Stu Jenks' Fezziwig Press: Mary Jenks

July 08, 2022

Circles & Spirals: Stu Jenks' Newsletter #8: July 8th, 2022

Eleven years ago yesterday, my mother Mary Jenks died. I could write a lot about her. Frankly I already have written a lot about Mom. Click on this link to my Amazon pages and you can buy/read two books about Mom. Dementia Blues and Pamela's Baby Rocking Chair) All I'll say tonight is I miss her. Yes she was a force of nature and she tended to push people away with her narcissistic neediness, but she's wasn't all bad. Actually, I'd say she was at least 1/2 good. Not a ringing endorsement I know, but Mary was a glass half full or half empty, depending on how you looked at her. You might be able to say the same for me too. For all of us perhaps. Anywho, love you Mom. May your spirit roam free.

"Mary as a newlywed, Rocky Mount, North Carolina (c) Late 1940's. Photograph taken by my father, Stu Jenks.

Our main story tonight is this. Again, I've already written about this before too, but he's a summery.

Johnny and Annie Beeton were my great-great-grandparents. Their third child Ella, born in 1863, was my great grandmother who married a Jenks, and off we went. But Johnny and Annie, it appears, and I've made some assumptions from viewing the partial record, were not like most Southerners of their time. Or may be they were.

Johnny worked at the Virginia Military Institute in Lexington, Virginia before The Civil War. He and Annie already had two kids. It appears Annie and Johnny were happy. Then war broke out. Then the renowned and quite-crazy teacher at VMI, Thomas "Stonewall" Jackson, drafted the entire student body of VMI and most of the able bodied men in Lexington, into his new regiment. Johnny knew, much like many at VMI knew, that Stonewall was at best, a reckless crazy man and at worse, an egomaniacal bully. Johnny quickly got transferred out of Stonewall's Brigade and spend The Civil War, making munitions in Richmond. It appears he was quite good at making guns and bullets. After the War, he returned to Lexington, and worked at Washington and Lee College, just down the street from VMI. He and Annie had 11 children in all. Yep, 11, 10 who lived into adulthood. Sadly, Annie died in 1883 at the young age of 45. Given the large grave marker Johnny build for her, and other information I have gleaned, it appears Johnny loved Annie very much, and I think Annie loved him too. Johnny never remarried. Ella Beeton married into the Jenks clan and that history is ripe with controversy and hurtfulness, but prior to that, it appears the Beetons were a large happy family.

Now, in the art world, particularly back in the 1970's and 80's, there was this thing call Conceptual Art, art that was more about the idea than about the object; art that couldn't be bought and sold that easily; art that was only remembered if you filmed and photographed it or experienced it live, in the moment. Conceptual Art is the mother of what we now call Performance Art.

Back in art school, I did a bunch of Conceptual Art: burying myself in fire brick at the center of campus; leashing myself to the front porch of 608 Airport Road for 12 hours, not speaking for that time and hoping roommates brought me food and drink; building a brick sculpture from 1152 fire bricks, one a day, everyday, for thirty days, taken one down and then building another; and most famously, painting Fatal Figures on the streets of Chapel Hill where all the fatal traffic accidents had occurred from 1970 to 1978. Yep, I did all that, and I have the slides to prove.

I made my current artistic career mostly as a nocturnal photographer, selling image rights and prints, making a little coin from my music, and producing a number of books. Conceptual Art was not made by me for decades.

Until last week.

During my travels since I moved back to North Carolina, I've visited many cemeteries. Some, during certain times of the year, are decorated with Confederate Flags, mostly the awful battle flag "The Stars and Bars", but of late with the National Confederate Flag, with its circle of stars on a blue field, and with its bands of white and red. They are trying to be politically correct. Good for them, but they fail. Sorry, the Confederates were traitors to the Union, not matter how much you might admire Robert E. Lee and the aforementioned Stonewall Jackson. It was a war to free the slaves and I'm glad as fuck, that the South lost.

And I believe my great great grandparents, Annie and Johnny Beeton, thought The War Between The States was a stupid and ridiculous idea as well. At the very least, foolhardy. Why else would Johnny transfer away for General Jackson? He knew how crazy he was. He worked around him. But he also felt pressure that he had to serve, whether he wanted to or not. The southern Home Guard, a group of disreputable men who made southern men enlist during the War, made sure that Johnny had to go. Luckily, he found a safe place to serve, in a gun factory in Richmond, Virginia.

