It must be thirty years ago that my dad met Clyde.
Of this much I’m sure although I don’t have a clue what may have prompted their meeting. Maybe Dad deliberately went looking for Clyde in the hinterlands outside Pittsboro, North Carolina. Or maybe he just tripped over Clyde in or near his home in Bynum. Surely Clyde wasn’t out actively seeking Dad; it’s a safe bet that the Carolinian folk artist wasn’t in search a retired mathematics professor. But most likely theirs was a serendipitous encounter of the usual sort.
I think they were both inclined to serendipity, probably the artist mores than the mathematician.
Clyde is an acknowledged maker of critters, and is a critter creator of regional renown. His creations aren’t what would immediately come to mind when you first hear the word “sculpture,” but I’m not sure what term would better fit.
His creatures are all animals, the bodies rough-sawn from tree branches and the head, legs, ears, tail and any other appendages are just nailed on. Often the critter’s head is both tilted and cocked to one side as if checking to see if you’re in on the joke. Sometimes they’re painted but often as not they’s just nailed sticks with bark, or without.
Whatever the representation, whether dog or cow, horse or giraffe, all of Clyde’s critters are cut and assembled by the same hand and they are all immediately and unmistakably recognizable as the work of Clyde.
My father had one of Clyde’s works but I don’t know how he acquired it—Clyde reportedly simply gave his works away when the spirit moved him. Dad whimsically and rightly referred to his “statue” as an “Original Clyde” and he seemed to derive genuine pleasure when with the piece. Most would probably view it is a dog but to Dad it was his guardvaark, presumably charged with keeping the peace and alerting to intruders. And so the guardvaark kept watch and provided pleasant companionship on his porch for a good number of years.
I don’t remember exactly when Guardvaark passed into my care and keeping, but I did eventually inherit this original Clyde. The critter was a fixture in my office at home in Maryland, standing beside a ten-foot ficus tree, head tilted quizzically to one side as if good-naturedly reminding me to water and trim the neighboring plant. Time pleasantly passed.
Denise, when she was alive, and I once went looking for Clyde in North Carolina and while we didn’t find him, we found hundreds of his wooden critters mouldering in the forest outside Pittsburo. And then more time passed, and sadly, so did Denise.
But the guardvaark endured, providing whimsy for all who met him and amusing memories for me. (I am easily amused.)
And then in 2016 my office burned, along with the rest of the house. The original Clyde survived, badly charred, but, alas, the ficus did not.
Over the course of the next year we rebuilt the house and as part of my personal recovery I had the guardvaark gently soda-blasted to remove most of the charring. He then took a plunge into one of the infamous blue shipping barrels and survived a trip at sea to join Nuris and I in the Dominican Republic where he joined our small menagerie.
His new work was to interpose between our two dogs, white and black spotty Dominican Standard street dogs who were initially wary of one another. He was pretty good at keeping the peace between Paloma and Bolita. We eventually gave him a coat of white and black spotty paint and a new identity. No longer a guardvaark, he’s now a dog named Pinto. Pinto fits right in at home, although he does seem to struggle some with Spanish. Bolita is no help.
Nuris’ newest grandson, Simmons discovered Pinto shortly after he and him mom moved into our home to take care of things while Nuris and I are traveling in a camping car up and down the US east coast.
To Simmons, 12 months old, Pinto is a horse, not a dog.
I think Clyde might like this turn of events.
As we approached North Carolina it seemed a natural thing to try and locate Clyde with the idea that we’d bring him up to date on Pinto’s progress. Surprisingly enough we managed to locate Clyde’s home in Bynum, North Carolina, but Clyde wasn’t in evidence and no one answered our knock at his door.
We dismounted the camping car and slowly walked down the lane in search a neighbor who might be willing shed some light on Clyde’s whereabouts.
Clyde’s is an interesting street. His neighbors evidently have opinions and many are not at all shy about making their opinions known. Flags, banners, placards and well-meaning messages from all across the cultural and political spectrum are in evidence in just a block and a half on the short downhill lane. What we noticed right away was that many of his neighbors—of all manner of different persuasions—each displayed their own Original Clydes in front of their homes. Clyde’s whimsical critters evidently appeal to some deeper connection than superficial social or political movements.
As we slowly baked our way down the very hot Carolinian lane under the watchful eyes of Clyde’s wooden critters, the only sounds we heard were the humming of bees browsing the garden flowers and the soft mechanical buzz of air conditioners.
