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June 30, 2005

The Little One

I watched a documentary last night about endangered animals in Southern Africa. I was saddened and quite shocked by how quickly many animals are becoming extinct.

The look in some of the animal’s eyes, especially the chimps, was upsetting because without the power of speech all an animal can really do to survive is look to us for their future. (Their haunting, quiet, sad, pleading eyes reminds me of the eyes of people in refugee and concentrations camps I have seen in photographs.) All the animals can really do is ‘look’ to us because we are the masters of their destiny.

I understand that we need progress to survive, and that some of the animal’s habitat will be lost to farmlands cleared to feed starving people. But an exceptionally high percentage of endangered animals are captured or killed by poachers for financial rewards.

The documentary reminded me of an experience I had during a high school trip to the Timbavati game reserve.

The Timbavati reserve is located on a vast tract of subtropical savannah bushveld in the Limpopo Province of the Republic of South Africa. The reserve is situated on the unfenced western boundary of the world-famous Kruger National Park, a conservation area of more than 2,000,000 ha (over 5 million acres). The park borders on the Kingdom of Swaziland and abuts the boundaries of Zimbabwe in the north and Mozambique in the east.

It was our last day in the park. Six of us were sitting in the back of an open Land Rover with our geography teacher and the guide riding up front. The Land Rover was traveling toward our camp when the guide suddenly put on his brakes.

“Elephant,” he said softly.

We all strained through the bush to see the elephant he was talking about. The bush was pretty thick and I could not locate the animal.

“Where, where?” we all whispered.

“Hang on,” he said, swinging the wheel of the Land Rover. He moved the vehicle forward and pulled around a large clump of trees.

A collective gasp rose though the air.

Right in front of us was a magnificent old elephant. My heart started pounding. I had never been this close to an elephant before. The adrenaline that surged through my veins was suddenly countered by an awful nauseating revulsion. The bull elephant was prone. Lying on his side. With horror I realized that he was dead.

“Damn!” muttered my geography teacher.

“Poachers,” said the driver. “See how they sawed off his tusks? They used a chainsaw.”

Murmurs of disgust filled the Land Rover.

“Tula,” said the driver, suddenly. (Be quiet.) “Look.”

I followed to where he was pointing and saw another smaller elephant in the thicket standing and watching. Then I saw two others. They looked like they were crying.

“There must be something we can do?” said my geography teacher.

“There is nothing we can do now,” said the guide. “I will radio the warden and let them know about this, but I think the poachers are over the border in Mozambique by now. The rangers will come and get the meat for the villagers. It won't go to waste. The Hyhena's will clean the bones.”

“This is disgusting,” said my teacher.

“You see the problem is that people pay a lot of money for the Ivory,” said the guide. “Those poachers make more money from this one elephant that five years of salary.”

“But what can be done?” asked one of the boys, sitting beside me.

“As long as there is a demand for Ivory and fur and exotic animals, then the extermination will continue,” said the guide, shaking his head sadly. “The greed is creating the demand.”

Suddenly a movement from behind the dead elephant caught my eye. Again adrenaline surged through my body.

"Look!" urged on of the boys, pointing.

It was a baby elephant, so small it had been hidden from our view by the body of the fallen bull.

The baby moved into full view and seemed to be nudging the dead bull.

“The dead one is probably the baby’s grandfather,” said the guide. “See how he is trying to wake him up.”

My heart broke watching the little baby elephant trying to wake the bull. We could hear the little one whimpering as he tried again and again to rouse the bull that was at least ten times its size. The baby was making the saddest sounds I have ever heard. (Those sounds still haunt me when I think about them.)

The baby nudged and nudged the bull. Then he tapped the big elephant on the head trying to get a reaction. The baby tried to push the elephant with his little head. It was heartbreaking. The baby was adamant and simply wouldn’t give up.

Finally two of the other elephants slowly came over and comforted the baby elephant. They touched the baby with their trunks and seemed to be stroking him in sympathy.

The other elephants nudged the little one away from the bull and with their ears and heads hung, they moved slowly and deliberately off into the bush.

The last thing I saw before they disappeared into the undergrowth was the baby elephant turn and gaze over its shoulder with a long, mournful look. I could swear the baby was crying.

And then they were gone.

Posted by trevor at 01:55 PM | Comments (7)

June 29, 2005

The Secret Is Out!

I was asked again today about the ‘secrets’ of my illustration techniques. There IS a secret but PLEASE (as a professional courtesy) don’t share this information with others because everyone will then become an artist and myself and Danny Gregory and Michael Nobbs and Roz and D. Price and Maurice Sendak and many others will be out of work. The secret is ‘pick up a pen and draw what you see’. That’s all…I swear.

