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The Perks of Being an Artist

Tag Archives: Vietnam

Mondays With Muddy

26 Monday Sep 2016

Posted by emilypageart in karma, MOndays with Muddy, Uncategorized, writing

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Beatrice Allen Page, demons, journal, Landscape with Figures, Mondays with Muddy, unpublished manuscript, Vietnam, writing

As a reminder, every Monday, I post an excerpt Landscape with Figures, an unpublished manuscript by my grandmother, Beatrice Allen Page, who I called Muddy. We’re nearing the end of it with only another 35 pages to go. I do have other unpublished works of hers (along with her published works), but none in the style of a journal, so not as easy to break up for weekly posts, so I’m still figuring out if and how to continue with our Mondays With Muddy. I’ll keep you posted, of course. Anyway, here is the next excerpt from the current manuscript:

‘Over at the hairdresser’s I picked up one of the expensive, sophisticated women’s magazines and while sitting under the dryer, I read my horoscope for the month. The prevalence of horoscopes in magazines is another indication of the widespread interest today in the occult and the esoteric, in everything from witchcraft to I Ching.

Why are so many people ‘looking for a sign?’ Are they unwilling to take responsibility for their own lives and decisions? Are they caught in a hopeless bewilderment that makes them grasp at any straw? I suspect most of them would indignantly reject such a suggestion. They probably feel they are seeking not escape from life but greater intensity of life. Instead, however, of searching out the mysteries of existence with patience, humility and awe in the way of previous generations, so many people today see to be looking for a quick and easy road to heaven. Unfortunately a lot of the shortcuts apparently lead to hell.

To dabble in the occult has always been recognized as dangerous. You may stir up demons that get out of hand and take over control. I begin to sound like Mr. Hollis despite the fact the demons to which I’m referring are born and lurk in the dark hollows of the human mind. (As a matter of fact, if I truly believed in a creative, just and loving God, instead of being one of those who are ‘lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot,’ I think the Lucifer myth would offer as plausible an explanation as any other I’ve ever heard for the presence of evil in the world.)

But even if I can’t quite accept Mr. Hollis’s belief in demon-possession, I find it is not at all hard for me to believe that hatred is a force that can erupt in some event that has no apparent relationship to the hater. Sometimes when I read about some cold-blooded murder or ghastly accident, the uneasy thought creeps into my mind that I myself may have had something to do with that bloodshed even though it took place thousands of miles away and is utterly abhorrent to me. It is as if some of the rancor, the meanness, the callousness in my own heart and mind seeped through the body of humankind like a poison in the blood and broken out eventually in violence. Not because my personal thoughts and feelings are working some kind of sorcery akin to casting the evil eye on someone, but because we are all more closely related than we realize. I’m not talking about what people mean by ‘collective guilt’ when they blame society for a crime that has been committed by an individual. I mean something much less obvious, something hidden like a malignant cell that proliferates and spreads to another part of the body before it becomes manifest.

If this were true –  and apparently I have almost persuaded myself that it is – then there is a positive as well as a negative side to it: my good will as well as my malice, my joy as well as my despair, could have an influence on some person or some event either near at hand or far away.

I remember now what B. said to me once when her son was in Vietnam: ‘I pray that Bill’s life will be saved. I can’t conceive of a God who would save one boy’s life because he had a mother praying for him  but would let another boy be killed because he didn’t happen to have anyone pray for him. But I do feel an obligation to keep my spirits up as much as possible, not only for Bill’s sake but for all the other boys involved.’ She groped around for words, trying to explain what she meant. ‘I have a conviction that minds touch one another, that moods may set up waves or vibrations that travel great distances in space and time and affect the thoughts and moods of others.’ She smiled a little wryly, I recall. ‘Call it superstition if you like. I’ve no doubt the psychiatrists have an even less flattering word for it.’ And then catching the look on my face, she added, ‘I suppose you, too, think it’s a crazy notion.’

When I assured her that I found some of the evidence for ESP very convincing, she shook her head and said: ‘I mean something more than that. It’s as if all the people in the world were roped together by an invisible rope, climbing a mountain. Each one has to exert all possible effort not to slip, not just for his own sake but because if he loses his footing, it’s going to pull down the next man who’s roped to him, and then the combined weight of the two falling will exert even more of a pull on those on either side of them, and so on. Of course, people will slip from time to time, people who are in more dangerous spots or who may have less strength. That’s all the more reason for those with a firmer footing or more strength to hold tight and keep climbing.’

Her analogy doesn’t answer the age-old question as to why some of us should have ‘a firmer footing,’ i.e., the opportunity to lead lives of freedom and security while others never have a chance to know anything but war and horror, of deprivation and grief. >That question is as unanswerable as ‘Why is that dog for?’

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Extended Mondays With Muddy…Sort Of

11 Monday Jul 2016

Posted by emilypageart in death, family, gratitude, kindness, Uncategorized

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Beatrice Page, Mondays with Muddy, Nick Page, veteran, Vietnam, Vietnam War, welcome home

Every year on the anniversary of my dad returning home from serving in the Vietnam war, my grandmother would call him to welcome him home. His best friend, who had grown up with my dad, was killed in the war, so I think my grandmother, Muddy, felt keenly aware of just how grateful she should be that her son survived. It was such a wonderful way to tell my dad every year how much she loved him and to acknowledge how blessed and lucky they were to have their family still intact. When Muddy passed away, I took over calling my dad every year on that anniversary to say how grateful I was that he had made it home those many years ago.