After taking this in for a few minutes we were approached by a shiny black sedan. I gave the driver my best Dominican floppy-wrist hitch-hiking signal and he slowed to a stop and lowered his window. Assuming he was a neighbor, I asked for news of Clyde. As it turned out, he was a passerby who was also looking for Clyde, but from the air-conditioned comfort of his shiny cruiser.
He did tell us that he hadn’t seen Clyde in 20 years and that he wasn’t really sure if Clyde is still alive. He shared the news that his pastor was formerly the pastor of the Methodist church in Bynum and that she took personal pride in the fact that she provided baptism to Clyde when he converted to Methodism. Eventually the driver glided on and we continued into the neighborhood appreciating the scattered herd of wooden horses and dogs and even a giraffe as we did so.
Another guy exited the gate of a house emblazoned with an “America—Love It or Leave it!” banner and got into a battered pickup truck and made ready to drive off. I quickly chuffed up the hill to brace him as to his neighbor’s whereabouts and learned that Clyde is indeed still alive and living in a facility in nearby Pittsboro.
Clyde is reportedly in no shape to receive visitors but the neighbor promised to pass along both Pinto’s story and Simmon’s delight.
Clyde might be something of a fading Methodist, but he is most definitely an enduring and future force of nature.
“Road Trip” turns out to be a foreign concept, a strange idea easily supplanted by another, more familiar one. “Expeditious Travel,” perhaps.
Originally conceived as a leisurely journey in a comfortable camping car, our western summer road trip has quickly evolved through several permutations, including “tenting in different fields and forests,” “overnighting in a couple of different motels,” and finally, “sprinting from bed to couch” as we raced to visit friends in the Northwest before returning briefly to Pinedale, Wyoming—which in addition to offering all of the civilization one needs, is seemingly the center of our universe this summer and a last wayside on the road home.
Just as I knew in advance that the camping car could well be a purchasing mistake—an idea more attractive in the dream-state than when realized, so too I knew in advance that a road trip might prove not be our favorite thing. But we were both willing to give it a good go, and so we went.
For many people (Nuris) the idea of traveling long distances just to see what’s between two points is, well, pointless. To this way of thinking, the whole point of traveling is to get from “Point A” to “Point B.” Anything in between is an impediment. This is a reasonable position to take through much of the deserted western United States, terrain to which I mercilessly subjected my wife for weeks on end. (Of course I exaggerate, but not much.) For others (ahem) the idyllic byway cruise can begin to feel overly full, what with driving, directing, navigating, translating, and such. More, I think, than either of us had realized or bargained for. And now we’re done.
The feeling as we prepare to head home is familiar–sort of like the feeling one gets when shedding a camping car.
After my last post a thoughtful friend was kind enough to point out that I was firmly on the right side of the whole “sunk costs” accounting equation when I sold the camping car (that would be the “happiness side” of the equation) and I’m now suggesting the existence of some sort of parallel social calculus that rationalizes cutting short a not particularly pleasant sight-seeing trip. Of course the common factor in both calculations is that “happiness factor,” which, I’m confident, is the whole idea.
So this morning we will gird our loins and squeeze a Honda-and-a-half’s worth of stuff (don’t ask) into a single full-sized Honda and begin to wend our way home with a full summer’s worth of experience and joy under our belts.
I hope your summer has been equally instructive, if maybe with a little less concentrated windshield time.
Hi,
I may have mentioned that recreational vehicles are like homes writ smaller and more complicated with more systemic details than the typical home, what with multiple optional power sources, contained tanks of fuel, water, and other sundry liquids and so on. And then there’s the fact that the whole complicated thing is mobile, with all that mobility entails: starting, turning, stopping, and the like.
Yet none of this frightens me. Perhaps it should. While I may not have entirely “been there,” I most certainly have “done” most of “that.” Confidence, I have; competence I’ve mostly got also or, where lacking, could certainly learn. What seems to be lacking here is desire. Just because I can, doesn’t mean that I want to.
And so I’ve sold the camping car.
Don’t misunderstand my action—this was a great camping car: it had a big refrigerator, freezer, a comfortable bed, heat pump, furnace, air conditioner, a microwave/convection oven, and a dry bathroom. It was predictable and stable to drive and delivered 17.9 mpg. Etc, etc, etc. And Nuris was OK with it, too.
It just isn’t for me at this time. Maybe a couple of years ago–or perhaps in another couple of years it will be a swell idea. Just not now.
And so the Winnebago has a new happy family, who gladly paid the price I asked, in much the same way as I bought the rig last November.
As for me, I now have a set of $10,000 license plates, and I’m OK with that.
The sale rapidly and entirely completed, Nuris and I have again departed Pinedale, Wyoming for points west, this time in the four door sedan loaded with tent, sleeping bags and sleeping pads—and of course with the giant cooler.