I does not matter what pen or pencil you use. Just look at something and let your hand draw what you see. It takes a little practice to get comfortable with the pen and paper, but you’ll be amazed at how your hand actually knows what to do if you just let it. (All of us know how to draw, but somehow we learned to convince ourselves that we can’t.)

Draw simple things to start like a pencil or a big old coffee pot. Later you can draw grandpa’s bicycle. Just sketch an object without thinking about it too much and don’t try to be fancy. (If you hate your drawing just throw it away and do another one. Nobody needs to see or judge it.) I reached into the trash and saved the two little color studies pictured above after having initially thrown them out because I wasn’t happy with them at the time. I’m glad I saved them though because I kinda like ‘em now.

The main illustration above was drawn from a picture I saw in a magazine. I used my old school fountain pen. (Honest. It’s just a leaky, old black Parker Student filled with Sepia ink.)

While I was drawing it I spilled some water I was drinking on the picture. It smudged some of the ink. I used more water on a brush to cover up the smudge and found that the smudges actually gave the picture depth. Who woulda thunk that?

I started art a little late. (I have only been drawing since my midlife crisis.) I have never taken an art class in my life. All I did was make a million enjoyable mistakes that taught me what works and what does not work. Give it a try. The most important thing to remember is to have fun and not take the process too seriously.

(This entry was inspired by my friend Danny Gregory’s latest cartoon strip (describing his painting technique) posted on his blog today at www.dannygregory.com.)

Posted by trevor at 03:48 PM | Comments (6)

June 28, 2005

Early Morning Tea Party For Two

I was in my studio this morning after a wonderful sunrise run around Town Lake here in Austin. I was having a lovely cup of Five Roses tea with a spot of milk and some honey.

The light quality this morning was beautiful and crisp. Out of the window I could see sparkling drops of dew, like liquid diamonds, on the tips of the leaves.

I felt euphoric.

Storm the studio cat joined me for tea.

To tell you the truth this was one of the best times I have had in ages. I think it was so great because it just happened. It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t over-produced. It wasn’t catered and designed and rehearsed and discussed and discussed again and fussed about.

It was just a spontaneous early morning tea party for two.

There were no expectations. And because there were no expectations there were no disappointments.

Posted by trevor at 03:33 PM | Comments (2)

June 27, 2005

The Caring

One of my favorite things to do is sit in front of a blank page and invite my pen to take me where it wants to go.

Today I found myself in Johannesburg, South Africa on the corner of Kloof and Grove roads. I was five years old and enjoying a walk with my African nanny Esther. (Esther was a large, cuddly Sotho woman, who was very generous with her hugs and warmth. I always felt safe with her.)

It was a beautiful afternoon and Esther was holding my hand as we walked. The sky was a deep blue and the Jacaranda trees were draped in a patchwork of purple blossoms.

As we walked along the street and chatted to many of the maids who were sitting on the grassy sidewalks on their lunch breaks. Ester knew almost every person we passed on the street. I loved to listen to the passionate chatter, even though I could not understand what Esther was saying because she was talking in Sotho. I was having a great afternoon nonetheless.

Then everything changed.

A yellow South African police van screeched to a halt beside us. Two police constables jumped out of the van and started chasing a number of maids who got up and tried to run away when the vehicle arrived.

Both policemen had ‘sjamboks’ (whips) and they were hitting the petrified women.

Esther and I watched in horror as the police rounded up five or six women and threw them into the back of the police van.

Esther put her arms around me shielding my eyes from the goings on. Then she started slowly edging away from the van.

I tried to look over my shoulder. “What are they doing?” I asked, bewildered.

“The maids don’t have pass books,” said Esther, turning my face away. “Come, we must go quickly.”

“I don’t have a pass book,” I said.

“You are white,” said Esther. “Us black people need passes to be in this white area.”

“Why?” I asked.

“It’s called apartheid,” said Esther, “Phakisa., phakisa.” (Hurry, hurry)

“But why is there ap…app...whatever it’s called?” I insisted.

“Apartheid. I think it’s because God forgot about us,” she said, making a sign of the cross.

“Hey you!” came a voice from behind us. It was one of the constables. “Stop.”

Esther froze.

“Let’s go,” I urged.

“Haai eh-eh. God help me,” said Esther, grabbing my hand and breaking into a run.

“Ek gaan jou moer as jy nie stil staan nie,” yelled one of the policeman (I’m going to beat the hell out of you if you don’t stop.)

Esther stopped and faced the policeman.

