In my college experience, I had the option of taking either Biology or Chemistry. As any sane person would, I chose chemistry. I was expecting math and symbols and beakers—which I received in great quantity—but I got something of a surprise. My teacher was Dr. Perry L. Weston, a goofy man of 78 at the time. Dr. Weston turned out to be one of the best teachers I ever had. He was fun, sharp, and kind. From this man I learned a lot about the universe, chemically and otherwise.

He lived a very interesting life, which he shared every so often during class when students became tired of the elements. Perry had been all over the world, met people of every rank, and had more talent and wisdom than I ever hope to achieve.

Fortunately, I take my cell phone everywhere.

And, just for the heck of it, one of me taken in the middle of a lab. I promise that I was happier than it appears.

I would usually stay after class to speak with Dr. Weston. We would talk about everything: NCAA basketball, love, Africa, his painting and my photography. He once brought a bunch of his work at my request for me to look over. Luckily, one of his original paintings hangs over the mantel of my living room.

The last time I saw Dr. Weston was December of 2005. I bumped into him outside of Stanly Community College. He wished me a merry Christmas. Since then I have always wanted to visit him. "I really need to go speak with him again. Take my camera and get a picture with him."

But life became too busy. I haven't been to see him.

The day before yesterday, I was searching for his information online because I could not find the paper on which he'd written his address and phone number, and who knows where our phone book is? I was going to call him and ask if he would mind being a reference. I knew the answer would be yes, as he said two years ago that he would be glad to do such a thing if I ever needed it, but I just wanted to speak with him.

Dr. Weston had lots of faith in me. He would always encourage me. No matter how many of his tests I aced, he could sense that I was completely devoid of any confidence. "Brian you're going to be a great teacher. I know how smart you are. You gotta have more faith." He would say things similar to that.

Anyway, as I browsed my search results, I fell onto this, like a spike into my chest. I read:

Perry Weston, 80, of Concord died December 10, 2006 of complications from an aneurysm. “Doc” was a man who enthusiastically enjoyed his life.

Perry was born and raised in Illinois. He received his undergraduate degree from Purdue University and went on to earn his PhD from the University of Utah. He worked as a metallurgist, chemist and engineer in the steel industry. Midlife, he found a new calling as a college professor teaching students that they could conquer chemistry and math. He loved to sing in the choir and when he sang children would look around to see who was singing so exuberantly. He pursued his painting and drawing, using his analytical eye to capture the essence of the natural world.

Those who knew Perry would describe him as an unforgettable character. He was a smart, wonderful and cantankerous husband, father and grandfather who had a great run, and will be sorely missed.

Perry is survived by his wife, Carol, their children Craig, Karen and Paula and grandchildren Owen, Gus and Sophie, and his sister Shirley.

I wept and sobbed and cried all morning.

I didn't know him well enough. I should have visited. I wanted to know him better. I want to remember him better. I want to tell his wife what her husband did for me, though I knew him too little.

The next day I wrote an e-mail to Jennie Tomlin, an artist and part of the Cabarrus County Arts Guild. She had known Dr. Weston, had worked with him in a sort of art club for the last twelve years. I told her about my sorrow and regret, and what Perry had meant to me. She returned:

I am so pleased that you shared this message with me, and I will pass it along to his wife, who is also a dear friend of mine. I will give her your email and I am sure she would want to respond to you.

Perry was a wonderful friend and was a student of mine for 12 years. He and his wife shared many happy times and memories together, and I think he was a wonderful painter. I am grateful that I spend several hours with him in the hospital on the Sunday morning before he died that evening. He was such a great and caring person as I am aware that you know. I , several years ago, had the misfortune of tearing some ligaments and muscles loose from the bone in my hip area and was to be flat on my back for about 4 weeks. Perry walked in one day with the oddest looking contraption I had ever seen and it turned out to be an easel that he had rigged and built for me so that I could paint while lying flat in the bed!!! That is true friendship!

Thank you so much for sharing your feelings and thoughts. You have made my day. I am sure that some of Perry will be with you all of your days as he will with mine.

I can't imagine all the people Dr. Weston touched during his long life. If I could be so affected knowing him for only two years, I can't guess, either, about his family.

Dr. Weston was my friend. I miss him. I can only wish, wish, wish now that I had went to see him. I'm trying to be grateful that I was able to know him and forget the things I didn't do.