And lets face it. Had he stayed to fight along side Stonewall Jackson, he would have probably been killed or died in the first year. He wouldn't have been able to come home and visit Annie during the Fall of 1862 to conceive my great grandmother Ella. And I won't be here.

Repeat. I won't be here.

So last week, I took a National Confederate Flag I had stolen from a cemetery somewhere (guilty as charged), and wrote on it with a black pen 'He Fought Reluctantly'. Then I drove the two hours north to Johnny Beeton's grave and placed in the the ground.

Hardly anyone was there on that day. I took my pics. I also visited my great great grandparents on the Jenks side and my great great great grandparents on the Beeton side. I also looked at the large grave market for Stonewall Jackson and thought, "What an asshole." I always think that. Jackson was a crazy man who got thousands killed, fighting for the right for white men to own black people. Almost every time I visit Annie and Johnny, strangers pass by to pay their respects to Stonewall. They are almost always loud. They almost always don't notice I'm 30 feet way, staring at the gravestone of Annie and Johnny. On a good day, I just shake my head at their rudeness. On a bad day, I whisper "Would you all shut the fuck up?", hoping the negative vibe carries to their souls. Never does.

Anyway, Johnny and Annie, I made a piece of Conceptual Art for you all. If you were alive today with your 19th century perspectives, you might think me a little mad, a little crazy. Can't really argue with you there.

Love, light and luck,

Stu

Posted at 07:31 PM in Current Affairs, Fezziwig Press, Good Folk, Humor, Mary Jenks, North Carolina, Oak Wood, Photographs Of My Mother, Relationships, Social Justice, Spirituality, Stu Jenks, The Civil War, The South, Travel, Valleys, Virginia, War, Women | Permalink | Comments (0)

Tags: Beeton, Civil war, Jenks

December 03, 2021

Pamela's Baby Rocking Chair at the Grand Canyon

This image is one of my favorites. A perfect winter's day at the Canyon. It's also the back cover of my book Pamela's Baby Rocking Chair (The Deaths of Mary and Pamela Jenks)

Speaking of that book, a nice thing happen to me today.

I gave the PBRC book to my father-in-law Norman Smith to read. He's a highly educated gentleman, a voracious reader, and a sweetly religious man. He read the Dementia Blues book a few days ago and liked it.

"It's very well written, Stu," he said. "Thank you, Norman," I said.

High praise from a man of few words.

But this morning as he was dropping off the paper (He lives just up the street from Alexa and I and he shares his newspaper with us), he got out of his car and said:

"You did a wonderful job writing your mother's eulogy. As good if not better than the priest's. And I love the Bible passage you picked for your mother. Oh, my."

That touched me a lot. I know I'm an OK writer and I was the designated eulogist for the Jenks clan for years, because I knew how to write, how to speak, and how to not talk too long at a funeral.

But still.

It was nice to hear such kind words from the only father figure I have in my life. A very sweet moment.

(As always, if you want to buy something: books, prints, and music, you know where to find me. www.stujenks.org, here, bandcamp, CDbaby, Bookbaby, and at Amazon and Apple stores. Have a great day, y'all.)

Posted at 11:15 AM in Ancestors, Angel/Ghosts, Arizona, Art, Emotions, Good Folk, Grand Canyon, Love, Mary Jenks, National Parks, Pamela Jenks, Pamela's Baby Rocking Chair, Prayer, Sickness & Health, The Border, Women | Permalink | Comments (0)

November 05, 2021

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.

Posted at 11:37 AM in Atmospheric Music, Current Affairs, Death, Dying, Emotions, Family, Flowers, Good Folk, Love, Mary Jenks, Photographs Of My Father, Photographs Of My Mother, Photographs Of My Sister, Religion, The Border, The South, The West, Tucson, Virginia, Women | Permalink | Comments (0)

September 13, 2021

A free epub of Dementia Blues for y'all (and a hidden Leviticus track too)

A writer friend today suggested I submit one of my self-pub books to this book contest thingy. Win between $1000 to $5000 if they pick your book. It's a bit of a scam, our $65 submission costs supporting whoever the hell Winning Writers are, but I had that much cash in my Paypal and thought what the hell.

The tricky part was which book. Initially I thought Step Zero, but that's too long. Then I thought Victor Mothershead, but that's Book 4 in the Step Zero series.

Then I thought Dementia Blues, my best selling book of the 15 books I've produced. I glanced through the epub before I submitted it and thought, "This is actually pretty good. It holds up."

