A Man For All Reasons

George Koehler wrote "When a person dies, it's as if a library burns down - all singular experiences, anchored in unique cells, are extinguished."

Bob Nash was three or more libraries in one decent-sized, soft-voiced, wildly-bearded and life-loving man. In his own vernacular, he became "extinct" last Sunday, February the 10th, just eight days shy of his 90th birthday. To the very last, he was unafraid of death, and met with dignity and a soft laugh, or should I say laughs? For that was the truth. The night before he died, he was visited by Linda, Camille and Grace, three exquisitely beautiful women, who loved him up and nurtured him, brushed his hair, whispered soft words to him and made him laugh. And he made them laugh. Upon leaving, he was asked what he wanted. His reply? "Well, I could use two more blondes."

Bob Nash, artist, writer, thinker, a renaissance man before there was the Renaissance, I used to tease him, and he would laugh, a low soft chuckle that emerged from behind his bushy beard. Despite macular degeneration that only allowed him a blurry view of the world, he could see so much. He recognized pretty women (strange how that works), and he would also recognize people from their general shapes and voices. But he could see - really see. He saw behind the words he heard, and he saw the images from the books he was read to.

Bob was an artist in the very truest sense of the word. He was also a lover, and he combined the two in his tiny linear drawings and his ceramics and his children's stories. Almost every funky plate, container, bowl, vase or bizarre ceramic creation had the word Love inscribed on it. And his drawings were all about love. Who on earth would create thirty-two thousand tiny drawings and paintings without at least selling a few to test the waters of the art market? Only someone who had the integrity of being an artist, and who truly loved creating. There is a special Zen feel to Bob's small drawings - each one is a haiku to movement and energy, and in all of those thirty-two thousand (the number still boggles my mind), not one is the same.

There was not a commercial bone in Bob's body, until much later in his life, when he wanted to sell his paintings so that he could travel. His dreams were to see China, India, St. Petersburg, visit Italy (mostly because of the pretty girls), France (more pretty girls), Africa, and he even once considered what space travel would do to his elderly body. He wanted to make large sums of money so that he could share it with people, and make the world a better place.

The shelves in Bob's little house, that he hand built here so many years ago, are laden with books on How To Learn Chinese, Quantum Mechanics, Physics, Relative Theory, books of poetry, autobiographies, and of course, history. Two days before he died, Steve Weintz, was visiting with Bob, and asked if he would like to be read to. "Sure," said Bob. "What would you like me to read?" asks Steve. "Oh, there's a thick blue book next door, why don't you bring that in." The only thick blue book next door was a highly technical tome on Relativistic Quantum Mechanics and Field Theory, so Steve brought it in and started to read it. The first few sentences were fine, but then it got into some highly sophisticated equations. Bob still had a grasp of what some of it meant. How in hell does anyone know this stuff to start with, especially when he didn't go to University or technical school, but simply read about it in books? And how in hell does a close to ninety year old understand any of it, or let alone wish to hear it being read aloud to him? But that was Bob Nash, an enigma, even to himself, I believe.

There are theories that say spirits remain in a place for several days after the body has passed from its purpose of being a shelter. Bob Nash's spirit, I believe, will stay not only in the little house he inhabited for 25 years, but also in the depths of the souls who met him, and knew him. What a stunning and exalted gift to give to the world!

So, a toast to the man who held several libraries worth of stories, adventures, pictures and visions in his repository - Have a fun and wild ride, Bob - you left us wanting more, and you left us knowing we are better off spiritually for knowing you.

A Quick Dip

I serve on the Big Sur Volunteer Fire Brigade. I have for the last umpteen years (14 or 15, I am not sure), and it has been a rather remarkable experience all in all. I am still amazed at the variety of calls we receive. Some are mundane, some are truly quirky, others horrifying and moving. And then some, well, you just look back at and smile.

One day last summer, I was at work, when I received a page-out for a medical emergency/rescue in the Gorge. I changed into my rescue yellows and heavy fire walker boots and left for the Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park. The Gorge is a large pool and former waterfall (a lot of the actual waterfall was taken out in a large storm and subsequent rush of water a few years ago) about a half-mile hike over and around boulders and across the Big Sur river from the back of the campgrounds in the park.

