Still thinking about you most every day Jack. And still laugh with you when I see old familiar things that used to make us laugh together.

TALLULAH GORGE by Jeff Strickland

1968
You walked into the gorge with the wrong shoes, man. Those shiny black-scaled rattlesnake boots might have been hip and happening for the Atlanta street scene, summer, 1967. With suede-fringe jacket and bellbottom jeans those sharp-pointed new boots of yours were pretty groovy for cruising Tenth Street head-shops or for checking out free Allman Brothers jams in Piedmont Park. But those boots just didn't make it up here, Jackie. Not in these North Georgia woods, late winter 1968. Not in the gorge, man.
By Saturday night we both could tell you'd stayed one day too many. My little liberal arts college in the hills didn't impress you; nor apparently did the play you'd driven three hours in the rain to see (I was a little pissed when you didn't at least laugh at my bits). I skipped the cast party to hang with you but there wasn't much going down. All the chicks were locked back into their dorms by eleven, the nearest package store was twenty fogged-in miles away, the student center had unplugged the jukebox and switched on the last half-hour of the Carol Burnett Show. A drag.
On a bummer, you said you thought you'd get an early start back to Atlanta tomorrow. I was thinking that was a good idea too, but suggested we swing by the Catacombs before calling it a night. The Catacombs was what we called a little forgotten room in the moldy basement of my dorm. It had once been set aside as a sealed nuclear fallout shelter in case the Russians decided to aim the Big One at Young Harris, Georgia. We'd ripped down the orange 'DANGER! NO TRESPASSING UNDER FEDERAL PENALTY! sign, jimmied the rusty lock and liberated the area as our private 'study room'. We'd also liberated all the blue blankets and first aid kits; all the powdered eggs and Spam; all the scary radiation burn survival guides; and (our most coveted prize) all the plastic-wrapped double-strength Phenobarbital pain capsules we'd be able to either sell or shove down our own throats for the next two years. Barrels of it.
I hipped you in advance to the barb scene and told you I didn't do them anymore. I'd over-tried it once and by the next day my body temperature had plummeted to about 80 degrees or something. "You oughts be dead," the school nurse had casually observed, shaking her thermometer. She gave me an excuse note and suggested I put another one of those pretty blue blankets on my bed since I had so many extra. I figured I'd dodged a bullet and left the stuff alone after that but other guys seemed to thrive on it. Based on the slurred, over¬emotional greetings we received as we entered the Catacombs that night I could tell that a pretty serious all-night session was in progress.
My best college friend, Agnew the chain-smoking Hermit, was there. He supplied the stereo and LPs (Iron Butterfly and Propel Harum that night?) John K., the 'Mad Poet' who'd turned me on to Zen Buddhism and William S. Burroughs was in his corner quietly reading an Evergreen Review: a hyper skinny guy we called 'Fang' was there, who'd lately started to wear a purple cape to class (we were too cool to ask him why); Johnson, the 'Suave Italian', was lounging on a beanbag chair in his silk Hefner-esque Chinese smoking jacket, and 'Hippie Bob' Powell who'd been to the Monterey Pop festival in '66 and hadn't shut up about it since was prowling restlessly around the room. Probably a few more strays were there, but this was the usual Saturday night core.
`Hippie Bob' was in full rap: "Hey, Jeff. Who's your friend? Far out boots, man. I dig the scales. Jeff, you and Jackie want some brandy? Johnson stole some of his old man's best fuckin' brandy. Real expensive shit. Let me get you guys a Dixie cup. Grok it slow, now, just let it, like, EXPLODE in your mouth. We were trippin on poor Otis. You guys wouldn't believe the rush that cat put out at Monterey. I was THERE, man, right by the fuckin stage! I mean, Otis was puttin out some heavy DEEP vibes that night! Tell you what, dudes, if you ever seen Otis close-up in person like I done at Monterey, you could see he had a whole lotta Indian blood in him. Most likely Cherokee, from right around this area. This was holy ground up in these hills, man. Still is. Hey, any you guys ever been down in Tallulah gorge? 1 don't mean the fuckin tourist lookoff. This old coot in Helen told me if you go about a mile past the lookoff to this big-ass electric pylon there's a little ole Ranger trail that'll take you right down to the gorge. He said it's the only way to get down in there and it's a real mellow hike. Oh, man, we gotta do it. That's the central power point up here. The hillbillys'll tell you. Visions, UFOS ... hey, listen up, dudes! we're all takin off in the morning and climbin down into fuckin tallulah gorge! okay, dudes? .... okay, fang?....agnew?.... john k?...Jeff and Jackie, y'all up for some visions and UFOS?"
As usual, nobody in the Catacombs was paying the least bit of attention to Hippie Bob's barbed-up rant; but I started to sense a long-awaited spark of mischief and interest beginning to ignite in you. You took a heavy swig of Johnson's super-sophisticated brandy and swirled it around like cheap mouthwash. Then you swallowed it with a horrified mock grimace, as if Satan himself was force-feeding the rawest rotgut in Hell down your innocent throat.
Eyes bugged wide in severe alcohol shock, you stared dazedly into your empty Dixie cup for about eight frozen seconds. Then you were back in motion. "Hay-ull yeah I'm up for it," you said, reaching out to bewilder Hippie Bob with some sort of endlessly elaborate made-up soul handshake. "Let's go meet the sun in Tallulah Gorge. Great fuckin brandy, man. Pour me another cup and let's get this done."

