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SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  9/3/26
DESCRIPTION:  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nSeptember 3\, 2026 \n  \nHi Johnny- \n  \nSince you and I are both cloud lovers I thought I’d send you this little idea that occurred to me. I hope you get a kick out of it. \n  \nLove & peace\, of course\,            \n– Bill \n  \nYou know the way some surfers get towed by a jet ski out to the biggest waves?  Well\, some day when those huge\, white cumulus clouds are at their height\, when they’re even more spectacular than usual\, maybe we could hire a helicopter to take us up a few thousand feet.  Then we could just step out onto one of the larger clouds and spend the afternoon playing in the sky…. \nWe can roll around on the tops of the clouds like a big feather bed.   \nRide them like horses.   \nWe could jump from one cloud to another\, like being at a trampoline park.   \nWe can play tag\, or dive inside the clouds playing hide & go seek.   \nWe could strap a cloud on each foot and run around\, pretending we’re giants. \nIf more friends come with us we can each take a cloud and hold races.  Or we could line up and make a parade!  Or we can all hold hands from our individual clouds and make a big train— “The Cumulus Express”! \nOr if we’re feeling really adventurous we could go a little higher up and have a friendly snowball fight. \nWe might get a look at the daytime moon\, or get to see an eagle at work. \nMaybe we’d snuggle down into one of the warmer clouds and take a little nap. \nWhen we get thirsty we can drink the dew; when we’re hungry we can snack on the cloud fluff (better than cotton candy—sugar free).  \nWhen we’re played out and the Sun starts going down it would be time to hitch a ride on one of the heavier\, darker clouds as it’s slowly sinking down to earth.  We’d gently step off as the fog settles near our homes\, just in time for supper.   \nAnd then we get to sleep in our own beds\, putting our heads on our pillows\, fluffy and white like the clouds\, and float away into our next dreams…. \n  \n—Bill Faricy \n* \n  \nFan of Fall \n  \nSeptember. Finally! Finally I can write about Fall and why I love it so much. You might say\, Oh\, but you must learn to love where and when you are in the moment\, in the present. Sorry\, not sorry. August is my least favorite month. The only plus it has going for it is that it is a harbinger of Fall—of beautiful September\, October\, and November. They are the three most luxurious\, stimulating\, and captivating months of the year. We are out of the stultifying heat of summer and into the fresh\, sharp\, clear air of the fall months. All of my senses are fresher. More observant. More in the present: the vine maples turning scarlet. The daylight hours constricting. The moon and stars sharpening against the darkness. And the air! Cool mornings\, fresh afternoons chilly evenings. My pumpkins swelling to the size of beach balls. Tomatoes\, green beans\, chrysanthemums\, asters\, all welcoming the fall sunshine. \n  \nAnd right now I’m off to can pears in the slanting sunlight. Happy in September! \n  \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \nCarl Alsup read me a poem by Dustin Smith. A short time later\, Dustin mailed it to me. Here it is: \n  \nThe Treasure of the Sierra Padre \n  \nMemories of my father run quietly \nIn the background of my mind \nLike old black and white movies. \n  \nThe silently shifting scenes hurt \nLike celluloid cigarette burns \nThrough clenched teeth. \n  \nI feel the rattling reels vibrating \nThrough me; thrumming a dull\, deep ache \nIn the darkened hush of recollection. \n  \nMy father was reserved; stoic. \nA Humphrey Bogart type. Solemn\, \nSolitary\, with a certain quiet desperation. \n  \nHe was a mountain of a man\,  \nLooming large in the horizon behind me. \nSeemingly inevitable; eternal. \n  \nHis hands keep leaping out at me \nIn vivid 3-D reveries\, \nWrapped around tall bourbons\, \n  \nNeat\, like bottomless still-glass pools \nAmongst old stones\, reflecting the \nAmber fires of setting suns. \n  \nHis rings stand out most of all; \nClinking against cut-crystal highballs. \nBrilliant flashes of color \n  \nAmidst the deepening gloom \nOf time and space. \nRough\, calloused hands; gnarled and twisted \n  \nFrom weathering storms. \nI see the broken\, craggy cliffs \nOf knuckles towering over me\, \n  \nRiddled with rich veins of gold \nAnd gemstones; the luster of the ore \nSoftening the hardened earth. \n  \nDangerous. Breath-taking. \nThose cliffs had broken men \nUpon their slopes. \n  \nBut they were