The update told of a man in his thirties who had a major head injury, located above the Gorge. I ran up the trail, helmet on my head, medical bag in hand, and wondering exactly what I might be faced with. A few days prior, there had been a fatality at the same location — a young military man had died diving into shallow water.

I reached the Gorge pool—it's about 80' long and 40' wide, tapering at the end and a decent current to swim against. I could see a small cluster of people on the large rocks at the end of the pool. There were, as usual, lots of people enjoying the cool water and warm sun. I radioed out my position, but through the dense canopy, and lack of line-of-sight, was not able to reach anyone. A State Park ranger was there in his greens, so I said I would go and deal with the victim.

Now at this point, I should explain the concept of PPE's. Personal Protective Equipment is standard and mandatory for all emergency personnel. For a structure fire, it is heavy fire-resistant yellows, head shroud, heavy-duty helmet, thick gloves and thick Vulcanized boots, goggles etc. For wildlands fire and rescue response, we wear relatively lightweight yellow Nomex pants and jacket, heavy leather boots, gloves, helmet, goggles and often a webbing which we carry our fire tent, rations, water bottle etc. It also serves as a reminder to the general public that we are indeed responders. It's critical to be fully and appropriately dressed for any given situations. There's no sense in being a part of the problem due to inadequate equipment and clothing, we are constantly reminded.

Given this, here I was at the Gorge, facing a swim against the current. I stripped off my yellow shirt and jumped in, and realized immediately that my pants were going to slow me down, and my boots would be completely useless. Decision time. I got back on the rock, removed my boots and then stripped down to my boxers, grabbed my medical bag and radio and started to swim, on my back, to my victim/patient.

It took a while, but I hauled myself out of the water. By now, there were two rangers at the head of the pool. I radioed that I was with the patient, and would give an update immediately. I turned to the group of five or six young people assembled on the massive boulders, as well as the victim, who was conscious, and indeed still bleeding heavily from his head wound. There were some puzzled looks.

"Hi," I introduced myself, as is the law for responders to medical incidents. "I'm Toby with the Big Sur Volunteer Fire Brigade. I'm a Medical First Responder. Can someone tell me what happened?" Still a couple of looks of bemusement at this sopping wet man in his boxers only, holding a radio and an orange jump bag. The first thing I could think of to say was: "Well, we ARE a volunteer organization—they don't have a big budget for uniforms!" This elicited a good round of laughs, which is always a good thing in most situations, and I proceeded to evaluate the patient, who was eventually floated out with the help of by-standers and the Monterey County Sheriff's Lifeguard, and then carried down the canyon by fellow BSVFB responders, State Park rangers and finally some Sheriff Rescue personnel.

Skip forward four months to the annual Fire Brigade Christmas dinner and awards ceremony, generously hosted by Nepenthe. After cocktails and milling around, we (firefighters, spouses, lovers, Board members and Auxiliary members) sit down and dinner begins. Imagine my surprise when my name is called out. I do not hear exactly what is going on, as I KNOW I am not up for any awards such as training attendance, highest response, leadership capability, etc. Martha is calling me up to stand in front of everyone. I am mystified, so go up and stand next to her.

"As we all know, PPE's are a critical part of every firefighter's uniform." She starts. "So we brought Toby up here tonight because of a certain incident this past summer. While we certainly do not encourage anyone on the Brigade to dress like this, we figured that if he IS going to respond without his proper PPE's, this would be more appropriate than boxers." And she pulls out of a brown bag a dark blue Nike swimsuit, replete with the BSVFB circular patch, sown just right of center.

Needless to say, this elicited a broad round of laughs and shouts for me to model it. I have been known to shuck off my clothes at a moment's notice, but it's generally if A) I am in my own garden, and those present do not mind/care. B) I have had sufficient amounts of alcohol, and those present do not mind/care. C) I am on a hot date, and neither of us care.

However, I did slide the swimsuit over my trousers and wore them that way for a while, just for giggles. They came in use—one of our volunteers, arrived late, having been involved in a minor accident as she swerved to avoid a rock in the road on the way to dinner, and tore the front tire off her truck. She had missed ther dinner, and ceremony, where she was actually awarded Rookie of the Year! My neighbor and fellow fire-fighter, Christian, got up and publicly asked people to make a donation, and called me up. As I approached him, he shoved a twenty down the front of my swimsuit. Of course, this led to dancing around the tables, accepting whatever people felt like donating. Ahhh the bulge was enormous!

