The Inheritance

HE WAS NOT MY USUAL HERO, neither swordsman nor words man. Words are what I have to offer, however, as my Dad’s birthday approaches – the first one we’ll celebrate without him – and I contemplate a man who never needed many.

It’s possible that I knew Floyd Brown better than anyone, but I doubt it. A person encounters too many people over nearly a century, forging friendships and sharing experiences shallow and deep, for that to be true.

I was his son for 64 or his 96 years. Being his son and knowing my father were not always the same thing. He was the father I didn’t always know; now his life is just a part of my memory. As teenage rebellions and self-indulgent 20s yielded to my settled adulthood, there were days then and later when Dad lived mostly a lone wolf existence. That is, until health scares reunited us for the last decade of his life.

What he gave me began with what life gave him.

Dad was deeply acquainted with poverty and hardship, especially during childhood. Life was unimaginably tough for people in his hardscrabble part of Tennessee during the Depression era. Not an educated man, yet he learned quickly from those lean years. He learned contentment because he had so little. He practiced contentment because he needed so little.

He applied that wisdom over a lifetime, not by chasing riches or fame but by mining comfort from the resources he had – both for himself and for the creatures about whom he cared most.

Even later in life, his world remained comparatively small, but he seemed to want little more from it. His dogs, his comfy recliner, his Lunchables, his TV shows. By the standards of his childhood, he was living like a king – albeit a king whose idea of haute cuisine involved a plastic tray of bologna and crackers. I can still picture him in that recliner, thumb-worn remote in hand, with Abby or Rocky or Sadie beside him, perfectly at ease in his small universe.

And that level of contentment is my ambition now, even as I acknowledge how my modern life built around words and images contrasts greatly with his. I try to emulate his simple pleasures, especially when distracted by my worldly wants. (Damn you, Amazon!) Be like Dad, I say, who somehow managed to understand the difference between wanting something and needing it. (I’m still conducting field research.)

Contentment wasn’t all I’ve inherited. My so-called wit and tragic dad humor, too, are rooted in his genuinely funny influence – the sturdy sense of humor his generation wore like armor against poverty, hardship, war, and whatever came next. Papa Bear could find something funny in almost anything, which was probably cheaper than therapy and decidedly more entertaining.

His birthday used to be a reason for cake, neighbor visits, or those yummy apple pies from his devoted friend, Cathy the Mail Lady. Now it will be a reason to remember a man who accidentally taught me that a good life doesn’t necessarily have to be a big one. What does a son inherit from a father who didn’t leave him much materially? Maybe the ability to recognize when what I have is enough.

Perhaps that’s why the last decade means so much to me. We got another chance to be father and son. He got to shine as a grandfather and great-grandfather. And I got one more stretch of years to discover the man behind the father I didn’t always know.

That’s a pretty good gift, birthday or otherwise.

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Papa Bear turns 90!

Obituary

The Relativity of Time

WE MARK TIME and life in years. For the young, those birthdates are merry milestones. For me – halfway to 63 yet a lifetime behind my Dad, who’s halfway to 95 – I’m too likely now to notice and lament the aches that are Father Time’s gift basket. But don’t be fooled: I cherish the passage, too.

Time manifests itself in the generations. On April 1, my grandson turned 1, his first trip through the calendar – a leap year, fittingly. That means, obviously, that I’m celebrating my first anniversary as a grandfather, or “Poppy” in my case. It’s been a seminal year for both of us.

Fifteen years in the future, my grandson will be driving a car, or whatever passes for an automobile in 2039. Maybe I’ll be taking a new set of knees or hips for a test-drive. But why jump ahead? Stay in the present. That’s something that 1-year-olds and 62-year-olds might do equally well.

My grandson’s present features a beautiful smile with nine – count ’em, nine! – teeth. He speaks (often sings) Baby fluently. He wisely refuses to step into toddlerhood, standing and teetering as he teases us. That’s right, stay in the present a bit longer. The future comes at you quickly once you’re on the move.

My present is always rooted in the past. I’m thinking specifically about the recent past. May 3 will mark five years since I had triple bypass heart surgery. I’m still in awe about that miracle. I’ll be forever thankful that two doctors and a physician’s assistant saved my life, allowing me to see the birth of my grandson and other precious things.

Here’s to the past, present, and future.

Grandson Beck (54 weeks old) and Poppy (3,264 weeks old) at Beck’s first ballgame. [Photo by Kyler Brown]

Mike and Me: Forever Young

THERE WAS THE TIME Mike and I transported a car from Memphis to Biloxi after putting the newspaper to bed one night. A favor for his Dad, the job turned into one of those film noir comic-adventures that we usually conjured up fictionally for our student rag rather than one that we actually lived out.

