Fallingwater...an American Icon

     Preface: For years I tried to picture the setting and surrounding countryside at Fallingwater, a Frank Lloyd Wright masterpiece.  In May of 2007, with the sunlight sifting through the Pennsylvania woodlands, I finally made the architectural pilgrimage to the house, located on Bear Run (creek).  As I walked from the visitor’s center, deeper into the woods, a peaceful feeling enveloped me; time and the outside world faded in importance.  Walking into, through, and around what is arguably the most famous house in America gave me a great appreciation for the three-dimensional aspects of the architectural icon.  The cantilevered outdoor terraces seemed like tree-house platforms above the creek.  I was spellbound by the natural surroundings that were integrated into the design.  I breathed the country air and listened to the creek, full from spring rains, rush over the waterfall.  I fell in love with the space and when the tour ended I wanted to linger as long as possible.

The cantilevered terraces of Fallingwater

photo by Gregory E. Larson, AIA

(used with permission of Western Pennsylvania Conservancy)

Fallingwater…an American Icon
Non-fiction Research
by Gregory E. Larson, AIA
copyright 2010

     Frank Lloyd Wright. Clients loved him, or hated him, or both.  Enigmatic, egotistic, and iconic…he was an original American architect whose design philosophy was built into the American landscape, from the Wisconsin farmland to the Arizona desert, and was in the details of houses and buildings from coast to coast.  His flat-brimmed hat mimicked the prairie-style roofs and cantilevers. His bright suit reflected the color of stucco.

     Although his long and storied career was legendary, one project was the most defining, the most recognized and revered.  Tucked into the forest of maples, oaks and beeches, in a valley of the Laurel Highlands of Pennsylvania, and resting on the sandstone ledges of Bear Run (creek), Fallingwater embraces the natural surroundings.  The holy grail of American architecture, a mere country home for its original inhabitants, juts over the creek, creating a daring and unique design which marries the house to the site.

     By 1934, Wright was sixty-seven years of age.  He had established himself as a well-known architect through a prolific career in Chicago, but many believed he was past his prime.  His practice languished in the depression era and he had retreated to his family’s property near Spring Green, Wisconsin, where he established the Taliesen Fellowship, a design school for architectural apprentices.  Edgar Kaufmann, Jr., the son of a Pittsburgh department store merchant, wanting to learn more about architecture and Frank Lloyd Wright, applied to the fellowship and was accepted to attend in the fall of 1934.

     Edgar J. Kaufmann, Sr., and his wife Liliane traveled to Taliesen to visit their son and meet Wright.  Their conversation with the famous architect was engaging and lengthy.  Thus began a famous relationship that blossomed and made Fallingwater a reality.

     Wright traveled to Pittsburgh in December of 1934 to visit Kaufmann, Sr., at his downtown department store and office.  The trip included a visit to Bear Run Creek (approximately 50 miles southeast of Pittsburgh), where Wright walked the property, viewed the falls on the creek and inspected the woodlands.  Kaufmann, told Wright that he and his family used the property and a small cabin there as a retreat, but wanted something more permanent and livable.  Wright asked Kaufmann for a detailed survey of the property, including locations of the large trees.  This would assist Wright in designing the house and establishing its location.

     Wright’s design process for the house was slow, though one can imagine him continually designing and redesigning it in his mind, hesitating to commit pencil to paper.  By September of 1935, Kaufmann was anxious to see Wright’s progress.  He traveled to Milwaukee and called Wright to let him know he would arrive in Spring Green in just a few hours.  According to the apprentices, Wright quickly developed detailed sketches of the floor plans and elevations, using his colored pencils to enhance the drawings.  The design that had been established in his mind flowed freely to the paper.  Upon Kaufmann’s arrival, Wright suggested lunch, which allowed two of the apprentices to create some additional drawings for discussion.  After lunch, Wright shared his design, while Kaufmann, not knowing the drawings were freshly completed, absorbed the presentation.  Once Kaufmann understood that the house was built over the waterfall, he was somewhat shocked, but accepted the design.  Over time, he fully embraced Wright’s bold creation and allowed the architect to continue with the construction drawings.

     In his excitement, Kaufmann arranged for some natural stone on the property to be quarried for the house.  Without Wright’s knowledge, Kaufmann also retained an engineer who had worked on some of his projects in Pittsburgh.  Being cautious, he wanted to have the design reviewed independently.  The engineer expressed concerns about the condition of the soil and rock where the house was to be situated.  Kaufmann ignored those concerns but did take heed of one of the engineer’s recommendations…to increase the size of the reinforcing bars from one-half inch diameter to three-quarter inch diameter…to which Wright surprisingly agreed.  Even though the size of the reinforcing bars was increased, structural problems, as described further in this article, were not eliminated with the change.

     By June of 1936, construction began on the house.  As with any project, many issues and obstacles had to be overcome, but a paramount issue with Kaufmann was his continued concern over the concrete structural design for the cantilever beams.  Without Wright’s knowledge, Kaufmann hired another engineering consultant from Pittsburgh.  Their recommendation was to increase the size and the amount of reinforcing steel in the beams…from three-quarter inch diameter to one inch diameter bars, and from a total of eight bars to sixteen in each beam.  Additional reinforcing was added prior to construction without Wright’s knowledge, and once he was told, he became furious with Kaufmann, telling him that he was insulted for being second-guessed.

     The change, although an improvement which prevented collapse of the beams during the twentieth century, did not provide the proper strength needed for structural integrity.  When the forms were removed, the cantilever beams deflected downward a full one and three-quarter inches.  As the construction progressed, cracks began to appear on several cantilevers, including some on the second floor balcony.

     The cost of the project mushroomed to over $150,000, well over Kaufmann’s originally expressed desire to spend only $25,000, but he allowed Wright to continue with custom furniture designs for the house.  Kaufmann wanted to position himself in Pittsburgh society and impress those of importance with his bold and unique country home.  With construction complete, the family was able to move into the house in November of 1937, prior to Thanksgiving.

Fallingwater...timeless beauty in the woods

photo by Gregory E. Larson, AIA

(used with permission of Western Pennsylvania Conservancy)

     The Kaufmanns enjoyed their new retreat, and added a guest house further up the hillside, where many famous people came to stay and be comforted by the natural setting.  The family enjoyed the house until the 1950’s; Liliane died in 1952, and Kaufmann, Sr., died in 1955.  In 1963, Edgar Kaufmann, Jr., who wanted the house to be preserved, donated it to the Western Pennsylvania Conservancy.

