Even More Kesey Tributes Page
Thanks to everyone who sent stuff in honor of Kesey.
If it's not on the site yet, it soon will be...Rick
From Garrick by way of IntrepidTrips.com
Christmas 1971
Just thirty years ago, in November of 1971, we were living in the
sparsely populated mountains of Oregon's Coast Range, alongside the
gentle Smith River where it wound its way slowly downward toward the
Pacific shore.
By we I mean sixty of us, and half of those - it seemed - coming and
going each day, traveling up or down the route from L.A. thru the
frizzed remains of the Haight Ashbury, a scene whose glorious days
were now shrouded by the earlier 70's grimmer times, traveling across
the Golden Gate and up the California coast by way of the string of
Communes, Open communities, and God's Lands that dotted that
landscape, north into Southern Oregon and toward the assorted
"Families" of the Mystic Arts, or Lorien, or Cro, or Alpha, or
Innerspace or our own "Rainbow Farm."
There must've been 40 or 50 familytribes in the hills surrounding the
small hub city of Eugene alone. Most of these were quiet,
close-to-the-earth circles made of a few friends or couples and their
own closest pals. But some of these were open to the wind, and open
to the children of the winds of those times breezing on thru.
And breeze on thru they did. By the hundreds, dozens a day coming on
up the road, guided by word of mouth or hand drawn maps. And dozens
more leaving. All looking for something with meaning in those angry
war-torn and protest-filled times; or at least looking for a place to
rest, a wayside to stop at while "on the road."
And we were trying to build a community: make friends with our
old-timer neighbors, put in water systems, gather firewood, dry pears
and apples from the orchards, build cold frames and hot houses, and
frantically trying to assemble home built cabins, sheds, shantys in
which to shelter from the coming winter. Already the rains had set in
and the wood stoves were stoked full-time. Rows on rows of wet socks
hung each evening drying overhead in the firelight.
The whole idea of we city kids trying to make a communal life in
among nature may have really been half mad, or maybe just five
hundred or so years ahead of its time. Still, flute music drifted up
and down the valley at dusk, guitars rang in the firelight, racks of
fresh canned tomatoes were cooling in the pantries, huge communal
meals got cooked, served and washed up after...and most of the folks
who traveled in and out of our lives were glad to pitch in to help
make it all happen.
Then Barry, from the somewhat-associated "Rainbow House" in town, had
an Idea. He proposed that what the Eugene community could use come
Christmas time was a Happy Birthday Jesus party. Sort of a new take
on an old celebration.
In the weeks that followed we visited each of the Eugene area's
health food stores, told 'em our plan and asked for contributions
toward the cake. Everyplace we went to contributed. We just asked for
whatever they felt good giving. Of course, most of them knew us as
regular customers. We visited the Willamette Peoples Co-op, The Kiva,
Sunshine Natural Foods, several of the homespun organic restaurants,
even the conservative old-timey healthnut stores. And everyone gave
something. One gave honey, one gave eggs, one fruit, another nuts,
many contributed sacks of flour. And we invited the folks from each
of these...to meet us at the north end of the Eugene mall at dusk on
Christmas Eve.
Of course, we visited the Health Food and Pool Store, just over the
bridge into neighboring Springfield. It's run by Ken Kesey's brother
Chuck and serves as the headquarters outlet for Nancy's Yogurt and
the other fine Springfield Creamery products. They called it the
Health Food and Pool Store because in the midst of the racks and
shelves of edibles stood a log and beam structure upon which was set
a regulation pool table, so naturally, you could shop for your
granola and organic lettuce and shoot a few racks of pool while you
were at it.
When we pulled up there, the Prankster team was in the middle of
their own goings on. They had two huge used pizza ovens coming in by
truck. One of the Pranksters was radioing to the truck on a CB, the
others were clearing the way from the driveway inside to where the
ovens would rest. Ken was there and Chuck and Chuck's wife and Bobby
Skye and a half dozen more, all sleeves rolled up, ready as the truck
came in and not at all interested in what we were up to...unless it
was either to get out of the way, or to help carry the ovens - which
we did, and verily verily these were heavy ovens and all of us
grunting step by step until we were setting them down in the
appointed space and Babbs was pointing and directing, announcing at
last as we wiggled them into position, "This is, this is where we
want them."
In the catching-our-breath aftermath, they heard our plot and kicked
in a large tin of bulk raisins.