“Waar is jou donderse pas, houtkop?” said the constable, in Afrikaans. (“Where is your pass, wooden-head?”) (A derogatory term.)

“My pas is by die huis,” pleaded Esther. (“My pass is at the house.”) “We can fetch it.”

“Moenie kak praat nie, houtkop. ” said the constable. (“Don’t talk crap, wooden-head.”) “You don’t have a bleddy pass. Jasus, you people make me sick. Lock her up Poena. You people will never learn. You can’t just walk around here without a pass.”

The policeman grabbed me by the collar and lifted my on to my tiptoes. He brought his face to within two inches of mine. His breath smelled bad. I turned away.

“Look at me when I speak to you, donderse Engelsman” he said. (Damned Englishman.)

I did.

“You seem like a nice boy, so just *&%# off home and don’t let me catch you here with her again. Okay?”

But she’s my nanny,” I cried.

“Ag shame,” said the policeman, cuffing me upside the head. He had huge, rough hands with sausage fingers. I remember my ear smarting after he hit me.

“Oww,” I cried.”

“Don’t be such a bladdy baby, man,” said the constable, shoving me away.

“Leave him alone,” yelled Esther. “Trying to pull away from the grips of the second policeman.”

The constable grabbed Esther and half pushed, half threw her into the paddy wagon. I saw her grimace as she scrapped her knee on the threshold.

The door slammed shut trapping Esther inside.

“You can’t leave this boy here by himself,” she shouted through the mesh bars. He is only five years old. His house is far.”

“That’s the problem with these damn English kids, they are spoiled man. He needs a little lesson in survival. What do you say hey Poena?”

“Laat waai,” said Poena, the second constable, getting into the van. (Let her rip.)

They drove off leaving me standing on the sidewalk.

“Go straight home,” yelled Esther out of the back of the van. “And cross the road by the light. Only when it’s green.”

I lived almost seven blocks away and I ran all the way home and told my parents what had happened.

My father had to pay a fine to get Esther out of the Norwood Police Station, which he did and he brought her home. (She had bruises on her arms and her legs from being hit with the sjambok.)

I hugged Esther so hard when she got back. I didn’t want to let her go. I hid my face in the dark and comfortable folds of her dress where I always found safety and solace as a young child. I was hoping that embracing her and showing her my love would help me get rid of the vision of pain and humiliation I saw on her face when the policemen threw her into the van. (It never went away. I can still see it all clearly in my mind today.)

Esther and her family were arrested a number of time after that, but they always returned as if nothing had happened. (I still feel very guilty about not being able to help her and others who were continually humiliated during that disgusting time in South Africa’s history. Many of us hid our heads in the sand at the time and I’m very sorry about that.)

Esther died before I was old enough to understand and acknowledge how grateful I was for her unconditional caring.

Esther, if heaven has a high speed internet service and you happen upon my blog, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for taking care of me and protecting me when I was a vulnerable and scared little boy. I will never forget your kindness.

Posted by trevor at 12:10 PM | Comments (4)

June 26, 2005

A Simple Lesson

I learned a wonderful lesson today from Storm the Studio Cat. If something doesn’t feel good, simply remove yourself from the situation! (Storm was being irritated by the ceiling fan continually blowing the cord from the blind against the window, so he got up and left.)

Posted by trevor at 02:51 PM | Comments (1)

June 24, 2005

Many people I encounter

Many people I encounter say they don’t know how I can work with terminally ill children. Most of them say they would not be able to do it themselves. (I actually bet they could.)

I’ve been asked countless times why I do it. Why I choose to subject myself to such sadness and sorrow? The following e-mails I received this week explain why:

Dear Trevor

I just want to thank your for your kindness and caring that you have shown not only to Tylor but to our whole family. These past five years have been really hard and heart-breaking for us. I truly believe that you are an angel sent from God to help us out in our time of need. The doctors say he won't survive as the cancer is spreading all over, but I am still hanging on to that last thread of hope that there is something or someone who can cure the cancer or even stop the growth of it. Even though the doctors seem to have given up, I haven’t and neither has Tylor.

Thank you for making a difference in Tylor’s life. He is really excited about the book you two are writing together. It puts a smile on his face just talking about it.

Thank you also for sending our family to Los Angeles and making that dream of Tylor’s come true. I am truly glad that he had a chance to meet you. You have touched his life by giving him new things to look forward to. Just hearing your voice makes him smile.

You will never be forgotten.