SUNDAY:
"No hassle, man. I'll be up in a second," you said.
Sprawled prone on the cold granite rock-face, you calmly pondered the breaking clouds over Tallulah Gorge. A few steps onto the path and already you were flat on your ass.
It wasn't too late to turn back. Hell, everyone else had. Even Hippie Bob had failed to make the scene at sunrise, despite last night's solemn fraternal handshake. But at least he'd given clear directions before he crashed. It was no sweat spotting the big-ass electric pylon and locating the path down to the gorge just past the yellow `DANGER! NO TRESPASSING UNDER STATE PENALTY!' sign. But Hippie Bob's 'little ole Ranger trail' turned out to be a twisty alpine goat-run that snaked its crazy way down a near-vertical cliff before disappearing into the deep woods below. In careful stages, with sensible shoes, I figured you didn't really need ropes and mountain gear to do the trail. I was wearing my usual brown hiking boots with rubber cleats so I knew I could make it if I took it slow. I also knew those slick-soled Atlanta street boots of yours weren't gonna cut it. Now, after your first hard fall just minutes into the hike, I was ready to cut losses and split back to school for waffles and ham.
"Not sure about the boots, man. Maybe we should turn back, “I offered, as you delicately maneuvered yourself up from the rock. You stood swaying on wobbly knees. Your jaw was tight and your left eyebrow twitched. You were in your hell-bent mode.
"The boots are fine. We've started. Just keep going."
I shrugged, then angled my body back a little against downward gravity. Walking on the edges of my shoes as a brake against sliding, I led the way. Behind me I heard the soles of your boots desperately scuffling for the slightest bit of traction. Then the bone thumping 'whomp!'of your body hitting the rock again. Then: "FUCK!"
It could have been one of your goofs, the little satiric bits you'd done since grammar school like the brandy-tasting and fake hippie handshake from last night. Maybe a send-up on the most inept uncool rock-climber in the Blue Ridge hills (as played by Don Knotts maybe). But your goofs were never hurtful or dangerous. If you kept this one up we were going to have to find some way to lift your skinny shattered carcass out of here in a helicopter.