In the days before Christmas the farm on Smith River was a beehive of
activity. There was all the usual gift making and the holiday meal
preparations, as well as the huge round-the-clock job of baking the
cake. "Cakes," is more like it, since in the two wood cook stove
ovens we were using every baking pan we had to crank out cake after
cake. Rob Roy and I were building a three-part plywood and
two-by-four platform to carry the thing on. Dominic was supervising
the wheat grinding in the two flourmills, Major and Annie and Karen
were in the middle of the baking marathon. Laika and Terri were
testing icing recipes. Jack and Howdy had started making two thousand
little pink birthday candles. They had old bicycle wheels mounted
sideways on turning shafts as each wick, suspended from one of the
wire spokes was dunked into a canister of hot wax.
The plan was to assemble the cake piece by piece like a mosaic, with
a hollow cross-shaped space right in the middle. And so it went, on
into the night, assembling the pieces, icing the cake and setting the
rows of candles in place. By the mid-morning before Christmas Eve the
whole thing was ready. Well, there were maybe only 800 or so candles
done, but it sure looked like 2000. Then, we disassembled the
gigantic cake into its three parts, so we could get it out the door
and into the vehicles. A few hours later some forty of us packed
ourselves into our vans, and off we went toward the Eugene mall.
The mall itself was a recent creation of the city council who had in
a long-fought move closed the central streets of the city's downtown
to vehicle traffic and built and landscaped a dramatic public
pedestrian mall. At the furthest north end we found parking and
unloaded the cake parts. Already the light from the shop and
department store windows was shining brightly out onto the darkening,
shopper-filled streets. The place was bustling with last minute
buyers.
Other friends were there who'd planned to meet us and we were meeting
and greeting and simultaneously trying to get the cake together. The
three wooden parts were designed to be nailed one to the other with
a
series of pole handles so it could be lifted and carried along.
I'm trying carefully to tap one of the big nails in when I hear a
deep voice behind me, "Don'tcha think you're choking up a bit too
much on the hammer?"
Of course I was. I look up over my shoulder. It's Kesey. I was trying
not to take high strong swings with all that crowd around. But the
nail wasn't going in either. He grins, and tilts his head sorta
sideways shrugging one shoulder, as if to say: Hey, it's your show,
do it any way you want. So I bring my hand down to the hammer's grip
and with a couple of manly shots the platforms start coming solidly
together.
In a few more minutes we've successfully lifted the cake and about a
dozen of us are holding the handles comfortably at waist height.
Someone has placed a big Bible in the hollow cross, and a couple of
votive candles, and now someone places a small Oregon Grape and fir
bough wreath into it.
And off we go. Slowly, the whole lot of us parading south toward the
center of the mall singing the songs of tiding and good cheer. We'd
alternate the serious religious carols with secular songs, all of
them in the wonderful enthused harmonies of the season. Oh Come all
Ye Faithful and then White Christmas; Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer
and then Silent Night; and of course, wouldn't you know it, what with
the cake and all: Happy Birthday! Dear Jesus, Ha-ppy Birth-day to
Youuuu!
It was wonderful. People and more people came over. This was
something different. Something interesting. And we told them we were
celebrating Jesus' birth in the most popular, joyous way we could
imagine. People joined for a bit, sang along and then mostly went on
their own merry elfish ways finishing off their Christmas shopping.
But some stayed with the parade charmed by the innocence and
expression of joy as we wound our way slowly down the mall. The
center of the cake was filling up. People were putting all kinds of
stuff in the empty space of the cross: flowers, incense, peppermint
canes, small wrapped up gifts, pine cones, more Bibles. Many of the
parading company were holding candles, a couple were ringing bells.
It was a beautiful sight.
But when we came to the center of the mall where the two largest
streets used to cross. There we met another group of Christmas
spirits. They were what we called back then, the Jesus Freaks. And
they were angry. They were on the mall that night too, handing out
flyers urging people to boycott the money spending frenzy of
commercialism that had overtaken Christmas.
It was easy to understand what they were protesting. But their
handouts were scary, telling folks they were being used by the Devil
to subvert the meaning of God's Son, that every dollar they spent on
so-called gifts was another dollar going to The False Prophet of
materiality.
And when they saw us, they began a mighty wailing. "Beware lest you
become like these Children of Satan!" they called out pointing at us.
"See how far from the truth Satan has taken them! They make a mockery
of our Lord and Savior!" Some of the folks on the parade went over
and suggested they join our celebration, as this obviously was not a
commercial hype but a simple outpouring of joy and thanks. But they'd
have none of it. And on we went singing and strolling, and on they
went haranguing the crowds.