Denise (Mother of Tylor, 14)

Dear Trevor,

We heard you speak at the Candlelighters Luncheon in Houston a few months ago. Cameron (age 8) wasn't feeling that great that day due to high doses of steroids for his brain tumor, but he remembered the "apple juice in the specimen cup" story that you told and recently tried it on his nurses. It was hilarious... I laughed for days over the whole thing. He was so excited when he heard he finally got to "pee in a cup" that he went straight to find some apple juice. One of the nurses nearly jumped out of her skin when she saw him drink his "specimen" and everyone got a BIG kick out of your trick. Also, just this week he got to "tie his doctor up with silly string". He has been wanting to do that ever since he read your Chemo, Craziness and Comfort book. So we made a special appointment with his regular oncologist and just told him we had a surprise for him. When the doctor walked in the exam room, Cameron threw him a bottle of silly string and said ,"Defend yourself!" They both had a lot of fun spraying each other with the stuff until the bottles were empty. It was a good thing it was the end of the day because the room was a MESS afterwards. Once again, we all laughed and had a great time thanks to you.

My son has had an amazingly positive experience and attitude concerning all his cancer treatment even though he has a wicked brain tumor. We are on our second phase I trial drug. We will see if this one does anything to slow these tumors down, but if not he will likely die in the next few months. All this to say... thank you so much for these 2 ideas that helped us smile, laugh, and have fun in the midst of our trials. I wish I had time to tell you more about Cameron and his wonderful attitude and faith through all this, but I bet you have heard of many amazing children with cancer and can get the idea without me even telling you everything.

Thanks for making a difference in a dying child’s life. My child!

Suzie (Mother of Cameron 8)

To tell you the honest truth, even though I am sharing these letters (which is a wonderful stroke for the old ego I might add), I don’t feel worthy of the accolades these mums have showered on me because I really didn’t do much. I was just my silly old self and I simply opened my heart and ‘connected’ with these kids suffering from cancer. (Who, believe it or not, many people shy away from including some nurses.)

I share these letters because I want people to know that sometimes even the smallest, simplest things can make a huge difference. (Mostly without us even knowing it.) A smile, a hug, a touch can mean a lot. But more than anything else, acknowledging the very existence of people who are suffering, can make all the difference in the world.

Posted by trevor at 10:08 PM | Comments (2)

June 23, 2005

The Napkin Chronicles - Book One

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The Napkin Chronicles - Book One (Continued)

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June 22, 2005

My Studio

I have had many requests for a picture of my studio. I work in two studios simultaneously. One is alongside my house and the other is in the cartoon world inside my head where all the preliminary creativity takes place. (See above.)

Posted by trevor at 05:04 PM | Comments (6)

June 21, 2005

Just A Glimpse

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June 20, 2005

Quiet Comfort

A good friend of mine told me a touching story today. We were chatting about my book “What On Earth Do You Do When Someone Dies?” and she told me that one of her neighbors lost a child last month in a drowning accident. She told me she was afraid to visit the woman because she didn’t know what to say to her.

Apparently her nine year-old daughter didn’t hesitate though and went right across the road to see the devastated mom.

When she got back my friend asked her daughter what she had said to the mourning mother.

“I didn’t say anything,” said the girl. “I just sat on her lap and we cried.”

Posted by trevor at 10:26 PM | Comments (4)

June 19, 2005

On Father's Day

Today I cried for my dad.

It’s Father’s Day and I miss him so very much. I still can’t believe he is gone.

I remember the first time I saw him cry. We were visiting my grandfather’s farm in Vredefort, South Africa.

I was the first to wake up that morning roused by the light of a beautiful African sunrise and the haunting cry of a flock of Hadedah's flying overhead.

My grandfather’s farmhouse was abandoned and almost in ruins when he bought it. He consulted with the local Historical Society and rebuilt the house as it had been in the late 1800’s. It was beautiful. The magnificence of the white house surrounded by sweet-smelling Frangipani trees and honeysuckle bushes made an indelible impression, even on a five-year-old child.

I dressed and left the house before anyone else in the family had awakened. I climbed out of the window for fear of waking everyone up. My puppy Pogo followed right behind me and we both disappeared into the bushes surrounding the house. After thrashing around under the window, we eventually managed to fight our way towards the barn where I loved to play and explore.

Both my father and grandfather came out a little later and helped me to build a fort out of cardboard boxes. Every so often, my mother would tap on the window and wave at us. That was one of the happiest days of my life, until I disturbed a snake in the corner of the barn. I screamed and ran. Pogo was not so lucky. She went for the snake and got bitten on the neck. I remember her yelping and instantly collapsing. Her legs twitching as she lay whimpering against the wall of the barn.

My grandfather killed the snake with a shovel.

I wanted to comfort the dog but my father picked me up and carried me inside while my grandfather tried to help the dog.

