Stu Jenks: Fezziwig Photography, Music, and Writing

"From Lively to Sin Vacas" (c) 2008

"From Lively to Sin Vacas" © May 2008 Stu Jenks

    [Images from top to bottom: "The Last Chair, Lively, Virginia", "The Flowering Oaks, Lively, Virginia, "Ancient Oak, Lively, Virginia", "Harriman, Tennessee", "Minnie Pearl's Hat, Ryman Auditorium, Nashville, Tennessee", "Mary at the Cadillac Ranch, Amarillo, Texas", "The Very Large Array, New Mexico", "Panoramic Cadillac Ranch, Amarillo, Texas", & "Cattle and The VLA"]

        We had just had a perfectly nice little box lunch at an Interstate rest stop in the Valley of Virginia. No harsh words. No crazy comments. No imagined slights from us. Then, as my mother was getting a scarf out of the car, preparing to walk over and get back into the Penske truck, she said to me.
    "You know, after Pamela was born I had a miscarriage and I fought to have another child, so remember that, the next time you get upset with me!"
    I shrugged my shoulders, gave Annie a crooked smile with a slight shake of the head and walked my elderly mother back to the truck.
    And this was Day Two of what turned out to be a week-long journey, driving my mother and her things to an independent living place, near my home in Tucson, Arizona.

    I thought it would be fun, driving Miss Daisy across the country. It was anything but. When Annie arrived, ten days before we were going to leave for Arizona, she was prepared to do a lot of work, packing my mother up. What she didn't know was that in the months leading up to the move, Mom hadn't done a thing. When I arrived three days before we departed Virginia, Annie had done an amazing job, in spite of everything.
    Even though I had been to The River to visit at Christmas, I had no idea how much my mother had begun to fade. She started out the day as a woman in her eighties and ended the day as a six-year-old child. When friends would ask me, on the phone, how my mother was, I would say she was 'petulant'.
    But my mother’s old, and it's not her fault that she has become more of a spoiled brat. She has always been this way. But now, she was ruder, more insulting, and more manipulative that I've ever seen her. She’s never been one to apologize or try and walk in anyone else's shoes, but now it was all or nothing, black or white, good or bad, with no gray in between. And the All was All Her. We either loved her or hated her, and she wasn't shy to say anything now. [Like she ever was.] And even though it was never her intent to be hurtful, that didn't mean it didn't hurt. [Whether a truck runs over you by accident or on purpose, you've still been run over by a truck.] Add to that the entitlement issues in her DNA and the occasional histrionic tears and you've got a nightmare for Annie and I.

    Miraculously, we got the 26-foot Penske truck on the road on Friday Afternoon, with Mother and Annie following in Mom's Buick Le Sabre. We made it as far as Charlottesville, Virginia that night.
    Besides the little adventure caused by me getting the truck stuck in the parking lot of the motel, (I embedded the rear end into the pavement while trying to go up a little hill. Had to get a tow truck to wince it free), the first day's drive was uneventful and rather pleasant for me. For me. Not for Annie. For Annie had Mom in the car with her, for hours. After Day One, Annie and I traded off my mother. Day Two, Mom rode with me. Day Three, she rode with Annie, etc. That way, we each had every other day without the presence of my mother.
    When Mom doesn’t get her way, either she is wrong, you are wrong, or all of us are wrong. There is no simple difference of opinion in my mother's world. If you disagree with her, you hate her. If you are angry at some behavior of hers, you hate her. If you ask for something that she doesn't want to give, you hate her. I wish I could say this was new, but it isn't. It's just more so.
    Also, Mary puts people into two groups, those she considers family and those she doesn't. If you are considered family, then you are obligated to do what ever she asks. You are her servant, her peasant, her slave. And if you refuse, politely or no, she gets mad and either insults you or tries to shame you into doing what she wants. Again, not new. Just more desperate and pitiful these days. (Then again, my mother’s ancestors did own slaves and she was raised by black servants. Perhaps I expect too much.)

    The manipulations and criticism started long before we left Lively, Virginia.
    By the time we reached Tennessee, Mom was saying she wanted to go back home to Virginia or go to Raleigh and live with my sister, Pamela. (Not an option, now or ever.)

         
    In Nashville, she thought she was in Richmond, Virginia. Truly. She thought we were on Broad Street, seconds after we had left the Ryman. Thought the Mosque was just up ahead. ‘What the fuck,’ I silently mouthed to Annie in the rear view mirror, as we drove back to the Interstate.

    In Arkansas, she tried to jump out of the car. We affectionately call it The Arkansas Incident. We were driving slow and it was at night, so no one got hurt.
    By Oklahoma, we couldn't stand to even think of eating dinner with my mother. We prepared food for her to eat and brought it to her room at sundown, and then Annie and I went out and had our own dinner.
    I took some pictures of Mom at the Cadillac Ranch near Amarillo, Texas that turned out to be somewhat iconic. Thanks God for that.

    By Santa Rosa, New Mexico, she was weeping in the hallway of the motel, saying we were abandoning her.
    The Very Large Array was fun for Annie and I, and we even had one lighthearted moment with Mom. The sustained winds were 40 miles per hour that day and as we were walking Mother to the Visitors Center, one of us on each arm so she wouldn't blow away, Mary said, with a bit of wonder in her voice,
    "Son, you are really taking me on an adventure."
    We all three laughed. The one and only time that would happen in 2500 miles.

