the bottom drops out

What do you do when the bottom drops out?

Until 2020, I had blissfully lived my life unaware of the term COVID-19. The potentially devastating effects of such a virus remained relegated to the imaginations of Tinseltown flicks, produced solely to excite or unnerve us, like an amusement park ride.

But what was dreamed up in Hollywood as entertainment, it turns out, when faced in real life, is definitely not entertaining. It’s more like a dissident or slightly off key musical note or better yet, the sound of fingernails screeching slowly down a blackboard. It has set us on edge.

The journey ahead is on all of our minds. We are all looking for inspiration to move forward to face new challenges.

We’ve all experienced extra time in our schedules this year. With that extra time, I’ve focused on completing two daunting projects.

Eleven long years ago, I purchased a 1968 Airstream with every intention of restoring it. Once again, I blame my Grandfather, Martin Cupp for this. As I have mentioned before, it is he that handed down to me this appreciation for the process of bringing something old and faded back to a semblance of its original glory. 

I finally completed the old Airstream while being reminded of the great man that was my Grandfather. I think he’d like how it turned out.

Simultaneously, while restoring the Airstream, we’ve been evolving our brand with the a new website, officially launching with this newsletter.

Although these two things are completely different, they represent the common denominator of simply moving forward. 

So, what did it take to bring about this change in our routine? Something very small. So small that it takes a microscope to see it.

Every so often we have to be reminded it’s those invisible, unseen things that can move us most to fear, or to awe. Then again, it is also invisible, unseen things that we value most—Faith, Hope, and Love. We value these unseen things because of their source of intrinsic Good.

Perhaps being reminded of these things is a good way forward when the bottom drops out.

Bumps and Bruises

My grandfather, Papaw Cupp, loved old cars. I can recall quite a few over the years. There were of course, the Model A and Model T Fords. I remember a purple Hudson Hornet, a red Packard that fascinated me, because even though it was old, it had power windows.

Then there was the old convertible Packard. It was red, a little rusty, and had a passible interior. His story about how he found it went something like this. He had noticed it sitting out in a farm field one day. Bought it, put a battery and gas in it and drove it home. Simple as that.

Even though he had a business to operate, he would come by and pick us up for a ride in that car. He’d drive through town, loaded to the hilt with grandkids, top down and the radio playing on some “old” music channel. He’d tell us that the radio would only play old songs. 

Some of his cars he restored, others he preserved.

Perhaps thats where I caught the old car bug. I’ve owned a 1969 GTO convertible. I’m happy to say I was able to return the favor to my grandfather and take him for a spin in it before he passed away. That one I restored.

I now have a 1969 Toyota Land Cruiser I bought from the original owner. Although it was well cared for, it would never win a beauty contest. When I look at it, it screams “story” to me. Somehow all the bumps and bruises and imperfections feel honest. This one I’m preserving. I can’t bring myself to cover over its story with a new coat of paint. Not just yet anyway. There’s beauty in the journey, even a difficult journey.

We’re approaching July 4th, the celebration of our Nation’s Independence. Even though we go through difficult times, and we have the bumps and bruises and imperfections to prove it, I know you’ll agree that, what we have is worth preserving.

The Bookmark

Recently, I came across a bookmark at my parent’s house. It had belonged to my dad. He had made it many years ago. In fact, I vaguely remember seeing it as a little boy. There’s really nothing in the way it’s made that makes it memorable. The edges are worn on this long piece of faded red card stock. But I love looking at it.

What keeps drawing me back to this worn out bookmark is what’s written on one side.  There’s a list of names. They’ve been written over time by my dad. I can tell because some are written in ink and some in pencil. There must be 30-40, anywhere from family and friends, to people he rubbed shoulders with in business, to acquaintances. 

Suddenly, I realize, this is a prayer list. What I have here is a reflection of my dad’s heart. This is one of the ways he cared for others. An expression of his love. What makes this so special is that this is something he did, secretly.

Is this not a good example of loving others?

With Valentine’s Day approaching, when we hear the word, “Love”, we naturally think of our sweetheart.

This is a good reminder to remember not only those you dearly love, but also those that have loved you.

Outdoor Magazines & Passing on a Legacy

We called him Papaw Moore. He was my dad’s dad, Paris Armstrong Moore, farmer and sometime carpenter. He was a quiet man. Long after he had passed away, my dad once asked his aunt (my grandfather’s sister) what Papaw was like as a boy. She thoughtfully answered, ‘He was a mild boy’. I was there, and I’ll never forget how, for me, that completely captured his temperament. I can honestly say, I don’t think I ever saw him angry or raise his voice. He seemed to take everything in stride.

Just from looking at him you’d never know he was blind in one eye. You’d never know it by the way he drove his car either! The road from my house to the farm was narrow and winding, to say the least. His white Chrysler Coupe would just float around those curves and before you knew it, we’d be at the farm.

Evenings there were spent catching lightning bugs and putting them in Mason jars to be placed by our beds that night. Or I’d sit with Papaw in his chair with a big bowl of popcorn watching Gunsmoke.

My first introduction to outdoor magazines came from my grandfather. Although I never knew him to have a current subscription to any of them, he did have back copies of Outdoor Life, Field and Stream, and Sports Afield dating from the early to mid 1960’s. When visiting, I would often fish these neatly stacked magazines out of his closet and lay for long periods of time pouring over the stories, photographs, and illustrations. I was especially fascinated by the dramatically drawn, ‘This Happened to Me’ stories in Outdoor Life, which chronicled harrowing wild animal encounters or a survival story of someone battling the elements.