A few robust, song-filled city blocks later we arrived at the quieter
south end of the mall, where a gentle slope of still-green grass lead
up to a merchant association's manger and crèche scene -- one with
the statues of the Holy Family, and the Shepherds, and the Lambs and
the Kings. We set the cake down at last, and with a hundred hands to
help, lit as quickly as we could manage, all the eight hundred
candles.
There, under the star-twinkling sky we joined arms over shoulders in
a big circle, many layers of people deep with the rest of the crowd
standing, watching from all around us. And softly, so gently we
intoned a long sweet Ommm. As the harmony of the Ommm ended a woman's
voice slowly began, "Our Father Who art in Heaven...." and the crowd
picked it up and recited the prayer, and the breeze picked up and
rippled gently across us and blew out the candles.
It was a very quiet moment after that.
And a small voice somewhere to my right spoke up, asking, "Does
anybody want any LSD?"
Even in 1971 only months really after the Sixties had ended; even in
Eugene, Oregon deep behind The Granola Curtain; even twenty years
before They began the War on Drugs; even then, that was an outrageous
question to ask in public.
And my friend, Howdy, turned to Kesey - who had been the one asking
the question - and he said to Ken, "I thought you'd graduated from
that," referring of course to the infamous Acid Test Graduation.
Ken smiled, looked right at him, and said, "I decided to re-enroll
for my doctorate."
Howdy had his mouth open in no time, urging the Good Provider not to
be sparing with the material. Myself and dozens of others joined in
line, getting dosed on the tongue.
We proceeded with our plan, saddling up the giant cake and walking
and singing again back into the center of the mall. We set it down on
a low wide wall that was part of the walkway's architecture and
singing one last rousing round of Happy Birthday, proceeded to cut
the cake and each eat a piece. It was quite delicious.
Even with everyone who had joined us in the celebration eating a
piece, still we had only dented a corner of the confection, and as
planned, we began to hand out the cake to all the passersby and all
the shoppers.
Jack and I and Karen were cutting the cake and everyone else was
taking two or three pieces to share with the crowds. Pretty soon most
of our friends were coming back saying it wasn't so easy to give the
cake away.
The folks who knew us or who'd paraded with us, all gladly ate their
fill, but when they were done and departed there we were with a huge
amount of cake trying to explain to total strangers who hadn't seen
the show, who hadn't seen the parade what this was all about. People
were in a hurry to get their shopping done, and not so interested in
stopping for a piece of some strange kind of cake.
We kept trying to give it out, but the longer we tried, and the more
people turned it down and turned away, the more awkward the whole
effort began to seem.
By then the Jesus Freaks across the street had started to notice our
problem and they began coming closer, handing out their flyers nearer
and nearer to us.
I'm starting to come on to the acid really fast. I can feel that
taste in my mouth and my thoughts catching up to each other. The
whole scene seems to be taking a turn in an unexpected and
uncomfortable direction. A couple of folks are arguing with the Jesus
Freaks now, and more and more friends are coming back disappointed
from up and down the mall with the cake pieces still in their hands.
I'm not quite sure what to do.
I'm looking around trying to gather my thoughts and there's Kesey
coming out of the brightlit front doors of the Five and Dime store.
He's headed toward us, his big head festooned with three, no maybe
four or five, colored pointy party hats. The elastics are all under
his chin. He's wobbling slightly, carrying a couple of big shopping
bags, and now he's blowing one of those unrolling party horns. The
kind that goes, "Phew-eeee! as the colored paper unrolls like a
color-striped lizard's tongue. He's got three of these in his mouth.
He's blowing one then the next, "Phew-eeeee! Phew-eeeee!" One in one
direction and then one in another. "Phew-eeeee! Phew-eeeee!"
I feel like I'm seeing him moving in triplicate, what with the three
horns blowing, and he's rocking slightly back and forth as he walks,
and the multiple pointy party hats only add to the illusion.
Now he's standing right in front of us. Smiling. Beaming.
"Ken," I say, a bit soberly, "Do you really think this is what we
need right now?"
He looks at me again with that big questioning smile then hands me
the shopping bags and says only, "It's for communication." Then he
turns right around and heads off into our own crowd removing the
party hats one at a time and giving them away.
