Happy Birthday Lez…
To my wife Lezley, on her birthday…
I’ve been a professional ink-slinger for over 20 years. I’ve been drawing for twice that long. Over the decades of practice, things I once thought impossible became possible. I can draw trees now. I can draw buildings now. I can almost draw anything that I think of… most of the time it comes pretty close. (most is being generous)
I’ve been drawing YOU for 11 years. However, no matter how many times I draw you, there are still several unknowns. BUT, there are four things that I can always count on:
1. I’ll show you your drawing and you will pause. Sometimes a long pause. I dislike those long pauses.
2. Nine times out of ten (if in color) I will fail to match your hair color of the moment.
3. You will INSIST that I’ve drawn you skinnier than YOU THINK you are. Apparently, my prescription lenses prevent me from seeing you “the way you really are…”
4. Three times out of ten you will ask me why I didn’t put Maggie in the picture with you.
Now, after 11 years of drawing you, there are archetypes I can always go to… things, characteristics that, if included, will scream LEZLEY to you. Everyone else will know it’s you without this stuff… but these are my tickets to Lezley approval:
1. Coffee. Duh. To-go cup or big mug depends on the season. To-go for summer, mugs for fall, winter and spring.
2. Purse. You change them about as often as your hair color so I have to be aware.
3. Phone. Double duh.
These three things, when added to a drawing let you know that those lines, even though you can’t see it, are you.
It’s all you.
I’ve said to you a million times I wish you could see yourself the way that I see you. While I can’t logically pull my eyes out and implant them in you, the drawings are my way of showing you. Lez, you’re amazing. Just amazing. Whatever flaws you think you have add to the amazing.
And, until you yourself can finally see it, I guess I just have to keep practicing. You’re a pain in the ass, but I’m lucky to have the hurt.
Happy Birthday Sweetheart. Love you.
Alan Bean was my guy…
Alan Bean was my guy.
It was hot yesterday. Not enough to force me to put the air conditioners in, but hot. I’d just spent a wonderful afternoon with Lez and Lauren and now they were off doing their thing, and I was home doing mine. It’s nice to not have to think about that thing we’ve been thinking about since February. Really nice.
I spent half an hour planting sunflowers… because I can’t forget to plant the sunflowers. Various projects have been sucking every bit of life out of me this last week and will continue to suck more in the coming weeks. But they’re in.
The plan was to clean up, check my news feed quick and hit the drawing board for a few hours. The Yankee game started at 7:15 p.m.
That’s when I found out that astronaut and artist Alan Bean had passed away.
It’s sad to say but true: I’ve grown accustomed to hearing that Apollo era astronauts have passed. But Beano’s passing hit me like a truck. He was my guy.
It’s no secret that I’ve been a space geek since elementary school. I’ve been reading about the U.S. space program since I was 9 or 10 years old. Of all the astronauts, Alan Bean was the one I gravitated towards. Selected in 1963, Alan Bean was just a regular guy. He didn’t have the bravado of Gene Cernan. He wasn’t quiet and aloof like Neil Armstrong or John Young. He wasn’t a wise-ass like Pete Conrad. He was just regular dude who worked hard. And he was an artist. A damn good one.
Imagine being one of only 12 human beings in the history of human being to do something. He walked on the moon. It didn’t matter to him that he was the 4th or the 400th to do it. He was just happy to be there. Now imagine putting that experience into art. Expressing that and sharing that with the world. Anyone can get the data and the science… but having the ability to show how it FELT to be there… wow. Yeah, I want to be that guy. Beano was my guy.
Plus, he was the one who saved the Apollo 12 mission. Well, Controller John Aaron at Mission Control saved it… but Bean knew where the switch was. Still, not too bad for a brush pusher.
I’d bet if I were the first cartoonist to walk on the moon, getting a syndication deal wouldn’t be that hard.
In 2016, an opportunity to be in the same room with Capt. Bean through Project Fibonacci came, and I jumped at the chance. I had all kinds of questions I wanted to ask him… but then
I realized that my questions were the same questions he’s been answering since he left the Ocean of Storms in 1969. So, I tossed the questions and drew him a picture. I was just happy to spend a few moments with my hero. My guy.