When I started to see intermittent light-flashes sparking through the trees ahead, I thought they were lightning bugs; then I realized I was seeing the reflection of the sun off the creek below us. One more short stretch of black sucking mud and moldering dead leaves and we'd be into the gorge.
Behind me I could hear the monotonous squishing of your boots 'and the sound of ragged breathing. These dark tangled woods had been tougher on you than the rocks above. Instead of leveling out as we'd hoped, the trail had made an abrupt mad catapult toward the bottom and you'd had to grasp at sharp, snapping shrubs as you slid and hurtled downhill. Eventually you'd found a solid supporting stick to slow your falls but you were still taking it in wary stages, your concentration never wavering from the next step. To keep your focus on the path, we'd stopped speaking about an hour ago, so when I spotted the darting light from the creek I simply raised my left arm to point and gave you an 'ok' sign. The squishing sounds paused.
"I see it," you said. "Why don't you go ahead and scout the terrain, man. Just let me chill and I'll meet you down there."
I hesitated, but for only a second. I could tell you wanted a little space to re¬coup your cool. Finally able to free the tethered goat inside me, I practically sprinted the rest of the way down.
The late morning sun struck me head-on as I came out into the gorge, fogging my vision for a moment. After my eyes cleared, I could see the creek directly in front of me. The water was running high and fast after days of rain, little lapping waves nipped at the huge indifferent boulders strewn about the creek-bed. My attention was drawn to a white, smoothly rounded boulder in the middle of the creek that resembled a partially submerged tortoise shell. Jumping rock to rock, it took me only a few seconds to leap onto it. I stood on the boulder fighting vertigo, turning myself round and round in a sudden exultation at the enormous spaces opening up around and within me. Then, basking and stretching on Turtle's warm back, I lay down at the center of the world and waited for you to join me.

///////////////

Stepping off the Wheel Of Exile, the old Zen monk emerged from the Dark Demon Wood. Leaning heavily on his staff, he lifted his ancient haunted face upward to honor the Sun, then, trembling and shaking, he resumed his slow pilgrimage toward the end of Time. Brambles and briars clung to his pitiful ragged clothing; his blistered feet were wrapped in the skin of a black scaled Serpent he'd vanquished along the Way. As he hobbled forward the old monk intoned a chant in a curious forgotten language known only to him. Although he sang strongly (in a surprisingly deep and rich bass voice...), it was obvious that his long ordeals in the Demon Wood had drained his Life Force. The end of his Travel was near. If he could only bathe his feet in the Sacred Creek, the Circle would close and he'd escape the Wheel forever. The frail old monk let his staff slip to the ground and staggered toward the flowing Water in palsied jerking steps. Through his rapidly blurring eyes he thought he could make out a hazy shimmering figure sitting in full Lotus position in the middle of the Creek. He thought he could hear the sacred "OM" calling to him from the center of the World. He'd been here many times before but he'd never made it this far. Just a few steps more.... But it wasn't written. The old monk suddenly paused. A rueful bemused smile flooded his face. In gentle slow motion, he lifted his arms to the sky and broadly shrugged his stiff rheumatic shoulders. Then, smile still on his face, like a flower folding into itself, he wilted back into Earth.

//////////////////

After dipping your boots in the creek and leaving them on a rock to dry you nimbly hopped across the water to sprawl beside me in the sun. You leaned back on your elbows and wriggled your bare toes, absorbing the vast jarring scale of the gorge. We didn't speak for a while, even with the sound of rushing water there was a great silence around us that we didn't feel too free to violate.
"I liked the slow motion," I finally said.
"The dying didn't go on too long?"
I remembered the mild criticism you'd made of my comic monologue from last night's play. You'd said I'd 'rushed' and should have stretched the bit to a deliberately absurd length. It had pissed me off, because you were right. Now I had my chance:
"Well, I thought it was a little ..." I paused. Nothing. "Nah, man. It was good." And it was.
"I dug your "OM"s," you said.
You reached into your shirt pocket and brought out our reward for making it into the gorge. We shared and savored it slowly; after that, time played around with us and we hardly talked at all. Eventually you stretched out and calmly went to sleep, with no apparent thought at all in your head of how the hell we were ever going to make it out of here. Leaving you to your dreams, I jumped my way back to the creek-bank to seek out visions and UFOs.
I found Baptists instead. Or some other smiling well-groomed local denomination. Whoever they were, there were droves of them downstream. And more of them still strolling out of the sheer cliff-face, out of the very rock itself it seemed. The men were still in their Sunday suits without ties; they were toting large wicker hampers. The women wore long dresses and flat shoes; they yelled at their kids to stay off the rocks while they laid out pristine white cloths along the creek-bank. Not a baptism today, not an immersion, just a communal post-worship picnic on a quiet Sunday afternoon in Tallulah Gorge.
I turned and walked back upstream. You were already waiting, boots on, stick in hand. Your jaw was clenching.
"Ready to climb, man?" you said. Your dander was up. You were game for it. "You can lose the stick, Jackie. Follow me."
I led us back through the feasting Baptists, who barely looked up as we passed except for the occasional quick double-take at your gaunt face, shoulder-length hair and goatee ("He looks a little like You Know Who..", my girlfriend Rena had said.) Nodding amiably at the picnickers still streaming down into the gorge, we mounted the solid white Corps of Engineers staircase that descended in comfortable stages from the tourist lookoff high above and were back at the school in about thirty minutes. You split for Atlanta in another five.