I look into one of the shopping bags. There's another set of those
same colored foil cone hats, and a plastic package of blowers. I take
these out wondering if I can bring myself to feel any more foolish or
do any more birthday partying. And there, under the blowers and under
the hats are piles of packages of cocktail napkins. I am struck as by
a sphere of Light. Merry Christmas, Happy Anniversary, Happy
Birthday, all different kinds of cocktail napkins. Disney characters,
Charlie Brown, even Happy Hanukah, cellophane wrapped packages of
each.
In a fraction of a moment I am unwrapping the napkins. I slide a
napkin under each of the pieces of cake in one person's hands.
Everyone is getting the picture fast. Everyone is helping place the
cut cake pieces onto the holiday napkins. Karen and Jack and I and
everyone are all trying again, walking up to strangers on the mall,
in the midst of Christmas shopping frenzy, asking if they'd like a
piece of Happy Birthday Jesus cake, and watching them take the napkin
and the cake and walk off saying things like, "Thank you, what a
lovely idea, What a lovely way to celebrate Christmas."
Over the next hour we gave out all the cake. Every last piece. All
eight hundred of them.
The Jesus Freaks slunk back to their other corner of the mall where
they could preach their brand of religion without interference from
our joy.
We took turns wearing the hats and blowing the blowers, and cutting
the cake up and giving it away. Everyone enjoyed it, the idea of it,
that is, and besides, as I've said, the cake was really delicious.
With the stars still twinkling in the clear night sky, as they
sometimes do in rainy Eugene, we bundled ourselves up and back into
our vans and drove on home to the mountains.
Kesey really was brilliant. He seemed to take reality by the hand and
lead it where he was going. He was always like that. I don't know
whether he just had the Gift of Insight or whether he worked hard to
get it, to see it, but he sweetened and salted it with folksy wisdom
and he braved taking a chance on what he believed.
From Kevin by way of IntrepidTrips.com
I put it off and put it off and put it off and put it off and now
it will always be too late, won't it? Your life is full enough I'm sure
but others of us might be lost a little in the cracks.. Still watching,
though. Waiting for life to come a knockin' - "C'mon kiddo, let's go!".
Well Hell Ken, or Chief, or whatever you want to be called. I
was born and raised right here in Eugene, Oregon.. Born right at the base
of the old Hope Abbey cemetery. Spent my childhood summers hangin' out
with the dead folk. It's easy to talk to dead folk, Ken.. Easier than
the living sometimes.
Folks I'd known when I was younger used to talk about their
parents goin' over to your place for parties and I'd say "so?". They'd
say "you don't know who Ken Kesey is?? Is a famous author and he lives
right here." Didn't interest me much at the time.
Come about the age of 16 I found myself browing about in the high
school library.. Came upon a book by the name of "The Electric Kool-Aid
Acid Test". Captivated me, Ken. Every year after I would sit and read
that book in the summer sun in southeast Eugene and dream about about that
amazing time, the awakening of awareness. the transcending of the
bullshit. Crude but accurate, I always thought.
But the strangest thing, Ken. The very DAY I finished that book
for the first time, I walked to the video store just down the street from
the house I grew up in.. Silver Screen video on Hilyard. There was a tall
man and what anyone would assume was his wife browsing about the store. I
had this odd feeling. I'd just read this book, see, but I'd never seen a
picture. What a feeling.. Well sure enough, it was you Ken with your
wife. Doesn't that just beat all? Ahh, such things aren't to be
surprised by I suppose. I wanted to say "Hello! I just read all about
you and how you and the Pranksters changed the face of the world in a way
I can appreciate wholeheartedly." But I didn't.
Then you came came to my high school a year or two later and read
from a new book you had just written that was Native American-esque. You
had a cool fire effect with a giant backdrop and you projected films of
nature scenes onto the eye. Great atmosphere. It wasn't an acid test but
do you know they let the whole school out of class for the
event? Haha.. I would have skipped class if I had to though.
There were many sitings. One year at a Hemp fest at Conde's
place, the first High Times thing I believe, I propped myself next to the
bus and smoked a little happy grass to try to feel a part of things. I
wanted to go inside the bus and meet everyone but thought there might be
some elitist attitudes floating about your scene. Besides, I know I come
from a different world and it's written all over my soul.
A couple years later I saw you and the gang at the Hemp Fest again
and you looked me in the eye as you walked by. I wanted to see into those
eyes that have been so influential, that have witnessed so many
extraordinary events.
