Old School

If you ever saw dad's sermon notes, you'd appreciate his lettering as much as you would his messages. He would often put in little drawings to illustrate his points along the way. But it was his headings, the subheads and bullet point fonts were always executed with a little fancier hand drawn font.

Dad had the most beautiful handwriting. Good penmanship is no longer taught, and it's a lost skill to most these days. My brother has an incredible handwriting that echos of our father's influence.

I think dad got his interest in using his fancy hand drawn fonts, like his younger brother Patillo Ainsworth Finlayson, from his older brother Burruss Wofford Finlayson. Dad and Ainsworth were just avid amateurs when it came to hand lettering. Wofford was the seasoned pro. Wofford was an old school commercial artist of the highest caliber. He did his share of painting movie posters and signage for theaters in Columbia back in the 30's and 40's.

One of my life's regrets is that I didn't take his offer of living in Columbia, South Carolina and work for him. I was in my early to mid teens and didn't know what I was being offered at the time. I would've had a Summer to remember and a wealth of knowledge that could've taken me further into my art.

The Late Christmas Present

Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain, Morrow, GA, 04/15/2018

Last Christmas, my family presented me with a computer print out of a receipt for tickets purchased for a very special concert.  I've been a fan of The Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain since I discovered them on YouTube about five years ago.  Since Christmas, Gina started learning to play the ukulele.  It just something she decided to pick up along the way, but wasn't very familiar with the Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain. I knew as the day drew closer that she'd receive just as much enjoyment as I would.  My hunch proved true.  My daughters thoroughly enjoyed the show as well.

Knowing that dialysis would probably wear me out, we broke up the trip into a two day outing. We drove to Atlanta on the fourteenth, stayed overnight and then took our time finding the campus and Spivey Hall early this afternoon. The concert was on the campus of Clayton State University in Morrow, GA.  It's a pretty campus and the hall is a nice venue.

Now all that I had seen of the UOoGB was on YouTube until today. I found out today that none of the videos do this little ensemble justice. The videos that I previously thought humorous and delightful, in person are mesmerizing and beautiful.  UOoGB do not spoof songs, but give wonderful well thought out renditions of loved music with mere ukuleles.  Listening to their take on these old hits are like hearing them again for the first time.

Also.  Not only can they play, they all sing.  Man can they sing.  The harmonies were tight and spectacular.  They are the Blue Angels of the ukulele. Again. The YouTube videos don't do them justice.  If you ever get a chance to hear them live, GO!

His Bride

We do not become angels when we die. Angels were created to be servants. We were created to be The Bride of Jesus. We are not issued harps and wings, rather we receive a crown and throne.  We will dwell in the mansions He has prepared for us.

By believing on Him, we have become part of His royal family. We will not truly comprehend what He has done for us, planned for his bride until we are actually in His presence. He so loves us! We will see things clearly when we get there.

All the troubles of this world will be wiped away as tears from our eyes.

beyond the curtain

We simply can't imagine what this world was intended to be before the corruption of sin. What we are going through now, wasn't what our Creator wanted for us. One day beyond this world, we will discover innocence again, and dwell beneath and amid the one true Light.

For this moment, the ramifications of my sins, the sins of others, past and present, will continue to play out. The price was paid by our Redeemer, yet our lives must be lived out with the consequences of each act.

That day, when we wake up, we will experience life as it should've been. I believe we will be surprised by how natural it will all feel ~ knowing this is what life should've been all along. This is the life our Creator planned for us. This is our natural environment.

We peer now behind the dark glass of our own making. I look forward to that moment when the lights go out and He draws back the curtain.

It is beyond imagination, yet very familiar. It will be so good.

the art closet

We had an art closet at the house on Scenic. It had a double sliding door. There were art books about drawing, painting and fonts in there. There were large art pads, canvas board, old wooden boxes of brushes, ancient tubes of watercolors, acrylics and oils. Dad did some brochure paste-up work for Green Valley Drag Strip, Bethlehem Camp, Gadsden Table Tennis Association, etc.  He'd also do logo work for a legal client from time to time. I still have the large amber bottle of Carter's rubber cement with brush he used for his layouts. The kids went to that closet more than my dad did because the pencil sharpener was mounted on a shelf in there. I remember dad had a box of India inks of various colors, a bunch of useless parts, nibs, tubes from fountain pens. To go into the art closet, one would have to dig to find what one needed for a project.  I rarely had to buy art supplies for a school project as a kid.  It was a mess in there, but I could find the implements and material needed to do the task.