He didn’t want to take the drawing (I framed it) with him on the plane so he asked If I could mail it to him. Which I did. I included some Bob stuff in the package I sent… because, why not?
I took Lauren to Bean’s lecture… she loved it. He was funny, self-deprecating and uniquely human. It was a talk he’d probably given a thousand times. If it was, you wouldn’t know it.
A few weeks later, I got a call. The number came up as “Houston, TX” on my phone. I don’t know anyone from Texas that would call me. I let it ring. Probably a robo call.
Wait. No. There’s no way it could be… could it? I slide to answer.
“Hello?”
“Hi, is this Frank Page?”
I knew almost immediately who was calling. Years of that voice I’d only heard watching space program documentaries was in my ear. That unmistakable Texas drawl…
Holy crap! Alan Bean was calling to thank me for the drawing and the package!
I probably stuttered through the whole conversation. He was as nice as could be. We talked about art for about 15 minutes… what else would you talk to an astronaut about, right? He told me to call him whenever I wanted…thanked me again and that was it.
I never called him again.
And now I can’t.
Alan Bean was (is) my hero. All my heroes are dying and it’s getting harder and harder to find new ones.
I hope wherever he is he’s still painting.
Quitting our full-time, part-time job
Thursday, May 3, 2018 was a good day. 85 days before this pic was taken, we received the diagnosis I wouldn’t wish on anyone. To say that these weeks have been challenging is the understatement of understatements. Unless you’ve lived with it, you have no idea… I count myself as one of those who had no idea.
It’s cancer.
Not a cold.
Not a broken bone.
It’s f—ing cancer.
After the initial panic, depression, denial and anger, you realize that from diagnosis point on, you have a new roommate. They won’t chip in for the mortgage or groceries… they sure as hell won’t clean up after themselves. They’re there. They’re ALWAYS there. It becomes your full-time part-time job to get them the hell out of your body and life.
That job, for lack of a better description, sucks.
- Doctor appointment
- Tests
- Diagnosis
- Tests
- Appointments for tests
- Surgery
- Post-surgery
- Pre-radiology
- Oncology
- Radiology
- Mapping
- Tests
- Treatments
The order may have been a little different, but you get the idea. Any one of the last 85 days can fall into one of these bullet points. There was a space of about 7-10 days… in between the mapping and the first ration appointment where it felt like life felt more pre-diagnosis. As treatment number one came close, we remembered we still had that roommate to deal with. But we dealt with it. Lez, while feeling bent several times… never broke. She came close. I did too.
They don’t talk much about the bending or breaking part in any of those appointments. Everyone bends differently. Some break.
From beginning to end, the medical teams we’ve dealt with have been outstanding. Outstanding. Lez and I would like to extend a special thanks to the doctors, nurses, techs and staff at Radiation/Oncology of Upstate Cancer Center in Oneida. Especially Lisa and Rachel. They made the daily treatments bearable… for both me and Lez. All the state-of-the-art medical technology in the world at your fingertips is great… but no technology can do what a kind, genuine smile and feeling of safeness can. They’re damn good at what they do. Doctors and surgeons may get all the glory… and justifiably. But, they can only do what they do with help from outstanding nurses and outstanding support staff. Period.
I’m not just saying that because my mother has been a nurse for 40+ years. It’s just a fact.
So we start May 4 by taking a different type of breath. A good breath. A breath not attached by my counting the days since diagnosis or number of treatments remaining.
And by the way… Lauren? Whatever we did right with that kid I hope we keep doing. She’s been another rock for us. Whatever that kid ends up doing in life she’ll be unbelievably amazing at it.
My family, Lez’s family (especially Art and Roxanne) all of our friends and every single fan of Bob the Squirrel… thank you for your support and concern. Lez and I will be pricing storage facilities this weekend to have a place to keep all the good vibes, thoughts and prayers sent our way.
Lez will never be the same. Even though the roommate has been evicted, you never know if or when it’ll come knocking again. We can’t live our lives waiting for that knock.
We just live.
Thank you all again.