So I uploaded it to the contest.

But you know I ain't going to win.

But you all can.

Download Dementia Blues

Above (and at the end of this post) is the epub edition of Dementia Blues by me, Stu Jenks. Designed by Gail Cross with the photographs and everything. It's a sad but sweet book. I think you'll like it.

And even though the chances of me winning this book contest are slim to none, you can win a free book right now. Pretty sweet, eh?

Love you guys.

Keep your lamp trimmed and burning,

Stu.

Download Dementia Blues

P.S. Hidden track: I'll give away my last book Cherry Picking Leviticus too. What the heck. I'm in a generous mood. (If you feel like donating to the cause, my Paypal is [email protected]). Be safe out there.

Download Cherry Picking Leviticus by Stu Jenks

Posted at 09:44 AM in Ancestors, Arizona, Art, Black & White Photography, Books, Civil Rights, Current Affairs, Death, Dementia, eBooks, Hopi, Love, Mary Jenks, Memoirs, Photographs Of My Mother, Stu Jenks, The Moon, Tucson | Permalink | Comments (0)

October 17, 2017

Mom's Bowl...

1993: Mark Hewitt threw this bowl. My sister Pamela bought it for our mother for Christmas.

1993-2008: Mark's bowl sat on Mom's dining room table for years, a vessel where Mom put old greeting cards and this month's bills.

2008: Mary Jenks moved to Arizona and quickly became very demented and very ill. She moved into an adult care home within months. She could only take a few things with her. The bowl came to live with me.

2011: Mary and Pamela Jenks died that summer, within three weeks of each other. Yeah. I know. It was tough but a blessing. Life is complicated.

2017: Maybe I'm starting a new series. Maybe not. But I seem to be traveling hither and yon with Mom's bowl, taking photos of it in pretty and interesting places. And it's not just for the memory of Mary Jenks or as an acknowledgment of Mark Hewitt's body of work. It is partly that, but it's also a walking prayer of sorts, for a woman I love very much who is going through some tough times.

So those are the ideas around the bowl. Remembrance, respect, love and prayer.

(Oh. And at some point, this bowl is going to break. It is clay. Pottery breaks. And I am trucking it around rocks and hard things. Pottery is not fond of rocks and hard things. But the plan when it breaks is to glue it back together and keep photographing it. We all have cracks. We all have wounds and scars. It's what makes us interestingly and lovingly human. This bowl will have scars too. But I'll be careful until that happens. Promise.)

#pottery, #stujenks, #markhewitt, #maryjenks, #ceramicbowl, #remembrance, #love, #prayer.

Posted at 04:46 PM in Arizona, Art, Black & White Photography, Canyons, Ceramics, Current Affairs, Faith, Family, Forgiveness, History, Love, Mary Jenks, Mountains, Nature, Pamela Jenks, Pottery, Relationships, Rocks, Spirituality, Tucson | Permalink | Comments (0)

May 08, 2017

From the road, south, east, and west...

[One of the best images from my trip south I think, because you can make up your own story about this woman and this chair. Mystery and magic are good things in art and in life.]

[John B. was largely unbanked, and had much hidden gold or so folks thought. I couldn't find his small headstone, but I think John would have found this image amusing, given his views on God, the financial markets, and the world at large. Rest in peace, John B.]

[I worked as a magician at Tweetsie Railroad, near Boone, in 1981. I lived in a mice-infested house just up the hill from Noah and Effie's graves. My old house is still there, looking about the same. Still kinda shitty.]

[Note to those wanting to be professional landscape photographers: Sit in one spot and wait for the light to come to you, and take tons of images. I took around 30 images to get the desired depth of field and to get those green pine needles in the mirror in proper focus. It just takes time, like all good things.]

[A rare moment at the Lincoln Memorial, when there wasn't a ton of people. Perhaps it was because it was late in the day and raining. One of my favorite spots in the District. Fun fact: My mother saw them building the Memorial when she was a child, living just across the river in Alexandria.]

[I bought these silk flowers at a Walmart in Oklahoma expressly for my mother's grave. My mother liked the color purple for it was the color of royalty. Been thinking many kind thoughts about my deceased, very complex mother. She was mostly a pain in the neck, don't you know, but she taught me some wonderful things when I was a kid, and frankly, she, along with her mother Nannie, were the only family members who gave a damn about Little Stu. Fun fact: Mary gave me $30,000 in 2008, before she got sick, so I could quit my day job and be a photographer and a writer full time. It was 10% of her worth at the time. That was very generous. The money is gone now but it gave me a very good kick start. Rest in peace, Mary. The Nannie's Mirror series is now as much about you as it is about your mother.]

