On The Way To Table Mountain, 1996

It’s been a short couple of decades, and a long four years….

Scan10398

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About JunkChuck

Native, Militant Westsylvanian (the first last best place), laborer, gardener, and literary hobbyist (if by literary you mean "hack"). I've had a bunch of different blogs, probably four, due to a recurring compulsion to start over. This incarnation owes to a desire to dredge up the best entries of the worst little book of hand-scrawled poems I could ever dream of writing, salvageable excerpts from fiction both in progress and long-abandoned. and a smattering of whatever the hell seems to fit at any particular moment. At first blush, I was here just to focus on old, terrible verse, but I reserve the right to include...anything. Maybe everything, certainly my love of pulp novels growing garlic, the Pittsburgh Steelers and howling at the moon--both figuratively and, on rare occasions, literally.
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2 Responses to On The Way To Table Mountain, 1996

  1. slim says:

    I went out for a run after seeing the other photo that resonated so strongly with me – the one of Jeff “no hands” on his bike and while running, I thought – that is the way I picture him – free and having fun – and comfortable anywhere. He and Laura Jane came through Boulder on their way back to PA — I am so grateful.

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  2. JunkChuck says:

    I’ve missed him a lot this weekend, but the loss manifested in good memories, not gloom. Our friendship was, apart from the one with my mom, my longest association–I literally can’t remember back to a time he wasn’t in my life. We were toddlers when we met, and as we grew more like brothers than friends–nobody whose company I enjoyed more, nobody who could get under my skin and drive me more nuts. That capacity for joy that you mention–the only thing that really makes me sad is that he didn’t get the chance to find whatever the hell undefinable thing he was seeking. At the wake, a lot of the talk landed on his foibles more than his finer qualities, and while it’s likely he that would have pissed him off a little–the guy had an ego, you know–but he would have eventually got a kick out of all these people from all his different lives–meeting each other and sharing those stories. The interesting thing was that it quickly became clear that he had become–or had presented himself as–a slightly different person in each locale, which makes sense, but that the things we all talked about that made us love him were consistent across the map. Did I ever send you a copy of the eulogy Jake did–let me know if you not and if you’d like me to send it to you sometime.

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