comments (1)Before he became a barber, Larron was a student at an old University in an old town. In the center of that town were a few lush acres of grass and trees. "The Square" was a haven for itchy college kids.
Larron often made way to the outside bench, under an elderly Magnolia tree that everyone agreed was the biggest they'd ever seen. There were fresh scratches beneath the lowest of the fat, droopy limbs. Young people liked to climb and swing and beat the tree as far as they were willing to reach. Under and around those scratches were faded marks a generation older. Larron both hated and loved the scars—they were evidence of happy times for anonymous authors, but also vestiges of abuse and apathy toward a beautiful, living thing.
And this was his problem. He saw the good and bad in all. He could not decide the right or wrong of a thing, he strained to locate both, and any ambiguities. He found the dual morality in his friends, family, government, grocers, mailmen, and, of course, his most taxing subject, himself. He could not be wholly good if his mother's life somehow suddenly depended on it. Larron constantly imagined such rough wagers in his head. If only a prophet or a martyr would put a gun to his temple and propose such a thing. Maybe he would try harder. Maybe his problem was simply a struggle of will.
In any event, Larron thought about things too much, and he knew he did. A solution still eludes him. And he has never stopped thinking about the tree, or the bench on which he always sat. Before he left that old town, Larron found a deep appreciation for those two wooden bulks. He missed them more than anything he had seen or heard, or any person he had met in those four years. He misses them like a first love. What makes him even sadder, though, are the marks on the old Magnolia. Not because they exist, but his everlasting indecision about their worth.
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:
A vault packed with old paper is under my bed. Years ago, when I was even younger, I wrote terrible poems that now fill that box. The more they rhymed, the worse they were. I scratched the paper in this way whenever I felt sad or hopeless. Nobody ever read them, including me. Each served its purpose for a moment and was then buried.
I didn't care that I was a mediocre writer. My little poems were beautiful because they were sincere. Honest creativity is worthy regardless of skill.
I'm still compelled to write lines sometimes. They're still terrible messes of stumbling verse.
While I was sitting in the hospital beside my dead grandfather, I wrote this:
The little plate
is forming under
pressure
with numbers' curves
to be fastened, and
complete
something soon unspeakable
for everyone.
That little plate
calculating the dreadful function
to settle inevitable
heartache,
a redundant instrument of reminder
for something that cannot be forgotten,
to be bolted to the loving and cold
reality.
