a mere hundred yards from the bow of the boat. Needless to say, my Dad ensured Grandpa understood that he would not be behind the wheel of the boat for any reason. We all laughed about it and didn’t say much else but I think it set the tone for the trip; you need to have that kind of confidence Grandpa exhibited to go Musky fishing. The days can be long, casting in cold, damp weather. For us, on that trip, we didn’t catch a musky but it didn’t matter. We had a great trip full of memories that had nothing to do with fish: Grandpa philosophizing to Colin as he woke up, arguments with restaurants about sweet potato fries, and sitting in the hot tub with Grandpa while his urine-soaked felt pants were washed and dried (the man wears too many layers outdoors). 

Thanks to the reminiscing, the drive itself was almost a bit sad. The type of trip we experienced in 2012 couldn’t happen anymore. Grandpa’s 92 and Colin lives a busy life near Kansas City. However, some things don’t change, and Dad and I were able to have the same small-town Wisconsin experience the night before we went fishing: great food at an old school restaurant and old-fashioneds as a local bar. 

The next day on the water was admittedly a bit slow, but, just when I thought we would be skunked, I set the hook on my personal best Northern - 36”. While we didn’t catch any smallmouths, I was reminded that, for me, fishing is about everything besides the fish itself. I don’t typically catch what I’m after but it doesn’t matter; I’d trade any trophy fish for what I get instead.

What the turtle taught me (1/52)

(Over the course of the next year I plan to share one story per week. Ultimately, I may finish the project earlier if moments of inspiration hit and I’m able to write more than one story every 7 days. Throughout my creative career I’ve been plagued with the unfortunate habit of rarely finishing projects. I’ll get them 80% of the way there and then fail to close the distance on the final 20% due to a fear of the project not being “perfect”. This has always been problematic and I’m hoping this story-a-week project will help me works out the kinks and actually finish a few projects. This first story is a great example: the grammar is not great, sentence structure very repetitive, and essentially a non-ending. Again, all obvious problems, but I’m overcome the largest; at least the story is out there.)

If you’ve spent any amount of time in Rockford, there’s a good chance you’ve heard of, or at the very least, would recognize Aldeen park given its large, earthen dam. In a previous life, the dam was a notorious sledding hill and the site where graduating seniors from the area’s high schools would come and throw paint at each other. However, for me, my experience with Aldeen was always a bit different; my adventures began in the woods that surrounded the dam.

When I was young, so young I only am aware this occurred because my parents told me so, my brother, Colin, and I would run the trails of Aldeen. Apparently, we would try and shimmy up the trunks of the trees as they shed their leaves and jump off of small rocks which we perceived as large boulders. My mom tells me that this was a yearly tradition, Colin and I running through the woods, seemingly creating our first impressions of the natural world.

But after that, I didn’t do much else at Aldeen until I was 16 years old. That year, I started my first job working as an assistant leader at a day-camp called Nature Quest. The purpose of the camp, based on my foggy recollection of a brochure that was outdated when I found it in 2012, was to introduce kids from Rockford to the outdoors through a variety of activities like hiking, archery, and daily lunches cooked over an open fire. What they did not advertise, and what I was not aware of until I began working, was that Aldeen was the home to an impossibly large, like the size of a garbage can lid, snapping turtle. 

I think it’s important to note that this turtle is not something that’s regularly advertised and I’m not certain how many people are actually aware it exists. For me, I was told of the turtle during my first few weeks at Nature Quest by one of the leaders, Forrest (aptly named). Again, the size he described, or at least, what I understood, was preposterous. This wasn’t because snapping turtles don’t grow that big but rather entirely based on the size of its supposed home, Keith creek which is approximately 8-10 feet wide (generous) with 1-2 feet of consistent water depth (again, generous estimation). Swimming would be nearly impossible; the turtle would have to wade wherever it went.  

**Now, based on my own memory, I thought the turtle, as told, was roughly the size of a garbage can lid. However, a recent Instagram conversation between Forrest and myself leads me to believe that the turtle was the size of a large dinner plate. Realistically, the actual size of the turtle is inconsequential, what matters is my belief in the turtle at all.

It’s hard to explain but something in me wanted to believe this turtle existed. I thought that maybe the size was exaggerated but the turtle itself had to be real. I mean, why lie about a giant turtle? What’s the payoff? So, like any person who was told of a near-mystical creature, I began my search. Some mornings I would ride my bike to work early and go for a quick hike on the trail along the creek. In all of these morning hikes I never saw the turtle, really, I never saw any turtle. Yes, I saw creek chubs, and hawks, and on a single occasion, a mink swimming in a deep pool. But, none lessened my desire to find the turtle.

Whenever it was time to take my campers on a hike, I would tell them about the turtle and to keep their eyes peeled when we were near the creek. However, over time, as the weeks passed, the turtle’s grasp on my psyche softened and my active search ceased. I, like many of the kids who I told of the turtle, began to believe that it did not exist. How could it?

