Short item

A couple of years ago, a friend sent this link (here) to an artsy little flick on an old man living in the California mountains. He was ninety-three; still making violin bows, with gout-knobbled fingers; and chopping wood for his stove. The cabin itself, which he and his adoptive son had built many decades before, was itself a craftsmanlike beauty. The man, Jack English, was the surviving half of one of those immortal love stories, his wife’s ashes still with him, waiting to be mixed with his own. In the film, he explains that he doesn’t want to be in any “convalescent home.” He was lonely, but people did come to visit, and he liked people, though not in swarms. Well, all that’s in the film, I think; perhaps I should have checked, before writing this.

Gentle reader may agree that the man was memorable, however. His voice was unforgettable, too. Suddenly remembered his name today, and Google-searched my way to his obituary. He made it to ninety-six; died last March.

A long day, today. Once again, the Sikorsky helicopter did not arrive, to lift the High Doganate out of this apartment building, and set it down in a remote location. Just as well, I suppose, because I still haven’t figured how to unbolt it from the structure it is in. And you don’t want to keep helicopter pilots waiting: they charge a fortune. Maybe I’ll get that together next week.

The voice, the face: time to watch it again. I can remember old men like that, from childhood. Not so many since. But some day there’ll be more.