As for my photography, inspiration and motivation have been very absent the past month or more, and I hadn't touched my camera until yesterday morning. I had to get out and do something that would make me feel better. There was more to it than that, though, I guess. I had thought about Dr. Weston and his perception of life and the world—even now I find inspiration in my memories of him.

The morning offered up some tranquil scenes at Morrow Mountain:

Kurt Vonnegut died last night. I found out this morning from Kate's away message on AIM, which read: "Now mud lies down again and goes to sleep," a quote from Cat's Cradle.

I have little time to write, although a year might only be adequate to summarize the influence and adoration associated, for me, with Kurt Vonnegut. He was one of my first favorite authors. To this day he has remained so. He was intelligent, funny, wise, and beautiful, as far as I can tell. His books inspire me so much.

Kurt Vonnegut said of the arts:

"They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven's sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something."

I've always wished I could have had dinner with the man so we could talk. We have a lot in common.

Since I'm going to be late for class already, I'll simply give you some quotes to chew on. Here are those smarts I was talking about, mixed with loving cynicism and political insight:

History is merely a list of surprises. It can only prepare us to be surprised yet again.

Let us devote to unselfishness the frenzy we once gave gold and underpants.

Laughter and tears are both responses to frustration and exhaustion. I myself prefer to laugh, since there is less cleaning up to do afterward.

Just because some of us can read and write and do a little math, that doesn't mean we deserve to conquer the Universe.

Our awareness is all that is alive and maybe sacred in any of us. Everything else about us is dead machinery.

True terror is to wake up one morning and discover that your high school class is running the country.

The only difference between [George W.] Bush and [Adolf] Hitler is that Hitler was elected.

We have to continually be jumping off cliffs and developing our wings on the way down.

What should young people do with their lives today? Many things, obviously. But the most daring thing is to create stable communities in which the terrible disease of loneliness can be cured.

And I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, "If this isn't nice, I don't know what is."

I want to stay as close to the edge as I can without going over. Out on the edge you see all kinds of things you can't see from the center.

Perhaps, when we remember wars, we should take off our clothes and paint ourselves blue and go on all fours all day long and grunt like pigs. That would surely be more appropriate than noble oratory and shows of flags and well-oiled guns.

Our president is a Christian? So was Adolf Hitler.

Here’s what I think the truth is: We are all addicts of fossil fuels in a state of denial, about to face cold turkey. And like so many addicts about to face cold turkey, our leaders are now committing violent crimes to get what little is left of what we’re hooked on.

How embarrassing to be human.

For some reason, the most vocal Christians among us never mention the Beatitudes. But, often with tears in their eyes, they demand that the Ten Commandments be posted in public buildings. And of course that’s Moses, not Jesus. I haven’t heard one of them demand that the Sermon on the Mount, the Beatitudes, be posted anywhere.
"Blessed are the merciful" in a courtroom? "Blessed are the peacemakers" in the Pentagon? Give me a break!

Poo-tee-weet?

Obviously, he had strong opinions about the war. I considered leaving these out because they might turn some people off, but I realized that was silly. I agree with most of the things he said in his last book, A Man Without A Country, which I read for the fourth time last month. It's full of great stuff.

I remember him as a person upset with how men have acted over history and failed to learn from their multitudes of mistakes. His cynical side often took over in his output, but he used that as an instrument to creatively express his very sincere care. He wanted a better world, without war, hate, poverty. He knew what a long shot that is, but strove for it anyway. That's the best kind of man.

If anyone should have lived for a couple hundred years, it should have been Kurt Vonnegut, though I'm not sure he would agree. I wanted thirty or forty more books. I'm sad he's gone.

However.

"When a Tralfamadorian sees a corpse, all he thinks is that the dead person is in a bad condition in that particular moment, but that same person is just fine in plenty of other moments. Now, when I myself hear that somebody is dead, I simply shrug and say what the Tralfamadorians say about dead people, which is 'So it goes'.''

Kurt Vonnegut is still alive and just as disgusted with civilization as he ever was. I just need to read his books, and there he is.

Sadly, Don Knotts passed away yesterday. I joked about Don Knotts on my site and with friends, but I really did like the man. The Andy Griffith Show has been my favorite since I was small, so Barney Fife deserves a post, a thanks. Wakko Warner is surely in mourning, as are all other fans today. Many may disregard him because of his relative obscurity today*, but he was a great comedian, earning five Emmies while on The Andy Griffith Show. He wasn't limited to Barney Fife, though. I also enjoyed his wacky movies as a kid, including his brief appearance in No Time for Sergeants and his later role in Pleasantville. Don knew what he was doing, and he did it well.