This feeling continued and I quickly saw the end of my first summer of work and, as swiftly as the first summer was finished, so too were my second and third. Sadly, none of those 24 cumulative weeks of work led to a turtle sighting. Looking back, my enthusiasm for the turtle waned with my enthusiasm to work. By my fourth summer at Nature Quest I knew that I needed a change and planned to work a different job the following summer. And with my time at Aldeen drawing to a close, I re-initiated the quest for the turtle. Though it all seemed to be in vane, the turtle had other plans. 

I finally saw the turtle during my last week of work at Nature Quest on our last all-hike. I was near the back of the line of our 60 campers as we breached the tree line and walked out across the top of the Aldeen dam. As a we walked along the crest, I looked down to our left at the slightly flooded Keith creek. There, in the pool, was a dark figure floating near the surface of the water in a location that never occurred to me to look. After collecting myself, it was obvious that it was a turtle, and not just any turtle, but the very turtle I had sought for the last four years. I stopped walking and looked at the creature as it slowly kicked its legs out to tread water. For a brief moment it seemed to pause at the surface of the water then deliberately sink into the murky water of the pool until it disappeared. Just like that, the turtle and I had our moment. It was real.

Road Trips: Middleton wedding and a return to Southern Illinois

It’s funny how attached you can become towards place without ever realizing it. Especially during graduate school, I knew that I loved the southern-most part of my home state of Illinois; however, I didn’t realize how strong that feeling really was until I had to leave quite abruptly in the height of the early C19 lockdowns.

In early March of 2020, I found out that I had been offered the fellowship position in Albuquerque. While I was ecstatic about the opportunity, it was tough to realize that I would be uprooting my life in Southern Illinois, possibly for good. During my undergraduate career, I didn’t really “live” in Southern Illinois, I lived as a student in Carbondale with little appreciation for the people and places that dotted the landscape outside of the campus bubble.

Over the course of my near 24 months living in Murphysboro, my small, fairly dilapidated apartment quickly began to feel like home and trips back to my first home, Rockford, made me realize that I truly had started my own life downstate. And so, when COVID hit and I completed the last real hurdle of graduate school - my thesis defense - I began to hurriedly pack up my apartment to move back to Rockford for several months prior to driving across the country, sigh-unseen to Albuquerque.

At that point, I was feeling the general anxiety of the time related to the pandemic and felt strongly about returning home to spend time with my immediate family and friends. It all felt quite existential. I’ll never regret those few months I had with my parents, brother, grandparents, and friends in Rockford; BUT, it always ate away at me how I left Southern Illinois: very few goodbyes, no final trips to my favorite spots and hangouts, and in the words of my former supervisor Robert, “it felt like we were running from the cops.”

I’m happy to report that I was able to, in some small way, finally make peace with my departure this past weekend while in my buddy Drew’s wedding. We started the trip with a visit to SIU where I was able to meet with my a majority of my former professors and talk about where my career has taken me thus far and my plans for the future. I was then able to run one of my favorite paths: SIU’s campus lake trail. I have either walked or run this path no less than 500 times during my 6 years at SIUC and I can’t remember a single time when someone said something to me while I was running. But, there’s a first for everything, and on Saturday, a woman I passed in the first few minutes of my run walking in the opposite direction said, upon seeing my again towards the end of my run, “geez man, you’re killing it!”

Then, after the wedding festivities were completed, Kallie and I stopped in Marion on our way out of town to meet with my former supervisor, Mike, who I am sure I’ll write more about in the future. In a bizarre chance encounter, while waiting for Mike in the parking lot, one of my former patients who I had treated with Mike pulled up in the parking spot across from me. Initially, I thought he was there to see Mike but found out that it was not so, he was there to meet his sister. Really, what are the chances that we all decided to go the same IHOP, on the same day, at the same time? And, if Mike had been there on time, there would have been a good chance we would have missed each other entirely.

All in all, I think the trip helped me to realize how far I’ve come in just a little over a year but also reminded me of what I love most about Southern Illinois: the people. Sitting here now, at my desk in Sun Prairie, I know that the ripples that were created during my formative years will just keep on ripplin’.

(Another interesting occurrence: last night, while walking Millie, I wore an old SLU sweatshirt. A couple stopped me and asked if I went to SLU and, through our conversation, I discovered that not only did they also attend SIU, but one was from Ava, a town only 20 minutes from Murphysboro. She even knew Kevin who owned the archery shop where I bought my compound.)

Life, art, and kayaking the kish

I’m not sure when the update was pushed through, but now, each day, I'm presented with a collection of photos spanning the last 5 years whenever I open my phone and accidentally scroll left. This week, a few photos popped up which made the gears start turning. The first photo was my Dad sitting in an art museum looking at an abstract painting.

