Memories of My Dad

Slad’s Den

My dad (we called him "Slad") had a nice set-up in his tiny den, with a sliding door to give him privacy. His desk was tucked in the back corner of the room, opposite a shiny black manual typewriter beneath the bookcase. The bookcase was full of memorabilia. His Ohio State ceramic mug. A hole-in-one trophy. A rack of pipes from when he used to smoke. My favorite (I have it still) was the one with the pipe bowl carved into a grinning devil head with moustache and pointy beard. A can of pens, mechanical pencils, a special marker in the color of his current car to cover any nicks.

 A section of the bookcase was reserved for Slad’s various harmonicas. The echo harp with its wobbly tremolo. The chromatic harp with the little lever. The various Hohner marine band models in different keys.

Slad’s two-drawer metal file cabinet contained the important family papers. You never knew quite what he would pull out of there—your social security information, birth certificate, college scholarship. And of course all the current and past paperwork from his business enterprise: the Mac-Col golf ball, an all-rubber practice golf ball he co-invented with his colleague Jay Colville, with “less bounce to the ounce.”

 
The upright piano took up a good third of the available space. Mom had painted it in the popular faux antiquing style of the 60s, several shades of beige. I had an Andy Williams book that Slad and I liked to pull from in our music-making sessions, as well as some Broadway scores—Camelot, West Side Story, My Fair Lady. “Summertime” from Porgy and Bess was a reliable pick. And the Beatles songbooks, with some of our favorites like “And I Love Her”, “If I Fell”, Michelle ma belle. Other times, Slad would play to whatever caught his ear on the FM radio: Billy Joel, Ann Murray, or James Taylor.

Subterranean 

I loved the hours I spent with my dad at his basement workbench. As always, he was a skillful and patient teacher, helping me with various projects—a clothespin doll or miniature table. When he concentrated on a particularly delicate procedure, his breathing would audibly shift into a deeper pattern.

Slad kept his nails and nuts and bolts categorized in small glass jars screwed into a holder overhead. He had started with tools from his dad and Mom's dad, and added many of his own. My personal favorite was the electric sander. I got a kick out of rounding the edges of a piece of wood as the circular sandpaper whirred—instant transformation.

Slad’s workbench lives now in the basement of my own home, across from Mom’s sewing table and sewing machine. The other day as I was threading a needle, lost in concentration, I heard the rhythmic sound of deep, slow breathing. It was my own.

The Mackeys at Christmas

Photobook I made for Mom in 2011--Christmas pics across the years. Good times!

Click here to view this photo book larger

From Shutterfly.

mid-week check-in

Well, I pulled out the old Stretching VHS tape and gave it a try over the weekend.  Felt virtuous while doing it, but something about the exercises threw my neck out of alignment.  Hadn't felt that chronic pain in months (since I haven't been doing the kind of intensive writing that was required for Drop the Knife).  See, told ya so.  Well, on the plus side, the sore neck only lasted a day. 

Bill O'Hanlon (author of Do One Thing Different and Thriving Through Crisis) always has creative, solution-focused suggestions.  Here's his list for How to Keep Change Going:

• Remind yourself of the price you pay or will pay for not changing.
• Enlist friends or supporters to help you change, remind you, and keep you on track.
• Link change to positive consequences and activities (for example, I keep myself exercising regularly by listening to favorite audio programs when I walk).
• Don't attend to the feelings and preferences of the moment, but rather attend to the commitment to change or the new action or habit.
• Take the long-term rather than short-term view
• Take risks--remember the old saying:  If you fall on your face, at least you're heading in the right direction.

OK, so I'm going to re-read Bill's book, Do One Thing Different:  Ten Simple Ways to Change Your Life. And unlike the first time through, I'm going to do some of the exercises!

My current creative project: self-care

I've done my autobiographical performance piece, Drop the Knife: A Memoir-in-Song four times now:  U-M campus, Oxford OH, Takoma Park MD, back in Ann Arbor at Washtenaw Community College.  Stacie Chaiken, dramaturg and writing coach, is coming to town the weekend of 6/9, so we're going to do it for her as a house concert.

Anyway,  have been thinking about my next big creative project.  can't say I'm super-excited to face the truth.  Yeah, the truth is my new project is SELF CARE.  damn.  Am out of balance in body-mind-spirit.  Free-floating anxiety, body talking back about various aches and pains.  My old pal Penny says one thing she hates about getting older is how much more time people spend complaining about health problems.  ok, i won't do that--will just spend time writing about what i'm doing to feel better.

yeah, i'm going to blog about my efforts.  the first thing i've put into practice is daily herbal infusions.  no, i'm not hooked up to an IV.  I'm following the advice of Susun Weed, alternating between these four: comfrey leaf, nettles, red clover, and oat straw.  I make 2 one-quart bottles (pour boiling water over a handful of the herb, let it sit overnight, drink the next day).  Susun says you can feel better after 2 weeks.  I'm right at 2 weeks.  am i feeling better?  some of these are supposed to help with adrenal exhaustion, which i'm sure i've got.  no, i don't feel better yet.  but i'm hopeful.  i've got a bunch of great ideas, lots of resources for engaging in self-care.  here's the kicker:  ideas aren't enough.  i need to actually engage in the behaviors.  and that I WILL DO!

beano out.

