A Gathering for Digby



Digby Henry

This past Sunday, October 20, some fifty to seventy friends, family, and colleagues of Digby Henry met to celebrate his life. My blog of August 15 told of his sudden and unexpected death.

The setting for this confirmation of Digby’s journey through this existence was perfect. Connie, his widow, chose the home of a friend a few miles south of Albuquerque, a beautiful horse ranch at the edge of a river valley plain with broad vistas in a rural, rustic environment. The horses were therapy animals, so it was appropriate that a palomino, a pinto, and a roan drew close to the gathered crowd as if to vicariously participate as they munched grass at the fence line. Several of the people in the back yard of the gracious home reached through the wire to pet them.

The Good Lord graced us with a magnificent, cloudless, blue sky that stretched overhead to infinity. The day had started with a distinctly chilly morning, but by noon, the official time for the gathering, people were shedding coats and sweaters. The wind was still, only occasionally ruffling a scarf or a lock of hair.

In addition to Connie and their daughter, a niece and two of Digby’s brothers were present, looking so much like him it was both stressing and comfortable. As if “almost Digby” were present in the flesh (although neither had his distinctive brogue). But the one thing I am certain of is that Digby, himself, was present in the spirit and having a delightful time.

Connie chose an aboriginal ceremony to honor her late husband. The crowd, collected around in a large circle stood with her while she addressed the Six Directions—the Four Cardinals, Father Sky, and Mother Earth—taking the time to detail the significance of each.

Then a man spoke of the Seventh Direction, a concept familiar to me. It is a gift hidden in the heart, yet undiscovered by so many of us. It is the recognition of who we really are. A direction on no plane, yet on all planes. A gift of higher purpose…a sort of divinity for those who discover it.

A flute solo by one of Digby’s brothers followed. As the breathy, haunting echoes of the flute died, drum song flooded the meadow, accented by rattles and clappers.

After this, Connie displayed a “Talking Stick” beautifully beaded and fringed with rawhide. Whoever possessed this stick held the power to address the gathering. The Mistress of the Talking Stick moved among us, bestowing the cane on any who requested it. All the while, other women used feathers and eagle wing fans to waft sacred smoke from smudge pots over any who coveted its blessings.

Many of the crowd spoke, sharing memories of Digby, reciting poetry the reader had created in his honor and memory, reading some of Digby’s verses. I read the blog I’d written last August. Eleven of our writing class attended, and most read or spoke.

On the way home afterward, Don DeNoon (another class member) and I agreed the ceremony had been exactly the right one for Digby, a strong man with the gentle soul of a poet.

 

Blessings,

 

Don T

Next week: Maybe it’s time to return to something from The Zozobra Incident or The Bisti Business. Something about New Mexico.

New posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

On Herding Cats

Some of you may know that Dennis Kastendiek and I co-host a writing class at the Bear Canyon Senior Center from 2:00 p.m. until 4:00 p.m. each Monday afternoon. We have an open membership policy, so anywhere from twelve to seventeen people attend out of a more or less active roster of twenty-seven souls. Need I say more about herding cats?

Our group is made up of published authors, those who should be published authors, people who pen pieces for their own enjoyment, individuals interested in leaving family members details of their lives, and rank amateurs. We write fiction, erotica, memoirs, essays, and poetry. We attend to learn, to get class comments on our own writing, as a social outlet, for inspiration, and likely for motives I don’t even recognize. Again, do you see where I’m going with the cat thing?

We have a poet whose English-as-a-second-language phrasing is so fresh that I am loathe to correct her grammar, for which she constantly scolds me. “How can I learn proper English?” she asks. I don’t want her to. To Americanize her charming, graceful, and often dramatic poetry would be something akin to a crime.

We have a man who’s stories take the reader straight back to the down and dirty Texas plains country. An ex-Marine, bearing visible scars of combat, who tells his life story in a gritty, gripping, yet often humorous way. I prod him constantly to submit his work to publishers. A retired airline hostess who writes of her own funny, awkward, and touching experiences. A university professor with a quirky wit that starts you down one path only to jerk your feet out from under you and leave you laughing. He's fascinated by railroads and has published some pieces on early lines. Dennis, my co-host, writes what he calls "whimsical claptrap."

 

There is a paint artist who’s beginning to reveal bits of herself to us through her prose and poetry. A retired minister whose verses never fail to touch me. A novelist and poet who keeps bringing things back to us until she feels she’s got it exactly the way she wants it. A woman who is laboring to put her travels to foreign countries down on paper. Other members contribute their charm and talents, but I merely wanted to give you a flavor of the people who devote their time each Monday to the class.

Many of the members do good work. Since I’ve been attending the class (probably about three years before Dennis and I took over a year ago), two of the best have passed away. Tom Glass was a red-headed (well, it was red at one time) cowboy taken by the French and Indian Wars. He wrote novels using that time and place as the setting. Digby Henry wrote beautiful poetry, essays, prose…virtually anything he wanted to put his mind to. Both of these writers were a loss and will be remembered fondly.

Before I go maudlin, let’s get back to the issue. The class covers the usual dos and don’ts of wordsmithing: point of view, grammar, story progression, character, tenses, conflict, etc. And like cats, many of us continue to go our own way. I’ll read one of the pieces and realize there was an unexpected change of viewpoint (head hopping is one of my pet peeves). We’ll harp on progression, and then read a work where the story is told backwards or out of sequence. We’ll start an interesting piece and immediately get bogged down in back story. Like I say…herding cats.

But you know what? As often as not, when I read one of my own pieces to the class…I get caught up in some of the same stuff. It’s sobering to realize I’m one of the cats.

Next week: Something will come to me.

New posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

How many “Oopsies” Do We Get?