2009
"DANGER! NO ACCESS BEYOND THIS POINT!"
It might as well be an incredible postcard. After forty-one years we've made it back into Tallulah gorge and now the intimidating Georgia Parks Service sign is telling us we're at the end of the trail. The same swirling whitewater flood I remember is still smashing into the rocks just a few yards below us, but today we'll have to be content to snap our cell-phone photos from this crowded wooden observation deck, safe behind a thick restraining rail. Then we'll cooperatively re¬mount the four hundred redwood steps that brought us here to make room for the next wave of protected, neck-craning tourists.
Two of your sons, both still in their twenties, have traveled with us this time. It's their first trip into the North Georgia hills and I can tell they're disappointed. Back in L.A. I'd stoked them with tall tales about the gorge, even told Jesse, the oldest, that we'd need to rent ropes and special shoes ("Just do everything I tell you to
do!” I'd ominously cautioned). Jesse allowed that it sounded a bit more `intense' than what he'd been expecting, but he was up for it and so was Jake, the youngest. Definitely your sons.
Now I watch them as they roam the packed observation deck, carefully angling their cell-phone cameras like everybody else but obviously frustrated. Jesse keeps being drawn back to the no access sign. He studies it again and again as if re-checking for exceptions in fine print. The sign is attached to a waist-high swinging gate which I assume is locked. At one point Jesse leans to peer over the other side of the gate; then he motions for Jake to join him. They stand with heads together, conferring in private. Jesse keeps pointing down to the rocks and gesturing while Jake calmly strokes his beard and nods.
I wait for them at the other end of the platform, propped against the hard railing, wondering again why you never brought them here, never brought them to Georgia at all. But I'm not going to ask. After you left the school that day in '68 I didn't see you until seven years later when you made a quick trip to Atlanta from Chicago with your first wife. Then it was New York and finally L. A., where you stayed to raise three sons with the leading lady of the last play you acted in. I flew in to be your best man, standing with you under the spotlight on the equity-waiver stage where you were married and later I picked up and joined you out west. Over the years we'd still occasionally go hunting for our visions and UFOs in other far-flung canyons and gorges, but somehow our schedules never meshed to return us here, until today.
Jesse and Jake thread their way through a group of German tourists and join me at my rail. Jesse's jaw is set.
"What could they do to us?" he asks me.
"We could do it quick," Jake offers.
"No, we'll take our time," Jesse says.
I was saving the story for later but I tell it now. I tell them about your boots
and your stick and the rocks and mud. I tell them about the Turtle at the center of the world. I tell them about the old monk who never made it to the creek. Jesse and Jake both listen intently.
When I'm finished, Jesse doesn't hesitate. "We're going," he says.
We stride across the platform like no-nonsense environmentalists with critical work to do below. Jake's beard and my Sierra Club cap probably help. At any rate, nobody challenges us as Jesse lifts the simple latch on the other side of the gate and we step onto the short stairway that takes us down to the rocks, down into the gorge itself.
Jesse's already picked a spot from above and leads us to it. It's a still little pool that's formed itself at the outer edge of the creek, almost touching the sheer wall of the gorge itself. There's a thin ledge of earth separating the water from the cliff-base and we take our seats there, our backs against the warm mossy stone.
Jake brings out the plastic water bottle and the Dixie Cups. Deferring to your tastes, we've brought rum and coke instead of expensive brandy, mixing up just enough for two toasts for each of us. We make our first toast to the gorge itself, for allowing us access, for letting us complete our journey. Then we sit in the silence of this ancient great place, watching the eddying water in the pool as it makes its almost imperceptible circular return to the playful racing creek.
Jesse stirs first. He reaches into his shirt pocket for the oblong incense box he's carried across country. He opens the box to bring out the little baggie. Jake picks up the plastic bottle, ready for the second toast. Jesse opens the baggie and waits for me. I nod to Jesse, then to Jake.
Pour me another cup and let's get this done.