That closet had always fascinated me.  When I grew up I became a graphic designer with too much stuff to keep in a mere closet.  As time went by and technology changed, I had no real need to keep the tools once required for my trade. No more hording of paper scraps.  My large arsenal of Pantone and Design markers, most of them older than my children's ages combined, are slowly drying and dying in a in my garage. Only my youngest daughter has uses them from time to time. I no longer use them. I don't think I would have enough art material to even warrant an art closet anymore. I have my light table, a variety of common pens, a scanner and my CPU. It's all I really need these days. Every thing changed in time.  How many years has it been since I actually had to make a mechanical?  It's been well over a decade.

I picture my father with his wheelchair rolled up to our round kitchen table. He'd be working on one of those brochure designs.  He'd want to do as much of it himself, but often needed me to hold the ruler down so her could draw or cut the line.  As a child I was fascinated by it, wondered if one day I could do it too.

beneath the shadow of war

I was born thirteen years after World War II and five years after the Korean War, and three years after President Eisenhower sent first military advisors to South Vietnam to train the South Vietnamese Army.  I was a sophomore in high school when the Vietnam War ended.  The draft was over by then too.

Since I was knee high to a grasshopper, I grew up playing with little green army men and G.I. Joes.  When I ventured outdoors ~ you'd find me somewhere with other neighborhood boys playing army.  My 'toys' included actual military surplus ~ helmets, web belting, back packs, etc.  One of my guns was an actual carbine stock with a cut off broomstick as a barrel ~ my sniper rifle.  I had a pile of gear and an arsenal of play guns. My older brother had some old military manuals that I would flip through to see if I could acquire an edge while playing an opponent. But I wasn't the only kid in my neighborhood who took his war games serious.

My favorite television shows were COMBAT! and TWELVE O'CLOCK HIGH.  My favorite movies were primarily war movies. I can't count the amount of these movies I have watched and how many times I've re-watched them (over and over) over these past six decades.  I still enjoy the good ones whether they be 'History or Hollywood'.  My list of favorites would simply be too long and tedious to mention within this post.

I remember when I was in junior high school, the Vietnam war was still raging.  The news  of casualties daily being reported on our old Zenith. The draft was still in effect and my brother still carried his card in his pocket.  It was one of those days that was in the yard readying for a neighborhood mission, when he casually passed by me and remarked, "In a couple of years, you might be doing this for real."

Strange.  I grew up thinking that I might very well have to do it for real ~ that one day it might be required of me to serve.  That day never came, but I think every boy born in the shadow of those wars were raised with the idea of the possible inevitability of one day riding out on that bus.

dad was here

It was chilly in the garage so I kept the doors closed and turned on the space heater.  I was looking for a distraction from the nausea I felt in the morning.  There had been a drawer that I had pulled from dad's old workshop bench that kept getting stuck, so I thought I'd sand and dry soap it.  After fixing the drawer, I replaced the tools that had been kept in it, then automatically started cleaning and organizing the rest of the drawers.  My nausea dissipated somewhere along the way.

This is a great old workbench.  I acquired it after we moved into my present home twenty-one years ago, having room to pull it out of Mr. Roy Rakestraw's storage.  Roy had it disassembled and stacked in a shed for six years after mother sold the house on Henrietta.  I was glad to have a big enough garage to put it in.

I had to heighten the bench about eight inches, because Dad had it built to accommodate working from his wheelchair.  One of his favorite pass times was woodwork.  He did everything he could to get one of his children to be a helper on Saturdays.  I spent a great deal of time out in the shop begrudgingly at his side.  Like most kids, I wanted to be elsewhere playing.  Dad wanted to do as much as he could for himself, so a helper would usually just be his other hand, hold the other end steady while he did the rest.