tender too. \nI still feel their presence \nResting heavy on my shoulders \n  \nWith the comforting heft of \nThe permanence of love; \nA granitic weight \n  \nSheltering me from the world \nLike a valley nestled within the arms \nOf a natural colossus. \n  \nMy father was a mountain of a man; \nShaped by the molten heat \nAnd violence of the world; \n  \nSoftened in perspective and \nCaptured forever in memory. \nA timeless classic that perseveres. \n  \n—Dustin Smith \n7/29/26 \n* \n  \nI asked Kim to send a poem about his dad. He generously obliged. \n  \nBack Then\, His Words  \nWere Not Enough… \nNow They Are Precious \n  \nWe stopped on a road in Montana \nthe last summer of my father’s life\, \nbut we didn’t know. I turned off the car  \nand poured out my sorrows\, my life  \nfalling apart\, my marriage over\, my brother  \ndead\, my old landmarks gone. \n  \nHe was silent\, my father\, silent. We listened  \nto the river. Two crows flew over\, shouting.  \nThey could go anywhere. In hard light\,  \nthe river flowed silver at the long bend\,  \nwillows bowing green. My father  \nput his hand on my sleeve: \n“Be of good heart\, my friend.” \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \nPrayer for My Father \n  \nIn memory of my father William J. Hornyak M.D. (1909-1981) \nwho died when I was 28 but left an indelible impression on my life. \nI miss him every day. \n  \nMy father \nWho art in heaven \nHallowed by thy name. \nYou gave to me daily \nThe bread of yourself \nForgave me my ingratitude \nAnd led me not \nInto your expectations \nOf my future \nBut towards a vision \nOf my own. \n  \nYour labors and love \nSeeded tenderness and discipline \nCourage and compassion \nUpon my soul. \nYour surgeon’s hands healed many \nBut your medicine was humor \nLaughter and music. \nYou left so soon \nBut remind me still \nTo be of good cheer \nAnd of service \nTo make things \nWith wood and words \nTo love and respect \nMy sisters \nTo give freely \nThe bread of myself to others \nAnd deliver people upon occasion \nFrom melancholy and boredom \nWith a joke or story. \nFor mine is a kingdom \nMade from the soil \nOf your sacrifice and love. \nAll glory and honor to you my father \nWho art in heaven \nNow and forever \nAmen. \n  \n—Will Hornyak\, from This Altar of Earth and Sky \n* \n  \nThese two poems by William Stafford seem to me to complement each other in some mysterious way. \n  \nAn Archival Print \n  \nGod snaps your picture—don’t look away— \nthis room right now\, your face tilted \nexactly as it is before you can think \nor control it. Go ahead\, let it betray \nall the secret emergencies and still hold \nthat partial disguise you call your character. \n  \nEven your lip\, they say\, the way it curves \nor doesn’t\, or can’t decide\, will deliver \nbales of evidence. The camera\, wide open\, \nstands ready; the exposure is thirty-five years \nor so—after that you have become \nwhatever the veneer is\, all the way through. \n  \nNow you want to explain. Your mother \nwas a certain—how to express it?—influence. \nYes. And your father\, whatever he was\, \nyou couldn’t change that. No. And your town \nof course had its limits. Go on\, keep talking— \nHold it. Don’t move. That’s you forever. \n  \n  \nA Story That Could Be True \n  \nIf you were exchanged in the cradle and \nyour real mother died \nwithout ever telling the story \nthen no one knows your name\, \nand somewhere in the world \nyour father is lost and needs you \nbut you are far away. \n  \nHe can never find \nhow true you are\, how ready. \nWhen the great wind comes \nand the robberies of the rain \nyou stand on the corner shivering. \nThe people who go by— \nyou wonder at their calm. \n  \nThey miss the whisper that runs \nany day in your mind\, \n“Who are you really\, wanderer?”— \nand the answer you have to give \nno matter how dark and cold \nthe world around you is: \n“Maybe I’m a king.” \n  \n—William Stafford \nReprinted with permission of The Estate of William Stafford. \n* \n  \nI wrote this the day my dad died. \n  \nHere are some of my thoughts about my father: \n  \nMary and I thanked Dad for all he had given us over the years\, especially for that most precious of all gifts—the gift of life. As I have gotten older I have gained a deeper appreciation for what a good father he was to me. Over the years he has given me lots of support and encouragement in all kinds of undertakings. He was a generous man. From early childhood on\, he respected me as a person\, and gave me a sense that I could accomplish anything I gave my best effort to. As a father\, his natural impulses went against the kind of shaming and