    I could say more. I probably should have said less. Bottom Line: Mary is all settled in at Sin Vacas, an upscale retirement village, where all the street names are in Spanish for nutty things. ('Street Without Sin', 'Street Without Denial', 'Street Without Danger'. Mom lives on Calle Sin Envidia: 'Street Without Envy'. And Rancho Sin Vacas, the gated community where the elderly village is, means Ranch Without Cows.) She’s making some new friends and going to church. She's slowly learning how to get to the bank and to the grocery store. And she’s even saying thank you to me when I come up to help connect the computer or put together a lamp (Even though I know her 'thank yous' really mean 'please don't leave me all alone'.)
   
    Mom and I don't really get along. Haven't really for years. I tolerate her and she probably tolerates me too.   
    But one piece of advice or rather a warning to all.
    Don't say to me "You're being such a good son."
    I'm not. And if you say it to my face, I’m probably going to get pissed off.
    I didn't move Mom because I'm being a good son. I did it because Mom begged me to move her to Arizona, and that we had few options left, for Mary can't really take care of herself anymore without help.
    I told Mom a number of times, that I really didn’t think it was a really good idea to leave 100 friends in Virginia behind, to live near her son and her 92-year-old sister and her son's ex-girlfriend in Arizona. But we have a saying in my family: "Mary does whatever Mary wants to do." Her so-called friends in Virginia, most of them rich, white, arrogant fucks, call Mom ‘a force of nature.’ They are not complementing her.
    No, I'm not a good son.
    I'm not doing this because I want to, or that I even think it's the right thing for her to live in Tucson, but our choice are limited now.
    Retirement places in Virginia are much more expensive there than in Arizona.
    My sister Pamela lives in Raleigh, in the Old Home Place, but she is fighting cancer and is really in no condition to be around Mom, in a number of ways.
    It's by default that I'm doing this, have done this.
    I'm not a good son.
    I'm just the person who’s doing what needs to be done.
    That's all.
    If I had my way, Mary would be living in Virginia somewhere.
    But you rarely gets your way if you are with my mother.
    It's Mom's way or the highway, pretty much.
    Even though she would deny that.

    “Your hair is so beautiful,” she says.   
    “You’re as handsome as your father was,” she says.
    Mom is over the top with her compliments now. I’m repairing a chest-of-drawers in her new apartment. She’s following me around.
    She may be a bit sun-downy these days. She may be her normal Narcissistic self, but she isn’t stupid. She knows she fucked up. She knows Annie and I are pretty tired of her shit.
    Phase One is done: Mary and her stuff have been moved across the country.
    Phase Two is mostly done: Unpacking Mary’s shit and getting her settled in.
    Now, on to Phase Three: Maintaining Mom in Tucson.
    Once-a-week visits and occasional chats on the phone is the plan. My plan. Her plan would be for me to be at her beck and call, 24 / 7 / 365. That ain’t going to happen.

    The view from her balcony is fabulous. City lights in the distance at night. An arroyo filled with birds and their songs during the day. I close my eyes and hear the quails’ sing. I feel sad. Mom doesn’t even notice the beauty right in front of her. I open the sliding glass door and reenter her apartment. She yells something at me from the bedroom. I can’t hear what she is saying. I don’t really care.

"The Goddess Kali at Cold Harbor Battlefield" (c) 2008

"The Goddess Kali at Cold Harbor Battlefield, Virginia" (c) 2007, 2008 Stu Jenks

    When I fly to The River, I land in Richmond, the Capital of the Confederacy. I rent a car or a truck and take a short cut through the thick woods to hook up with Route 360, avoiding the Interstate completely. Along the way, I skirt the Malvern Hill and Cold Harbor National Battlefields. And these days when I'm returning to Richmond International after a visit to the Rappahannock, I stop at Cold Harbor and pay my respects. What were mostly open fields in June of 1864 are now hardwoods and pines growing up from the old eroding earthworks. But the Park Service did leave the largest field of battle tree-free. So unlike most small Civil War battlefields, it still looks close to how it was 140 years ago.
    First time I came here in the 1990's, I cried hard, as much for my dying father as for the ghosts of the Union dead. Today, I just stopped and made a couple of cell phone calls, finished my Diet Coke and took a few time-travel shots of a hundred-year-old poplar tree. It's overcast today with a sprinkling of rain. It's a damp cold that seeps into the bones. A nice change from the desert cold I'm used to but I'm happy that I don't live here anymore, for a good number of reasons, not just the cold or the mosquitoes. I haven't called The South home for over twenty years. But I know the speech. I understand the people. Yet my heart resides atop a Mesquite-covered hill north of Tucson.
    But no matter where my heart lives, I am a Son of Virginia nonetheless. I have a burial plot of my own, that I may or may not use, at St. Mary's Whitechapel in Lively, Virginia, and I am happy that I have the option to eternally rest in the Old Dominion (even though my guess is my friends will take my ashes to Owl's Head instead.) I love Collard greens, Krispy Kreme donuts and Camel cigarettes and I relate well to people who pray. And I have a hard time with hardcore Yankees from New York City who think they are smarter than me, just because they were born above the Mason-Dixon line. And when someone mentions the name of Robert E. Lee, I instinctively nod my head and lower my eyes.
    I am a Son of Virginia and here at Cold Harbor, for just a few days in 1864, we were victorious. Not that Slavery or State Rights were just causes. It's just nice to remember a moment when Virginia won.