We’re off to the Oregon coast, then to visit (and meet!) my once-and again daughter in Portland, after which friends and vistas north and east, eventually yet again returning to our good friends in Pinedale before eventually landing in Maryland.
Whooeee! I’ll keep you posted.
Hi,
Perhaps your bedroom was 56 degrees when you woke up this morning, but probably not. Unless you’re living in a tent. Or in a camping car.
Nuris and I are still visiting with friends in Pinedale, Wyoming where I have retrieved and am acquainting myself with my nearly-new, rather old Winnebago View. We spent our second night inside the camping car last night. Cozy!
In terms of systems a camping car is like a house, only smaller and more complicated. Certainly it’s waaay more complicated than the tent camping that has mostly been my outdoor experience in recent years. But, on the plus side, the bed is surprisingly comfortable and the gas furnace soon had the bedroom and the living room (but not so much the bathroom) up to 72 degrees. This is still a bit chilly for us but appropriate for the first cup of coffee and these paragraphs.
In the continental United States, Pinedale is close to nothing, and so smugly greets visitors with the proclamation the city provides “all the civilization you need.” I imagine that my friends from Pinedale might take exception to me characterizing the proclamation as “smug.” I’ll bet they would prefer “wry,” or maybe “witty,” neither of which would be wrong. But I’m going to stick with “smug” and take my lumps as needs be.
By virtue of geologic good fortune and a few quirks of climate and tax policy, Pinedale is a thriving small community. Unlike so much of small-town America, Pinedale displays very little of the economic distress and consequent social malaise that afflicts thousands of American towns of comparable size. In the homogenizing era of big-box stores, consolidated school districts, and the pervasive and corrosive politics of Perpetual Petulance, Pinedale appears to be doing just fine. Which speaks to more than mere good fortune. More accurately, it speaks to good people, who happen to be fortunate.
The day before hitting the highway I was disappointed to discover that neither the gas-fired, nor electric powered method of starting the refrigerator were successful. And after the full allotment of two attempts at starting the thing (!) It moved into “lockout” mode. In the interest of keeping cool I went out and bought an ice chest, which is riding on the floor right in front of the refrigerator.
I’d like to think the refrigerator is embarrassed and I, somewhat smugly, think that my placing the ice box directly in front of the refrigerator is wry. Or maybe witty. But really it’s just an annoying intrusion placed in the least inconvenient place it can be. Too bad it won’t fit inside the refrigerator.
When I get a break in the action I’ll get into my RV refrigerator. How difficult can a thirteen year-old mobile refrigerator with 110v and propane power, both controlled by a 12v panel be? More on the subject later. Perhaps.
Our first evening finds Nuris and I parked beside the Snake River in Idaho, where life, in the main, is very, very good.
Hope you feel the same wherever you may be, and whatever the temperature of your bedroom.
Unless you grew up there, I’ve probably been to Elkhart, Indiana more frequently then you.
Over the years I’ve developed a few habits when in Elkhart—habits which have been largely private, at least until this afternoon when I introduced Nuris to the Steak and Shake fountain milkshake.
Really, it had never occurred to me that the Elkhart shake is somewhat excessive. But I now suppose that it can be seen as so. (This is a view that I do not personally share. For me an excessive milkshake would be built on real ice cream with loads of butterfat and not on something called “milkshake base” But I digress, and risk losing my point in the bargain.)
The point being that, in the same way that foreign travel should broaden one’s horizons while at the same time deepening one’s appreciation for life beyond the world of things and stuff, so might familiar, even repetitive domestic traveling bring opportunity for fresh insight. This is particularly the case when such travel is conducted in the company of a foreigner. For that matter, any location might present this opportunity, which may at times be easier to appreciate when in the company of an observant companion. But you probably already know that.
But it seems that the spur to insight or appreciation needn’t even be human. To wit: I’ve probably stopped in Elkhart, Indiana on more than 50 occasions over the past 25 years and I’d never noticed that Elkhart is less that 2 miles from Michigan. It took the little mechanical man in the Waze application on my smartphone to draw my attention to this fact, which he did promptly when I asked the software to plot a path to Pinedale, Wyoming—and stay off the freeway.
As we move around the central and western states over the next few weeks or months I’ll do my level best to explain what we are seeing in a way that doesn’t make me feel overly foolish and that remains consistent with my own cultural bias. Wish me luck.
I’m pretty sure that my salvation and deliverance will stem from the fact that the United States is a pretty awesome place, no matter who is doing the sayin’.
Chicken fried steak, anyone?