Stu Jenks' Fezziwig Press

This and that, from my studio...

"Pamela's Baby Rocking Chair, Puckett's Cabin, Blue Ridge Parkway, Virginia" (c) 2022 Stu Jenks.

 

"Boulder Mountain Snow, Utah" (c) 2022 Stu Jenks.

 

"Mars and A Megalith, Avebury, UK" (c) 2022 Stu Jenks.

 

"Avebury Beech Tree Hoop Dance #2, UK" (c) 2022 Stu Jenks.

 

"Marty & Maggie Bare's Graves, Blue Ridge Parkway, North Carolina" (c) 2022 Stu Jenks.

 

"Moonrise and Venus over Hopi, Arizona" (c) 2022 Stu Jenks.

 

Image capture of William Keith's painting "Mono Lake", North Carolina Museum of Art, Raleigh, North Carolina" (c) 2022 Stu Jenks.

Recent images from Downtown Richmond, Virginia.

Images from my recent Dia De Los Muertos trip to Virginia.

These are from the Broad Street area in Downtown Richmond.

Happily, Richmond Camera Shop still exists, except now is in Carytown away from downtown. I remember the 8mm movie boxes my Dad had, that got processed at Richmond Camera. Great that this old camera store still exists.

Also, Robert E. Lee is gone. Bye, bye.

And who doesn't like old brick and old glass from a hundred years ago. And the police sculpture is near the entrance of the downtown cop shop.

Broad Street is getting fancy again, with high end hotels, hipster apartments, and clothing boutiques. It was that way 100 years ago, then it decayed, and is now coming back. Feels a little odd though. Income inequality and the lack of a living wage from close to a majority of Americans angers me and it bugs me to see rich folk walk past the homeless and act like they are not there. That's also part of Broad Street, but I'm guessing in 1914, that happened as well.

I still love the old glass and the red brick though. Living in Tucson for decades, this old architecture is new-ish to me. I moved away from Richmond when I was 5.

It's been a long time since I've walked down Broad Street, holding my mother's hand, going to Thalhimiers Department Store to eat a club sandwich for lunch. I remember that like it was yesterday.

 

Dia De Los Muertos at the Jenks family plot in Lancaster County, Virginia.

I live here in Greensboro, North Carolina now, but I'm really from Tucson, Arizona.

Part of the border culture, is the annual Dia de los Muestos celebrations. In Sonora, Mexico and Sonoran Arizona, many families on the nights and days around November 2nd, go to their family cemetery plots and clean the graves. They also bring favorite foods and beverages of the deceased, and fresh marigold flowers to decorate the graves of their loved ones. Many stay throughout the nights, drinking and eating, telling funny stories about the deceased, having a good time with friends and family, both living and dead. It's a big deal. Some towns in Sonora, Mexico will have parades honoring the dead. In Tucson, we have the All Souls' Procession, where many thousands of people march through downtown, dressed as the dead, or with placards acknowledging their dead loved ones. A large steel urn filled of written prayers is taken to a site near the Santa Cruz river, where the urn is set ablaze, sending prayers skyward. It's a big deal. (I've been lucky enough to be one of the All Souls photographers over the decades.)

Having moved back to the South, I realize that I had an opportunity to go full-on Day of the Dead with my ancestors. On the way to the Jenks family plot the other day, I visited my grandparents and my great-grandparents in Richmond, along with visiting the grave of my murdered great aunt Bertie. The story of Aunt Bertie's murder and what happened to her two young children can be found at this link. After visiting my folks and my sister, I placed flowers and candles at my great-great grandparents and my great-great-great grandparents graves in Oak Grove Cemetery in Lexington, Virginia. It was kinda-sorta on the way home.

But the main event was at Mary's, Stuart's, and Pamela's graves at St. Mary's Whitechapel Episcopal Church, in Lancaster County, Virginia, near the shores of the Rappahannock River.

Some background regarding St. Mary's Whitechapel and my mother's religious life:

My mother Mary was a big deal in the Diocese of Virginia, being on the Standing Committee and committing her life to service in the Episcopal Church. The rector at St. Mary's in the late 90's and early 2000's was a delight. Loved Mom. Loved trains. However, the rector after him, was an ex-divorce attorney who became a priest late in life. She was frankly horrible, a control freak, pushing mother out of her roles at St. Mary's. Granted, my mother was a force of nature and was a pain in the neck on more than one occasion, but that priest could have fired my mother with a bit more empathy and grace, given she is working with an elderly woman who is doing all this for free. It broke my mother's heart. The current priest at St. Mary's is a very nice woman who I've only met once. Seems very grounded, sweet, and genuine.