(For Jack Terrell 1949-2008 )

Tyrrell Castle, tyrrell's pass, westmeath county, Ireland

Tyrrellspass Castle dates back to 1411. This is the only remaining castle of the Tyrrells, cousins of William the Conqueror, who came to Ireland in 1169. It was home of the Tyrrells of Fartullagh. Richard Tyrrell, associated with the battle of Tyrrellspass 1597 is the most famous of the extended Tyrrell family.

It was built circa 1411 and was extensively restored in the 1970’s

The castle is approx 20 metres high and follows the general pattern of tower houses, stone built, essentially defensive and comprising a series of superimposed chambers.
The original spiral staircase and one of the original roof beams dating from 1280 can still be seen today. Alongside the entrance door is a murder hole through which intruders could be attacked.

During the Cromwellian invasion of 1650, it is said the castle occupants suffered a great deal and many were executed…

Well, you've been gone a year now. I still have your cell phone number in my phone. I know you're out there somewhere.
"What happened to your mission Captain, Na Trang forgit all about you?"
Airborne.

I'll hoist a cold one for you today Jack.

Miss You Old Friend

I think about you every day old friend. A couple of days ago, I saw something funny, just some old character out in the street, and my first thought was to call you and tell you about it and laugh with you. A second later I realized I can't do that anymore. I miss you a lot.
-Kevin

Thinking of you

Hey thinking of you often. Wish you could be here to see Jordon's success and how well Jess is doing in law school and what a fine adult Jake is becoming. We all miss you!
JK

Happy Birthday

Today would be your 60th birthday. Happy birthday dad I miss you. Ill pour one out for you tonight.

Jackie's Radio by Jeff Strickland

The following was read at a memorial/wake held in Northridge, Ca. July 20, 2008 in memory of Jack (Jackie) Terrell, Hapeville class of '67, who passed away in Salt Lake City Utah on July 10, 2008

Jackie's Radio by Jeff Strickland

As I always must do I know I’ll be putting a lot of faith in music to get me through these next days and weeks. And even though it feels too soon and too sudden for the fortifying classical stuff or the bedrock Southern gospel that always abides and sustains I am already sorting out a mental memorial tape of 'Jack Songs'

'Georgia' by Ray Charles is the obvious leadoff. Followed by James Brown ‘live at the Apollo’, some Otis, some Booker T and Wilson Pickett, some Stones and Beatles and Byrds, some very early Allman Brothers and, well, there's a lotta eras to cover and I've still got to leave space for some jazz and blues and a touch of Merle Haggard toward the end. As I say, I'm just forming the concept in my head, the only place it needs to be for now.

The musical era I keep returning to when I think of my life-long friend is a brief lost period in the mid '60's, Just before the ‘Psychedelic’ era. Most of this music I first heard in jack's car. Well, actually not Jack's car, but Jackie’s car, Jackie Terrell as he was known then (and still known and grieved for today) in Hapeville, our little hometown just south of Atlanta.

As a kid I practically lived at Jackie's house in the summers, or those long sweltering afternoons we'd retreat to his air-conditioned bedroom and switch on the little tiny portable radio that was always tuned to WQXI. QXI played it all, but what we really liked in those days were the 'novelty' songs like `Ahab the A-Rab’, ‘Alley Oop’ and ‘The Monster Mash’, the strange, unexpected stuff you had to wait hours and hours to hear. "Turn it up, Jeff! Turn it up!” Jackie would yell when one of our songs came on. I'd leap across the room and crank the volume full tilt until Jackie's mother, Gladys, came banging on the bedroom door to make us turn it down. She was never really mad, just felt she had to do it for the cranky old neighbors next door.