So, any fellow firefighters reading this, remember - ALWAYS wear your PPE's or suffer embarrassment and even censure!

(A lovely postscript to this story: Yesterday, I was at the veterinary hospital having my dog examined for his annual heartworm medication. The young lady at the counter looked at me, and said: "I know you - you're the guy who swam through the Gorge to help my friend!" I looked at her and said: "OH yes, when I stripped down to my boxers! That was pretty funny. And how strange that you mention it, as I am JUST now writing about this in my blog!" And she smiled, and said, "Yes, that WAS rather interesting!" We talked for a bit, and she said her friend was fine - in fact, he went golfing the day after the accident!)

Not exactly Johnny Weissmuller, but you get the idea!

The Earth Yoni

Imagine, if you will, a small wood cabin, on the edge of an oak and redwood forest. It is hand-made, and I mean, hand-made. It consists of a living-room area, a bed area, and a tiny kitchen. It is festooned with cobwebs and the lighting system would be up to code if you lived in the 1930's (in a small hand-built shack in the woods). The door to the bedroom is broken and left open. Sometimes the resident gray cat, who goes by the name of Teddy, will catch something and leave whatever he doesn't eat under the bed. It's his sign of sharing. Once I found a small dessicated kestrel under the bed, wings outspread.

And now imagine the resident of this quaint, and yet funky little cottage—a man who built this house back in the early '70's (1970's that is) and now about to turn the corner at 90, still lives here. Think of this man who has lived on his own for the last 20 years, since his wife died. He is strong for his age, and was a strong and very virile man throughout his life. For those who know him, this man exudes energy that is not necessarily sexual, but believe me, still at his age, there is a certain testosterone energy about him. He can barely see, due to increasing macular degeneration, yet when a woman comes to visit him, and there are a number that do, holding this man with some sort of unknown reverence, he is able to later say: That girl was so pretty don't you think?

Meet Bob Nash, my neighbor, friend and in a strange way, for me, a guide for how to live gracefully, naturally and without a mean spirited bone in his body. Bob has always had an eye for the girls. As long as I have known him (about 12 or so years now), he has always had truly loving and very kind energy for women of all ages. It's stunning to me that young and old are so compelled by him. Stunning in a good way, of course. He is the epitome of a gentleman—kind, gracious, caring, flattering, incredibly alert and intelligent, and of course, flirtatious.

As the caretaker for the property where I live, and where Bob also lives, I am often over there at this ramshackle little place that he calls home. I go to deliver food, or turn on his propane water heater, or sometimes sweep and clean, drop trees that might otherwise fall on his flimsy little shack, change lightbulbs, you get the idea.

So... imagine Bob, this bearded and elderly gentleman, and the door that leads to the outdoors from his bedroom. Imagine the energy that flows from his bed, to the floor, to the doorway, onto the small deck, and then into the earth right there, right next to where he stands, naked at ANY time of the year, come hot or damned cold, or in between, underneath the sprinkle of his outdoor shower.

And as you imagine this amazing energy that emanates from this man and his house, and how the earth receives this energy, try to visualize the most exquisitely erotic and beautiful earth-goddess representation that could possibly emerge.

It was a sunny day on the Big Sur coast, February 16th of 2007, to be precise. My friend Steve (who helps wonderfully by driving to Monterey to shop for Bob, and also takes him to the clinic, etc) were cleaning up Bob's garden space, and re-configuring the shower area. We pruned back a straggly apple tree, and for some reason, I started to make an easier path from Bob's back door to his shower. I started to rake the thick duff of oak leaves away from the wall.

But wait! A small hint of bright orange caught my attention. Right here? A chanterelle right next to the house? Score! I got down on my knees and looked. Sure enough, a couple of small but not inconsequential golden mushrooms were there for the taking. I pulled out my knife, and carefully cut the stem, but as I did so, a closer look from my vantage point on my knees, showed yet another edge of a mushroom. I peeled back the layers of leaves surrounding what was obviously a sizable fungus. And what revealed itself (herself, actually) to me was the truest exaltation and gift to Bob Nash's spirit and energy that one could possibly consider.