Some background regarding on the St. Mary's Whitechapel Graveyard:

The church and the graveyard have been around since 1669. Yeah. 1669. There have been in the past a lot of rules and regulations regarding what you can leave at the graves. No potted plants. No toys. No plastic flowers. No this, no that. They used to enforce this rigidly, but from what I saw the other night, not so much. Potted plants are there. Small figurines are there. A recent burial from a few months ago still had its wilting flowers and the cardboard photo of the deceased. The current priest I believe is doing the right thing, being more flexible. Then again, when she sees the mess I made she might think differently.

I looked all over for marigolds and only found a few late in the process. Trader Joe's sunflowers did just fine.

The food for each person consisted of these:

For Mom, cottage cheese. She loved her cottage cottage.

For Dad, a can of tuna, a can of collard greens, and a single tuna wrap from Trader Joe's. (I ate the second tuna wrap.) Dad loved his tuna fish.

And Pamela, it's bagels.

Many of you have heard me tell the Pamela Jenks Bagel Story. Of her yelling at the Harris Teeter clerk in the frozen food isle in Raleigh.

"Excuse me sir. Can you tell me where the fucking frozen begals are?!!!" Clerk running toward us. "Madam, please don't use that kind of language." Pamela yelling, "Why the fuck not!!!" Clerk's brain going into vapor lock. Him, slowly walking away. Me, just standing there smiling. Not my first Pamela Jenks rodeo.

Pamela yelled and cussed everywhere she went. She wasn't crazy crazy, but she was Southern crazy.

As far as drink goes, that was problematic. All the beverages would have been alcoholic. Me being in recovery, driving with three liquid rattlesnakes in the back of my truck was not a good idea. I went with cans of Arizona Ice Tea, with what they liked to drink written in sharpie on the side of the cans. "Pamela liked scotch." "Dad liked beer." "Mom liked wine." It worked just fine. (Throughout the night, I actually drank Pamela's iced tea. It was very good.)

I placed the food, drink, flowers and candles at each of my loved ones' graves. Put one single flower on my grave, just to include me in all the fun. The Virgin of Guadalupe candles really brought it all together.

I arrived around 5 p.m. and stayed throughout the night, only leaving around 3 a.m. so I could make it to Lexington to place flowers and candles at the Beeton's and Jenks' graves. I place a towel on the "OK God Let's Do It" bench to keep my butt warm, and I played a little woo-woo music on my phone, specifically Steve Roach and Kevin Brahany's "Western Spaces". Hearing that music made me miss Utah and Arizona terribly, but it was still very nice to hear it softly echo throughout the forest.

It's hard to put in words the powers of those few hours. Sometimes if you say too much about a spiritual experience it lessens it resonance in your life. This is one of those times. I felt like crying but I didn't. Just felt sad, mostly because Mary is gone. I miss Mom.

At one point, I walked down to the road to see if I could see the burning candles. I could see the one on top of Dad's headstone. 'Man,' I thought. 'If you are driving down Lively Road tonight and looked up at just the right time, you will see that candle. Won't that be delightfully spooky.'

It was a very good night. Next year, I will return again to honor the dead.

I hope the priest doesn't feel mad at me about all of this. My guess is she will roll with it. But I did leave a candle burning, many flowers and food lying around. My guess is the deer and other wildlife will make short work of the cottage cheese, the tuna wrap and the bagels. The raccoons will have a tough time though, getting into the tuna fish can and the collard greens can, but those little guys are pretty resourceful. You never know.

Rest in peace, Mom, Dad, and Pamela. You were not always the best family, but you are my family.

There is an old metaphysical saying, that our parents did a shitty job, but they did the best they could with the skills they had, and in that paradox, can be find peace and compassion.

I found peace and compassion the other night, in the dark, at my family's graves.

I'm blessed.

#allsoulsday, #diadelosmuertos, #thejenks, #stujenks.

Tobacco Barn, Caswell County, North Carolina

"Tobacco Barn, Caswell County, North Carolina" (c) 2021 Stu Jenks

As I was taking this image, I could see the final composition in my mind's eye. I love fine elegant composition. I like how easy my eye moves around this photograph: down the roof line, back up to the trees, resting on the upper door and the red wood for a second, then back down the roof line again. I'm also grateful to have really good glass (Canon 70-200 mm f/2.8 IS lens) to make it all happen.