As you can see from the photo, I grew up with that influence and exposure to ‘outdoor life’. It was genuinely loved and simply passed on from my grandfather.

Thanksgiving

The Distraction
I have some random projects purposefully left undone, lying around my studio, sometimes for years. I’m in no hurry to complete them. I know it goes against conventional wisdom, but these, by design, are meant to distract me. These projects help me pull away, step aside and refresh. This is the equivalent of the sage call to ‘Come away by yourselves to a desolate place and rest for a while’.

The Story
I recently completed one of these projects. When I was young, my grandparents had a small farm in very rural Kentucky. The best feature of Papaw and Granny’s farmhouse was the small room at the top of the stairs. Behind that dark door was my grandfather’s ‘man room.’ All his ‘stuff’ was in there on display - his meager gun rack, hanging on the wall above the old iron daybed; his fishing poles; his flint arrow heads he had collected while turning the soil in his fields. The shelves held his retired pipes and an unopened bottle of ‘Rebel Yell’ whiskey. The room smelled like warm pipe tobacco, and the morning sun shone directly into that room on all his ‘treasures,’ filling it with golden light. Magic.

Most interesting to us boys were the two antique glass floor cases. These held his ‘animals,’ - a couple of foxes; various birds; and hidden back on the right hand side, in the leaves that lay scattered on the bottom of the cases, a coiled snake only partially exposed. We would sit on the day bed, opposite that case and just stare at it, trying to convince ourselves that the snake wasn’t somehow alive and it didn’t really move. No. It couldn’t have. Could it???

The Design
So with that etched in my mind, what other subject could I have chosen to paint? Gourd painting is a time-honored folk art tradition in my home state. Now, with passing the gourd and this story down to my children, perhaps, they will tell their children, about their great-great grandfather’s ‘treasure room’ and the snake in the leaves. This holiday season, schedule in a ‘distraction.’ Pass a story down to your children and grand children. It will be treasured in years to come.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Out Back

I’ve been looking at a pair of binoculars that belong to my dad. He used them over the years when he and my brothers and I would go to the ‘out back’ of Arizona for a little time away. 

I can still see him walking back to camp after spending the day up on a ridge. He’d always make sure he had the same 3 items with him - a pad to sit on, his favorite thermos with coffee, and his trusty binoculars around his neck.

Having grown up in a very small farming community in rural Kentucky and having served in the Air Force during the Korean War, dad never obtained a degree in ‘higher learning’. But he had (and still has) something a college education could never give him; this uncanny, God-given ability to work with people - read their demeanor, personality and moods, and set them at ease. You’ve heard of a ‘Horse Whisperer’. Dad was a People Whisperer. Even now with the onset of Alzheimer’s, he still exhibits this. People generally love to be around him. So with his approaching 83rd birthday, my thoughts turn to dad and my yearly, growing admiration and love for him.

And those binoculars? They are just a reminder of all the wise perspective and guidance dad provided - and for me, even at 55, I find myself wanting to see things through his eyes.

Happy Birthday Dad!
Happy Summer to all of you!

Old Blue

As winter has given way to spring, I have been reminded of old things and of new beginnings. One old thing that has been on my mind of late is my father’s blue 1996-model F-150, which he dubbed ‘Old Blue.’ How he enjoyed his drives with his wheaten terrier, Tilly, by his side! Eventually, when Dad was no longer able to drive Old Blue, he sold his possession to me. I took Old Blue to get a paint job, and shortly afterward Dad and I took the photograph pictured in the header of this newsletter. Father, son, and Old Blue were reunited. 

It is a special thing to be trusted with another person’s prized possession. In a way, I feel that I am not only taking care of Old Blue for me - I am also taking care of it for Dad. Now, just like him, I go for drives in the neighborhood with my English bull terrier, Jack, sitting beside me. There are so many memories associated with Old Blue, like driving with my son and daughter to grab an early morning breakfast, or that time when my daughter jumped into the back of the truck while I chased off some wild javelina that had been on a rampage in our neighborhood. What a time that was! And I look forward to making even more memories in the days to come.

We must cherish the time that is given to us.

Getting Here From There

Our Christmas Tree

Sometimes, when everyone has gone to bed, I like to just sit and look at our Christmas Tree. In many ways, our tree is a reflection of our family. With each new season, new ornaments have been added - some purchased, some received as gifts, and many made. Ornaments from different seasons of our lives.

Our family Christmas Tree marks our family history-not just decorated, but built. A monument of sorts to the Love, Hope and Faith that has kept us through life’s ups and downs. Added to year by year, like the rings of a tree, it tells our story. How we got here from there. That’s the beauty of it.

Land Cruiser Preservation

The Land Cruiser in the photo, I bought from the original owner, who purchased it in Sierra Vista, Arizona in 1969. I’ve owned two others, but this one is my favorite. There’s a vast difference between restoration and preservation. This one is about preservation. You couldn’t pay me enough to have it painted. The original paint (or what’s left of it), tells the story. Taking years to build the patina. That’s the beauty of it.

Many thanks to those of you who have entrusted me with the task of creating something of your story. Interpreting those moments that are meaningful to you, commemorating an event or achievement brings me special joy. Merry Christmas!