I received an email the other day informing me about a writer’s conference. A few minutes later, I got another message with the title “Oops.” The sender had forgotten to include the date of the meeting. A rather significant omission, right?

That got me to thinking. As the co-host of a Monday afternoon Writing Class, I often send emails to my list of attendees. I recall a number of them with the subject of “Oops” because of an error or an omission I'd made.

That brings about a few other revelations. Now, I’m trying to decide whether this spate of incomplete, inaccurate, or downright wrong information is a function of a scattered brain or age. My hope is for the former, of course. Perhaps…just perhaps…I can do something about that one. Age just scoots on down the proverbial road bringing inevitable consequences…until it doesn’t. My post of August 15 is a reminder of how abruptly that can run its course.

As an aside, the Writing Class held a moment of silence for Digby Henry, our missing member, and then fondly called up special remembrances of the delightful man. We read a touching poem he wrote entitled “evening earthturn” in his honor. He was extraordinary and will be missed by all.

With this train of thought rolling, let me recall a few of my more recent foibles, some of which have been shared on the blog or with the class or with family…or with no one.

Let’s see…

• There was the to-do about my new washing machine refusing to work the way I wanted it to. Turned out it was working the way I instructed it to. The damned thing should have known I wanted my clothes washed even if I did turn the indicator to Final Spin/Dry. The store’s repair shop is probably still laughing about that one.

• I told some of you about playing skip-the-rope with a gas hose. Instead of walking around the car, I tried to step over the hose. The hose won. That spill sent me back to physical therapy, and I'm still not walking quite as well as before.

• I usually back my auto into the parking space at the apartment complex because it is easier (and safer) to simply pull out whenever I leave. The other day, I pulled out and slammed on the brakes. I’d gone blind! I couldn’t see the road. Then I realized I’d forgotten to take the sun shield down from the windshield. Glad no one was around. My cheeks were rather rosy as I sat in the middle of the main drive to correct the situation. Then I sat there for another few minutes laughing my head off.

• I came home from the supermarket with an armful of groceries and stood in front of my door wondering why it wouldn’t open. Turned out I was pushing the unlock button on my Buick’s remote. This time, I had to drop the groceries and run for the bathroom. Uncontrolled mirth and a full bladder do not a good mix make.

• I don’t know how many times I’ve answered the TV remote or tried to dial a channel on my telephone. In this electronic world with a myriad of little black boxes sitting around, that might not be too unusual for many of us. But sitting for five minutes wondering why the damned thing doesn’t work probably is. My recovery time has slowed.

 

• I dog-sit a little black and white Papillion named Gizmo, and the other day he interrupted me at the computer to let me know he had an urgent need to go to the bathroom. Dogs are not supposed to have facial expressions, but his was clearly one of disgust when I led him to my bathroom. After I sheepishly took him outside, things came out all right. Gizz hasn’t messed in the apartment but once, and that was payback for my leaving him alone for an extended period of time. He tolerates my occasional absence, but that time, I clearly violated our set of unspoken rules. We kissed and made up, anyway.

• Can't forget falling off my shoes. Impossible you say? Only a klutz would do that? Thank you for making my point. I have a pair of moccasin-style black dress shoes with soles shorter and narrower than the shoe, itself. The other day I was walking down the sidewalk and turned my ankle. I'd have fallen off my shoes if there hadn't been a concrete wall there to catch my fall.

I’m sure I can come up with other “Oopsies” but this is embarrassment enough for one blog. If you wish to confess your own awkward moments, please do so, using the Post a Comment section. Everyone have a good week.

 

Next week: I have no idea.

New posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

On the Loss of a Treasured and Gifted Friend: A Quick and Unexpected Post this Week

Digby Henry

We have all faced it before. And as we grow older, the more familiar and unwelcome the experience will be. The loss of a friend or relative or life partner. Please indulge me this week as I grieve the loss of a friend and pay homage to his memory.

Digby Henry was neither a companion of my childhood nor a long-time personal or professional acquaintance. I met him only four years ago when I joined the Bear Canyon Writing Class. My first reaction to him was…he’s a foreigner. My second was…he’s got his name roundabout. Shouldn’t he be Henry Digby? Yes to the first; no to the second. Digby still retained the charming Irish brogue he brought from the Mother Country years ago, although he was a proud naturalized citizen of the United States. But according to him, there was no mistake on his birth certificate. His family name was Henry.

Digby was clearly a poet. Not just because he wrote poetry, but because he had the soul of a poet (even though he wrote prose equally as well). His wit could be sharp and pointed or enigmatic and gentle. He wrote as he spoke, softly and in all shades of the rainbow, heavily laced with humor. Plainspoken at times, yet making you probe for his meaning at others. He loved to experiment with words, with grammar, with sentence structures. I know he was a poet because I had to struggle to understand his writing. I’m so pedestrian that if I comprehend a poem on the first reading, it must not be poetry.

Part of the shock of his loss was its sudden nature. Connie, his wife, said that he was in pain on Monday, but they could determine no cause (and they were both health care professionals). It continued to increase to the point where she took him to the emergency room at Presbyterian Hospital at eleven that night. The doctors diagnosed him with MRSA, the “flesh eating” bacteria (although the exact culprit has not yet been identified), and by one-thirty Tuesday, he had passed. Twenty-four hours…and he was gone.

Gone. Missed. Mourned. Honored. God bless, Digby Henry. I know the Good Lord will appreciate the endless hours of laughter you’ll give Him. That may be why He took you so quickly.

 
If I know Digby, at this point his eyes would twinkle and he would say, "Lighten up. Celebrate me, not mourn me." And so we shall. Even so, deepest sympathy to Connie and the rest of Digby's family.

Next week: I never know what it will be…until it happens.

New posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.