[For my information about the Battle of Cold Harbor, go to the Wikipedia link at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Cold_Harbor. It's a good and accurate site.]

 

"Rappahannock River Prayer Stick" (c) 2008

"Rappahannock River Prayer Stick" (c) 2008 Stu Jenks

[Batik Fabric, Crab Pot Buoy, and Eye Bolts: 7'10" x 21" x 5"]

Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks: Chapter Fifteen: “Ed-Lil"

Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks:

Chapter Fifteen: “Ed-Lil, Virginia” © 2002, 2008

    Dad's been dead nine months. Mom has to sell the river house, so she can invest the cash and survive on the interest. Dad didn't leave Mom enough money to live on. Dad didn't believe in life insurance.
    People loved my father, for he had a public persona of a funny happy-go-lucky smart old Southern man. But his private face was much darker. At home, he was a cynical loner, who greatly feared poverty and taxes, and preferred his own company than that of his family.
    But oddly, all that doesn’t seem to matter now, the man he was when he was alive, for I can feel him around me often. I can call him to me, simply by saying his name. He seems to be this pure good soul of what was once Stuart Jenks Sr.: loving, tender, accepting, and kind. And I feel that he actually likes me now which is sweeter than honey, I can tell you.
    Months ago, I had to send him away for a week because the new-glowing-light Dad was interfering with my grieving process of the newly-dead-Dad. I needed to be mad at Dad for a while, but when God’s-Light-Bulb-Dad was around I couldn’t feel the feeling and let it go. But I called him back after awhile, after I’d release the rage. And unlike the living Stuart, Ghost Dad understood completely.
    When I'm worried about money and going further into debt around my failing art photography business, I hear him softly say, "Don't worry, son. The money will come and if it doesn't, it doesn't matter. You have the love of your friends, the love of your Art." Other times when I'm filled with self-doubt and internal hatefulness, I hear him whisper off my left shoulder, "I love you just the way you are, Son. You don’t need to change a thing." A month ago, when Ghost Dad was saying another ethereal message of Love, I actually said out loud, "Who is this guy?”
    A little about Ed-Lil, though, The Jenks’ ancestral summer home on the Rappahannock River, that Mom is selling:
    It was bought by Papa Edgar Jenks, my grandfather, in the 1920’s from Johnny Mothershead. It consisted of a two story house with five bedrooms and a bath, and a one story house that had the kitchen, the dining room and a tool shed. My father deeply loved the Rappahannock River, the Ed-Lil house, and the people who lived along its banks. Loved them since he was a teenager.
    Every August, Mom, Dad, Pamela and I would come to the river for two or three weeks. I hated the river as a kid. Hated the mosquitoes, the fleas, the stinging jellyfish but mostly I hated being around my parents. They were so judgmental, so critical, so volatile in bullshit ways. I couldn’t wait to get back to Raleigh and back to school in September. But then, 25 years ago, I started coming here because I wanted to, not because I had to, and I always had a car, so I could come and go as I pleased, if things got too dark.
    After Dad retired from IBM, he built himself and Mom a modest three bedroom house next to the old houses. He then tore down the bedroom house and the kitchen and left the old dining room as his workshop. The dining room/tool shed was and is gorgeous, with its ancient tongue-in-groove wood walls, the old rusty gas fixtures from the 1920’s that still hang from the ceiling, and the tattered and stained white lace curtains that haven’t been washed since the Eisenhower Administration. The new smell of gasoline is added to the mix that come from the riding lawn mower that is parked on its stained hardwood floors. An old map of Richmond County is pinned to the wall. It’s been crudely attached there since before I was born. Change is good sometimes, but consistency and tradition are beautiful too if they are humble. That is one humble map. This is one humble room.            
    I'm standing in the old dining room this afternoon, with the lace and the tongue in groove and the old map on the wall. And a big rain is coming. Spirit Dad is here but I sure wished Old Living Stuart was here right now. Dad and I did loved watching big storms cross the river.
    The window facing the river looks great. So would a flame spiral next to it. Wonder if I can pull it off. It’ll have to be a short exposure, maybe ten seconds. I put all the red filters I have on the lens of my Rollei and hope for the best.
    I open the window, get out the Zippo and wait for the storm.
    A line of rain crosses the seven-mile width of the river. The river slowly goes away, replaced by a dark gray of Big Rain. Half way across the river now. Just a mile away. Almost here. Now it’s here. The storm is here.
    Loud thunder crackles in the corn fields behind me. Bright lightning highlights the lace curtains. Heavy dense rain blows in through the window. The river completely disappears.
    I open the Rollei’s shutter and ignite the Zippo. I paint a spiral to the left of the window. I close the shutter after ten seconds. I do this a few times.
    Then suddenly, in between exposures, a small gray finch flies through the open window, confused and wet and lands on the lens of my camera. We both just stare at each other. He's scared, fidgety and soaked to the bone. My first thought is 'Don't shit on the lens. Please don’t shit on my camera.' His first thought was probably something like, 'Where the hell am I? How did I get in here and who is that guy?' He doesn't fly away but stays perched on my camera for at least a minute. We continue to look at each other. I don’t care about bird shit anymore. I just care for the little bird. Suddenly he flies off the camera but now, poor thing, he can't find the open window. He’s feverishly flying around the dining room. I quickly grab a broom. I open the ancient screen door and prop it open with an old gas can. The finch is banging itself on the ceiling of the room, completely frantic now. I gently put the straw broom head on the ceiling and usher the bird to the door. He gets the idea before we get there. He see the open door and streaks out into the pouring rain. Success for both of us.
    I go back and paint another Zippo spiral, this one for the bird. The exposure feels right. I call it a day. I put the lens cap on the camera and sit in an old chair now, looking at a small lake that is forming under the old cedar tree out front.
    I love the River now. I'm going to miss it. But you got to do what you got to do. Mom needs money to survive, and she really doesn’t like living this far away from civilization anyway. She only came here to live because Stuart came here to live. Now, he’s gone. Now, it’s time for her to live where she wants, for her to have her own life. She’ll be living soon at a cute little house next door to the organist from church. Glen’s his name. He’s a good guy.
   