Dad would often pay me to clean and organize the workshop, which was no small task.  He was a pack-rat when it came to saving various bits of hardware and wood pieces.  It would often take me the better part of a non-stop weekend to get it all done.  It was always a frustration that he would then turn around and clutter things up again right after all that meticulous hard work.

Mom spent a good bit of time with Dad in the garage.  Each of their children have a piece or two that they built.  I have a secretary desk in my house that they built. They gave it to me when I first left the house years ago. I also have a book stand that my dad used to keep his commentaries by his bedside. It is by my bedside now.

So as I organized the drawers, I traveled back three decades.  Many of Dad's tools are now my tools, tools he made better use of than I have.  Even though I have most of my faculties, he seemed to have made better use of the fewer he had than I have with mine. Like my dad, I find a pleasant distraction piddling in the garage.  I always find a quiet connection with my father at that old workbench. My Uncle Pat once told me that their Papa would often be found piddling at his workbench in his spare time as well.  I guess my dad found a little of his dad working in the shop too.

Yes, if I could truly go back, I'd be a better, more willing helper. 

I still miss you Dad.

When Hollywood is The Family Business.

Hollywood dynasty's rarely pan out. We've witnessed many children of famous actors who couldn't quite make it out from beneath the shadow of their parent's stardom. Look to the Barrymores and Hustons for the success stories.  Something creative definitely passed down in those family genes.

There are names and faces we recognize but whose film careers didn't quite materialize as hoped. It's a tough business to succeed, even when given a big leg-up. When it comes down to it, it's not in the name, but do have the chops for it?  There are plenty who have made decent living in the business. Alan Ladd Jr. has become one of the industry's most respected film executives.  Alan Hale Jr. and John Ritter's stardom shined just as brilliant as their famous fathers.

There's a long list~ but this is just a short list of names that come to my mind while writing this post.  What names come to your mind?

Patrick, Michael and Ethan Wayne
James and Christopher Mitchum
Gary, Dennis and Lindsay Crosby
Alan Ladd Jr. and Alana Ladd
John Ritter
Harold Lloyd Jr.
Charles Chaplin Jr.
Liza Minnelli
Carrie Fisher
Jody McCrea
Alan Hale Jr.
Dean Paul, Ricci and Craig Martin
Scott, Francesca, Kyle, Alison, Morgan, Kathryn and Kimber Eastwood

booby-trapped landscape

Our last tenant left a heavy duty dog stake and chain in the backyard.  I couldn't see in the high grass while I was mowing. It played a number on the lawn tractor. I hauled it to the repair shop.  I returned the next day to the property with my home tractor. I was then unfortunate enough to run over heavy gauge wire that was hiding under leaves. The wire wrapped and knotted itself around the shaft and the blade.  It was as if the entire property was booby-trapped. I tried an assortment of hand held cutters and a hacksaw with no success. The only way I could cut through the taught and tangled mess was with hand held power angle grinder.   BINGO! I finally got the yard and field mowed as the sky darkened ~ expecting it to rain at any moment. It felt good to finally get it all mowed before the rain came down.

I woke up this morning listening to rain outside ~ feeling that grass growing out there. Next time it'll be easier.

the real step toward racial healing

I pay the 'racist' moniker no mind. It's been over used and the card over played. I've met folks of various colors who are racists and feel 'righteously' justified in harboring and stoking their hate. My advice to folks of all colors. Love your brother as you love yourself. Do unto others as you'd have them do unto you.

There's nothing the white man can give the black man that will heal the heart and bring unity. No man, no government, no legislation that can make the scars go away. Self proclaiming political saviors do nothing but stir the divide and keep the old wounds bleeding. Wounds can heal when we don't pick at them.

The real step toward true healing is to simply forgive those who have trespassed against you ~ past and present. There's no amount of reparations that will ever sate the angry, distrustful heart. There's not a political remedy. The answer is forgiving your white brother - forgiving your black brother - as Christ forgave us.