blaming that paralyzes a person and makes them feel worthless and guilty. He always encouraged in me the qualities of happiness\, exuberance and generosity that come naturally to children. A great deal of the abundant happiness that has been my lot in life is due to the positive reinforcement and praise I received as a small boy from both my parents and from my older sister. Looking back\, I’m impressed at how much time Dad had to teach me how to pass and catch a football\, to field and hit a baseball\, to make a lay-in with my left hand\, to stand on my head and on my hands\, to do front and back somersaults\, to dive off a diving board. I have vivid memories of assuming the starting position for wrestling with Dad again and again on the living room floor. He was more eager to teach me arithmetic\, geometry and algebra than I was to learn them. He patiently taught me how to use a hammer\, a saw and an axe. He taught me how to build a house and how to paint one\, how to mow the lawn\, how to ride a bike and a unicycle\, how to garden. He took me to baseball games\, basketball games\, football games\, track meets\, wrestling meets\, gymnastic meets and hockey matches. He taught me a lot about the life of the body and of the mind. He recited poetry to us. Both our parents took us to plays\, movies\, concerts\, museums\, and cultural events of all kinds. I got to see Angus Bowmer play Shylock and Sir Toby Belch. We went to hear Louis Armstrong (twice)\, Harry Belafonte\, The Dave Brubeck Quartet\, The Oscar Peterson Trio\, Al Hirt and Peter\, Paul and Mary. By the time I was five I had been in a high school play\, thanks I’m sure to Dad. Around our house the love of books\, of reading\, of ideas was contagious. We went camping and travelled around the country. We lived in Montana and Oregon and Hawaii. We had a cabin on Flathead Lake\, on the Sandy River\, and on the Oregon Coast. Our parents promised to pay for our college educations. As I look at the long list of things my mom and dad did for us kids it sounds like a life of wealth and privilege\, but our parents made this happen as hard-working\, frugal\, middle-class people. As a schoolteacher\, Dad got off work before Mom\, so he usually did the grocery shopping and made dinner. \n  \nI ran into conflict with my dad in adolescence. Readers of Freud won’t be too surprised by this. I guess it’s more accurate to say that my lifelong conflicts with my father reached their peak intensity at that time. This conflict came to a head with my decision to not just be a “conscientious objector” (legal)\, but to be a “draft resister” (illegal) against the war in Vietnam. By that time all our family agreed that the war was wrong\, but my liberal parents\, who had both graduated from Law School\, could not agree with my rejection of Capitalism\, Industrialism and the Nation State as innately destructive. Our disagreements reached the exploding point\, but out of the catharsis came a new understanding and respect for each others’ views\, for each others’ basic humanity\, and for each others’ efforts to make sense of our lives—to accept and love each other as fellow-suffering mortals. Since that time\, despite disagreements\, my father and I have known each other and loved each other man to man. \n  \nI said “good-bye” to Dad this morning. I’m sad. I miss him. My father’s love for my mother and her love for him were an inspiration to all who knew them. They loved us kids. It is a great blessing to grow up in a loving home. This morning\, as Dad and I looked deep into each others’ eyes for the last time\, I felt that saying “I love you” somehow implied that we were separate. So I said to him: “This is Love. This is who you are. This is who we are. Nothing will ever happen to this. This was not born and cannot die. Love. Yes. Love. Yes. Love. Yes. Love. Love. Love.” \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n11/27/96 \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-9-3-26/
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DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20260912T120000
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SUMMARY:Amos Kilbright: his adscititious experiences  9/12/26
DESCRIPTION:  \nAmos Kilbright: his adscititious experiences \n  \nFrank Stockton’s astonishing tale \nread by Johnny Stallings \n  \nSaturday\, September 12th\, at noon \nin the Artspace Room at Taborspace \n5441 SE Belmont Street\, in Portland \n  \nthis Open Road event is free \n  \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/amos-kilbright-his-adscititious-experiences-9-12-26/
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