    “It's a sad dog that won't wag its own tail” - Stuart Jenks Sr., 1976.

Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks: Chapter Fourteen: "That Everything of God"

Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks:

Chapter Fourteen: "That Everything of God" (c) 2001, 2008

 

    Haze on the Rappahannock just before dawn.

    A pinhole camera shot of the pier.

    A ghost image of me.

    The ghost of my father.

 

    Leaving tomorrow for Tucson.

    A last day at The River.

    Sitting on that same step as on the night he died.

    Still feeling him around.

    Thinking, that maybe what all the holy men and women say is true:

    That separation is an illusion

    That there is no difference between this world and the next, except for the point of view.

    That the ego's judgments create a wall that only exists in my mind.

    That the River flows, with and without my judging it.

    That Dad is here and not here and still here.

    That I'm here and not here and still here.

    That a part of a full spiritual life is knowing that being in this physical world is only a fraction of the complete reality.

    That by standing on this pier, I'm on the pier and I'm everywhere in the universe at the same time.

    That Love and Acceptance is in all of the worlds, in all of the universe.

    And that Love is the only thing that matters.

    And that it is in Everything.

    That my Dad is part of That Everything now,

    That he was always part of That Everything of God.

    And so am I.

 

Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks: Chapter Thirteen: “The Pier Spiral, Richmond County, Virginia”

Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks:

Chapter Thirteen: “The Pier Spiral, Richmond County, Virginia”
© 1999, 2001, 2008