In sixth grade Jackie was shipped out to the hated Georgia Military Academy and we lost touch for a few formative years. But he was back for high school in 1962, his head still shaven to the quick, but very eager to merge back into the co-ed population.

It was good to have Jackie back, but we'd both developed new friends and survival skills since the sixth grade. He started hanging with the older greasers who gathered in a closed forbidding circle at the Dwarf House Grill, always talking cam-shafts and hemi-heads and other impenetrable car lore.

Still, Jackie and I always stayed friendly and cordial in the hallways. He always invited me down to Panama City for Spring break. I never could go. He had an extra ticket for the Beatles at Atlanta Stadium I missed that too (and never lived it down). Jackie and I were just moving in different circles during those years.

Then late one afternoon in 1965 about a week into summer vacation, there was a sharp, nagging car horn blaring outside my house. Cussing under his breath, my father jumped up from his chair and peeped out the blinds “Oh it's just that crazy Jackie. Go out there Jeff, and tell that boy to quit that racket! And don't you get in that car.” he warned, as I flew out the front door.

Outside, idling loudly a perfect piece of Detroit street art: a gleaming, metallic gray classic 1955 Chevy with a jet-black roof. And skinny Jackie was at the wheel waving me on. “Hey, get in man I just got it. I want you to take the first ride.” I leaped into the shotgun seat and we peeled off down Walnut Street.

We didn't really say much at first as Jackie drove. Both of us just sat back enjoying the steady soothing rumble of the engine and the sophisticated four-speed gearshift that Jackie handled with the grace and cool of a NASCAR pro. I thought the car was fantastic, but I didn't have a clue what to ask him about it (“uhh, what you got under the hood, man? those headers Mickey Thompson?") But Jackie didn't care. He knew I didn't know cars. "Hey, dig this, Jeff” he yelled over the engine. "This is why I wanted you to take the first ride. It’s really why bought this car." He reached toward the dash and flicked on the radio.

Now, I'd be lying if I said I remember what that first song was. I want to say ‘it's my Life (And I'll Do What I Want)' by the Animals, Most likely it wasn't, but it should have been. Jackie's radio was a wonder of the times: state of the art mono with a wide, sweeping bass and clear separated treble that picked up every last guitar lick and cymbal tick. I felt like I'd never really heard music before, or not how it's really supposed to sound. We grinned like the young idiots we were and bobbed our heads in knowing, rock-geek rhythm., some thirty-odd years before 'Wayne's World.’ For the rest of the day the car really drove itself while Jackie and I soared on a wave of sound miles and miles above our sleepy Georgia town. At least eight miles, maybe higher.

That '55 Chevy was our real home from then on and we used any excuse to get it on the road. We both loved the car, but I think our real purpose was to stay immersed in the incredible music explosion that was bursting out of Jackie's radio that summer. Like when we were kids in his bedroom, we waited for the good stuff, the rare rough 'nuggets’ that hardly got played And when the DJ finally spun Them's original 'Gloria' or The Standells' 'Dirty Water' or `Pushin' Too Hard’ or 'Talk Talk' or 'Psychotic Reaction,’ Jackie would yell, "Turn It Up, Jeff! Turn It Up!" and I'd leap forward to ratchet the volume knob to 'max.’ These were our perfect moments that summer. And somehow through our bond with these terse male songs of passage, some of them bitter, some of them angry but all of them honest and fearless, Jackie and I gradually re-built the bond of our original childhood friendship which lasted, this time, through the Summer, into the Fall and for another forty-three years afterward.