My father used to say, "it's a sad dog that won't wag its own tail" 

Well, Dad, I'm wagging here.

Sarah Spencer and Charlsie Dickson

"Sarah Spencer, Ashe County, North Carolina" (c) image capture 2021 Stu Jenks.

 

"Charlsie Dickson, Ashe County, North Carolina" (c) image capture Stu Jenks 2020.

 

On Joe Thomas Road, not far from my wife's family farm, is an small cemetery. Atop a hill, surrounded by mountain pastures and farm land, this cemetery is a lovely spot to stop, walk, and look around.

I've walked the grounds a couple of times. The first time in 2020, I found little Charlsie's portrait, her having died in 1926 at age 8.

A few weeks ago, I found Sarah's grave. Unfortunately, I did not photograph her whole stone so I don't precisely know when she died and how old she was, but I recall she was in her 30's and she also died in the early 20th century.

I'm struck by Sarah's beauty and her passionate intelligent eyes. Speaking of eyes, and I may be projecting here, but Charslie looks so sad. Sweet and sad. But that could be my 21st century prejudices.

One thing I do know is the survivors pay for the grave stones. You can tell Charslie's parents loved her very much, enough to spend the money for a ceramic photo plaque. Those were not cheap, nor were the stones themselves. And Sarah's husband purchased a very fine stone too, and got a photo plaque made of her beautiful face.

Now I'm guessing here. I can see Sarah's husband visiting her grave often just to see her face. She was stunning with smart and kind eyes. I'm sure he missed her a lot. I can see why.

"Annie Beeton, Red Ash Wood, Virginia" [Extended Family Series]

“Annie Beeton, Red Ash Wood, Virginia” © Stu Jenks 2021, 54 inches tall.

Price: $150, shipping included. Simply contact me via my email address at [email protected] or Facebook message me, if you would like to purchase one of my pieces. Payments can be made with Paypal, Venmo or credit card with Square. All pieces are signed with its title, and can be hung from the wall.

 

Annie Beeton is my great-great-grandmother. She was married to John Allen Beeton, who fought in the Civil War. Johnny worked at Virginia Military Institute and at Washington and Lee College in Lexington, Virginia. I do not know his job. Both are buried in Lexington.

It's a beautiful cemetery and John gave Annie a lovely grave marker after she died. She died young in 1883 at the age of 45. Johnny died in 1902 at the age of 73. Annie's name is on the other side of this monument. I did photograph her side of the stone but the light wasn't that good that day. But she's there. Her name was the first to be placed on this stone.

Here's the thing that bothers the heck out of me.

Almost nothing is known about Annie. We know that she bore a son William in 1858 and a daughter Ella in 1863. We know that her father Richard was 30 and her mother Jane was 17 when she was born in 1838. We know she lived most of her life in Lexington. We know she died there. But that's about it.

It upsets me that most American women in the 19th century were basically property. They were expected to bear children, raise them and make a home for her family and herself, but little is written about women of that time. Men write a lot about other men, but rarely do they write about their wives, nor do the newspapers nor does the society at large pay them much attention. What we can figure out about Annie is through what was written about her husband, Johnny. And a lot of guessing.

John Henry Beeton made munitions in Richmond, Virginia during the Civil War. Was quite good at it, it appears. He also transferred out of Stonewall Jackson's Brigade as soon as he could at the beginning of the War. Stonewall was greatly disliked by many as a professor at the Virginia Military Institute. Johnny worked at VMI before the War. He was 30 when the War began. He got a relatively safe job in Richmond making guns and ammo after leaving Stonewall's command. He must have gotten back to Lexington during the War at some point because my great-grandmother Ella was born in May of 1863. After the War, Johnny came home but didn't return to work at VMI. He worked at Washington and Lee College for the rest of his career.

We can guess that he loved Annie very much, given the large ornate grave marker he had made for her and himself. He never remarried after her death. A lot of men of that time did. Their two kids were grown when she died. Again, I'm going by the extravagance and the size of the grave stone. Most stones in this cemetery are not this grand. Johnny spent some money on this. I can imagine how much he loved her, but I don't know for sure. I can guess her kids loved her too. I have no idea how she died. We have photos of Johnny in his Confederate uniform but no photos of Annie.

Makes me sad I don't know more about her, or that any of us know her better.

My wife jokingly says, "Men are the reason for all the world's problems." She making a joke but a dark joke. It's pretty much true.