    Damn.
    The last thing I wanted to do was get into a fight with my Mom. Words like 'Stop being such a god damned martyr!' and 'Quit trying to control how Dad is dying, will you?' flew out of my mouth.
    Bottom Line: Mom is just scared. She's not the asshole. I'm the asshole.
    While I was yelling at Mom, Pamela was in with Dad, quietly singing to him.
    Now, the fight is over. Pamela’s on the front porch swing. Mom’s at the kitchen sink, crying. I feel like shit.
    I go into see Dad who hasn't been awake since yesterday.
    "Dad, I'm sorry," I say to the unconscious man, "I'm trying to get along with your wife but it is hard. I'm trying. Really, I am. Again, I'm so sorry, Dad."
    I go out to the kitchen.
    "Mom, I'm sorry."
    "Just leave me alone, OK?" she says through her tears.
    I touch her shoulder. She cowers away. I remove my hand and take a step back.
    "I'm really sorry, Mom."
    She doesn't say anything. She just turns and walks away.
    I can't feel any guiltier for yelling at Mom. I've been keeping my powder dry for the last month, ever since I arrived to be with Dad as he dies, to be part of this odd makeshift hospice group of my mother, my sister and I. But the keg finally blew tonight.
    I go out on the porch and talk with Pamela for a while. She suggests I yell at her instead. I know she’s trying to help. It doesn’t
    A couple of hours pass.
    It's quiet at the River house now. Mom has gone into the bedroom to lay beside her husband. I'm back out with my sister on the front porch. We're just talking small talk now, smoking cigarettes.
    Then Mary comes out to the porch.
    "He's gone" she says, "It was so beautiful. He just stopped breathing. So quiet. So peaceful."
    "Are you sure?" I say.    
    [My first thought is pure selfishness. ‘Oh, Dad, not tonight. Don't die tonight. Not after I've had a big fight with your wife.' Now who is trying to control how Dad dies?]
    We all go into the bedroom. Not much different than other times, but it appears Dad isn't breathing at all. I place my hand under his nose and feel some air coming out.
    "Mom, I think he's still breathing"
    "He's gone," she says.
    I bend down closer to him and realize that his skin is beginning to change color. I ask for a mirror and put it under his nose. Nothing. He's getting whiter. I then know he’s dead.
    "Remember Stu, what you said? That we need to open the window to let the soul out?" Mary says.
    "I'll do it" says Pamela.
    I said this Window/Soul thing over a dozen years ago. It was just a bit of conversation. I think I was reading about Navajo Spirituality at the time. I don't really think Dad's soul will get trapped in this house, but I say nothing as Pamela opens one of the windows. Then I open a window just so they think I'm being compliant. I'm really in shock right now. Dad's dead. My Dad is dead.
    Mom then says it's time to dress Stuart. I've been dreading this moment since the day Mom told me that she wanted Pamela and I to help her dress Stuart in his favorite shirt and kakei pants after he dies. I thought it would be difficult to manhandle the old man, both physically and emotionally. But after being such a jerk tonight, I'm going to go along with whatever Mom says.
    Pamela is at Dad's head. Mary and I are on either side. We take off his nightshirt and make him naked. We grab his pants and pull them on him. We have to pull hard to get them to his waist.
    And at that moment, it all feels completely right. We are performing a ritual that has been done for centuries: The dressing of a dead loved one for his passage to the other side.       
    Pamela holds Stuart's head and we pull him up into a sitting position and put on his favorite plaid Dockers shirt, the one with the turquoise checks. We gently lay him back down. Mom buckles his belt. I'm standing next to Dad holding his hand. It’s cold and slack. A lifeless hand, but still my Daddy's hand. Mom leaves the room to call the minister, the nurse and the undertakers. Pamela stays a bit longer, then she leaves too.       
    Then it’s just Dad and I.
    I whisper to his body.
    "I'm so sorry Dad about getting into a fight with Mom. I'm so so sorry. If I could go back in time....." I trail off. I can't talk through my tears.
    Scott, the priest at St. Mary's Whitechapel is the first to arrive. The nurse and her husband are next. The undertakers have to come from Richmond so It'll be an hour plus before they get here. It's after midnight now. Dad died a little after 11. Everyone except me is on the screened-in porch making small talk. I was there for a minute or two but it felt a little disrespectful somehow. I kept thinking 'My father is dead in the other room and we're talking about the weather?' I seem to be going back into Dad's bedroom a lot, holding his hand, watching him change color from red to pink to white. I can't help but wonder if he's really dead. It's hard for me to wrap my head around the idea that Dad is truly gone. I hold his cold hand again. The undertakers will soon be here. I'll only have a few more opportunities to touch my father.
    I want to hold his hand forever.
    I'm in the kitchen getting a soda when the nurse comes up and says:
    "Stu, are you planning on being in the room when they take your Dad out on a stretcher?"
    "I might," I say.
    "I would really suggest you not be there for that. All you'll remember is seeing him put into the bag. That memory will overshadow all the rest. You may want to go upstairs or go outside when they do that."
Pamela walks in on the conversation and is getting the gist.
    "I'll go up stairs," she says.
    "I'm going to the pier," I say.
    The next hour is so weird. More small talk on the porch, but I can't hang there. I drift back to the bedroom to hold Dad's hand, then outside to have a smoke, to back to his bedside. At one point, the nurse's husband comes up and talks with me. I don't have a clue what he said.
    Finally at around 1:30 a.m., a black hearse comes up the drive and two men enter our kitchen. One is a very skinny man, in a huge black suit, that fits him like a tent. Next to him is large fat man with a small black suit, that fits him like a child's hand-me-down that’s two sizes too small. Wait a minute. They seem to have on the exact same size black jacket, the one-size-fits-all-undertaker's-jacket. When did I enter a David Lynch movie? When will the midget appear? Is Dali going to walk through that door?    
    The skinny man holds his hands together in that earnest sort of way. The fat one just stands there. They talk with the nurse and Mom for a bit and then go outside to the hearse to get the stretcher. I take this as my time to exit stage right, for the pier. I grab the cordless phone as I leave the house.
    Out on the pier, I call Annie to tell her that Dad's dead. I already talked with her earlier about the big fight with Mom. Annie's trying to help me not feel so guilty about it all. God bless her, but her words give me little comfort.
    "I feel so guilty about the fight," I say, "I wish Dad had died tomorrow instead"
    "I know, Sweetie." she says.
    Ironic that I have been so critical of Mom for wanting Dad to die on her schedule, and now, on the pier, that's exactly what I'm wishing I could do. Have Dad die a day after I'd been a jerk, so I can feel better.
    I talk with Annie a bit more, saying I'll call her tomorrow. I also asked her if she would call Len and Virginia (My mother's sister and brother-in-law in Tucson). That would be great, I add. And check on plane tickets for you and Len to come to the funeral.
    "You are coming, aren't you?" I ask.   
    "Of course," She says.
    "I really need you, honey."
    I'm back up at the house now. The undertakers are gone. So are the nurse and her husband. Scott the priest is still here. Pamela is nowhere to be seen. I tell Mom I'm going back to the pier. So glad that Scott is here. Mary loves Scott. She seems OK too, considering she’s lost the love of her life.
    I walk the couple-hundred-feet again to the pier, this time with my Dad's old Marine Corps blanket and the phone again. I call Michael, and tell him about Dad's dying. He's great as ever. We talk for a half hour and then I hang up and put the phone down.
    I've barely noticed the weather these past few hours but I sure do now. The wind has really picked up. Must be a storm in the Bay or a front moving in. The river is choppy. The wind howls.
    I then begin to talk to my Dad. The wind swallows my words but that's alright. I'm sitting on a step at the far end of the pier, looking out into the dark Rappahannock River.
    "Dad, I'm so sorry," I say to the wind.
    "I'm really sorry about yelling at Mom. Please forgive me. Please forgive me. Please." I just keep crying harder. I don't speak for a while. I just cry.
    Then I feel a presence. I don't trust it at first, but then I know it's him. I swear. It's Stuart.
    He then sits down beside me on the steps of the pier and put his arm around me. I could feel the light pressure of his hand on my shoulder. And I swear to God I hear him speak.
    "I forgive you, son."
    "You do?"
    "I do."
    "I'm sorry."
    "I know."
    "I love you, Dad."
    "Me too, honey," he says.
    I just sit there at the end of the pier with my Dad for a long time. I'm wrapped up in an old blanket. I feel his weight against my shoulder. I cry a lot. He doesn't say much more than he already has. I feel his love. I hope he feels mine.
 

Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks: Chapter Twelve: "Grass, Graves and Fire: St. Mary's Whitechapel Episcopal Church, Lively, Virginia"

Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks: Chapter Twelve:

"Grass, Graves and Fire: St. Mary's Whitechapel Episcopal Church, Lively, Virginia" © 2000, 2008

    Dad's cancer has shrunk but hasn't gone away. After almost two years of awful chemotherapy, we are pretty much where we started: that Dad has a bad lymphoma and he's probably going to die.
    I was up in New York City for a few days shooting and attending a friend's wedding. [Major emotional highlights were the Klezmer band at Craig and Barbara's reception; the delightful and generous devotees at the Hare Krishna Bed and Breakfast in the Lower East Side; and the many Monet haystacks at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.] I've just come down to Virginia for a brief visit with the folks, before flying back to Arizona.
    It's good and not-so-good to see Dad. I always experience some sort of internal emotional bugaboo when I'm hanging around my mother and father. All of us Jenks' are judgmental (this is good, that is bad, blah, blah, blah) but my mother and father have it down to an art form. Dad's mockingly sarcastic laughter at my going to their church tonight to shoot is just one example. Mom's subtle shaming sighs of disapproval are another. God love 'em, or to Hell with 'em. See what I mean? I inherited the virus too.
    Within twenty minutes, I’ve parked my rental truck in a gravel parking lot of their church.
    My parents' church, St. Mary's Whitechapel Episcopal Church, is just down the road near the little town of Lively, Virginia. Lively is actually just a crossroads, with a drug store, a post office, and a bar called 'The Corner' that serves pretty good shrimp and really great hamburgers. The church is a few miles south of Lively at an even smaller crossroads. The church is the only thing at the corner of routes 201 and 354. It's a very small chapel that has been there since 1669. It thrived during Colonial Times, was vacant and abandoned for fifty years during Antidisestablishmentarian Times (when the Church of England was shunned by most new Americans after the Revolutionary War), was reborn in the 19th century, and is now an historic financially well-endowed little church in the middle of nowhere in Virginia.   
    There's no moon tonight but there’s plenty of good light shining in the graveyard that comes from a strong streetlight near the back of the church. The church’s sexton has apparently cut the grass today. What a delightful surprise. Large amounts of cut grass are scattered all around. I guess he didn't have a grass catcher. My good fortune. I walk around the cemetery looking for just the right stone, just the right light and find the stone and the light pretty quick. The smell of the grass is strong and pungent. We just don't have grass like this in Tucson.   
    I make a circle of cut grass on a tombstone. I look and find the angle, set up my Rollei, and practice making circles with my Zippo. I get the hang of it after a few minutes. I stop and take in the space: The ancient Oak trees that surround me; the graves of wealthy Colonial Virginia planters; the monuments of  a  movie star or two. 
    I think I know what I'm going to do. I open the shutter and enter the frame and begin to paint a flame circle above the grass. Cicadas sing loudly from the surrounding woods. I close the Zippo, and then go for a walk in the cemetery. This is going to have to be a long exposure. Probably a half hour or more. It's a strong streetlight but it give off less light that you think.
    Up the hill, I visit the four plots for the Jenks Family. No markers or graves yet. Two huge Oak trees grow just north of the plots. I won't mind having my ashes here some day. I walk some more. I walk to my rental truck to check the time. Fifteen minutes have gone by. I throw in a Peter Gabriel CD and light a smoke. After 25 minutes, I get out of the car, and return the grass circle. I close the shutter and repeat the process all over again. I paint a flame circle, walk about the graves, think about my Dad, and think about Death. Sometimes I don't think about anything at all.
    I didn't think about Death much until my Dad got sick, but I sure do now. I believe in some sort of Soul Survival, be it heaven or just a part of a big ocean of souls. I don't know, but I'm not scared of that. Actually looking forward to it, in some small way. Ok, maybe a little anxious but not bad. But I'm in my mid-40's, still thinking that my death is a good thirty years away. But being around Dad, who seems to be getting sicker and sicker, seems to be dying more than living, and this taking-for-granted-that-I'll-surely-live-a-long-time is leaving me a bit each day. When they found his cancer, it was no bigger than a pencil point. They cut it out, but it came right back, even larger. So they cut it out again, and that just made it mad and it spread like a weed. To his lymph nodes. To his lungs. All over. Now it's filled most of his left lung, all in a year or two. And if he hadn't taken the Agent Orange Chemo, he would have been dead months ago.
    It could happen to me, to you, to anyone. Cancer, that is. And Death is surely going to come to all us someday.
    But again, it's not Death or Heaven that I'm scared of. It's living an unfulfilled life, here on Planet Earth, of wasting the time I have, of not risking greater happiness or larger service to others, of not fully loving those who I love and not fully receiving the love they give, of not forgiving myself when I truly fall short of the mark, of not applauding myself when I get it right. That's what really terrifies me, that at perhaps age 77, I'll look back at my life with deep regret, knowing I should have eaten more ice cream, should have forgiven that friend, should have loved the imperfect Stu just a little bit more.
    Then again, I could die tonight, by accidentally hitting a deer with my truck on the way back to The River House, and avoid this imaginary-unhappy-old-me all together.
    Nah. That won't happen.
    I guess I'm going to have to eat more butter pecan, forgive Rocco, and love Stu more.
    Damn.

Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks: Chapter Six: "Stuart's Circle, Richmond, Virginia"

Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks:

Chapter Six: “Stuart Circle, Richmond, Virginia”
© 1999, 2008

    Off to my left is Stuart Circle Hospital. Inside are my father Stuart and my mother Mary. Dad may be dying.    
    Dad is an ex-Marine who voted for Nixon three times and I’m an artist who voted for McGovern. But he has always told me that he loves me. Told me he loves me just a few minutes ago when I left the hospital for the night.
    The hospital is south of me, out of the frame. My Rollei is set up, pointing toward the monument of J.E.B. Stuart, at the far eastern end of Monument Avenue. I line up the shot, with the flood lit Presbyterian Church on the left, J.E.B. on the right, and the circular traffic in the foreground. People are taking their time going around the circle. Richmond is a Southern city. Still wonderfully slow at times.       
    I cock the shutter and wait. Waiting for the right set of cars to approach. The exposure will only be a few seconds long. There’s a car at the light. I open the shutter. The car slowly rounds the statue and leaves the circle. Then another car, and another. I wait, counting seconds in my head. I close the shutter. I do this for a few more exposures, but soon stop. My heart isn’t in it tonight.
    I walk to the rental truck, throw my Rollei and tripod into the back seat, and drive around J.E.B. Stuart myself, listening to Emmylou Harris singing about losing love, missing Elvis, and living life even as it fades away.
    I really wish Dad wasn’t dying. I cry hard without making a sound.

"Jack the Cat" (c) 2008

"Jack the Cat of Courtney Road, Lancaster County, Virginia" (c) 2008 Stu Jenks

"Mary Elton" (c) 2008

"Mary Elton, Mollusk, Virginia" (c) 2008 Stu Jenks

[The top image of my mother Mary on Christmas Morning. The middle image is of my mother speaking in her kitchen. The bottom image is a self-portrait on the banks of the Rappahannock, a few hundred yards, across fallow fields, from my mother's little house in Mollusk.]

"Gladstone & Florence Mothershead" (c) 2008

"Gladstone & Florence Mothershead, Mothershead Neck, Virginia" (c) 2007 Stu Jenks

[So many stories to tell. Florence's butter beans. Gladstone's jokes. Their deep and loyal love for each other, and for my family, through good times and bad. Gladstone and Florence, by the way, live on the banks of the Rappahannock, on land that has been in their family for generations. Mom and I had lunch with them soon after Christmas last year. (Our luncheon with the Mothersheads was reported in January 2nd, 2008 edition of the Northern Neck News. I kid you not.) The ham and roast beef were tender and tasty. Our conversation was filled with laughter and with talk of God. The greens were as soft and as salty as the incoming tide. And those butter beans. Joseph Campbell once said that some things are so spiritual, so God-full, that it's useless to try and describe them. Florence's butter beans are like that.
    Gladstone got a new dog recently. He was found on the side of the road. I can't remember the boy's name but I do recall that he didn't like my camera very much. But the camera loves Florence and Gladstone. And I love them too.]

"Black Santa" (c) 2007, 2008

"Black Santa, Peyton Street, Alexandria, Virginia" (c) 2007, 2008 Stu Jenks

[My mother Mary's father built a house on Peyton, a modest two-story with a garret. Mom lived in the attic as a child. The neighborhood has gone from good to bad to good again in the past 70 years. The old Saum place is just up the street from Black Santa. I covet Black Santa. Thank you, Jesus, (or Canon), for making digital imagery so I can take a piece of Black Santa home with me. But alas this JPEG is flat. Black Santa, in reality, is round, three-dimensional and jolly. And he glows in the dark.]

"Belle Isle, Virginia: The Lone Tree" (c) 2008

"Belle Isle, Virginia: The Lone Tree" (c) 2008 Stu Jenks

[Part of the ongoing Time Travel Series]

"Historyland Highway" (c) 2008

"Historyland Highway, Lancaster County, Virginia" (c) 2008 Stu Jenks

[Part of the ongoing Time Travel Series]

"Stuart Circle, Richmond, Virginia" (c) 1999

"Stuart Circle, Richmond, Virginia" (c) 1999, 2007 Stu Jenks

[From Judith Dupre's book "Monuments", Random House, 2007]

       Off to my left is Stuart Circle Hospital. Inside are my father Stuart and my mother Mary. Dad may be dying.
       Dad is an ex-Marine who voted for Nixon three times and I'm an artist who voted for McGovern. But he has always told me that he loved me. Told me he loved me just a few minutes ago when I left the hospital for the night.
       The hospital is south of me, out of the frame. My Rollei is set up, pointing toward the monument of J.E.B. Stuart, at the far eastern end of Monument Avenue. I line up the shot, with the flood lit Presbyterian Church on the left, J.E.B. on the right and the circular traffic in the foreground. People are taking their time going around the circle. Richmond is a Southern city. Still wonderfully slow at times.
       I cock the shutter and wait. Waiting for the right set of cars to approach. The exposure will be only for a few seconds. There's a car at the light. I open the shutter. The car slowly rounds the statue and leaves the circle. Then another car, and another. I wait, counting seconds in my head. I close the shutter. I do this for a few more exposures, but soon stop. My heart isn't in it tonight.
       I walk to the rental truck, throw my Rollei and tripod into the back seat and drive around J.E.B. Stuart myself, listening to Emmylou Harris singing about losing love, missing Elvis, and living life, even as it fades away.
       I really wish Dad wasn't dying. I cry hard without making a sound.