A true Goddess of the land! An earth yoni. A sensual line and groove furrowed into the golden flesh of the most exquisite chanterelle that has ever been found. A recreation in nature of the feminine form unlike any other that I have ever seen in my life. A few small leaves plastered themselves to her firm flesh, and speckles of dirt clung to the edges that rippled solidly. She smelled like the forest - fecund, rich, brown, fresh, heady. She was solidly built, firm, fleshy, rich and enticing. She was almost heavy in the hand, and yet graceful, unwavering in her own sense of beauty and mystical, yes, mystical energy.

AND, coincidentally, she was edible!

I could not let her stay in the forest, next to the cabin where she was. She would have been trodden on, or worse, just left to fade and rot, become sodden with the next rains, and wither away. No! This beauty had to be shared with the world, if only for a few short days. She needed to be shown. And it was imperative that the world saw that indeed nature is the most graceful and impeccably artistic force on the planet. Plus, I also wanted to go down in history as finding THE most sensually visual expression of the blessed female form imaginable. And then, after displaying her watching people's awe and admiration, she would be lovingly consumed, cooked slowly and ritually enjoyed. And I have to tell you, reader and friends, that this without a doubt, the very tastiest chanterelle I have ever enjoyed.

I doubt that I shall ever see or find another beauty like this. But who knows, somewhere in some woods there is a man much like Bob—pouring good and sensual energy out into the world to manifest itself in some exquisitely feminine form.

Now the question remains:

Would you like to find this?







Or THIS?









So, for those of you who wish to enjoy a variety of fabulous gourmet-cooked chanterelles and learn much more about mushrooms than I could ever tell you, get thee down to the Big Sur Chanterelle Cook-Off Weekend at Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park on the weekend of February 22nd, where yours truly will be the auctioneer for some outstanding items all to benefit local charitable causes.

Two Goddesses

Photographs by Steve Weintz

A Prophecy from 1934

Robinson Jeffers was, without a doubt, one of America's greatest poets. I have been inspired by him time and time again. His purely eloquent use of language and emotion flows across the mind and invites a deeper introspection. With just a few words, he was able to conjure up exactly what he was looking at. With his more politically inspired works, the underlying messages were of a revulsion of war and greed. Here is a most dramatic poem titled Shiva, published in 1934, and it so clearly reflects the truly disgusting energy that is being manifested by the powers that be in our own time.

Shiva

There is a hawk that is picking the birds out of our sky.
She killed the pigeons of peace and security,
She has taken honesty and confidence from nations and men,
She is hunting the lonely heron of liberty.
She loads the arts with nonsense, she is very cunning,
Science with dreams and the state with powers to catch them at last.
Nothing will escape her at last, flying nor running.
This is the hawk that picks out the stars' eyes.
This is the only hunter that will ever catch the wild swan;
The prey she will take last is the wild white swan of the beauty of things.
Then she will be alone, pure destruction, achieve and supreme,
Empty darkness under the death-tent wings.
She will build a nest of the swan's bones and hatch a new brood,
Hang new heavens with new birds, all be renewed.

Farewell to a Father

My father, Bones (as he was called by one of his fellow Officers way back when), passed away at age 93 on December 28th, 2007. He would have been 94 in February, and would have (if my mother were alive today) celebrated his 67th wedding Anniversary this past December 23rd.

What an extraordinary life this man led. Educated in England at a boarding school in the depths of the Kent countryside, he joined the Royal Artillery after going to the Sandhurst Academy. Shortly after that, he became a part of the "Raj" and moved to India, becoming an officer in the Indian Army, specifically the XIV Sikh Regiment, and traveled all over that exquisite Continent. Stories of his times in India fascinated me as a boy, even if some of the stories changed dimensionality over the years, or contingent upon how much gin had been consumed that evening. Tales of tiger hunting, or how a huge python had almost attacked my mother as she crossed a low bridge, pregnant with my elder brother (My father shot the creature, and had it made into handbags, clutches and other accoutrements), fishing for mahseer in small creeks where the fish get huge, or of the intense bravery of the Indian Sikhs, who carried a small but lethal blade called the kukri, that they never let go of in battle, even to the death, all enthralled me. Rudyard Kipling's stories of an earlier India were not far off the experiences my father and his generation had, traipsing all over that rich and deeply cultural land, sometimes imposing a sense of "Englishness" on the system. Some of it worked - India still boasts the finest train schedules in the world, despite having, it seems, more people on the outside of the trains, than inside!