The world is far from perfect, but I'm so happy that most women are no longer anonymous in the world. They are known and seen and heard. At least a little bit. We are slowly getting to place of gender and sexual equality.

Big hug Annie, from your great-great-grandson Stu. Your daughter Ella met and married Francis Jenks in Lexington in the 1880's and they had my grandfather Edgar as one of their five children, whose wife Lillie had my dad Stuart, whose wife Mary had me.

Again, I wish I knew more about you, Annie, but given your beautiful grave marker, I'm guessing that Johnny loved you very much. And your children did too. I choose to believe that.

So Annie, here's a pretty but imperfect red ash walk stick, made especially for you. I love you from afar, from across time. It's how I'm built.

#extendedfamilyseries, #stujenks, #redashwood

“John Henry Beeton, Saguaro Rib, Arizona” © Stu Jenks 2021 [Extended Family Series]

“John Henry Beeton, Saguaro Rib, Arizona” © Stu Jenks 2021, 56 inches tall.

Price: $175, shipping included. Simply contact me via my email address at [email protected] or Facebook message me, if you would like to purchase one of my pieces. Payments can be made with Paypal, Venmo or credit card with Square. All pieces are signed with its title, and can be hung from the wall.

 

In a lovely cemetery in downtown Lexington, Virginia, six of my ancestors peacefully rest: four 2nd great-grandparents and two 3rd great-grandparents. It's only recently that I've discovered this, thanks to the hard work of my friend Brad.

John Henry Beeton, my great-great-grandfather, worked at the Virginia Military Academy in Lexington when the Civil War began. He was married to Anna Marie by then, and they already had a 3-year-old son William. (Their second child, Ella, was born in 1863. My great-grandmother.) He apparently was quickly drafted into Stonewall Jackson's brigade after Fort Sumter. Stonewall Jackson was not a beloved professor at the VMI. He was deeply disliked by many. According to records, John soon transferred to another branch of the Confederate Army, making guns and ammo in Richmond. Appears John Beeton didn't like Stonewall Jackson much either. John worked for the rest of the War at that munitions factory. He was good at his job, rising to become foreman. After the War, he returned to Lexington to work at Washington and Lee College. He did not return to work at VMI. I bet he had enough of the military. Sadly, Anna died young in 1883 at the age of 45. He never remarried.

The Confederate States Of America cast iron plaque at the base of his grave was placed there by who knows who. I don't approve of these kind of monuments. Like many, I hate the Civil War, slavery and the inter-generation racism of the South, but when I visited his grave for the first time, I found his medallion broken in two, lying on the ground. That made me sad. I thought of just taking the marker completely away from his grave, but instead I had a blacksmith in Greensboro repair it. I recently returned it to John and Anna's graves and put back his marker.

John was a veteran. He did serve, even though it was for traitors against the Union. And I bet John didn't approve of the War either. Most didn't. In The South, you really didn't have much choice if you fought in the Civil War or not. You had to go. Luckily, he was far from most of the fighting and was able to return to his wife and his two children after the War.

Rest in peace, John.

And Anna Marie Beeton? I'm making you a stick as well. Thank you both for loving one another and producing my great grandmother Ella, who gave birth to Edgar, who married Lillie, who gave birth to Stuart, who married Mary, who gave birth to me.

Sadly, little is known of Anna Beeton. Back then, women were hardly considered people in America, but that's a discussion for another time.

Over and out for now, from Stu, son of Mary, daughter of Elton, daughter of Emma, daughter of Matilda, daughter of Elisabetha.

#stujenks, #extendedfamilyseries, #johnhenrybeeton

"The Old Man & His Angel"

"The Old Man & His Angel". Image capture by me, when I was recently in Washington.

Detail from Thomas Cole's painting, The Voyage Of Life: Old Age. National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC. I love this painting.

 

On this date in 2001, my father Stuart Jenks died after a long battle with interstitial muscle cancer.

Politely speaking, Dad and I had a complicated relationship. (More on this can be found from my previous writings and books, specifically the post "Dad Doesn't Leave The House Anymore" on this feed.)

I generally don't miss my father, but occasionally I do.

Like today.

"Pamela's Baby Rocking Chair, Low Gap, North Carolina (c) 2021 Stu Jenks.

"Pamela's Baby Rocking Chair, Low Gap, North Carolina" (c) 2021 Stu Jenks.

(To read the PBRC ebook, just google my name, 'Stu Jenks'. and the book's title, 'Pamela's Baby Rocking Chair', and you'll find it on most worldwide book platforms.)