[Was this image photoshopped? You bet your sweet bippie it was.]

[An incredibly tragic thing happened here. Google it and read all about it. Ghosts wander these plains.]

[I trespassed and spent all of ten minutes at John's house. The property is now owned by the man who owns K3 Lumber. K3. Get it? A very strong unwelcoming vibe was all around me, both at the house and all throughout the town. I'm guessing they has all heard the S-Town podcast by now. The property felt especially haunted and I don't use that word lightly. Everything is gone from John's house and his clock workshop. I didn't even go searching for the hedge maze, I was that spooked. I said a prayer for John, took photos of a lonely wooden chair on the porch and the three old chimneys and made my exit. As I drove away, I blew a kiss at the South Forty Trailer Park sign and made my way to the Cahaba River. Rest in peace, John B. and much love to all the folks in Shit Town, the good, the bad and the in-between.]

Posted at 07:28 PM in Alabama, Angel/Ghosts, Art, Birds, Black & White Photography, Blues, Buildings, Clouds, Current Affairs, Dying, Emotions, Flora & Fauna, Good Folk, Highways, History, Hope, Love, Mary Jenks, Money, My Grandmother Nannie's Mirror, Nannie's Mirror, National Parks, Nature, North Carolina, Oklahoma, Other Artists, Pamela Jenks, Pamela's Baby Rocking Chair, Rivers, Sexuality, Sickness & Health, Sky, Spirituality, The Poor, The Road, The Sky, The South, Travel, Trees, Trouble With The Law, Virginia, Water, Women | Permalink | Comments (0)

April 27, 2017

From the road, east and south...

"Oklahoma, Rt. 66" (c) 2107 Stu Jenks.

"Tears For America" by Mark Hewill, Pittsboro, North Carolina. Photograph by Stu Jenks.

"Sea Dog by Andrew Wyeth", North Carolina Museum of Art, Raleigh, North Carolina. Photograph by Stu Jenks

"Side Porch Pot by Mark Hewitt", Pittsboro, North Carolina" Photograph by Stu Jenks.

"Pamela's Baby Rocking Chair, Little Rock Central High, Arkansas" (c) 2107 Stu Jenks.

"Charlotte Skyline from Grandfather Mountain by Hugh Morton" North Carolina Museum of History, Raleigh, North Carolina. Photograph of a photograph by Stu Jenks.

"Night by John Stanhope", Virginia Museum of Fine Art, Richmond, Virginia" Photograph by Stu Jenks.

"Trees by Milton Avery", The Phillips Collection, Washington, D.C., Photography by Stu Jenks.

"The Wake of The Ferry by John Sloan", The Phillips Collections, Washington, D.C. Photograph by Stu Jenks.

Posted at 02:01 PM in Art, Black & White Photography, Buildings, Ceramics, Current Affairs, Faith, Fezziwig Press, Flora & Fauna, Good Folk, Horses, Love, Mary Jenks, Mountains, My Grandmother Nannie's Mirror, Nannie's Mirror, North Carolina, Other Artists, Paintings, Pamela's Baby Rocking Chair, Portraits, Sculpture, Spirituality, Stu Jenks, Travel, Trees, Water, Women | Permalink | Comments (0)

June 10, 2016

New low $0.99, $1.99 & $2.99 prices on all e-books and audiobooks from Stu Jenks' Fezziwig Press

All my e-books are available on Amazon Kindle, Apple iBooks, Bookbaby.com and many other digital providers. (Links below go only to my Amazon Kindle pages.)

Audiobooks at the new low prices are only available on CDbaby at this time. (Links below go only to my CDbaby pages. Hopefully iTunes and Amazon will soon update their prices.)

