Recently I met a man. He had passed away some time ago. A series of seemingly random events led to me making his acquaintance.
The story of our intersection began five or so years ago when a good friend, Tommy, showed up at my studio with a several Corona Beer boxes full of curious metal parts, pieces of paper and odds and ends. Tommy has done this before; he will come across things he thinks might be interesting or useful to me and will bring them by. His current offering met all my criteria for acceptance, I thanked him, transferred them to, what became, a rather heavy green tote and shoved it into a corner under a work bench and promptly forgot about it.
At the beginning of this year, I decided it was time to do some Spring cleaning. Wandering around my studio wondering where to begin, my eyes fell on the green tote and that seemed like a good place to start. Placing it, with some effort, on a work bench, my journey began. Resting on the top was a double pen holder made of brown wood about 8 inches long. Perhaps made of mahogany, with two empty gold pen holders. Affixed to the sloping front of this desk accessory was a strip of embossed red plastic tape with a name, Winston Yancey. Seeing that label triggered a vivid memory. I remembered my amazement, sixty plus years ago, of my first time using a Dymo Home Label Maker (Tapewriter), complete with a rainbow selection of tape colors, a blue handheld gun of sorts, with an alphabetized disk that could be spun to select letters. A large white trigger, pressed to emboss that letter onto the plastic tape to create a label. So cool then. And now, so vintage.
Winston Yancey, an unusual name, I set it aside and kept digging. A “retro” bullet shaped automotive clock to be mounted on a dashboard, with wires still attached, all tangled up with what looked to be audio tape. Yes, reel to reel audio tape. Rather than ripping it away, I followed it to the reel it spooled from. One genuine 8-inch reel to reel audio tape, I wondered if it carried voices or music from many decades before and kept digging. Another tangle of odd metallic gears and curiously shaped pieces of metal that turned out to be the keys and workings of a teletype machine. I found several more reel to reel tapes, some 4 inch some 8. Then I found dog tags, embossed with the name Winston Yancey again. A roll of 35 mm Kodak film, negatives in one of those little metal cylindrical containers for film. A spool of computer tape, yellow paper, about ¾ of an inch wide perforated with holes, more odd parts, vacuum tubes, the type used in radios before chips, wire and so on. I realized this tote was full of the vestiges of a human life, a partial representation of a man’s interests and passions. The physical manifestation of his self-determined focus, the things that gave his life meaning. This is not a tote full of junk; this is a tote full of meaning and clues about the life of a human. So, I turned to the internet and searched his name. I discovered he had passed a few years ago, he was a member of the Atlanta Radio Club and some other bits of information. No living relatives showed up immediately.
Digging deeper I found another name, Phillip Yancey, a writer residing in Colorado. The nephew of Winston Yancey. I contacted him and he was thrilled that I would send him some of these items. As a thank you he offered, and I accepted, to send me a copy of his family memoir, Where the Light Fell. A fascinating and entertaining read. It gave me a closer glimpse into the life of Winston and Phillip and their world.
Many years ago, I was in the woods in South Carolina, at a gathering of friends, as I walked, I chanced upon a man I had casually known to say hi to for years. He and I ended up having a profound conversation that has stayed with me. He, a Cherokee Elder, his preferred name, Chief, had seen many sun rises and sunsets. His deep-set eyes, with a clear bright gaze rested in his heavily creased face. He quietly spoke of what was most important to him now, ripples. The ripples that he leaves behind him as he passes through the rest of his life. What will remain in his wake? What effect will he have on those humans he interreacts with as he moves through his life on this planet? Not an obsession, more like a commitment.
A commitment to make it count, to make a difference.
This powerful concept has resided in my heart, since he shared it with me. What more noble cause, to bring with me through the rest of my life?
Winston, through his ripples, he has taught me several important lessons.
The archeologic power of the artifacts we leave behind.
The joy of sharing. Uncovering parts of his life. And the honor it has been for me to uncover them and then share with others.
What do I leave in my wake?
In the ripples that I leave behind me as I pass through my life. I have gathered an impressive amount of stuff. Things. Items I have needed, wanted, purchased, traded for, pulled out of dumpsters and that have been given to me. At the time of my passing what will remain? Just stuff? Things that will have meaning for others? Ideas and concepts?
Or just a bunch of things that someone is going to have to deal with as the remnants of my life are slowly swept into the great cosmic dustbin.
Ashes to ashes and dust to dust.
These words are my attempt to express my gratitude to Winston Yancey for leaving me just enough clues to allow me a glimpse of him as a human, to get a taste of his story. To teach me lessons about the stuff we leave behind. That green tote became a portal to distantly meet Philip Yancey and read his powerful words. At this time in my life, our stories have become one of the things that are hugely important to me.
The End
.......or, perhaps not the end, more likely the ripples continue.