The car was one of those early-‘70s ocean liners whose radio barely picked up the country stations as we barreled through the Mississippi darkness. The coffee and candy bars failed us eventually, and one of us was soon snoring in the passenger seat while the other (OK, me) was head-bob dozing behind the wheel. That’s when our ocean liner became an airliner, sailing wheels-up onto some farmer’s field.

We – and the car – survived intact, although I assure you no one had trouble staying awake for the rest of the drive after that. Later that afternoon in Biloxi, in another strange turn, we witnessed our first and only KKK rally from the hotel balcony as the white sheets marched down an ocean-front boulevard.

*  *  *

My life with Mike Berry was pleasantly intense, drenched as it was in our salad days as the college-boy Mambo Kings of Memphis State University. The wit flowed like the taps of Lowenbrau Dark at our favorite campus dive, Garibaldi’s.

Short on cash but long on hair, we were drawn together by the post-Watergate-era romance of journalism. We plied our craft in the workshop that was the school newspaper, although Mike was always the more seasoned practitioner among us. I learned as much from him as I did in any J-class.

Quiet, thoughtful and a skillful listener, Mike wowed you with his insights – sometimes comic, sometimes deep, sometimes both at the same time. I recall one column dashed off for our beloved rag titled “Spiders Aren’t Such Bad Guys.” Ostensibly about his admiration for the spider’s inner beauty and spunk, it nevertheless weaved in astute observations about our Marine force in Lebanon, the arms race, human rights abuses in El Salvador, and Poland’s martial authoritarians. (Remember Poland?) “We all have our worries,” it concluded. “So the next time you see a spider, give it some credit before you step on it.”

His internship at Memphis Magazine, I thought at the time, was just the first step toward a career of clever observations at the likes of The New Yorker or Atlantic Monthly. Mike was the one I knew would find some level of fame with his writing. And who’s to say he didn’t. Still, I always waited for that book, that tale that only Mike could spin. Sadly, that possibility seems to be the victim of adult distractions and detours. And a thoughtless hit-and-run driver.

I’m thankful and lucky he shared his time on this planet with me and the others in our college coterie. Mike seemed to be the deep but funny soul of our body of creative misfits. I’m sure the passage of time has romanticized it all for me now, but I know the friendship was deep and real, then and now.

*  *  *

Music was probably the other thread of our friendship. I still have a cassette mix tape – although, hilariously, no longer a cassette player – that Mike made for me years after our college days. Songs about summer, they were. We also spent more than a few nights on the Square, listening to local favorites. One gorgeous gal, whose name is now lost to time, performed a cover of Twist and Shout that rivaled the Fab Four version.

Dylan, of course, was a common interest – some might say a common obsession. Mike was the evangelist who converted many to followers of the folk-rock poet. We marveled at the mystery and artistry and imagery of Dylan’s lyrics. The songs transported us to places we wanted to be, maybe the lobby of the Peabody Hotel where a crooked detective or a spy or a smoky lady might buy us a drink and inspire another story.

I’ve already been relistening to those songs as I remember our time and as I struggle to understand Mike’s tragic death. I’m glad he shared his life with me. I’ll cherish the last few conversations we had. I wish there had been more.

I’ll close my remembrance with one Dylan verse that seems to stick with me more now than the others.

She turned around to look at me
As I was walking away
I heard her say over my shoulder
“We’ll meet again someday on the avenue”
Tangled up in blue

Circa 1983, Mike and me. A regrettable image of me but my favorite of Mike. RIP Brotha.

A Rest Stop Between Past and Future

I’VE MANAGED TO PRACTICE photography over the past few months — months made difficult by my day job — but have not ruminated much about those images. A trip to Galveston allowed my wife and I to escape the pressures of work, celebrate our anniversary, and make some memories, which will be ruminated upon here.

Galveston painted herself in shades of gray, pink, and brown. It’s a vintage, lost-in-time city. Our fine dining splurges  deepened that experience and widened our waistlines. I drank in a seascape cocktail shaken and stirred by strong, cool ocean breezes and rowdy waves.

The images here seem to capture our time-travel getaway. I’ll be back to Galveston. It almost seems a place that could host retirement, a notion made more and more enticing by those unsatisfactory workweeks. Time in the present feels fleeting and full of worry, but Galveston reminded me of how much of the past and future is still there for exploring.

Ode to Abby

ABBY LIKED TO CURL UP in a good bed, whether that was under the covers with us on cold nights in her younger days or in the cuddly Snoopy dog bed she preferred in her later years or in one of the numerous other dog beds in — I’m now realizing — just about every room of our house. Often it was for a nap but sometimes it was just the most comfortable post from which to survey her queendom. 

It’s a comfort to me, then, to know her final resting spot is such a good one. From the back corner of our happy acre, just below the bluebird house on the post and in the ever-expanding shade of our pecan tree, she can look across the back of our property and up to our house. In the spring, she’ll have the company of our annual patch of bluebonnets to remind her of rebirth and nature’s beauty.

