Chapter Six: Resurrection

By the early 1990s, Ann and Michael McCrickard bought the house that Jack originally inherited. Coincidentally, they also decided to purchase the old post office building when it came up for sale. They had no idea at the time that both properties had belonged to the same family. Mary Adams was in the process of negotiating with the McCrickards when she passed away in 2000. The property then passed to Mary’s eldest son, Tommy Mayo. Tommy made the final negotiations on the sale of the building by 2001.

Ann recalled, “When we first bought the building we found old books, photos, a few artifacts from the drugstore, tons of glass bottles, and fifty years of grime on the second floor. When we saw Jack’s work, we knew we wanted to preserve it. Then as Michael’s health regressed everything else became minor blips on my radar.” Ann took many of Jack’s sketchbooks home with her. She left the rest in a stack on top of the wooden box filled with ledgers and papers. The McCrickards converted their newly purchased building into an antique shop. Michael passed away on September 4, 2010.

According to Mary Ann, “When we were cleaning out the upstairs of the old post office, before selling it to Ann and Michael, it was the middle of summer. We were all sweating like pigs. There was only one light to see by in the whole upstairs. As we were cleaning out, shoveling stuff around, we saw mostly papers and bottles and stuff. There were some paintings of Jack’s, mostly like the later style. And there were those sketchbooks and notebooks. But they were all just ruined by mold and mildew, and they were falling apart. A few of those paintings were taken out of the post office when it was being cleaned out. They were stored in Tommy’s house until his death.”

Tommy passed away in February of 2011. Mary Ann was left in charge of cleaning out his house. At the funeral, Mary Ann gave Deanna some photographs and papers that belonged to her side of the family. She also gave Deanna several of Jack’s paintings, including a couple of landscapes, a self-portrait and a portrait of his half-sister, Evelyn. Unfortunately, Deanna said that she came down with a horrible case of shingles shortly after the funeral. She tried to store the paintings in her garage, but they were in such bad shape. Deanna confessed she could not deal with keeping the paintings any longer, so she threw them away.

That is where the story might have ended. Jack’s artwork had all but vanished except for a few pieces kept by Mary Ann, the work Penelope found in her uncle’s apartment and the sketchbooks that Ann salvaged from the wreckage on the second floor of her newly purchased building.

Anything I say right now

Will not be enough

After our conversation in the garden, Penelope let me pick out two of Jack’s silk ties that she had saved. They were all lined up across a couple of pants hangers. The ties were gorgeous, wide tongues of overlapping color and pattern.  It was hard to choose which ones I liked the most. I finally found two with incredible earth tones and subtle patterning. Penelope made me promise to wear them when the next occasion arose.

On my last morning in Santa Fe, I drove down to Kinko’s to scan and make photocopies of Jack’s documents and letters. I also photographed all the paintings Penelope had saved from Jack’s apartment and made notes about his military ribbons, insignia and other personal items. I returned the leather toiletry bag to Penelope’s house and headed out of town.

I left Santa Fe around noon and returned the car to the Albuquerque airport a few hours later. A driver at the car rental company was nice enough to give me a lift downtown to the bus station. A few hours later, I caught the next bus heading home.

Toward Kansas

Setting sun at our backs

Two senior ladies take turns

Talking on their cell phones

And complaining about Denver

Strip malls and warehouses

As far as could be seen

Scattered and lit by the angelic

Golden final light

We beat back the storms

 The Morning Before St. Louis

Now on Central time

The dawn is breaking in front of us

Slightly left of the bus- a pink bulge

Festering up over the horizon

The winking lights from cell phone towers

Are the twinkling stars of our digital revolution

A microwave explosion

Beams of energy passing through our bodies

Inflaming our brain cells

The hot pimple sun erupts above

The skin of this planet

Framed by Topeka smoke stacks

 East of the Mississippi River

Watching cars pass by

With wives and children reading Kindles

Or playing video games or listening to iPods

My story is the conversation of these strangers

My video is the endless field passing beside me

My music is the hum of the bus

The rhythm of on again, off again

The hydraulics hissing through city streets

All attuned to the vibrational source

All moving to the frequency of om

I chew gum to the pulse of om

I shift in my seat to the tone of om

I sleep to the sound of om

I wake to the heat of om

 At the Station in Nashville

Seems fitting to end my account here

Sitting on a warm toilet seat in the Nashville station

Having waited in line for a stall

Sitting along side three others

Doing the same thing I am doing

There are knocks on the doors from urgent others

The cringing sounds of plops and flushes

The noxious fumes of countless other sitters

The reduction of hygiene to a leaking faucet

A puddle forming on the laminate counter

The squirming film on every surface

The Dyson hand dryer that is still not as good as paper

The Duchampian fountains stained yellow

I wipe- I wash- I line up

I board the ragged landship

Heading south into thick hot oblivion

I felt anxious to get back home to start organizing all my thoughts. The bus ride gave me a chance to think about all that I had experienced, and everything I had learned about Jack. For me, the most difficult part of the journey had just begun.

In the distance the clouds are thickening

Their shoulders grow heavy with buckets of water

They are slowly marching from the river

By morning there will come a long shower

And the Resurrection ferns will uncurl their fists