![art goodtimes art goodtimes](https://i.pinimg.com/736x/54/d4/2c/54d42cc6c8738694a2c8888f0aad9478.jpg)
But I will be paying close attention to myself, something that I've found surprisingly harder than I ever thought possible, so easily does life's busyness distract us.
![art goodtimes art goodtimes](http://garylincoff.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/03/Art-Goodtimes.jpg)
So it's not with fear that I enter this curve in the road, but with an elder's eyes - aware that each joy, each adversity is an opportunity. Having been with Mary and my dad when they took their last breath, I've been close up with death. That includes not being on social media much, if at all. So I will be stepping back from all my jobs and projects to focus on my own healing. It happened rather quickly, and I just had it confirmed today. I've been diagnosed with squamous throat cancer, and will be entering treatment soon.
#Art goodtimes free
And I hope you will feel free to speak with me via email, if you are so moved. Get me Bontempi, they’d say, because he got down in the holds with his crew & by God, blowtorch & rivet gun he got it done right, which is what killed him just before his. I would prefer to speak with each of you individually. Thirty years a foreman for the shipyard & a helluva job my uncle did. Social media is a new phenomenon in our lives, so it's with a little trepidation I send this out to you. I will be using this Caring Bridge site for updates, if you're interested:ĭear friends. Here's what I posted on Facebook just over a month ago, when I first found out that I had HPV-positive squamous cell throat cancer.
#Art goodtimes series
Sitting around a table eating cookies & drinking coffee & my uncle coughing up phlegm & thirty years’ asbestos as the catcher flashed his signals & the pitcher unwound to deliver & the batter fanned air, striking out.įive of us, our shadows flickering in the artificial light & the World Series as close as we could get to God.Welcome to my Caring Bridge site. So, gathered together for that last windy October night in Bremerton, Washington, far from the rest of the family, my aunt & uncle & I & their friends, we watched the World Series, chatting during commercials about the weather & selling the house & all the time thanking God that we didn’t have to look at Harry who was dying painfully & who knew it & who had no help with it. We sat alone in our sadness because somewhere on the boat across the Atlantic, or maybe later in a crisp suburban tract by the Passaic, or later still on the final promised cliffs of the Pacific, somewhere we lost death & our connection to it & bought instead a new Cadillac or a Frigidaire that made its own ice cubes. Like the chilled fans in Candlestick’s box seats, waiting out innings, each of us sat alone in our sadness, as though death were a parking ticket or a distant cousin we refused to recognize, losing ourselves in baseball. The television set was on because this was America in the eighties & there was no way for us to connect to the mystery of his going. We all sat in the den, my uncle in his robe, belly big as a watermelon, & my aunt, heartsick, ankles swollen, eyes red with the flu & what was coming, & the television set was on. I was up north traveling & stopped to visit the same night as some friends of his from the shipyard, a stiff couple not given to many words but faithful. It happened that I saw my uncle a few days before he died.
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“Get me Bontempi,” they’d say, because he got down in the holds with his crew & by God, blowtorch & rivet gun he got it done right, which is what killed him just before his retirement, breathing in that asbestos till the fibers ate his lungs & the killer drugs, grisly with side effects, kept him hanging by a thread another year before his stomach bloated up & he couldn’t piss, wouldn’t eat, lay in his bed & moaned.Ĭurly-haired bambino who quit school to support the family his father deserted, who worked hard all his life, hands leathern with calluses. Thirty years a foreman for the shipyard & a helluva job my uncle did.