My mother called the animal clinic, but it was a Sunday and no one could be reached.

I cried hysterically, desperately wanting to go out and see my dog, but my mother took me upstairs and kept me in the bedroom. Downstairs I could hear my father and grandfather speaking in urgent tones. Then everything was quiet.

The shotgun blast made my mother jump. I broke away from her, and ran down the stairs, meeting my father as he came in from outside. He picked me up and enveloped me with his arms. He had tears in his eyes.

I had never seen my father cry before.

“Trev,” he said, putting his forehead against mine. “We had to shoot Pogo. He didn’t suffer. It was very quick.”

“No,” I said sobbing. “Please don’t let Pogo die dad, he’s my friend.”

“He’s not in pain anymore,” said my father, pulling me into his body. I saw my mother over his shoulder. She was standing in the hall with her hand to her mouth.

“Can I go get her?” I sobbed. “All she needs is some milk.”

“Pogo is dead, Trev,” said my father, softly.

I was too young to understand why they had to shoot the animal. I think that particular day was one of the first times I can remember losing my temper. I leaned back and hit my father’s chest with my balled up fists.

“It’s okay, Trev, It’s okay,” he said calmly and softly as tears streamed down his cheeks.

He pulled me into his chest again.

“I’m so sorry my boy,” he said. “I am so sorry.”

Swimming in tears I saw my father’s loved for me radiating from his hazel eyes. I put my arms around his neck and held him for all I was worth.

I continue to hold him...in my heart.

“Happy father’s day, dad. Tell Pogo I said hi.”

Posted by trevor at 05:34 PM | Comments (6)

June 18, 2005

The Lesson

I was fortunate enough after my press tour in Chicago last week to visit Jamaica for a few days. I thought I’d be able to lie on the beach and leave the real world behind for a few minutes. That didn’t happen. I found a very real world in Jamaica. A world that reminded me of how fortunate I am.

On the very first morning I met a young chap named Ricardo Guy. Ricky was working at the hotel where I was staying. He noticed me sketching in my Moleskin Journal and approached me as I was sitting on the beach. “Wagan?” he said. (Patwa for “What’s going on?”)

I told him I was making notes and working on sketches for an upcoming book.

Ricky told me he was also an artist.

We spent the better part of the morning discussing art. I have met very few people as passionate about painting as Ricky.

He brought some of his work the next day. It was outstanding! I was stunned to see what he has created with limited funds, materials, resources and time. (He works for 18 hours a day at the hotel with very few days off.)

Ricky does not have the best paints. He paints on basic, raw canvas. (Sometimes he paints on old sheets discarded by the hotel.) He does not have a studio. He does not have rows and rows of paintbrushes. In fact, I am surprised he can even paint anything with the battered brushes he uses. Art supplies are so expensive and wages so low on the island that one tube of good quality acrylic paint could easily cost him three to four days’ wages. One tube!

If Ricardo Guy lived in the United States, I have no doubt that he would be snatched up by a top gallery in no time. I cannot imagine the work he would be able to create if he had a studio, the resources and the opportunities that I am blessed with.

As I listened to him speak, I heard echoes of conversation I have had with creative people over the years:

“When I have a studio, then I’ll be able to paint. I can’t get anything done in my spare room.” (I won’t even mention the conditions under which Ricky LIVES, let alone paints.)

“My job gets in the way of my painting. I could do some great stuff if I didn’t have to work.”

“I need better paint and better brushes to do better work.”

I believe Ricky could paint with a twig and mud if that is all he had at his disposal and he would still produce great work.

(Inspired by Ricardo Guy, without using a brush, I painted the picture above with some really old, inexpensive, acrylic paints, a finger (mine), and a twig (from my garden)… on cheap poster board.)

Thank you Mr. Guy for helping me remember that inspiration comes from within and that the medium and the tools are not the source, but merely the conduit, of creativity.

"Ya man. Don't try too hard to be creative. Just enjoy it. Don't try to find the meaning, let the meaning find you. And believe it or not, I don't smoke ganja mon. I work out instead." - Ricardo Guy - Falmouth, Jamaica

Posted by trevor at 05:06 PM | Comments (4)

June 17, 2005

June 17, 2005

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June 16, 2005

June 16, 2005

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June 15, 2005

June 15, 2005

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June 14, 2005

June 14, 2005

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June 13, 2005

June 13, 2005

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June 12, 2005

June 12, 2005

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June 10, 2005

June 10, 2005

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June 09, 2005

Just to let everyone

Just to let everyone know that I will be blogging from out of town next week but will be unable to activate comments until I get back. (Don't let that stop you from commenting though, I will post comments as soon as I get back.) Blogs from tomorrow until I get back next week will reflect my favorite quotes.