     In the 1990’s, renewed attention was given to the structural condition of the house, and studies were made by engineering students and professionals.  After a seventeen month study by Robert Silman, a structural engineer, it was determined that the cantilevers had deflected downward as much as seven inches since the house was constructed.  The deflection would continue to increase over time, and if not corrected, the structure would ultimately collapse onto the waterfall.

     The Western Pennsylvania Conservancy moved forward with plans for structural and architectural repairs, and hired the necessary consultants and contractors to restore integrity to the house.  The structural solution was to strengthen the cantilever beams with post-tensioned cables, hidden in the floor cavity.  It was a high-tech solution not available to Wright and his engineers in the 1930’s.  In late 2001 and early 2002, the renovation was accomplished.  The flagstones on the terraces and in the living room were removed and numbered, piece by piece.  The structural repairs were executed, and the flagstones reinstalled like a giant puzzle.  Other repairs were made to the stairway, windows, cabinetry and furniture.  Although the house is now considered structurally sound, some of the deflection in the cantilever remains, providing a historical reminder of an issue that plagued the masterful design.

     Fallingwater, with its appearance and structural integrity restored, continues to be an American icon, visited by more than 130,000 people each year.  After their rendezvous with nature and the house, many visitors reluctantly walk the path back to the visitor center, straining to hear the waterfall, until the woods and underbrush cloak the senses, leaving the timeless beauty of the site for others to enjoy.

Fallingwater...an American Icon

photo by Gregory E. Larson, AIA

(used with permission of Western Pennsylvania Conservancy)

Sources:

Atkins, Jim. FAIA. “Fallingwater: The Story of a Country House.” AIArchitect. Six-part monthly series, 19 June 2009 through 13 November 2009.  http://info.aia.org/aiarchitect/thisweek09/1113/1113rc_fallingwater.cfm

Saving Fallingwater, directed and produced by Kenneth Love, written by Tom Dubensky and Bill Doorley, narrated by David Conrad. Kenneth A. Love International, 2006.

Toker, Franklin. Fallingwater Rising. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2003

The Age of Man

The cliffs at Les Eyzies

(photo by Greg Larson)

     Preface: Gretta and I have been pleasantly surprised with the extracurricular activities included in our European bike tours.  In 2007, we toured the Dordogne River valley in southern France, taking in side trips to caves, castles, and other points of interest.  Our tours of the caves with prehistoric paintings caused me to pause and absorb their historical significance.

The Age of Man
travel memoir
by Greg Larson

     One of the most interesting features of the Dordogne Valley and the Périgord region of France is the historical evidence of ancient tribes and their habit of dwelling along the rivers at the edge of the limestone cliffs.  One of the tell-tale signs of their existence is the collection of holes chopped into the limestone by the ancient people to allow their leaning tent poles to be set along the cliffs.  As we wound along the river on our bikes we could see the cut rectangular depressions in the stone at various nomadic camping spots.

     We learned much more about these aboriginal people from a professor who was knowledgeable in the anthropological history of the area.  He was a short Frenchman with long wavy hair.  His passion on the subject of the cave dwellers was evident, and he spoke very good English.  Before we toured the Grotte de Font-de-Gaume (one of the few sites that allow viewing of authentic cave paintings), he shared a wealth of information, of which I was able to retain some bits and pieces.  We listened intently to his lecture in a beautiful setting by the riverside in Les Eyzies, at a meeting spot with a semicircular stone bench….a perfect place to relax and learn more about the region.

     According to what he shared with us, the tribes of the area were nomadic.  They roamed the area around 27,000 B.C. to 15,000 B.C., during the Ice Age in northern Europe.  They followed the reindeer herds as the animals roamed a circular route of approximately 100 kilometers in diameter.  Sometimes the circles of reindeer and nomads overlapped, and the herds and tribes intermixed.  The nomads were dependent on the reindeer, using every bit of the animal for their subsistence: hides for clothing and tents, sinew for string, meat and fat for cooking and eating, and bones for tools.

     The professor commented that several hundred caves with paintings have been discovered in the Périgord region of France.  Historians have long wondered why the symbols and animals were painted on the cave walls.  According to our lecturer, no one has a definitive answer.  Many believe the cave paintings were the beginning of recorded pictures and symbols that acted somewhat like an alphabet.  He shared with us that our symbol of the “alpha” letter “A” is really an upside-down picture of a deer with horns.  The nomads did not live in the caves because these large fissures were too damp and cold, and there was no ventilation for the smoke created by their fires.  But the painters found a spot on the cave walls to record their various pictures and symbols; some as obvious as a European bison herd, and some that looked like graffiti gang symbols.  They used animal-fat candles for their light source, and applied the organic pigments with sticks and crude brushes made from animal hair.  Some of the paintings required the artists to use some type of scaffolding, due to the location on the upper walls of the caves.

     The larger caves that have the most worthy collection of paintings are mostly off-limits to the public.  Upon their discovery, the paintings began to deteriorate and decay, due to the carbon dioxide emitted from the crowds and from the introduction of mold and microbes brought in on the feet of the visitors.  The Grotte de Font-de-Gaume is one of the few large caves allowing viewers.  Each group of fifteen is granted a few minutes in the cave, and only twelve groups are allowed in each day.  The most prominent paintings in the Grotte de Font-de-Gaume are the European bison (now extinct in the wild), the horses, and a small number of reindeer.  Our guide noted that although the nomads lived among the reindeer, there are very few cave paintings of this specific animal.

     These ancient artists began to experiment with three dimensional pictures through the positioning of the artwork.  The bison shoulders and humps were located on the rock to appear to bulge from the surface.  Some of the artists attempted to show the running animals in perspective, with the front appearing larger than the rear of the animal.  A rare image shows a male reindeer “kissing” the head of a female reindeer.

Painted reindeer in Grotte de Font-de-Gaume

(internet image)

     All of these nomads were of the Homo sapiens species…the same as you and me.  A fact that I did not know…Homo sapiens has existed as a species for only 40,000 years.  According to our guide, the Homo sapiens species is “but a babe” compared to Homo habilus and Homo erectus, each averaging a span of over 1.2 million years.  At the high point of the lecture we were told that as Homo sapiens, we are like “children playing with matches.”  The professor looked around at us with a very serious expression and slowly asked, “Will we learn to use the matches to our benefit…or will we burn the house down?”