This is the first anniversary that my dad is no longer here to welcome home. I was not expecting it to upset me so badly, but I think knowing today was coming was part of why I’ve had so many nightmares over the last week. So today, I’ve been examining why it’s affecting me so hard, and I’ve concluded that there are two primary reasons.

1) It was something sweet and silly and loving and unique to my family; a good memory and a reminder of just how lucky we are; a reason to be grateful.

2) It was a way for me to still feel a connection to my grandmother, who I had loved dearly. I got to take up her mantle to make sure her son knew how loved he was by his mother and by the rest of his family.

And so part of what I’m grieving for today is the loss of of something special my dad and I shared (and of which I have real, concrete memories), but part is also that now I have one less way that I’m tethered to my grandmother. It’s like losing another piece of her, which compounds the sadness I feel about not being able to welcome my dad home today.

If, by chance, there is a heaven up there, I hope that Muddy takes a moment to welcome her son home today, and I hope they both know how much I miss them and how grateful I am to have had them in my life.

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Welcome Home, Dad

11 Saturday Jul 2015

Posted by emilypageart in dementia, family, gratitude

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anniversary traditions, Vietnam

Today is the anniversary of the day my dad came back from Vietnam. Every year on this anniversary, my grandmother called my dad to welcome him home. When she died, I took the tradition over. If I say it to him now, it wouldn’t mean anything anymore, but I still feel compelled to keep the tradition going. So, I’m saying it on here instead. Welcome home, Poppa, welcome home.

Dad playing sax in Vietman

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Fatigues

28 Thursday May 2015

Posted by emilypageart in art, dementia, Fractured Memories, mental health

≈ 6 Comments

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Alzheimer's, art, artist, father, FLD, frontal lobe dementia, frontotemporal dementia, FTD, paint, painter, painting, PTSD, Vietnam, Vietnam War

So, um, yeah. I kind of forgot to post a painting about my dad last Thursday, and forgot to post Monday’s with Muddy this week. Blame it on Sasquatch. He’s been up to no good and wreaking havoc in my life. Damn him. Trying to get back into the swing of things now.

This week’s painting from the Fractured Memories series and my dad’s identity before the dementia has to do with Vietnam. He served in Military Intelligence (a term he deemed to be an oxymoron) in Vietnam in the late 60’s, becoming a first lieutenant. When the dementia care facility was interviewing our family prior to him moving in, we told them that, which they took to mean that he was the first lieutenant in Vietnam, and put that in all of the bio stuff they post in newsletters and such. Snicker. Upon his return from Vietnam, he joined the protest movement, growing out his hair and beard, wearing his fatigues and combat boots, lying down in the street to block traffic, and generally becoming a dirty, dirty hippy. He even went to seminary. He was a man of conscience. His best friend was actually killed in Vietnam, which was something I think my dad never really got over.

Growing up, I tried asking questions about the time he served in the army, but he was fairly reticent. It wasn’t until the dementia started that he began talking to me about his experiences. He got shot at in helicopters on recon missions and suffered from PTSD when he returned to the States. He told me that a car would backfire outside his apartment in Chicago and he’d dive under the bed. But he also had funny stories about dating Vietnamese women, and about the pet monkey he had (he couldn’t remember the monkey’s name, but thought it might have been Monkey Mouse) that hated women and would hurl feces at the dates he brought home. The monkey eventually disappeared and was most likely cooked up and served by a nearby restaurant.

I still have one of his shirts from his time in Vietnam, and it’s a source of comfort for me. I’m proud that my dad had the courage to serve, and that he also had the courage when he came back to stand up and say that what was happening over there wasn’t right. I love that he didn’t lose his humanity, and did therapy in seminary that no doubt helped him deal with his PTSD and the loss of his best friend. I love that he remained loyal to that friend’s family, even when that had to be painful at times. I love that, later, as an alcohol and drug abuse counselor in CA, he no doubt helped other vets who hadn’t had the help he’d had early on. I love that he didn’t get brainwashed into thinking that the military was only ever right, nor that it was only ever wrong.