Posted by trevor at 07:57 AM | Comments (0)

June 08, 2005

Lest I Forget

Today is the anniversary of my grandfather's death. I've shared the story of this great man before, but he was so amazing that I'd like to recognize him once again:

It happened one summer. I was spending my vacation helping my grandfather fix fences on his farm. Although I was only fifteen, he let me drive the truck through the woods and across the open fields to where the fences needed mending. During the winter, the cattle would use the fence posts to scratch their itching bodies. They would bend and push the fence posts right over. Sometimes the poles would even snap.

It was while mending a broken fence pole that my grandfather had the heart attack. He was in front of me, walking back to the truck after we’d been struggling for ages trying to wrap some barbed wire around a new pole we’d sunk.

The wire had cut and scratched both of us and we were looking forward to getting back to the truck for some Cokes we had in the cooler.

One second his powerful six-foot frame was striding through the spring grass ahead of me and the next second he was lying on the ground gasping for air. I couldn’t believe, how just a few seconds out of sixty-eight years of life, had suddenly aged him ten years. He looked so old and afraid. I’d never seen my grandfather afraid.

I don’t think I’ve ever been more scared in my life. A powerful surge of adrenaline jerked my muscles into motion. I left my grandfather lying in the grass and I ran. First one way, then the other. Then I stopped. I wasn’t sure which way to go. My heart was sending surges of blood into my head. I started crying. I didn’t want him to die. Spending summers with my grandfather got me through life. I didn’t want the days of sitting in the barn and talking about the old times to end. I still wanted to hear stories about the time he and his family escaped from the old country. I could listen to those stories a thousand times. I didn’t want him to go. We still had so many things to talk about.

Then I got angry. Grandfathers weren’t supposed to die when their grandchildren were only fifteeen. I ran back to where he was lying. He was clutching at his chest. His face was drawn back, hideously distorted with pain.

I tried to lift him but he was too heavy. I grabbed his feet and dragged him toward the truck. There was nothing else I could do. I had to save this magnificent man and the only way I was going to do that was by getting him to a doctor.

The adrenaline and fear of losing him must have given me strength I did not normally have, because once we reached the truck, I managed to lift him and half push, half roll him onto the seat.

Even though I was only fifteen, my grandfather had taught me to drive and I drove through the field and bounced across every bump I had so carefully avoided earlier that morning. (While teaching me to drive, he playfully slapped me on the back of the head every time I hit the slightest bump. That wasn’t important anymore.)

I got back to the house and honked the horn madly. As I was about to jump out of the truck and run for help, my grandfather reached up, and with the last bit of strength left in his body, grabbed my shirt collar. He almost choked me as he tried to pull himself up.

"I'm not ready to go" he whispered. I looked at his face. The sweet, kind face that meant so much to me. Those warm eyes that told me stories and listened to my stupid crazy ideas, were slowly fading. The light in them was gone.

Later at the hospital, a terrible pain hugged my soul and squeezed me until I found it hard to breathe. I felt so helpless. If only I could have borrowed some time from the end of my life and given it to him, I would have. I wanted him around for a long time, but my love for my grandfather was no match for the nature of the universe.

That night, while I was asleep, a major heart attack stole the last gasp of life from his very being. The hand of fate reached down and carelessly grabbed his soul, wrenching it painfully from his body. At that moment, his eyes closed forever.

The breeze took my grandfather’s last sigh and carried it through the whispering trees into the winds of time and along with it went my childhood.

Posted by trevor at 10:03 PM | Comments (5)

June 07, 2005

Intuition

I have the most wonderful gift that I often forget to use. It’s called intuition. It comes absolutely free with every birth, but seems to get ignored round about the time most young people lose their ability to see imaginary friends and forget how to draw.

I could have saved myself a lot of trouble, much heartache and more than a few bruises in my life if I actually stopped for a minute and listened to the inner-voice that often tries to guide me.

It happened today. I was filling the little fountain in my garden and the ‘voice’ inside said, “Dude, I think there are a bunch of bees under the rocks in that there fountain. They will probably be really miffed that you are trying to douse them in chlorine-soaked, acid-tainted, slightly-musty, nasty-tasting, Austin, Texas tap water.”

As usual, I ignored the voice because I know better. Bees do not live in fountains.

Wrong!

You should have seen old lady Abbot from next-door laughing her head off as I almost gave myself a whiplash trying to run away from the fountain.

Why do we not listen to the inner-voice of reason? Why do we do things like CONTINUE to sneak through the spooky house that whispers, “Get out,” and has mirrors that drip blood?