     A couple of days later, we toured a simulated cave of Lascaux, called Lascaux II.  The original cave was discovered in 1940, by a boy and his dog.  After returning to the cave with a friend and torches, they went to their schoolteacher, who in turn contacted Abbé Breuil, a pre-history authority.  After viewing the discovery, Breuil was quoted as saying the Lascaux caves were the “Sistine Chapel of the Périgord.”  Over 1,500 paintings and symbols fill the cave.  Unfortunately, an early photo shows Brueil smoking a cigarette, standing with the boys at the entrance to the caves.  Thus began the damage to the cave paintings.  By 1963 the cave had seen one million visitors and the damage was so great that it was closed permanently.  Only scholars with special permission are allowed into the original cave.  Eventually, authorities decided to create a simulated cave near the original Lascaux, with the same three-dimensional shape and matching replicated paintings.  Painstaking detail was given to make the simulated cave a true replica.  It was opened in 1983 and has been admired by thousands each year since its opening.

Painted Horse in the Lascaux Cave

(public domain image)

     The professor’s talk caused me to think about the relatively young age of man, and how we’ve quickly developed the use of our brain.  The creative power of Homo sapiens is a double-edged sword, striking a swath from learning and entertainment to harming and destroying others.  As I walked out of the Lascaux II cave, and began to adjust to the bright light of sunshine, I wondered what the remnants of our civilization will look like 15,000 years from now, and I thought of the professor’s comment…We are like children playing with matches…

Olympic Spirit in the Adirondack Village

travel memoir
by Greg Larson

     The recent Winter Olympics in Vancouver reminded me of past Olympic competitions, especially the 1980 winter games in Lake Placid, New York.  It also brought back memories of my trip there in 2004.  Gretta, my wife, is an accomplished figure skater, and she was scheduled to compete at Lake Placid in the Adult National Figure Skating Championships.  In her fifties, she defies her age as she glides and jumps on the ice, wearing what one of my relatives describes as “one of those flippy skirts.”  I had watched her practice and compete many times, but 2004 was the first time I attended the national event.  When I learned that Lake Placid was the location, I jumped at the opportunity to see where the 1932 and 1980 Olympics had taken place.  Watching the skating competition added to the excitement, since it is an Olympic sport.

     Nestled in the Adirondack Mountains, Lake Placid is in Essex County in upstate New York.  It is not a quick and easy destination, even when the weather is good and the crowds are small.  I flew to Albany, New York, and boarded a shuttle bus at the airport, and settled in for a long ride up Interstate 87, followed by a twenty mile stretch of winding two-lane highway that crossed frozen creeks and rivers, passing rural roads with hand-made signs advertising maple syrup.  After the ride through the Adirondacks, the forests opened up to green fields on the south side of Lake Placid.  It seemed to be a most unlikely place for the 1980 Winter Olympics ceremonies.  The wooden poles used for the light standards were like old soldiers standing in the meadow, and the tower for the ski jump loomed in the mist on the mountainside.  I shivered at the thought of hurtling down the big jump. No guts, no glory.

Lake Placid, N.Y. - nestled in the Adirondacks.

     The village of Lake Placid seemed so quaint…not the location you would expect for an international event.  But then I realized it was a different world back in 1980…without cell phones, internet, and niche marketing…and the U.S. relations with the Soviets were still in the throes of the cold war.  It was prior to the 1984 Olympics in Los Angeles, where the marketing of the games soared to new heights.  I decided to poke around the little town and the skating arenas, and absorb some of the history and the spirit that remains.

     Gretta had traveled to Lake Placid ahead of me and was deep into her practice sessions when I arrived.  I hurried to the arena to find her.  Chills went up my spine as I walked into the Olympic arena for the first time.  It is now the Herb Brooks Arena, named after the coach of the 1980 U.S. Hockey Team.  I looked to the ice rink below, and in my mind I could hear Al Michaels screaming, “Do you believe in miracles?” as he announced the U.S. hockey team’s win over the U.S.S.R in 1980.  The arena was much smaller than it appeared on television.  The seating capacity is only 7,700…very small compared to an Olympic venue today.  Looking around the intimate space, I could imagine the deafening roar of 1980 reverberating off the ice and into the rafters.

     Once I found Gretta, it was clear to me that she was in her competition zone.  It was best to let her know I was there to support her and cheer her on, but I knew it was important not to interrupt her train of thought, or I might detach her from an intense focus on skating.  I watched her practice and over the next two days followed her to the semi-final and final events, with skate bags in tow.  The changing areas in the lower halls of the arena were sparse, with narrow halls and a cinder block collection of rooms, small in scale.  In my mind, I strained to hear Herb Brooks coaching the U.S. team before the final medal game with Finland.  I could almost hear his words in the cramped space before he sent the team into the arena: “Men, if you don’t win this game today, you’re going to take it to your (expletive) grave.”

     Between the skating events, we walked through the village, strung out along the west shoreline of Mirror Lake.  The linear arrangement of gift shops, restaurants, bars and establishments is similar to any resort town.  One of my favorite shops was a sporting goods store, whose sign bespoke a schizoid marketing message to its clientele.

Buy some bullets and a gift for your loved one.

     The sporting goods store was located on the highway coming into town, just across the street from the high school and the outdoor venue for the 1980 Olympic speed skating rink.  The 400 meter speed skating rink reminded me of a typical rural-town football field and track, with minimal space for bleachers around the perimeter.  It was hard for me to imagine Eric Heiden, the unassuming skater who shunned endorsements and fame, rocketing across the ice through the wind and the elements to win his record five gold medals.  During one of his medal attempts, it was reported the bleachers at the outdoor venue were packed with 3,000 people, while other fans hung on the fences, climbed trees and stood on balconies and rooftops to witness the competition.

Outdoor speed skating rink...high school and arena beyond.

     While watching the 2004 adult figure skating competitions, I thought of all the history, and of the figure skaters and hockey teams that floated across these hallowed surfaces of ice.  Actually, the complex houses four ice surfaces and two arenas; the old arena for the 1932 Olympics where Sonja Henie won the women’s figure skating event, and the newer arena for the 1980 Olympics figure skating and hockey competitions.  We walked the connecting hallway between them and I discovered a memorial plaque that commemorates the fatal 1961 plane crash of the Sabena Airlines – Boeing 707 in Belgium, that killed eighteen members of the U.S. Figure Skating Team along with many coaches, officials and family members.  The team was in route to the 1961 World Championships in Brussels.

     The most impressive thing I’ve learned from watching Gretta’s competitions and practices is that figure skating is one of the most difficult sports to master…more difficult than golf…and that is saying a lot.  The U.S. Figure Skating Association requires skaters to pass a rigorous test before they are allowed to compete.  For her age group, only a small number of adults throughout the U.S. are able to compete at such a high level.  For years, Gretta arose at 4:30 am to practice four times a week in the early morning before the workday.  It was necessary for her to acquire the services of a skating coach, a choreographer and a dressmaker (Gretta adds all the sequins and trim).

Gretta, making it look easy on the ice.

