1. When Al Callahan eulogized Beverly Jacobs at the Kellogg Elks Lodge this afternoon, he made it clear that today's gathering was not a memorial, not a funeral, not even a celebration of life: it was a PARTY!
The room was packed with family, relatives, and friends and, indeed, the mood was upbeat and those attendance enjoyed the socializing, drinks from the bar, and the buffet table.
As the party wound down, I popped over to The Lounge to lament our respective fantasy baseball woes with Cas and joined a table of friends who had come over from Beverly's party. The good cheer and upbeat vibes that began at the Elks Lodge carried over to the way people enjoyed each other at The Lounge.
2. Liz, Jane, and I were great friends at North Idaho College and spent many lively and fun hours with Robert and Bacco (sp?) at their apartment in what became the cultural center of our lives, the Cockroach Castle.
I haven't seen Liz since 1973 or 74. I have seen Jane as recently as about four years ago.
But, this evening, we made a plan to have a reunion in July, along with Jane's twin sister Joan, at the Daft Badger for lunch. It promises to be a joyous occasion!
3. I returned home from The Lounge and immediately resumed reading Willy Vlautin's book, The Horse.
This novel is about the tribulations, terrible decisions, and acts of love over the course of Al Ward's life.
In many ways, it's a study of the ravages of alcoholism and the terrible weight that isolation presses upon the human spirit.
Al Ward is a guitarist and a respected and sought after songwriter who plays with a long string of ultimately doomed bands, some of whom play the casino lounge and bar circuit and some who tour well outside the confines of the Reno area.
When Al Ward's great uncle Mel dies, he bequeaths a mine holding to Al in a remote location about four hours out of Reno. In his sixties, Al moves to the mine and lives in a rundown assay shack, writing songs, drinking tequila and beer, eating cans of Campbell's soup, and taking a daily walk.
Out of nowhere one day, an old, blind, and scarred horse arrives, stands near the assay shack, and doesn't move, no matter the weather or anything else.
The novel moves back and forth between, on the one hand, Al Ward reliving painful memories of suffering he endured at many stages of his life, of his long-standing addiction to alcohol, the handful of music successes he enjoyed as well as the many times bands disintegrated, the love he experienced at times, and the scores and scores of songs he composed over the past fifty years, and, on the other hand, his struggles as to what to do about this aged horse who came into his life.
I spent the rest of Saturday, after the party, finishing Willy Vlautin's book, with occasional breaks to eat crackers, popcorn, and ramen and to work in spurts on the New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle.
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