Jay Johnson

I'm starting backwards by saying that we found out about Doug's
illness not too long ago, since we've been splitting our time living
between Iowa and Washington, we just lost touch. When informed,
I wanted to call but didn't. Every time I thought of picking up the
phone, I just couldn't. My silence wasn't about not thinking of him.
My silence was about thinking of him every day and not being
able to accept the news. How could I not think of him. I hang
my pans on the iron hooks that he made for us, his pan included.
The chopper, cheese grater, the fireplace tools, from his hands
to ours, touching....everyday. The sculpture he made from wood.
The sculptures I made in his class. Everywhere Doug. A household
word, like Kleenex.

Years ago, twenty five or so, he imparted humor, critique, example,
as I worked in his sculpture class.I loved that when he sat at his
desk to talk, his hands would always be busy rearranging the rulers,
pencils, rocks, to be in perfect balance. Always seeing. One of the
most profound and humorous statements he made that I recall, was
when he was ready to quit Drake for his new life that he had forged
long before he got into iron. "I've worked all my life to live poor." I
don't know how many times I've quoted him. That quote told me that
quality of life had less to do about money and more to do with
following your bliss.

He lived close to the earth and close to the heart. We visited he
and Bonnie years ago, and the funny thing; he wasn't poor. A new
truck, a horse, a kayak. Tourists finding his place in the Boonies
and buying him out. We joked about his arms being A-symmetrical.
We followed his successes through occasional mail and marveled
at what he was accomplishing.

I wish I had a summary but I would like to leave this open for
other things about Doug that may come to mind . All I can say
for now is sorry and miss........the planet doesn't feel the same
with such a voice, hands and heart silenced.