     Although it was a competition, the women who Gretta competed against were excited to see each other, and they encouraged each other to do their best.  They met just once or twice a year, but the chatting began immediately after their greetings, as if they were walking down the grocery aisles together.

At the final competition, I was like a nervous mother watching Gretta make every move in her program.  Over the years, she taught me to recognize different moves and jumps with funny names like Axel, Salchow, Ina Bauer, and Lutz.  Having memorized every move and jump in her program, I knew when she executed well or poorly, and my hands were getting tired and sweaty from clutching the edge of my seat.  Gretta’s specialty was combining jumps; completing as many as three in a sequence.  She wore a big smile as she launched into a long, spiral glide past the judges (smiles are always good for the judges).  There were twelve skaters in the finals, and the quality of the skating was so high that it was hard to guess the winning positions.  A small crowd hung around the bulletin board waiting for the results to be posted, then shouts and squeals erupted as the competitors hugged each other once the winners were known.  Gretta placed fourth, so she had to put her skates back on for the awards ceremony and podium pictures, which occurred at a meeting room in the rink.

On our final day in Lake Placid, with the competition behind us, Gretta and I were in a relaxed mood as we walked out onto the sunny sidewalk in the crisp mountain air.  We decided to walk around Mirror Lake on the quiet Sunday morning.  It was a great way to say good-bye to Lake Placid.  As we walked past the shops I noticed a woman just ahead of us standing by her BMW, smacking the parking meter with her hand.

She turned and said with disgust, “These pahkin’ meetahs SUCK!

We had just witnessed a New York moment…watching the urban and rural worlds collide in the short verbal blast.  The woman’s accent in the rural setting grated on our Midwestern sensibilities, but Gretta and I didn’t let her attitude affect us.  It was a petty irritation on such a beautiful day.  I just smiled as we passed her by, and I thought of all the great memories we would have from a trip to the little village in upstate New York.

A cool competitor.

Rolling Stock

Preface:  What was your favorite toy when you were a child?  Thinking back to Lincoln Logs and footballs, electric trains and chess sets, it was hard for me to decide...but then I remembered the collection of little cars that occupied so many hours of my time when I was young.

Rolling Stock
childhood memoir
by Greg Larson

     The industrial elevator carrying two vehicles on the platform slowly came to a stop at the top of the shaft.  Immediately, the giant pillow shifted closer to the platform; the vehicles drove out onto the pillow case and parked on the soft mounded surface.  I grabbed the shiny black Morris Minor sedan and the brilliant orange cement truck and held them in my hands to take a closer look.  They were brand new…not a scratch on them, and on the bottom they were marked “Made in England.”

     At eight years old, in 1959 I was confined to my top bunk bed.  The doctor’s orders were for bed rest after my tonsillectomy, but it was difficult for my mom to keep me still.  To help me occupy the time in bed, my older brother built an elevator using parts from our erector set, and my mom and dad surprised me with the two toy vehicles they purchased at the dime store.  It was like Christmas in April.  The vehicles were not your run-of-the-mill toy cars and trucks; they were a new toy selection called Matchbox cars.  I was a little guy.  These were little cars.  It was a match made in heaven.

The first tiny, shiny cars of my collection

     I’d seen them in the display window at Duckwall’s, but I convinced myself that I could not afford to have my own.  The least expensive cars were 50 cents.  They were the prettiest little cars and trucks, and there was such a wide variety of colors and types from industrial vehicles to race cars.  But they seemed out of reach until my parents gave me the first car and truck.

     Wanting to build a collection of Matchbox cars, I was thrust into the world of commerce and finance at an early age.  My weekly allowance for completing household chores was 10 cents.  The thought of five weeks wages to obtain one car was almost too much to bear.  In my desire to possess the toy cars, I developed an accelerated savings plan based on my limited knowledge of income and expenditures.  I noticed the weeds in the yard were beginning to grow in earnest that spring.  Once I had recuperated from the tonsillectomy, I suggested to my parents that I could dig weeds for 10 cents a bucket.  To my surprise, they agreed.

     I had visions of stacks of dimes as I began with determination to rid the yard of weeds, but quickly learned the meaning of full measure.  My mom did not allow anything but full buckets with the weeds packed tight.  The buckets which I presented to her that were three-fourths full with fluffed-up weeds were not acceptable.  After investing more sweat than I had expected over several days in the afternoon sun, I was able to garner enough dimes to build a small collection of cars.  They each came in a simulated English matchbox, and my friends were envious of the smart looking group of cars.

Each car was packaged in its own box

     They were my favorite toys.  Nothing came close to my passion for Matchbox cars.  I coveted them so much that I would put the choicest cars in my pocket on Sunday morning and sneak them to Sunday school and church.  Surely God would bless them, I thought, even if I kept them hidden in my pocket.  If my little brother spied them as we rode in the backseat from the suburbs to the church in downtown Wichita, he would let out a squeal which would gain my parents’ attention, and the toys would be confiscated for the remainder of the day.  During the drive into town, which was the longest of the week, I looked for the most unusual real vehicles driving on the street or parked at the construction sites.  I fantasized that I would someday have a fleet of my own trucks.

     In the formative years of childhood, I had no idea of the impact the Matchbox cars would have on my architectural career.  I focused on every design detail of each car and quickly developed a keen sense of spatial concepts; I created roads, buildings and racetracks, using toy blocks, boxes, and pieces of wood.  I learned that the Matchbox cars were H-O scale, which matched the scale of H-O train sets.  There was one small problem.  We did not have an H-O scale train…we had a Lionel train set, which was much larger in scale.  Also, some of my friends brought over toys that didn’t match the scale of my cars.  This mismatch was a major burden that I had to bear during my years of playing with toys.  It really grated on my sensibilities when the scale of things didn’t match.  In my daydream fantasy world, everything was H-O scale, and I built cities and train layouts in the corners of my mind.

     My Matchbox collection grew, and I was ready to make a major addition…a Pickfords cab with a flatbed trailer and a Caterpillar bulldozer to fit on the trailer…the total cost being two dollars!  Again, I had to get creative in order to accumulate almost a half-year’s worth of dimes.  The big money could be made from mowing lawns or taking care of pets while families were on summer vacation.  My mom helped me line up a few of these jobs which built up my cash reserve and I was finally able to make the joyous trip to Duckwalls.  I was nervous with excitement, and ran down the store aisle to the Matchbox display, which I knew by heart.  I could have found the Pickfords truck with my eyes closed.  How sweet it was to leave the store, clutching the bag with the tiny Matchbox toys inside.

The centerpiece of my collection was the Pickfords truck and trailer

     I played with the cars almost anywhere, from our rec-room tile floor to outdoors on the patio or porch.  Sometimes I would climb behind the juniper shrubs and build roads in the damp, cool soil.  Frequently, I would get together with my friends to compare our collections and play with our combined fleets, pretending to build cities or race the cars around the room.

