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.