I’ve always struggled with art; both the creation and interpretation. It always seemed so esoteric like a club I’d never get in to . But, I think that’s started to change. Whenever I think of art, I’m reminded of past conversations with Ben, one of my best friends for nearly a decade, where we would go back and forth debating what constitutes a piece of art, and upon further digging, what isn’t art when you really think about it. To some, the way they carry themselves day-to-day is in itself an art form. We didn’t talk about art last weekend while we floated down the Kishwaukee, but, for the first time in a long time I felt the urge to once again document my day-to-day life.

I think the beauty of documenting daily life is that the days rarely make sense as they happen. Even more so, strings of days or seasons of your life are nearly incomprehensible, at least to me, while they’re occurring. The act of documentation gives you the opportunity to live now and try to figure it out later. I’m reminded of a section from Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast where he talks about not eating and viewing certain pieces of art when hungry; he suggested that some art only made sense to him when he was in this state. For me, my “hungry state” seems to be time. With time, and a little perspective, I’ve started to appreciate the complexity of life and art which, at times, are synonymous.

A few weeks late

(I wrote this several weeks ago and am just getting around to posting it now)

I learned of the passing of Bill Recktenwald, known to myself and many others at SIUC as “Reck”, over the weekend. I was fortunate enough to meet and regularly talk with Reck throughout my time at the Daily Egyptian. And, while I never enrolled in one of his courses, I believe he mentored me all of the same. Given the circumstances, I thought it would be appropriate to share a few of my favorite anecdotes and stories.

One night, while talking with some coworkers from the DE in a parking lot, Reck exited the journalism building and started walking towards his car. Myself and Steve began walking towards Reck and had a short conversation. At the end of our talk, Reck popped his trunk, grabbed a small locked box, and pulled out a revolver which he then holstered in his pants. There was some reason he wanted to have the gun on the ride home, which I believe was mostly a non-reason, but that part of the conversation escapes me. However, several years later, during an unrelated conversation with Steve, he recounted a phone call with Reck which was interrupted by the ringing of gunshots as Reck attempted to shoot at a beaver who routinely damned his pond causing a flood over his driveway.

 Another night, sitting in the DE, Reck walked up to myself and Kallie. He had never met her before so I made the introduction to which he said, “[To Kallie] you have cold hands and a warm heart.”

It was an overcast Saturday during the fall of my freshman year of college. Nate called me and asked to go out hiking to the Garden of the Gods with Luke. After the hike, he suggested we stop by Reck’s house because he lived down the road. We stopped, talked for awhile and then Reck suggested we stop at a small-town Chinese buffet on our way home. Given the limited dining options in rural Southern Illinois, we stopped at said buffet and which commenced one of the most uncomfortable eating experiences of my life. It was the definition of “locals-only” and the other buffet-goers intently watched every bite we took.

Nothing about any one of these stories is consequential, really, they are all very mundane and I think that’s what makes them that much more important. When anyone passes, we’re quick to think of the best or most memorable story; however, to me, I think what we miss the most are those small daily conversations and occurrences which make use smile, cause us to cringe, or otherwise remind us that we aren’t alone – someone is always there, always notices. Reck spent two decades shining light on injustices throughout Illinois, really putting faces to the issues, during his tenure at the Tribune and then spent another two decades at SIUC helping uncover the potential of hundreds of students who passed through the halls journalism department.

You’ll be missed, Reck.

See a full obituary below.

https://www.chicagotribune.com/news/obituaries/ct-william-recktenwald-obit-20210823-uamzd72d4nfxrnp3se4rtbxhxy-story.html

Fool me once..

I can’t begin to describe the embarrassment that comes from letting another year pass without actually starting my blog. I am even going to leave up the post from last year to serve as motivation; this year will be different. There’s no reason for anyone to believe that but I’ve grown a significantly in the last year.

I moved to a brand new city, site unseen, and began my career in the midst of a pandemic. While others had to do the same, I look back and am proud of what I accomplished. I am now closer to home and will begin the next phase of my career in a little under 1 week.

While in Albuquerque, given C19er (see-one-niner, thanks to Steven Rinella), I had plenty of time to think about the state of my life both past and present. While I did not create anything other than a few iphone videos and photos, I feel that, for the first time in many years, I am ready to create again. And, upon reflection, I think I know why it has been so difficult for me to actually complete projects which will be a topic for another day.

All of that to say, I am excited to see what comes from the process of creating this blog. I plan to share posts about my thoughts, stories, projects, and processes; I also want to share pieces of content (art, interviews, videos, etc.) which have influenced me either personally or creatively.

Welcome to my blog!

I am very excited to have a blog once again. If you know me, this is not the first blog that I have curated. My start occurred on tumblr many years ago, and while those blogs still exist, I felt it best to create a fresh start for myself. Rather than be bogged down by a number of posts detailing what I plan to do and create in the future, I hope that this blog is a place where I can chart a new creative path forward.

My goal is to post at least once a week. These posts will include stories, small photography projects, or simply what I accomplished in the previous seven days. Instead of worrying about what to write and post about, I hope to just write, put myself out there, and figure it out as I go.

Photo by my longtime, trusted personal photographer: Ben Larson