She’s a careful distance from the pool, a place she never quite took to, but with a view that at any given moment might include one of the family enjoying the shade of the back porch. And she’s in the company, within gossiping distance really, of our previous beloved pets, pups Tricksy and Chevy and parakeets Max and Pudge. And she’s likely to see Momma-Lori tossing the ball with Brutha-pooch Rocky. 

Most of all, she’ll see me because this is where I spend a good chunk of my days, spring or fall, summer or winter. The pool is my calm-down oasis after workdays. Sometimes I’m stalking hummingbirds or the moon with my camera. Often I’m doing the landscaper’s paradoxical dance, urging things to grow where they won’t or cutting things where they won’t stop growing. Knowing she’s there now, though, I expect to tramp my way back toward her corner around sunset, lingering in that magic moment before day becomes night. 

*  *  *

Abby was born Sept. 24, 2003, a Libra like me. It’s possible I know more about her lineage than I do my own. Her mom was Dot’s Barkley, whose parents were Mag’s Dot and Button Top Bill. Abby’s dad was Deuce, whose parents were Rosie and Seagull Elliott. I have official charts that go beyond that, showing a whole lot of doggo begetting — and who can blame them with names like Seagull Elliott. All that pure blood is probably the main reason Abby carried herself like royalty from the moment she crossed our threshold. 

2004

Not on the chart but important lineage-wise is Lori’s grandma — known far and wide as Grandma B — whose home we were visiting when we met Abby. It was love at first sight, and Abby came to live with us as a weeks-old puppy. She lived until almost age 18 and could have passed for a young pup until the end.

We discovered early on that, before beds, she liked napping on my legs. She also liked to be chased, nibbled her food instead of making a meal of it, wasn’t a fan of being held, DID NOT like cats (and had a good memory of where they lived in the neighborhood), and did not suffer fools gladly. We also discovered that we were smitten with her.

*  *  *

She was the constant in our lives as jobs became careers, as our kids became teenagers then collegians then career-minded adults themselves.

And as parent-child roles were flipped. Grandpa Brown came to live with us — or with the dogs, to be more accurate — at age 86. Five-plus years later, I firmly believe that their relationship added years to their already long lives. About that time, Abby developed a prancing trot, leading Grandpa to call her  “Abby Whiskers Hop-along Brown,” which was often followed by, “She’s just a-hopping along.”

Our kids now have their own fur families, meeting Aunt Abby a few times. It cheers us even as the sorrow of our loss still washes over us. We also take quiet comfort in our sweet Rocky, our border collie who has the brain of a civil engineer, the heart of a child, but the nervous system of a wet noodle. How sad to see him absorb Abby’s passing.

*  *  *

Toward the end of her life, Abby developed an enlarged heart, lost most of her hearing, and (in the last months) had trouble seeing. Still she pranced. She handled her deteriorating situation better than most humans, welcoming our helping hands but never demanding them. As I approach my seventh decade, saying “huh” and “come again” more frequently yet with a lot of prancing left in my own legs, I will take Abby’s strength and character to heart. 

I love my sweet Abby. And I miss her.

Sunsets and Satellites

A Beauty-and-the-Beast ending to this day.

Four 30-second exposures of the ISS.

TWO WEEKS REMAIN until the summer solstice, the virtual halfway point of 2020, a rough year here on Earth. On America’s plot of the planet, COVID-19’s impact has been intensified as a nation struggles with an issue that has plagued us since our founding. Images of unity (protest marches) mix with those of division (brutality, destruction, and political bombast).

I turned my eyes and my camera to the evening skies this week, finding solace (or maybe escape) in sunsets and satellites. The International Space Station made loops over Texas for several days, coinciding with a full moon, the so-called Strawberry Moon. 

I’ll keep looking up, waiting for things to look up.

Two views of the Strawberry Moon on two consecutive nights.

Hearts and Poets

FOUR WEEKS AGO TODAY, I had open-heart surgery, an unexpected but, as it turns out, fortuitous event. Besides knocking me on my butt for a while (not to worry – I’m progressing well), it also knocked the camera out of my hands. In my downtime, however, the chance to rethink my photography approach and goals has been a gift and may yield some freshness once I get back behind the camera. 

Today marks another anniversary, the 200th birthday of the great American poet Walt Whitman. Known for his words, Whitman also was the subject of numerous photographs during an era when commercial portrait photography was taking off. Posted here is probably my favorite portrait of Whitman, made about 1863 in Washington, D.C., by Alexander Gardner. Whitman describes himself in the photograph (in Horace Traubel’s With Walt Whitman in Camden) thusly: “How well I was then! – not a sore spot – full of initiative, vigor, joy – not much belly, but grit, fibre, hold, solidity. Indeed, all through those years – that period – I was at my best – physically at my best, mentally, every way.”

It is a handsome portrait and a fair description, reminding me of how I think now of myself in my pre-surgery days. Or maybe, yeah, my best days are still ahead of me.