What really bothered me about all this is.. I'd never been a fan
of anything really, and the whole fan thing always put me off. But I
think Ken that for one reason or a thousand others I have been a fan of
you
and your activities and accomplishments.. Right down to the loving circle
of family and friends that surrounds you.. There were folks like old
Terence McKenna who I really enjoyed and appreciated because he talked
eloquently of the same experiences and theories I had been through.
But you.. You were just involved and at the helm of some just damn neat
stuff, and I wish I could have been apart of it just once.
I even missed your thingie at the McDonland theater because I didn't hear
of it until the next day.
So.. I'm not saying everything but I've said a lot.. And yeah, it's a
little late. But obviously I could never say anything else before.
Well it was always a nice feeling knowing you were around.
I'm real sad you're gone, as selfish as that may be. I'm real sorry I
never said hello.. But now I'm sayin', Goodbye to you.
From Ramsay by way of IntrepidTrips.com
I don't believe in sympathy cards. It seems to me there's something vaguely
condescending about them: "I feel so sorry for you!" And considering you guys
-- Ken's family and cohorts -- got to share in his life, I don't think
there's any reason for pity. So for a moment, I just want to celebrate the
guy.
I got a personal taste of Ken in 1995 when I got to interview him for an
alt-weekly prior to a reading here in Philadelphia. He was funny and charming
and very insightful -- but you know all that. I steered clear of the Dead and
the Acid Tests -- topics that Ken was probably bored to death by -- and we
mostly talked about the nature of collaboration, which was certainly a major
theme in his life. I can only guess that he enjoyed the resulting piece; when
we met at the reading, I left two books with him to sign and when I picked
them up the next day, I found that both had been graced with very elaborate
artwork.
What I want to celebrate now is that willingness to collaborate, that
generosity of spirit. And while some might point to the Acid Tests or the
very interactive readings Ken gave in later years, I want to focus on that
graduate writing course that he taught at the University of Oregon. Compared
to the novels and the other great accomplishments of his life, this might
seem like a minor side trip. But I think it was really one of his most
sublime and audacious pranks.
What other writer of Ken's stature would be willing to put aside the
inevitable superiority of his position and get down in the trenches with a
group of students? More to the point, who else would dare challenge the
firmly entrenched, deeply doctrinaire system of American graduate writing
programs? Not many. The political consequences for anyone trying to further a
career in publishing or academia would be severe. And yet, after decades of
influence, the cultural consequences of these programs are equally
dispiriting. Consider this: Who among the younger writers on today's scene is
producing work that might actually shape events, the way Ken did, or Kerouac
or Ginsberg or Burroughs (or Hemingway or Fitzgerald or Whitman)? That list
seem pretty short.
I still remember the controversy that greeted Caverns, particularly one
vicious rebuttal -- not even a review -- in the New York Times Book Review.
Of course, the novel was hardly another Cuckoo's Nest. But when it appeared,
I'd already taken my share of college writing classes, and I had to admit
that in all that time I'd learned less about the craft than I did during the
six months I worked for a local newspaper on a leave of absence. So when Ken
put forth the idea that teaching the nuts and bolts of publishing was better
than propagating some officially sanctioned "right" way of creating, that
certainly struck a chord with me.
As to others, though, it's a longshot, even now. A few years ago I met Kurt
Vonnegut at a fundraiser for the Philadelphia Public Library. The place was
packed but at one point I found myself face to face with the great man.
Knowing of his long involvement with the writers program at the University of
Iowa, I asked if he really believed that writing could be taught.
Yes, he said, though he also suggested that it was more a matter of nurturing
an ability that was already present.
"In that case," I said, "have you heard about Ken Kesey's teaching experiment
at the University of Oregon?"
Vonnegut hadn't, so I explained the whole process of how the class wrote the
novel together and published it and how Ken believed that this was a more
valuable experience than any number of classroom critiques.
When I'd finished, Vonnegut thought about it for a moment and then said,
"Well, you don't see surgeons experimenting on their students!"
We both laughed -- it was a funny line -- and then he was swept off by some
major donor. Looking back, though, I thought it was odd that the author of
books as startling as Cat's Cradle and Sirens of Titan wouldn't be more open
to this kind of intellectual exploration.
But in the end, that's a major part of what made Ken so important.
I hope this rambling missive pays some sort of fitting tribute. And I also
hope that as Ken's memory is tended, that little experiment isn't forgotten.
Who knows? As notions about writing continue to evolve, in a hundred years
that may end up being his most enduring legacy.