     When I turned thirteen, my interest in playing with the cars had declined.  I gave my five-year collection of cars to my younger brother, with the understanding that I could spend time with them whenever I had the desire.  To me, it was a temporary loan of the collection, since a piece of my heart would always reside with all of the rolling stock.  I’d driven too many miles and built too many cities with them.  I just couldn’t walk away from something that was such a big part of me.

     But other interests beckoned…scouts, piano, newspaper route, and most of all, drawing.  My eighth grade drafting class was the happiest hour of the day.  I honed my sense of scale that I had developed with the Matchbox cars, and enjoyed the accuracy of measuring and drawing while I used my T-square and scale.  The cities and buildings that I constructed in my daydreams were no longer H-O scale…they were actual size, and were fancier and more detailed than ever before.

     Note:  A special thanks to Michael Farley for allowing me to photograph his mint-condition Morris Minor and orange cement mixer, as well as the Matchbox package front.  The other photographs are what remain of my original collection, including the Pickfords vehicle. My collection has a few more scratches than Michael's, nor do I have any of the original boxes.

What is Art?

Preface:  Yes, I tackled one of life's compelling questions.  What makes something beautiful to observe?  What preferences or tastes do you have?  In the end, we each have to come up with our own answers.

What is Art?
Non-fiction essay
by Greg Larson

     I’ve been on a curious sort of journey.  It has involved some travel, but it’s mostly been a search within the mind…a self-directed path to find the answer to – what is art?  The question will always be there, and the definition is elusive at best.  What compelled me to seek an answer? It was a framed lithograph print created in the 1980’s, to which I have a deep connection.

     The print depicts a mountain pass in Colorado.  The artist, who trained at the Kansas City Art Institute, used an impressionistic style, making the mountainside, the sky and the horizon come alive with a mixture of paint and pastels.  My connection to the print has greater significance because it was selected for use in a hotel renovation on which I worked.  I was given the proof print, which I framed.  Several years later, on a Colorado bike tour, I rode my bike over the pass shown in the artwork.  Today, I look at the print and I smell the mesquite, feel the cool breeze in the aspens, and see the twinkling reflections of sunlight from the cars along the railing at the top of the pass.

     Recently I decided to research the artist to find out what type of art she is now creating.  After viewing the website, my concept of art was shaken.  My preconception of the artist creating impressionistic landscapes was nowhere near the artist’s current path.  She now resides in San Francisco and has exhibited worldwide in cities like Bucharest, Vienna, Moscow, Sydney, and New York.  Her work has evolved into media and visual art, combining drawings, photos, and video.  After reading some of her descriptions of recent projects, it was difficult for me to comprehend the end product, let alone the rationale behind its creation.  The artist’s website descriptions of some of her exhibits included:

Tesserae of Venus – Images of a strange future of energy producing landscapes, saturated by a carbon atmosphere.

Bloodellipse – a 2004 interactive screen protesting the Iraq War.

Slipstreamkonza – attempts to capture “slipstreams” of the invisible and inaudible processes of carbon synthesis into sound and image. [Was she trying to capture the sound of grass growing on the prairie?]

     Although my expectations of what this artist should be producing were shattered, I assume that she has taken a creative path that is meaningful to her.  In light of my own struggle with trying to understand her recent creations, I heightened my quest to better understand - what is art?  The subconscious journey became a compelling march for an answer, and it continued for months.

     It seems to me that art becomes art when the artist or viewer steps back from the day-to-day act of living, when they begin to contemplate their existence and their relationship to the world.  What the artist communicates and what the recipient sees or interprets is not always the same.  Religious and political art have been a form of communication for centuries. Of course, the church and the businessmen were the patrons, and to a degree, controlled what was to be communicated or created.

     One portion of the artistic journey took me to Paris, where the morning sprinkles pattered on our umbrellas as Gretta and I waited in line to be among the first of the day to be admitted into the Musee d’Orsay.  Once inside, we scurried through the main level and rode the elevator to the top level, where the Impressionist paintings were located.  I was in heaven!  The experience moved me as I sat on the benches and looked at masterpieces in every direction.  It was as if I were viewing a private collection in the crowd-free galleries. Artwork by Cassatt, Degas, Renoir, Monet and Pissarro spoke to me on a personal level, sharing what the artists had seen and experienced.

     After seeing the paintings up close and in person, it became clear to me the Impressionist artists of the 19th century decided to break free of patronage and just paint for art’s sake.  They painted in a style of color and light that was bold and new to the art world.  They selected subject matter and viewpoints that were unusual to the standards of the time.  The art critics of the 19th century tried to reject the impressionist’s work.  What a difference a century makes in how we interpret their artwork; Impressionist paintings are now some of the most prized possessions in the world.

     But…freedom of expression can be viewed as a pendulum that swings in either direction to the extreme.  David Byrne, in his book Bicycle Diaries, writes of his struggles with the concept of beauty and art.  He shared a story about a German artist, Otto Muehl, who was into making art a sensory event or a happening in the 1960’s.  In one such display called “O Tannenbaum,” Otto lay naked with a woman under a Christmas tree.  He then had a butcher tear the heart out of a pig and throw it at the couple.  Otto then climbed a ladder by the tree and urinated on the woman and the pig’s heart.  One of the viewers started screaming, “You swine!”  The crowd became restless and chaos ensued.  Otto was arrested.  It causes one to ponder…what is art?

     Andy Warhol was an American artist from Pittsburgh and many consider him a bit extreme, although he is hailed as the father of Pop Art.  While visiting Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, I decided to visit the Warhol Museum to see the wide range of art he created.  I first viewed his variations of soup labels and product boxes shown in creative arrangements.  Then I experienced the mylar balloon room, which was my favorite exhibit.  The room was full of shiny, silver mylar balloons floating in all directions, always moving around the airstream created by a strategically located fan.  I felt as though I were in a dream, and sensed that my body wanted to float with the balloons.  It was the closest I’ve ever been to weightlessness.  The final exhibit we viewed was a steel sculpture (quite fitting for Pittsburgh).  Andy had intentionally peed on the sculpture, causing rust stains to appear. I guess he thought it was his ultimate brush stroke.