 

"Dad Doesn't Leave The House Much Anymore"

"Dad Doesn't Leave The House Much Anymore" (c) Spring 2001, 2010 Stu Jenks

(Pinhole photograph taken six months before Dad died. Exposure time approx. 30 minutes long. Stuart Jenks Sr. died at home on September 3rd, 2001, twenty years ago this week. This story was written in 2010 and edited again today.)

    Dad doesn’t leave the house much anymore.
    “He sometimes goes outside but he rarely stays out,” Mom says. “It’s like he’s given up.”
    It’s been a bad few months. They can’t give Dad the Agent Orange Cancer Cure anymore. Too much of The Big Bad Chemo would kill him outright now. He went to John Hopkins in Baltimore recently and they’ve put him on very experimental cancer therapy which consists of Stuart taking Thalidomide pills. Dad’s now a guinea pig.
    “We’re running out of options,” Dr. Evers, my father’s oncologist, said. My Dad calls him Medger, after the slain civil rights activist. It’s not a compliment, and it's kind of a bad joke. Dad sometimes is less funny than he thinks.
    There’s one more last ditch treatment, they say. Another experimental procedure where they pump a caustic chemical cocktail right into my Dad’s chest. Stuart has to be under anesthesia for this and be closely monitored while they pump in the chemicals. Very experimental. Very risky. A last hope. We’re scheduled to go into the hospital in a few days. I just flew in from Tucson tonight to help as I can.
    Dad’s sitting in front of his mini-TV in the living room. He has on headphones to listen to it, for if he doesn’t, the regular TV speaker blasts out the house. Dad has been losing his hearing for years. He refuses to get hearing aids. He likes hearing less, he said to me, because without hearing aids he can barely hear Mom talk. Stuart fell out of love with Mary years ago, but is too cheap to divorce her. Sadly, Mom is still deeply in love with the man.
    Dad's just sitting there, watching the TV. I walk out onto the screened-in porch, then to the kitchen, then upstairs to my bedroom. I’ve done this circle a number of times tonight. I pass Dad each time, but after our first hand wave of the night, Dad doesn’t look up from the TV. He doesn’t look like he’s paying much attention to the television. Almost like he’s looking right through it. A thousand yard stare, probably not that much different than the one on his face at Iwo Jima in 1945.    
    Without him knowing, I place my pinhole camera, with the shutter open, on a table in the living room. I then go outside to sit on the river pier in the dark. No moon tonight. A half hour later, I come back up to the house. Dad’s still sitting where I left him. I grab the pinhole, place my hand over the aperture hole and take it upstairs to my bedroom. I close the shutter once I’m upstairs.
    A few minutes later, I walk back downstairs to get a snack. I wave at Stuart again. This time he waves back. Dad goes back to looking at the TV. He’s not smiling. He’s not really anything. Like a quiet ghost in the house. Strange from a man who had such a big personality when he was well. It’s like he’s already gone now. I don’t fault him for this. Hell, if I’d gone through almost two years of brutal surgeries and horrible chemotherapies that barely shrunk my tumors, I’d want to be gone too. But I still miss him. And then sometimes I don’t. It’s complicated. He's a retired Marine Corps officer. I'm a woo woo artist. Yeah. Often I feel like I don’t know him at all or he, me. We’ve both tried, but we still don’t get each other. Never really have. It makes sad and a little angry. Mostly it just make me really really sad. You kind of missed out on getting to know your only son, Dad, by having unreasonable expectations of me being just like you.
    I walk back up stairs to my room, stow the pinhole camera away in its bag, and go to bed for the night. This is going to be a hard week.

    [That week, the doctors didn’t even attempt the super-experimental cancer procedure they had planned. They opened up Dad’s chest and found he was full of cancer. It was too late. That was one horrible day. Mom cried. I cried. Dad, to his credit, tried to put on a good face, cracking a few jokes, but he knew. 
    I privately asked the oncologist just how long Dad had. He resisted telling me any estimate. I told him I’m not going to hold him to it. The doctor relented and said, “Three to six months.” Almost exactly 6 months later, Dad died on Labor Day night, with his wife Mary lying beside him. "It was so peaceful," Mom said at the time. We buried him at St. Mary's Whitechapel Episcopal Church on the next Saturday, two days before the world completely changed on 9/11.]

Dad as a young Marine. Photograph probably taken by his mother, Mama Lillie.

Infrared photograph taken of my father in the Spring of 2001 by me.