*Although, he did lend his voice to an episode of Robot Chicken last year. Cool.

I may be a little old to finally declare this, but the last lingering fundament of my youth is gone. This morning, shortly after turning 16½, Gig's heart stopped. I cried. Like a baby.

I was only 7 when he was born—April 9, 1989—and I'll soon be 24-years-old. Gig has been around for 69% of my presently short life. For a less technical explanation, Gig was my Dog, capital D. He kept me company for years, and as any pet owner-lover knows, it's more appropriate to count the days. Terribly bad, wonderfully good, and anywhere between, a day may be bettered by a pet. Just as with a person, the relationship of a pet holds memories, connections, insights, secrets, and even inside jokes.

I buried Gig beneath the apple tree that shaded him throughout his life. As a young boy, I spent countless hours playing among fallen apples with G.I. Joes, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Transformers, and He-Man, when I could find him. All missions to launch a surprise attack on Mount Gig failed.

Gig will be remembered as he was—a welcoming, bright-eyed, wagging watchdog. And a lover of all things cheese.

I miss you, Gig.

I rarely cry. This morning when I heard Johnny was gone, I did. Not because I have some fascination with his celebrity or any other trivial reason like that. Any friend of mine knows that I'm not like that at all. I did so because over the past few years he became as close to an idol anyone in the media can come for me. I still remember hearing my grandmother's Johnny Cash album "Any Old Wind That Blows" when I was little. It's right over there; I'm looking at it now. I was never a fan of country music. But, for some reasons that are now clear, I always liked Johnny Cash. He's a great man. He made great music, which I'll love for the rest of my life. The world has lost a maker of real music. He was also true in his faith, which I admire greatly. I won't apologize for this sentimental entry. He deserves every bit of respect you can offer, and so the least I can do is share my emotional response to his loss. I never knew him, but through his music I felt like I always had. I'm hoping I'll meet you one day, Johnny, but I'll miss you until then. Thanks.

Well, I'm sick. Nothing big: head all heavy, sore throat, and things are either dripping or clogged. One of those deals. I average about one sickness a year, so I'm right on schedule with last year's Fall sinus infection.

I'm not complaining. I feel fortunate that I rarely get sick. And it wouldn't be right for me to grouse about something such as this that seems so insignificant compared to what others are going through. For example, Warren Zevon, who died yesterday. He abused that body and it finally had enough (although I'm not sure if his illness was caused by his lifestyle). Even so, and despite the fact we knew for over a year that it was coming, it's still sad. "Enjoy every sandwich."

In unfortunately related news, the mother of one of my good friends is dying. I wish I could help her, you know, actually be able to do something about it. I never know what to say and it makes me feel like an idiot because I really wish I could help. But, I just don't know what to say. I pray for her of course. That's really about all I can do. One day my heart will stop, too. I just hope I'm ready.

My uncle Charlie died last night. He had to have his stomach removed a while back and he just went down hill from there. Um, I don't know what else to say about that.

I'll be in Florida in 36 hours.

Malloy is dead. I can't believe it. First Chris Watson, then Mary almost died, now this. A year ago I was depressed about something...well, someone, and Malloy knew all about it. We hadn't ever really been friends or anything...we were mutual friends of Taylor's, so we had hung out together at his house some, but other than that I didn't know him very well. Anyway, he talked with me a couple times about my problem and was very helpful. It meant a lot to me that he did that. I'll always remember that, Malloy, and you'll be remembered by me as a nice guy.

My family will be at the beach until Sunday.

My cat Sam died last night. I was on my way to Albemarle this morning and saw him on the side of the road near the 'Steel Bridge'. I saw this little black mass on the dirt and I knew it was him. I kept driving for a minute before I turned around. I went to Doris' to get Carlyn. I didn't want to go get his body alone. I love my animals as if they were people. We pulled over and I went to make sure it was him. I put a towel around him and placed him in my car. I became very angry and started kicking everything and cursing as loud as I could. There was a couple in a canoe about twenty-five yards away, but I didn't care. When we got home, I dug a hole by the lake and put him in it. He shouldn't be dead.

I think we lost someone great yesterday. I grew up with our local Sunday Comics, and Peanuts were always on the front page. Even more important to me were the animated specials, which helped to ring in Christmas, Halloween, and other special times. I think it's a great legacy by a man who worked very hard on what he loved. I identified with Linus when I was little for reasons too embarrassing to mention publicly. Heh, go figure.