     My younger brother once introduced me to a client of his in Western Kansas.  He was a retired wheat farmer with no formal art training, but he created what I consider folk art.  As he approached 80 years of age, he relinquished the day-to-day farm operations to the younger family members.  Once retired, he felt compelled to sketch and paint many scenes that he remembered from past years…cowboys, fences, cattle, horses, birds and fields.  I’ve never seen a happier person.  He gave us a tour of the little art gallery he created in his basement.  We could have stayed all day as he told one story after another.  The gallery was full of his original paintings along with copies he had made on a color copier in town; each painting and copy was set in a hand-crafted wooden frame.  Clear, thin plastic was the protective cover, in lieu of glass.  At the end of our tour he told us we could pick out anything we wanted to keep.  I still have the framed copy of the picture I selected of a meadowlark sitting on a stone fencepost, singing its melodic song.  On the cardboard backing of the picture the artist wrote in long-hand with ballpoint pen:

The Magic of the Meadow Lark

Birds bring a special kind of pleasure to our world, a magic all their own.  We admire their brilliant colors, their unique companionable voices – and envy their power of flight.  Birds remind us daily that this small creature is truly a most impressive creation – and one that we earthbound artists strive to emulate, but can never duplicate.  Painting them has brought me to a greater awareness of the miracles of our world!

Blessed is the fellow from whom little is expected; he won’t disappoint you.

     It was clear to me this man was truly in tune with his Western Kansas environment and he didn’t want to change a thing about his age, his lot in life, or his love for the world around him.

     The latest leg of my journey led me to Denver, Colorado.  On a crisp summer morning, beneath a patio umbrella, I had an extended discussion over breakfast with friends, Ferenc and Leslie, who are both multi-talented artists.  It was one of those long conversations that you wish would never end, and at times it seemed the discussion would continue on to infinity.  Leslie, an accomplished painter and poet, gave me a copy of a poem she had submitted to a competition sponsored by the International Society of Poets.  Her poem was selected as the winning entry, and was published along with the editor’s critique.

     “What a crock,” she said quietly referencing the critique.  “He had no idea what I wrote about, or what compelled me to write it.”

     We came to a reasonable conclusion that there is no specific or uniform standard to determine - what is art?  The motivations to create it and the critiquing of it are as varied as the people involved.  In the end, each person has to decide for themselves what type of art appeals to them, and how deeply they want to explore it.

     My friends concluded, “Just view the art and enjoy it!”

     So, I’ve decided to give the mental struggle a rest. I’ve written my own definition of art for what it is worth:

     Art is a creative, expressive form of communication which appeals to our senses and allows the artist and/or the viewer to ponder their existence and the context in which the expression is created and displayed.

     This spring I intend to take a trip on my bicycle to the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art and sit in the sculpture garden.  Rather than trying to understand what I’m viewing, I think I’ll just relax, take in the view, soak in the sun...and be thankful for my existence.

South lawn of Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art in Kansas City

internet photo

The Jacket

A guardian of Notre Dame

Preface:  I think the most interesting travel stories are about the unexpected happenings and encounters - those unusual situations that make a trip more memorable.  The following is one such account that occurred in Paris during the summer of 2007. 

The Jacket
a travel memoir
by Greg Larson

     Back in the early 1980’s I found a jacket at Woolf Brothers in Kansas City at their Ward Parkway department store.  I couldn’t afford the dark teal-blue Christian Dior jacket but it was such a lightweight fabric, and it fit so well that I bought it. I never regretted the purchase.  It was almost like an old friend.  I was comfortable going anywhere with it.  Over the years it survived a lot of wear and tear, and I had washed it many times.  It had a big Christian Dior tag on the inside below the collar that said “New York – London – Paris” with smaller letters below that said “made in Taiwan”.

     As we planned our 2007 summer trip to France, my wife, Gretta, and I noticed that the Paris temperatures were 50 – 75 degrees Fahrenheit, so I decided the jacket would be perfect for the Paris segment of the trip, especially on the night we planned for our dinner cruise on the Seine River.

A cruise on the Seine River in the heart of Paris

     The dinner cruise was the highlight of our brief time in the beautiful city of Paris.  It was our last evening there before we departed on a train to southern France for our bike tour, so we cherished each moment of our time in a city that was so alive.  The glass-enclosed boat departed near the Eiffel Tower and cruised through the heart of Paris, passing the Louvre, the Musee D’Orsay, the Notre Dame Cathedral, and the Bibliothèque; then turning around for the return to the Eiffel Tower.  The Parisians looked so happy, especially during an evening along the Seine.  Lovers sitting on the quays and the banks waved to us as we glided past.  We raised our wine glasses as a toast, and they raised their bottles to us!  Children jumped up and down, pointing to us with one hand, holding on to their parents with the other hand.  The summer evening sun reflected in a golden hue on the Cathedral which towered above the river bank on the Île de la Cité, as lights began to come on throughout the city, sparkling and reflecting off the water.  Finally, the lights of the Eiffel Tower came into view.  The boat had just pulled into the dock when the strobe lights on the tower began sparkling and flashing like fireworks, announcing the beginning of the eleven o’clock hour.

La Tour Eiffel

Greg (with jacket on chair) and Gretta

     It wasn’t until the next morning on the train to southern France that I realized my teal blue jacket was missing.  I remembered carrying it in my hand as we departed the cruise, but then I probably left it on the subway or possibly at l’Hôtel Eugénie, where we had stayed.  I told Gretta that it might be at the hotel, and we could have them look in their lost-and-found items on our return to Paris, since we would be staying there again for two nights.  The jacket was getting old, I rationalized, and I did get my money’s worth from it.
     When we returned to l’Hôtel Eugénie, we checked into the same room we had occupied less than two weeks earlier.  As we left to go sight-seeing, Gretta stopped at the front desk to ask the clerk if the jacket was in the lost-and-found.  The desk clerk had a confident air as he spoke, although he was very polite.  He had dark hair and bushy eyebrows and looked like an authority figure to me.  I could picture him as a detective or a supervisor.  Gretta did an excellent job of speaking in French to him as she explained our problem.  He frowned and said, “Hmmm”, and then he got on the phone and the intercom and talked to the maids on duty.
     He asked the color again, and I said in my best French, “Bleu! Christian Dior!”
     His large eyebrows raised and he turned one eye to look at me as he purred, “Ah, Christian Dior!”  Then he got on the phone and talked to the maids again, and he asked Gretta if we were sure we left the jacket in the hotel.
     “Non” said Gretta.  We weren’t sure where it was misplaced, and we thanked him for his time.