       - Stu Jenks' recollection of taking this photograph, 1999, of J.E.B. Stuart monument.

"Albert 'Daddy' Saum" (c) 2007

"Albert Fountain 'Daddy' Saum" (c) 2007 Stu Jenks Jr. and Mary Jenks

       [Image: "Daddy Saum and his daughter Courtney" (Detail from the photograph "The Saums having a Picnic in Fairfax County, Virginia") (c) 1907 Unknown Photographer]

       "Everything I know, I learned from Daddy Saum," Mary said last week on the phone.

       Daddy Saum was my mother's grandfather, my great-grandfather. Never met the man. Never met his son or his daughter either. Long gone by the time I was born. Earl, my mother's father, and Albert's son, was a brute. A violent man. He was never talked about. Only found out his name was Earl when I went and visited his wife's grave, when I was 30. But Daddy Saum was another story. Mom often talked about him, about his horsemanship, about his kindness, about his courage, and his adventuresome nature.

       Last Friday, she told me again the story of Daddy Saum and the Trip to Texas. She's told this story a lot, and with each telling, I get a few more details. Here is the story as of July, 2007.

       Around 1880, Earl lived with his family in the Valley of Virginia, an area East of the Appalachians. The Saums were farmers and ranchers. Moderately successful. (Later in Earl's life, the Saums became rich. Mary's mother, Nannie, lost all the Saum money and all the Saum land after WWII. Story goes that she was taken. Badly. By bad men). Earl was seventeen and had a dream: Of walking from Virginia to Texas. In the Spring, he left his home in Virginia with only two pair of socks, two extra handkerchiefs, and a toothbrush. He also carried with him his skills as a furrier. He picked up jobs shoeing horses along the way.  He made a little money for room and board, and a little extra too. About halfway to Texas, he almost bought a horse but right before the money changed hands, he saw that the horse could only see out of one eye. He passed on the deal. He continued walking and working his way to Texas. He got to Texas in the late Fall, after more than six months on the road. He then took some of his money and bought himself a good horse and rode back to Virginia. He got home just as the Winter snows were falling. Again, he was only seventeen years old.

       In his late sixties, Daddy Saum decided to go to Texas again. This time he had four pairs of socks, and four spare handkerchiefs. He didn't walk. He didn't ride a horse. He took the train instead.

"The Rappahannock River at Mollusk, Virginia" (c) 2007

"The Rappahannock River at Mollusk, Virginia" (c) 2007 Stu Jenks & Ben Heaven

[Many thanks to Ben Heaven for his PC Image Stitching skills. And again, click on the image and it will become much larger.]

"Ice, Seaweed, & Oak" (c) 2007

"Ice, Seaweed & Oak" (c) 2007 Stu Jenks

[Taken on the shores of the Rappahannock River, in the Northern Neck of Virginia, during the dead of Winter.]

"Cesar Chavez Day & The Tucson Open Studio Tour Sales"

CESAR CHAVEZ DAY/ OPEN STUDIO TOUR SALES: 2007

 

 

Greetings, Good Folk;

 

We, here in Tucson, celebrate Cesar Chavez Day. Well, sort of. The County gives its employees their choice of either the Friday or the Monday around the time of his birth off. We get to pick which day. Nice, huh? Cesar would have like that [I’m taking Monday the 26^th off]. Thank U.S. Rep. Raul Grijalva for getting this passed by the Board of Supervisors when he was a member. The City of Tucson, by the way, has yet to enact a C.C. Day.

Also, this weekend, the 10^th and 11^th of March, is the last weekend of the Tucson Open Studio Tour. I’ll be at my studio from Noon to 5 both days, showing off new work and selling Giclee prints of new and old work.

Then, just a few minutes ago, while I was having my morning cup of coffee outside of our wonderfully shoddy New Pima County Courthouse, I was stuck by an inspiration.

I’m already having a ½ price blowout sale of my images at my studio this weekend. Why not include the entire planet in this, in honor of Cesar, for I was just telling someone that I will always have small prints for sale for close to cost, for people who can’t afford much Art if any Art at all. Affordable Art for the People or something like that.

 

So here’s how it’s going to work:

If you are in town, feel free to come on down to the BR-549 studio at 549 North 7^th Avenue near Downtown Tucson. (One block east of Stone, one block north of 6^th Street). I’ll be there on Saturday and Sunday, the 10^th and 11^th of March from Noon to 5 P.M.

And as I said above, I’m having a ½ price sale at my studio. 13 x 19-inch Giclees, regularly priced at $190 will be $95, and 8 ½ x 11-inch Giclees, normally $45 will be priced at $25. And I have “West of the Fire” CDs for $10 instead of $15 as well.

And for those of you in the world at large, or who just can’t make it down, look at my work on my blog or my work on my website, at http://stujenks.typepad.com/my_weblog and http://www.stujenks.com and email me your choices, and I’ll see if I have them in my inventory. Most likely I will have them except for some very old work. I’ll pack up the images you want to buy and mail them to you. There will be a small shipping and handling fee, probably between $3 and $7, depending.

The Internet Sale will start right now and end at midnight on Sunday the 11^th.

Just email me at stujenks@gmail.com with your order and I’ll get to it as soon as I can.

And this month, think of Cesar Chavez and how he helped change the world. In the American Southwest, his legacy lives on.

Si Se Puede! Yes We Can!

 

Peace in our time,

Stu Jenks