With all of that in mind, here is the next painting in the Fractured Memories series:

"Fatigues" 6"x6" oil on canvas

“Fatigues” 6″x6″ oil on canvas

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The Perks of Being a Train Buff

02 Tuesday Dec 2014

Posted by emilypageart in blog, humor, writing

≈ 6 Comments

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dad, MDiv, Nick Page, Red Hot Smoothies, train, train enthusiast, trains, Vietnam

I mentioned a few posts ago that my dad has dementia. Yeah, we should really talk about that, shouldn’t we? For this post, I just want to help you get to know him. We’ll talk more about dementia later. Let me start by saying that my dad was The. Best. Dad. Ever. No, really. You can tell me all the stories you want about how awesome your dad is, but you will never convince me that yours is even close to as great as mine. I mean it. Quit talking all that craziness. Don’t mess with me. I’ll take you down. My dad is so awesome, that when he was diagnosed with frontotemporal dementia at the age of 65, he started saying to people who asked how he was doing, “Not bad for a demented guy.” Beat that. And when we moved him into a dementia care facility, he climbed the six foot iron fence that enclosed the backyard walkway just to see if he could. How awesome is that? Okay, admittedly, it wasn’t awesome at the time, but several years later and now that he can’t do it anymore, it’s freakin’ hilarious! He also learned the code on the door keypad several times and got out. He even figured out a code that the staff didn’t know worked. Granted, he couldn’t figure out how to put on matching shoes, but he turned into a damn code breaker! We should have sent him back into the military. World peace would have resulted. Sorry about not doing that, y’all. 20/20 hindsight and all that crap.

My dad grew up mostly in Cleveland and Cape Cod, and went to Wake Forest University where he was a political science major (almost as practical as majoring in art). Then he got drafted and went to Vietnam where he became a 1st lieutenant (the dementia care facility, OLOP, does a monthly newsletter and wrote in it that Dad was THE first lieutenant) in military intelligence (a term he always said was an oxymoron). When he got back, he became a stockbroker, then decided to move to Chicago and get his MDiv, where he met my mom. They decided to get married so that they wouldn’t ever have to break up the cats they’d gotten. Thoughtful, no? My mom wore a dark red dress that she’d made, and my dad wore a searsucker jacket, paisley shirt, striped tie, and bell bottoms. Mom talked him out of his combat boots for the special occasion.

Being dirty dirty hippies, they decided to move to Berkeley, where they had me and where I quickly wrapped him around my little finger. I can’t blame him, my little finger was exceptionally cute. I looked like a little Inuit baby. When I came out, I do have to wonder if my dad wasn’t a bit concerned that I was so much darker than him or my mom, but eventually as I grew up I started to look exactly like him – to the point that I dressed as him for Halloween one year. In CA, my dad worked in several alcohol and drug abuse programs while my mom got her MDiv. When I was 6, they got fed up with the earthquakes, droughts, and lack of seasons and lightning bugs (a life without lightning bugs is a life not worth living), and they moved to Charlottesville, VA and lived in and renovated a home that had been a sorority house. It was right in the delightful fraternity row part of town, which, when they visited was quiet and charming because it was in the middle of summer and the students were gone. Then the students came back, and as we drove through our neighborhood, little six-year-old me observed in awe, “The girls are having a party! The boys are having a party! Everyone’s having a party!” Yep, nothing gets past Captain Obvious over here.

At 40, my dad decided he wanted to go back to what he truly loved, which was jazz. So he started playing the sax and clarinet again, and began messing around with other musician friends, calling themselves The Windbreakers. At the end of a set, they’d turn away from the audience, bend over, and honk their horns. Classy. Eventually he started a band called The Red Hot Smoothies, and played gigs for 20 something years.

At about the time that I became interested in the fraternity boys walking through the neighborhood, we moved out to the GFW (God Forsaken Wilderness). Unknowingly, we purchased ancestral land. The main reason for purchasing it was that my dad was a train fanatic. That really doesn’t accurately describe his obsession, though. When I was little, we used to go around the country in a VW camper chasing and photographing trains and camping near the tracks. We had scanners in every room of the house so we’d know when a train was coming and could run to the porch to wave. The wall in their bedroom was built at an angle so that their bed faced out toward the tracks, and there was a light switch by the headboard that my dad (an insomniac) could turn on at night to light up the tracks when a train came through. They named the 23 acres, High Green, because that’s the term for the signal the engineers get that it’s safe to proceed. Of course, the authorities thought it was code for “the new people must be growing marijuana” and would send helicopters circling overhead to check our woods. Their architect’s last name was Train, and their house bore a striking resemblance to a train station. There were model trains and train whistles displayed in the built-in shelves. Every night after dinner, we’d walk the train tracks, practicing our balancing skills (I would have been great as a gymnast on the balance beam – feel free to call me Nadia) and talking about our days. We put coins on the track for the trains to flatten as they passed and then we’d have to hunt them down. He had records and made recordings of just train noises. Are you getting the picture? Train buff, nut, loon. You got it.

He also had a radio show called “Nick @ Nine: Monday morning jazz to make you feel good.” A consummate showman and the life of a party, his show was pretty popular. I got to guest host several times and had a blast.

All of that is great, but what set him apart from the rest of the world were two things: 1) he was HILARIOUS. He loved a dirty joke. He reveled in the absurd. Silliness was a thing of beauty. He could have been a Muppet, and 2) he made you feel special. When he was talking with you about anything even vaguely serious, he was all ears. Insightful, caring, helpful, you just knew that what you had to say was important, whether you were a peer or a kid. There aren’t a lot of people in the world who are good listeners. But my dad knew that there was something inside just about everybody worthy of love, and he looked for it and helped you see it in yourself. Such a gift.

Okay, that’s it for today. I’ll leave you with a video of the two of us when I was little by the train tracks:

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Emily Page

Emily Page

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