Paris - a city to embrace

     The weather was cool and there was a mist in the air as we walked out onto the streets.  I didn’t want to wear my neon yellow cycling jacket around Paris.  That would be a bit too garish. Gretta suggested we go over to the department stores in the shopping district on the Rive Droite and see if we could find something.  The store she had remembered from her previous times in Paris was closed for remodeling, but we did see a lot of people going into another store, so we followed the crowds.  It appeared that summer sales were on, and the place was crawling with people sifting and pawing through the merchandise.  I hadn’t seen this many people in a downtown department store since I was a little kid at Christmas time.
     We went up to the men’s apparel department on the second floor and I selected some nice jackets to try on for fit and look. Then I glanced at myself in the mirror.
     “Look at us” I told Gretta, “Here we are - two people who dislike shopping - in downtown Paris getting caught up in the mobs at the summer sales!” I found a wonderful classic jacket with a zipper AND buttons.
     Gretta said, “You look very European in that jacket!”
     Her comment boosted my ego, so I looked in the mirror again.  Yeah, I thought, I look just like some Belgian cycling fan at the one-day spring classic races standing in the North Sea drizzle.  I’ll buy it!  Gretta discovered the jacket was 50% off the tag price, so it cost me only 25 euros or about $32.  If I’d found it at Dillard’s or Macy’s, it might have been $100 or more!
     I put it on just as we left the store and was glad to wear it in the mist.  I’d already found a new friend in the jacket.  Maybe we can go places together for another 25 years, I thought, and Gretta can come, too!  I popped open the umbrella, put my arm around her, and we walked onto the crowded sidewalks of Paris.

Greg with new jacket - looking so continental

Creative Legacy

Preface:  My maternal grandmother had creative and artistic talent that she used long after she retired from teaching.  This creative talent has now passed down through the Beck family for three generations and has become a legacy, with many of the descendants displaying a creative "streak."  Creative Legacy is a memoir dedicated to my Grandma and her creativity.

Creative Legacy
non-fiction memoir
by Greg Larson

     There are many things that I remember about Grandma, but most of all I remember her smile.  She always greeted us with a smile and hug whenever we visited.  Her words of encouragement and optimism always soothed me.  Grandma (Ethel Lea Beck) was an inspiration to me as a teen-ager.  At an early age, I realized that I wanted to live like her when I became “old.”  There were so many things that fascinated me; her artwork was the most interesting activity of all.  She was always energized about something, whether it was sewing, fashion, cooking, gardening, travel, photography or even the subject of color.  No matter the topic, she became immersed in it, and the energy made her appear full of life.

Ethel Lea Beck - 1960

     In the 1920’s, she married John Elliot Beck, a World War I veteran, and quarterback of the football team at Kansas State Teachers College in Emporia, Kansas.  They both graduated with teaching degrees; Grandma’s expertise was in home economics and sewing, and Granddad’s expertise was in industrial arts and coaching.  In the 1950’s and 1960’s during their years of high school and junior high school teaching, Grandma and Granddad spent their summers traveling the U.S.  Their goal was to visit all of the contiguous 48 states by car, and they hoped to eventually visit Alaska and Hawaii via boat.  As a young teacher and coach at Cottonwood Falls, Kansas, in 1931, Granddad had witnessed the wreckage of the plane crash which killed Knute Rockne.  After seeing the carnage, he vowed never to fly in a plane.

     They drove their Plymouth everywhere in the summertime, taking us grandkids on outings to a creek or lake near Emporia to fish and have a picnic.  I remember Grandma filling the plaid “scotch” bag and thermos bottles with food and drink, while Granddad loaded the trunk with fishing poles, tackle boxes, blankets and folding chairs.  The ride out into the Flint Hills seemed long and hot during the day, since the Plymouth did not have air-conditioning.  Any accessory in a car was considered a luxury, or as in the case of the radio, a nuisance.

     Grandma’s painting ability was impressive.  She was not afraid to try any art style, technique, or medium.  Her repertoire ran the gamut from still-life to landscapes to abstract works using watercolors, acrylics, gouache (poster paint), oil, and encaustic (bee’s wax).  Her abstract talent increased greatly during the ‘60’s when she enrolled in evening painting classes at the college.  At one point, she belonged to an artist’s guild in Emporia, and they displayed and sold paintings from an empty store space downtown.  Even today, on the backside of some of her paintings, I can find a price marked “$20.00” for something that I consider priceless.  I don’t know whether or not she ever sold any of her artwork.  I do know it was hard for her to part with any of the completed works, and I remember many times when she brought new paintings to my mom, aunt, or uncle, agreeing to “loan” the paintings to them for awhile.  Photographs from travels or from magazines gave her inspiration for the landscape paintings.  She told me that it was impractical to create a painting outdoors at the site, and that color photographs gave her enough documentation to guide her as she developed the artwork.

     The following are some representative works she completed in the 1950’s and 1960’s:

Wintertime

(circa 1950’s)

Ethel Beck

17”x10 ¾”

Watercolor and Gouache

Wintertime (above)
     The hills near the Cottonwood and Neosho river valleys are full of scenes like the one above, with walnut, maple and oak groves mixed with sumac and assorted underbrush that hug the creeks and ravines.  The painting depicts a frosty, overcast day after a snowstorm; a timeless view of nature in the Flint Hills, evoking a quiet and peaceful mood.

Abstract #1

(circa 1960’s)

Ethel Beck

14 ¼” x21 ½”

Watercolor and Gouache

Abstract #2

(circa 1960’s)

Ethel Beck

14 ¼” x21 ½”

Watercolor and Gouache

Abstracts #1 and #2 (above)
     Texture, color and balance are keys to the success of these paintings, which are viewed as a pair.  I can only guess at the subject matter of the paintings due to the abstract nature of the compositions.  I believe that Grandma’s sewing and fashion design background influenced these paintings.  Abstract #1 hints of pattern pieces of cloth.  At the top of the painting there appears a cubist version of an adjustable mannequin neck on a torso.   Abstract #2 evokes images of stacked bolts of cloth, although the tubes or pipes seem out of place (bed frames and curtains?).  Unfortunately, Grandma is no longer living, but many times I’ve wished I could have a conversation with her to discuss what inspired her to create paintings like Abstracts #1 and #2, and to learn about the details.

Night Skyline

(circa 1950’s)

Ethel Beck

18” x 12”

Watercolor and Gouache

Night Skyline (above)
     This painting, which hung for years on the wall of my grandparents’ basement, has always intrigued me, since it includes architecture and the man-made environment of the city.  It is the epitome of a winter night in Kansas City.  Snatches of streets, bridges and buildings create a cubist rhythm and balance, and the old concrete viaduct railing ties the composition together.  Her inspiration might have come from a photograph in a magazine, such as National Geographic.  With a night skyline as the subject, she gave it a Kansas City flavor.  Just looking at the painting now gives me flashbacks of tense drives home from my office at Crown Center through the snowstorms.  I see the bright headlights coming down the main street and the red taillights retreating up the hill.  The wet pavement, the hint of snow, and the industrial appearance of the shadowy skyline combine to provide the cold wintry feeling.