Where I sit, I can see my father's regimental sword, given him when he became a commissioned officer. In a steel and leather scabbard, with a fine filigree handle, it is a reminder of what men went through in those days in the Army. Of course it was never meant to be used in battle—except to lift it and exhort one's troops into the teeth of battle, but it does have a damned sharp tip to it! I handle the sword sometimes. I used to fence as a boy, and loved the balance and feel of an epee in my hand. As a fencer, I was protected by a padded vest and a bulky mask. There is honor amongst fencers, as there is honor amongst soldiers, or perhaps better, officers. This sword is not exceptionally balanced, but it would do the job if you needed to run your opponent through, quickly withdraw it and move on to the next foe in the heat of battle. My father, though would never have had that chance to draw his sword. He always carried a gun with him - no doubt a small side-arm. Officers rarely carry anything but.

During the Second World War, The Colonel, as we called him in our family, taught machine gun school to the Sikhs. When we wasn't doing this, he played polo, or field hockey, or went hunting. Or he traveled. I have a few albums of 2" x 2" black and white images of his travels throughout India, up to the Himalayas, and throughout that beautiful land that is now divided and in such a social and political upheaval. Pictures of Lake Daal, where he and some fellow officers lived on a houseboat and bought morning produce from locals who paddled up in long boats, are some of my favorites. proper men, they dressed each evening in whites for formal dinners. God Save the King! and other toasts rang out through the evening, and there were few worries (well malaria, but that's why God invented quinine and the ubiquitous gin to go with it), and they lived a rich and for the most part, happy life.

My father moved back to the Mother Country after the War. The Raj was not welcome in India nay more. But even into his Nineties, my father still spoke Urdu, and he would flash his fingers about, imitating the almost juggling movement of any Indian, and a stream of this incomprehensible language flowed from him. I marveled at him, as he approached almost any man in a turban and started talking with him.

My father taught me how to drink. Or rather, enjoy quality adult beverages. At an early age. In 1965, we moved to Germany for a six-year stint. He was by then, a retired Army Officer, doing administrative work. This was not a hard life in any way, and it seemed from my perspective as a nine year old, that life was just one round of cocktail parties, after another, to which I was never invited. Sometimes, we would take long trips to Bavaria or Austria, Switzerland, Italy, Lichtenstein, Holland, Belgium, but never those Communist-infested (and therefore, inaccesible) Eastern bloc countries.

Here in these small villages and towns and outposts, where the tourist was a welcomed person as long as you were not obnoxious, my father loved nothing more than find a winery or tasting room, and showing off his limited knowledge of wines. It was always wonderful to wander into small dank cellars and taste wines, and find out more about the process. This led to a life-time love of great wine for me. Even now, I indulge my passion for wine by going to multi-day wine and food events to coordinate the tastings, and along the way I run into old friends who are wine makers, sommeliers, restaurant owners and all those fabulous people who truly appreciate great wine and great food.

My father, along with my mother, also instilled my great love of travel. Living in Germany, I went to school in England (and that's another story in itself!). Going back to Germany for the Holidays meant short trips on weekends, or in the Summer, and sometimes in the Winter, journeys to far-off places where we would camp, or stay in lovely small inns. I have the fondest memories of a small Pension in Austria, run by a Frau Schmidt. Perched at the end of a small lake and completely surrounded by mountains, we would hike the slopes, or row creaky wood boats, fish for the most wonderful pink-bellied trout, and eat some of the finest food I have ever tasted.

How does one end a blog/commentary about one's father? It would be easy to keep going, of course. Suffice it to say he was a gentleman and had a serious twinkle in his eye for the nurses who tended to him during the last few years of his life, and yet always maintained a sense of dignity and honor, as old soldiers will do.