I've already reserved a whole side of my mental 'Jack Tape’ for the music of that summer and also left a space at the end for Dylan. We drove up to Atlanta that October for his first electric tour and I still have the ticket stub to prove it. I'm holding it right now. It set us back $2.50 each. The rest of Jack's tape, the other eras, will come together of its own design in its own time. I'm not worried about the quality. Jackie (and Jack) only had time for the good stuff. He always knew it when he heard it. So, wherever my friend and brother may be now, there better be a damn good soundtrack.

jacky, where do i start.....i guess you and i just clicked from the get-go, but then who didn't "click" with you. you were one of the happiest, purest souls i've ever known and, of course, EVERYONE you met, loved you! your laugh was infectious, your stories one of a kind and your kindness, unmatched. i think you could have made friends with hitler, had you had ever met him. i loved the singing voicemails i would get from you, not only on my birthday, but the ones that were just for no reason at all. fortunately, i saved a number of them and have listened to them over and over, so as just to hear your voice. you have no idea how much you touched my life jacky. you were a true friend, an uncle, a father, whatever you want to call it. we might not have had the same blood running through our veins, but we both agreed, we were family. i am so incredibly grateful for the time i did have with you, because i'm certain that i will never have someone in my life, like you, again.

these past few weeks without you have been so incredibly empty and as the weeks have gone on without our weekly phone calls, its only gotten more difficult. i miss you sooo much, and i just wish we could have had more time with you, but then, i don't think any of us could have ever had enough time with you, jack.

i'll love you always
and don't you worry, i will, as always, be thinking of you
and of course i will come back and write more, you know me, i have alot to say

love,
your sweet little emily girl

Lawyers Guns and Money

One night in the late eighties, Jack and I were driving through Laurel Canyon late at night. We had been out carousing, ate a late night chili-dog at Pink's and I was driving Jack back home to Shadow Hills.
Warren Zevon's "Lawyers Guns and Money" came on the radio and we cranked it up and sang along as loud as we could.
"An innocent bystander
Somehow I got stuck
Between a rock and hard place
And I'm down on my luck"
Jack was never down on his luck as far as I'm concerned, but we found ourselves in a hard place now and again.
At the wake, I kept thinking about the ending of the Christmas movie "It's a Wonderful Life" where George Bailey finds that he's the richest man in town, not from money, but from the love and respect and admiration and companionship of people who cared about him. If that is the measure of true wealth, then Jack Terrell was a very rich man.
Jack will always be with me, always be in my thoughts, and will always be my most unforgettable character.

Good Strong Smokes

You left a pack of Winstons in my car that night when Jordon played that show in Augora. I dont smoke Winstons but I still have them for some reason, they're getting so old that they're just about the strongest thing you ever smoked. But when I get to thinking about the good ol' days, something strong is exactly what I need. Im smokin one right now, there's only two left though. Suppose Ill smoke another when I really need it and save the last one for you.

The Uniqueness of his soul

Dear Jesse, Jordan and Family,

I stand with all of you in your sorrow and I am so very sorry for your loss. I wanted to share the cast photo with you... your Father at the center of it all. Kevin kindly scanned it and uploaded it for me. The photo is of the cast of Macbett, approx. 1982. It was a parody of Macbeth, a comedy by Eugene Ionesco. Jack played Macbett. I was assisting production. Jeff Strickland filled in at the last minute playing all sorts of characters. Nancy Locke produced the play. We were all so young then with, no limits to our dreaming. Jack's smile seems to indicate how happy he was doing what he loved to do. I remember Jack kept us laughing through a difficult production. He was a pro, incredibly charismatic and so much fun to work with. He will be missed by everyone he touched.

I found a passage in a book about grief that I found comforting. I think it describes how we all feel about your Father's passing.

"Life will not go on the same way without him. If it were the same we could only conclude that his life meant nothing, made no contribution. The fact that he left behind a place that can not be filled is a high tribute to the uniqueness of his soul." - Safe Passage

Kindest regards,
Tina Romanus

King Jack

Here is a photo contributed by Tina Romanus. It is the cast photo of a play Tina was in with Jeff Strickland and Jack back in the seventies or early eighties. She will post more about it.

Just having a beer and watching the dodgers take another one away from the dbacks on a slow sunday afternoon. For some reason its days like this one that i miss you the most.

---Jesse

Your Stories about Jack

I thought there were some wonderful stories told about Jack during his memorial service. Many have told me afterward that they remembered something they would have liked to have said. The intention of this blog is to give those people the opportunity to relate those stories in a venue where they can be shared publicly. Please post your stories, pictures or anything else you would like to share as a comment to this posting and pass the link along to those who might like to contribute.

Thank you,

Jesse Terrell