E-Books at Amazon.com:

Flame Spirals: Journeys Through Nocturnal Photography: $0.99

Dementia Blues: $2.99

The Transpersonal Papers (1861-2010): $1.99

Pamela’s Baby Rocking Chair: The Deaths of Pamela and Mary Jenks: $2.99

Step Zero: A Sober Love Story in 2076: $1.99

Air & Gravity: Book Two In The Step Zero Series: $2.99

Balthazar & Zeeba: A Christmas Novella: $1.99

A Rolodex Of Haikus by Tunafish Smith, found by Stu Jenks: $0.99

Victor Mothershead: U.S. Secret Service: $2.99

Audiobooks at CDBaby.com:

Hoop Dancing: More Journeys Through Nocturnal Photography: $2.99

Pamela’s Baby Rocking Chair: The Deaths of Pamela and Mary Jenks: $2.99

Balthazar & Zeeba: A Christmas Novella: $2.99

Thanks for reading and listening to my books and buying my stuff. It puts gasoline in my tank, a roof over my head and a smile on my face.

Posted at 04:38 PM in 12 Step Fiction, Air & Gravity, Angel/Ghosts, Arizona, Audiobooks, Christmas and Winter Solstice, eBooks, Fantasy & Science Fiction, Fezziwig Press, Fiction, Flame Spirals, Hoop Dancing, Mary Jenks, Pamela Jenks, Pamela's Baby Rocking Chair, Rolodex Of Haiku, Spirituality, Spoken Word, Step Zero: A Sober Love Story in 2076, Stu Jenks, The Step Zero Series, The West | Permalink | Comments (0)

May 10, 2016

"Bristlecone Hoop Dance, Methuselah Grove, California" (For Mary, Pamela, and somebody else.)

This tree is between 4500 and 5000 years old. The primary reason that Bristlecones eventually die is from erosion, over the millenniums, of the soil off of their roots. They simply die of thirst.

This night image was taken in the Methuselah Grove. The oldest living thing on the planet lives there. It's 5065 years old. That's right. That tree sprouted at the beginning of the Bronze Age.

This is one of my favorite places on the planet. Walking there puts everything in perspective. The prayer 'I am small and I need your help' comes to mind. If you are ever on the east side of the Sierras near Bishop, it's worth the side trip.

Not so fun fact: While driving up the last few miles to take these nocturnal images in 2008, I got a call from my poor demented mother from a psych ward. She was very frightened. The people at the high end assisted living/nursing home where she lived (The Villas at Sin Vacas in Tucson) had sent my mother to the psych facility, because a) they had no room in their own locked ward and b) because Mary walked around too much for them and was underfoot. I got back to Tucson as soon as I could, got Mary out of the psych ward, and moved her, with the help of others, to Crossroads Adult Care Homes, where she lived another two and half more years and was taken very good care of there by its staff. Thanks, Wendy.

I wouldn't send a dog I didn't like to Sin Vacas. Neither should you.

It'll be five years soon since Pamela and Mary Jenks died. Five years. Seems much longer ago than that.

Posted at 03:23 PM in California, Dying, Hoop Dancing, Mary Jenks, Nocturnal Photography, Pamela Jenks, The West, Trees | Permalink | Comments (0)

April 13, 2016

"The Death of Stuart Jenks: September, 2001"

From the hardbound book and e-book, Flame Spirals: Journey Through Nocturnal Photography

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?' flying out of my mouth.

Bottom Line: Mom is 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 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, just turns and walks away.

I couldn'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 me. 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. I don't yell at her.

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 making 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 paler. I know he’s dead.

“Remember, Stu, what you said? That we need to open the window to let the soul out?” Mom 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 to go along. I'm in shock right now. Dad's dead. My father is dead.

Mom 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 khaki 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 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.

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. We pull him up into a seated position and we 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 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 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 gets the gist.

“I’ll go up stairs,” she says.

“I'm going out 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, outside to have a smoke, 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 about 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 creepy sort of way. The fat one just stands there. They talk with the nurse and Mom for a bit then they go outside to the hearse to get the stretcher. I take this as my time to exit stage right and head 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.

I talk with Annie a bit more, saying I'll call her tomorrow. I also ask her if she will 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?"

"Of course," she says.

"I really need you, honey."

I'm back 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 Scott is here. Mom loves Scott. She seems OK, considering she’s lost the love of her life.

I walk the couple of hundred feet to the pier again, this time wrapped in my Dad's old Marine Corps blanket along with the phone. I call Michael and tell him about Dad's dying. He's great as ever. We talk for half an hour 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 begin to talk to my Dad. The wind swallows my words. 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. 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. It's Stuart.

Dad 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.

Dad always called me honey.

Posted at 04:21 PM in Angel/Ghosts, Mary Jenks, Nocturnal Photography, Pamela Jenks, The Road, Virginia | Permalink | Comments (0)