     I always assumed the element left of center was a huge smokestack, but one evening a couple of decades after Grandma’s passing, the silhouette of the Liberty Memorial and the north wall jumped out at me.  Then I saw the steam cloud at the top and became convinced this was an added Kansas City feature she gave to the painting.  Nighttime light and reflections are difficult to achieve in paintings. Grandma came close to mastering the techniques in Night Skyline.

Temple Ruins

(circa 1965)

Ethel Beck

24” x 36”

Encaustic on acrylic paint on masonite

Temple Ruins (above)
     I was a sophomore during the 1966-67 school year at Garden City High School.  My art teacher at school announced that there would be a city-wide religious art competition, and he provided us with information on how to submit entries if we were interested.  I hadn't created any significant religious art, but I talked to Grandma and asked her if she had anything she would like to enter.  In the mid ‘60’s she had worked in an unusual medium called “encaustic” in which the final layer of color was a blend of crayons and bee’s wax heated by a small torch.  She had a completed work entitled Temple Ruins and decided she would enter it in the competition.  The painting is abstract, compartmentalized, and multi-colored, with hints of glowing figures in boxes or rooms, and references to towers, windows and architectural elements.  It has a somber, eerie feeling, as if man has compartmentalized himself, or even worse, God has left the figures to remain in a purgatory prison.  Other parts of the painting are colorful and bright, giving the painting a stained-glass simile.  I never asked Grandma how or why she developed the painting, and again, I am left to speculate, knowing the answers disappeared with her.  On one of our many family trips to Emporia, we packed the painting in the back of the station wagon and transported it back to Garden City in time to submit it for the art competition.

     Unfortunately, Grandma was unable to come and visit the display of entries and see the awards.  My granddad had taken a turn for the worse with lung cancer and Grandma wanted to stay with him in Emporia.  On the Sunday afternoon of the art show, my parents dropped me off at the exhibit space near downtown Garden City.  For some reason, I was the only person in the family to attend.  I browsed the entries, viewing a wide variety of quality in different media, and began to see “honorable mention” and other ribbon awards for pieces from different categories.  I started to panic because I could not find my grandmother’s painting.  It was large enough that I thought it would surely be found easily.  I walked throughout the exhibit a second time but could not find her painting.  Where was it?  Had it been lost?

     Near the end of the viewing, the head jurist had scheduled a lecture to comment on the show and to provide a critique of the Grand Award.  I walked over to the room set up with chairs, and peered up the main aisle.  At the front of the room was Temple Ruins on an easel with a great big Grand Award ribbon attached to the frame!  I was bursting with pride, but was too shy to tell anyone about my relationship to the First Place artwork and its creator.  The lecture was a bit dry, and it was hard for me to concentrate on it, due to my excitement.  I do remember the jurist explaining that part of the art itself is the experience the artist has during the creation and execution of the artwork.  This was the pinnacle of my Grandmother’s art career, and sadly she was not able to be there to accept the award and share her experience with those attending.

     My granddad died a month or two later.  A few years earlier, Grandma and Granddad had taken a cruise to Alaska, the 49th state which they had visited.  Then in the early ‘70’s one of my aunts traveled with Grandma to Hawaii by plane…completing Grandma’s visit to all 50 states.  On her return, she painted several simple watercolors of surf, coral, and flowers she had seen there.  Shortly after that, the quality and quantity of her artwork significantly diminished.

     Her paintings are now treasures that are spread amongst 10 cousins, located from Kentucky to New Mexico.  Grandma’s creativity is also a legacy that is passing to other generations.  My aunt Jean was the most artistic and creative of Grandma’s three children; Joan, Jean, and Kenneth.  Many relatives from all of their families have creative strengths in architecture, art, photography, graphic design and writing.  It’s good to know the Beck creativity will continue for generations to come.

     Here is a small sampling of examples of artwork created by some of Grandma’s descendants:

Artist:  Jean Rankin

Daughter of Ethel Beck

Artist:  Emunah Rankin

Great-granddaughter of Ethel Beck

Daughter of Ted Rankin

Artist:  Hannah Beck

Great-granddaughter of Ethel Beck

Daughter of Robert Beck

Artist:  Erica Larson

Great-granddaughter of Ethel Beck

Daughter of Greg Larson

A Heart Saved

Thanks again for all your thoughts and prayers.  I am truly blessed with so many friends and relatives!

A Heart Saved

Narrative non-fiction by
Greg Larson

Sometimes I think I’m pretty strong. Other times I think I’m good at using the brain. But when the doctors told me in December of 2009 that my heart had a rare aneurysm which had not burst but required open-heart surgery…I just stared at the floor, not knowing what to think. Should I feel thankful that my doctors discovered the unusual situation? Should I be upset that I had to cancel a planned ski trip? Would I survive? How would Gretta take the news?

In the days leading up to surgery, the background chatter in my dreams was noisier than usual. I heard a lot of voices discussing many things. I assumed that my soul’s disposition was the topic of their discussions. During the day, our dog, who is not the typical give-me-a-hug type of dog, knew something was up. He became chummy and tucked his nose next to my leg as we sat on the couch.

I’m thankful for the people who are strong and smart when it comes to health care. I felt like a wimp going to the slaughter, asking for anything to put me out quickly on the day of surgery. I didn’t want any part of it, and was glad I didn’t have to hear the whine of the saw and smell the burnt bone as they began the procedure of opening me up.

The best feeling of the hospital experience was waking up from surgery. I knew that I had survived. I was highly medicated and didn’t feel the pain, yet. The worst experience was the next 72 hours. It seemed like the hospital was a big tube, and I was being squeezed through bizarro-land. Best to just go with the flow.

After four and a half days in the hospital, I’m resting at home now. I feel like I’ve survived a rite of passage, mixed with drugs, pain, tubes, excellent nurses, mediocre food, and constant “vital sign” checks. I am smart enough to know that I need to take care of myself and follow the doctor’s and nurse’s instructions. No driving for 4 weeks. No lifting over 10 pounds until approved by the doctor, lung exercises, walking repetitions, etc.

The discharge nurse told me a story about a man who returned to the cardiac floor after he had gone home from heart surgery. The man had decided that since his limit for lifting was ten pounds, it would be just fine to build a deck with a five-pound hammer. While working on the deck, some of the surgical wires that held his sternum together began to poke through his chest. He cut the exposed wires and took them to the doctor, asking him if the wires had accidentally been left in his chest. Not very smart.

Outside, the 20 inches of snow accumulation from back-to-back blizzards has been melting for five days. And thanks to my good friend, Jim Fleming, for stopping by to remove an ice dam from the roof. Now there is a kind heart!