Thanks, Ken!
From Michael by way of IntrepidTrips.com
First time I think I ever met Ken was at Bob and Karen Laird's house,
there on Jones Street in San Francisco. I had worked with Bob for some
time before, editing and such,
and it had been a couple years since I'd gone down to Los Angeles to
further confuse my career, but I would still pop up and visit friends
and family pretty often.
On one occasion, I had hooked up with Bob to come over, and maybe bring
some.... uh..... well..... "herbal libations". Well, it worked out that
day, and I dropped by briefly
that afternoon.
Ding-dong, and Bob answers "Hi-Ya, Pal...", and I turn, and there he
was, in the front room, smiling broadly, with that big face of his.
"Wow", I thought to myself, "this guy is dangerous" - in a fun way, if
that's possible. He seemed so energized, such a presence. I'd say he was
even charming, as he was so
excited to imbibe in adventure..... let alone the organic accessory.
Right then and there I liked that about him. I agreed with that. I
figured that that must be the same spirit
that allowed him to write those books about people and their adventures,
now featured in many University literature courses.
He was honestly glad to see me, I think, and the rest of the day all I
could see was that big face.
* * *
Another time in San Francisco, Ken was in the heat of editing with Bob,
on a section of The Wizard show, and again I just popped in to say
hello. There he was, in the
chair, with that big face again. "Hey, Feeney...." Bob said. Ken smiled
ear to ear, and remembered from before, I think.
They were stuck on one, last edit, where they were trying to splice in a
performance bit form one show, with another..... I think to conclude the
"Little Tricker the Squirrel"
reading. I suggested an insert just before the last pause and, Bob made
the edit, and it worked. I remember him sitting there, beaming, just
like the man on stage, alive from
the reading and the crowd's enthusiastic response. Ken looked like he
felt good all over. It was a little thing exchange, but I felt good
about helping out. I won't forget that.
Lastly, just this last Spring, I was up in Eugene with Bob, sniffing out
some business, and we were staying at Mike Hagen's place. The experience
was like meeting family I'd
never met before, like going back to my college dorm, just a great time.
I got to meet Mountain Girl, George, Ken Babbs, Max, and Anonymous, and
I found them all to be
delightful, real genuine folks, and that of course goes for Faye and
Ken, Shannon and Jay, and Zane.
Partaking in a "Happening" there on the farm was as unique as it was
interesting.
There was Mike Hagen - wailing into a microphone, as Ken led his troupe
on a bizarre adventure of music, song, and... meditation. He worked that
Theriman like a mad
Shaman. I got the notion that this was an exercise, a not-so-silly
ritual, intended to stoke the fires of imagination, to keep the gates
oiled, while it also help keep the tribal link
rejuvenated. It was obvious that Ken loved these men, and they likewise
in return.
Afterwards he showed us his "jail" art work, that he was submitting to
his New York publishers. He was incarcerated for something that no one
should be ever incarcerated
for, marijuana possession, but, nonetheless, in those many works, I saw
what fire he had, that freedom of thought and expression, something that
conformity and societal
punishment couldn't touch. He shared that with us, and it was precious.
I keep that in my head like a photograph, taking it out to look at once
in a while.
On the day we were to head back to the Bay Area, we gave Ken a lift to
the to the Airport. It happened to be a dreary morning, and he was not
feeling tops, but he was
determined to go back to New York to check in on the Cuckoo's Nest
opening, and re-shoot some material for the Intrepid Trips films. It was
kind of a somber ride, but he
was gracious, and pleasant. Bob was always in good humor, always
positive, and he helped make the trip to Portland smooth riding.
I had not said much to Ken en route, as I was didn't want to be
obnoxious. He had a lot on his mind, and I was content to listen to Bob
and Ken talk, but, later, for some
reason, I had this one question to ask this man, this great American
writer, at a time when I had no idea that it would be the last question
that I would ever put to this man on
this planet. I said: "Say, Ken, did you ever see a Bigfoot?"
Well, that pause on this one gray morning was longer than most others,
and perhaps he hadn't thought about laughing yet, but he turned his head
around to look at me there in
the bck seat, and he gleamed at me with a pretty steely eyeball and said
"no". But, then, there was that big broad smile that came along, one
like I had seen before.
I figured that, even if he thought that I was a complete idiot, I at
least got a smile out of him
That still lasts, and lasts, and will still.....
Thanks for the smile, Ken!
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Revised: December/11/2001