It was suggested that I create a scrapbook to remind myself what's going well in my life, since I'm tending to be a bit negative these days.  Came across this drawing that just about sums it up--what's going well, I mean.  Oh yeah.

Ann Arbor Moth StorySLAM

Looking forward to Ann Arbor Moth StorySLAM this month at the Circus!

Roadmap

Here's a digital story I created in 2008 at a fab workshop of the Digital Storytelling Center.  Stefani Sese was a wonderful guide.  This is about the first time I publicly broke the rules, back in Springfield, Ohio at Wittenberg University.

Drop the Knife: Oxford OH 4/16/11 - Austin Mackey, Photographer

Photos by Austin Mackey from Drop the Knife: A Memoir-in-Song, 4/16/11

CD is available at Crazy Wisdom Books and at CD Baby

So, I've done the show, "Drop the Knife: A Memoir-in-Song" in Ann Arbor and in my hometown of Oxford OH.  And the CD, recorded at Eric Fithian's Electric Farm Studio in Dexter, MI, is up and ready to go at Crazy Wisdom and CD Baby. It's been great making music with Eric, his talented sister Lori Fithian, and Mr. Melody himself (cuz he has such a great ear), Laz Slomovits!

why i want to do a performance to celebrate turning 60

In October 2000, I celebrated my 50th birthday with a concert in Washington DC, my home of 20 years. I was joined onstage by friends I had sung and played with since the 70s, in church assembly halls, picket lines, rallies on the Capitol steps, union halls, gay bars, living rooms, and coffeehouses. My brother Dave played drums. My partner Pattie, resplendent in a red cummerbund and tails, served as MC and had the crowd guffawing with her stand-up comedy routine on life with Jeanne Mackey. She even dressed up in a homemade dog suit to accompany me on Jane Siberry’s “Everything Reminds Me of My Dog.” The theme of the show was “Living Out Loud,” from a quote by Emile Zola. We made magic that night, performers and audience together, as we had done on numerous occasions over the years. Back in our zealous leftwing politico days, we called it “creating a liberated zone” where, for one evening, we got to taste the world we dreamed of --a world infused with shared meaning, truth, heartful compassion, and inspired silliness, in service to life in all its astounding contradictions.

All of us are riddled with contradictions, of course, but I like to think mine are more extreme than most. On one hand, I am a lifelong student, educating myself about things like power, justice, the human shadow, the relational nature of reality--explored through Marxism, feminism, Taoism, earth-based spirituality. My daily life is informed and guided by what I have learned. Much of the time, I do my best to be the change I want to see in the world, as Gandhi said. AND I spend a ridiculous amount of time and energy worrying about MYSELF, how am I doing, do people like me, am I a bad person, a hopeless failure, and when is somebody or something going to rescue me once and for all from my own pervasive sense of unworthiness?

Over the years, I’ve found that making something and sharing it publicly--a concert, workshop, song, or essay--helps me take the next step on the road to wholeness. There’s that sweet spot--can’t always get there but I know it when I hit it--where my yearning to expose my inner workings, trips to the underworld, discoveries, hopes and fears result in nourishment for others. Self-revelation can be an offering, a gift. Or, guided by a shadowy intention, it can be a dump, a covert demand, a vampirish manipulation. Like Ariadne’s silver thread, the process of creating a performance helps me find my way through the labyrinthine darkness.

So I’m turning 60 in august. I’m creating a show to mark this passage. What makes this different from all the others I’ve done is that it will be almost entirely original material. I’ve been playing music since I was six, but until a couple of years ago, I’d only sung other peoples’ songs. didn’t know how to make my own, couldn’t find the way in, but I‘m learning now. And I’m stirring the cauldron, noticing what bubbles up, what’s real, what’s tasty, what needs to be skimmed off or boiled down to its essence. For sure, it’s not going to go well if the show consists of an bitter bowl of regrets, resentments, and broken dreams. And the flow of inspiration dries up whenever I start to believe that this performance itself can justify my existence, prove my worth once and for all.

So like the chickpea in the poem “Chickpea to Cook” by Rumi, I’m in the stew, need to boil some more, probably get whacked with the ladle a few more times, so that the Friend (Rumi‘s name for God) and my audience will have something good to eat.