My grandfather was exceptionally intuitive and often amazed me with his ability to ‘feel’ things before they happened.

He told me that he believed that every person is naturally intuitive, even if they do not know how to tap into it.

He helped me to understand that intuition isn't something mystical or strange. “It's a sense we all have, probably our first sense, necessary for survival,” he told me. “Designed to help us, intuition is what tells us when something simply doesn't feel right; the gut feeling that reveals something wrong, when for all practical purposes it looks and sound fine.”

My grandfather told me he had a ‘gut feeling’ about staying in Eastern Europe when he was a young man. He told everyone that they needed to move because he had a strange feeling that something bad was going to happen. Most people pooh-poohed him and called him paranoid. He left Europe and moved to South Africa. Six months later many of his extended family (including children) we’re slaughtered in the pogroms.

My grandfather told me one way to trust intuition is to act on it. He likened intuition to a muscle. “The more we use it, the stronger it gets. Be willing to be flexible, change plans, or get a second opinion, when you have that gut feeling,” he said.

“If a thought makes its way into your awareness, listen to it. Respect it. Trust it,” he said. “If is turns out to be a false alarm, all you will have lost is a little time and perhaps a little pride. Which is not such a bad thing.”

Posted by trevor at 11:35 PM | Comments (3)

June 06, 2005

Reaching Out

I saw something that made me feel so sad at the grocery store today.

A lovely little girl with cute pigtails and a wonderful smile was skipping down the isle with her dad. She was chatting away to him and he totally ignored her.

I was walking behind them and watched as the little girl attempted to engage her father. She kept trying to hold his hand and he kept on pushing her hand away. I was close enough to see the miniscule wince and the pain in her eyes each time her comfort-hungry hand was brushed away.

Again and again she tried to connect with her father and again and again he continued to ignore her.

“Dad, look this potato has a face,” she giggled.” “Daddy look, this is a star fruit.”

All the father did was grunt as he shopped.

The girl tried with all her might to reach for him. She hooked her finger through his belt loop, which he quickly un-attached by changing the basket to his other hand and putting it between him and his daughter.

I felt so bad for this delightful and loving child child who just wanted to connect with her dad on a Sunday afternoon.

At the checkout counter I noticed them through the door as they got into a car and drove off. From where I stood I could see her sad little face as she looked out of the window.

My heart goes out to her. If I knew how to take some of the love and comfort I had as a kid and give it to her, I surely would. She is in my prayers.

Just by looking at that sweet, loving child, I have no doubt that if the day ever came where her father was old and frail and reaching out from his death-bed, that she would take his hand and hold it with all her heart.

Posted by trevor at 09:36 AM | Comments (6)

June 03, 2005

Powerhouse Patti

I was in New York City a couple of weeks ago and I was moved beyond belief. Not by the immense, overwhelming buildings. Not by the energy of this magnetic city. Not by the incredible cultural mix of people. Not by the museum of modern art. Not by the Statue of Liberty. No, I was moved by one incredible individual and her family. I am talking about Patti Gregory. I had the privilege of enjoying tea and dinner with Patti and her husband (the author and illustrator) Danny Gregory on Sunday night. I cannot remember when last I enjoyed a dinner so much. It’s really amazing what can happen when you put a bunch of like-minded people together.

They say that behind every successful man is a great woman. The successful man is Danny Gregory, an incredible artist and writer. (See dannygregory.com). Danny is also the Executive Creative Director of one of the hottest new advertising agencies in New York, an incredible loving dad and one heck of a great husband. Danny is all that and more, but behind him is Powerhouse Patti. Patti rocks, despite having had a devastating setback when she became a paraplegic from being run over by a train after falling from a subway platform. To tell you the truth, if that had happened to me, I would have curled up in a ball and spent the rest of my life in misery. Not Patti. She refuses to let her accident be her identity. She is not Patti The Paraplegic. She is Patti Gregory who happened to have an accident, now pass the tea please.

Patti is on of the most positive people I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. She points her wheelchair at the world and plows ahead. If you don’t get your arse out of the way of this determined woman, you are toast.

Patti has a great hobby. She collects people and shares them generously with her friends. I am privileged to be part of the Patti Gregory Collection of friends. (I hope she never auctions me off on E-Bay.)

Thank you Patti for being such an inspiration!

Shameless Buddy Plug: You can read more about Danny and Patti in Danny’s powerful book “Everyday Matters.” (Available where all good books are sold.)

Posted by trevor at 03:18 PM | Comments (5)

June 02, 2005

Where Are They Now? #5

Continuing my interviews with the fairytale characters we know and love...

LITTLE JACK HORNER

Little Jack Horner is not little. He is over six feet tall. He has a shock of white hair and a matching beard that makes him look like Ernest Hemingway's twin brother.

It is almost impossible to get an interview with Jack Horner because he is somewhat of a recluse who refuses to speak to the media. He lives in a tiny country on a remote island in the South Pacific with a total population of seven.

With only a handful of citizens in the entire nation, Mr. Horner seems to have found the solace and security he desperately longed for as a youngster who spent most of his childhood sitting in a corner.

Jack Horner is the poet laureate of his country. He is also the Postmaster General, the Grand Marshal of the annual Coconut Parade and the nation's Supreme Court Chief Justice.

Mr. Horner, I'm curious as to why you agreed to an interview? This is the first time you have talked to a journalist in many years.

JH: Poetic justice.

What do you mean?

JH: Your book "Where Are They Now?" It's allowing people to finally know the truth.

How so?

JH: I believe my peers and I have been unfairly slotted into a category that has labeled us for the rest of time. Somewhat like the Bee Gees will forever be blamed for disco, we, as in the folk who are forever known as 'fairy tale' characters, find it hard to be taken seriously. It's like Winnie the Pooh becoming a lawyer. No matter how hard he studies or how well he does at Harvard, Winnie the Pooh is not going to get the big cases. He'll be an ambulance chaser or something.

You said my book will help people finally know the truth. What exactly do you mean?

JH: Yes, the truth. Like the story of the three little pigs. Some reports say that two of them died. That's utter nonsense. They have a successful company and are living off the fat of the land.

Yes, I interviewed them recently.

JH: Remember Humpty Dumpty? Well, they did manage to put him together again. Unfortunately!

What do you mean?

JH: He's in hiding, the fat little creep! They patched him up. He's back in business.

I'm lost.

JH: He's a Mexican mob man. Humpty Dumpty Don. Head of the Huevos Rancheros family.

A mobster!

JH: He's a killer. That fat bastard had Harry Hollandaise whacked. Got him in the bath. Power cable in the water. It's an old mob trick. Harry didn't stand a chance. He was poached before he knew it. Shocking! What do you think happened to 'Big' Eggs Benedict?

'Big' Eggs Benedict?

JH: Yes.

I don't know?

JH: He got fried. They locked him in a tanning bed for an entire day. Sunny side up. Not a pretty sight. He was covered in SPF 50 but it didn't help. It's like facing a tank with a bulletproof vest.

Wow!

JH: And what about Florentine, Humpty's very own brother-in-law.

What happened to him?

JH: He was whacked, cracked and folded into a wedding cake. Nobody knew it. Poor fool was consumed by his own family at his daughter's wedding. They were oblivious. Here they are dancing to a really bad New Jersey wedding band and stuffing cake in each other's mouths. It's disgusting!

Anyone else?

JH: Yeah. Egg Foo Yong. Humpty's Chinese mob counterpart.

Scrambled?

JH: No. Think egg-drop soup from forty stories up. Let me tell you, Jackson Pollock would have been proud. If I ever see Mr. Dumpty, that little creep, I'll kick his free-range butt from here to the nearest Kentucky Fried Chicken.

So, I believe you spend your time here on the island writing poetry.

JH: That is correct.

Now, I read somewhere that you consider yourself a loner.

JH: That is correct.

Why is that?

JH: Because I spent most of my childhood in a corner and I enjoyed it.

There was a rhyme that went something like "little Jack Horner sat in a corner eating a Christmas pie...

JH: …he put in his thumb and pulled out a plumb and said "What a good boy am I?" The whole thing is total rubbish because firstly I'm not little; actually I was always pretty big for my age and secondly, it wasn't Christmas pie. It was a kugel. I'm Jewish.

You were made to sit in a corner…

JH: No, no no. That is not correct. All the talk about me being abused as a child and finally running away to this island is nonsense I CHOSE to sit in a corner. I had 15 siblings and we lived in a tiny house. I was the last born and hiding in a corner was the only place I could find any peace and quiet.

Why did you come to this island then? Was it to get away from people hounding you?

JH: Not at all. Do you see that island girl over there sitting on the beach? The one beckoning me? The stunningly gorgeous girl with the silky skin and shiny black hair…

I sure do.

JH: That's why I live on this island.

Well, I guess that concludes this interview. Uh, when does the ferry leave from this island?

JH: Next Tuesday.

Really.

JH: Uh, huh. I suggest you pull up a hammock and rest for a while.

Posted by trevor at 06:48 PM | Comments (1)

June 01, 2005

The Rose

Posted by trevor at 01:53 PM | Comments (4)