The Man, His Son, and The Raven

The Old cultures speak of carrion Birds having the ability to guide us at our time of departure beyond the Threshhold. The Raven is full of intrigue and all though I count this as a ubiquitous bird in my life- it still captures my imagination shrouded in a dark mystery…

It is hard to sum up my relationship with Ravens in a sentence, a single anecdote, or allegory. I can tell you what I love about them: that lengthy pause of silence they can wield between each woosh of those long dark wings- that pause lasting so long before the flap- I don’t know how they stay in the air, that strange clicking sound they make which can be heard over a mile away, the sagacity with which they are so associated and revered, their ability to say some words right back to us…

They bring magic to the mundane and being a diurnal bird they do inhabit the mundanity of an afternoon with mysticism {which- for whatever reason is my least favorite time of day}. If I see a Raven grace my presence at 2pm- a smile crosses my face. When I was 8 or 9 I made up my own superhero and called him The Raven. I made the costume and everything {think Zorro but without the Hat, the sword, and the horse}. I enacted stunts, situations, wrote stories about him, and I drew him. I felt a kinship sometimes with his namesake. A Magical bird indeed…

Today, April 28th, 2022 is my Father’s 80th Birthday- or rather it would have been. Ralph Andrew Landerman stood 6’1”. Two inches below me- his first born son. And in that strange turn of life which tends to be inevitable- I still looked up to him and he did to me as well- figurative and literally. That was the way of things especially towards the end of his life.

He died a man of the land- same as how he lived. He grew up around Marysville, California and as an adventurous youngster, he loved the outdoors so much he sometimes couldn’t be bothered to return home in time for dinner much to the chagrin of his worried-sick mother. My poor Grandma called the police to search for him and then there he was emerging from the forest nearby with his little bow and arrow. “I didn’t know whether to Hug him or to hit him!” she said…

This brings me to his hunting days. There were many. It was a big part of who he was and if he had had his way it would have been part of me as well. Alas for him I was pig-headed. I couldn’t be bothered to wade into waste high water in hunting gear at 8 in the frigid morning to try and capture/ kill some ducks or pheasant. I wasn’t wired that way. I was my Mother’s son- the Artist. The mad scientist who loves nature but looks to recreate it in my work. I was in awe of him though. He possessed that mystique of the hunter- the man of the Earth who somehow kills it’s members and in doing so understands a truth about Nature’s darkness. I used to play with his duck call but I loved how he would modify his voice to fashion his own call to the Birds. He could spot a bird of prey by the behavior or pattern of it’s wings.

He was too young to have suffered his first stroke but at 68 years old- he that is what happened. He would have about 4 strokes and one heart attack before he passed away peacefully surrounded by his loving family in late March of 2014. One of the things I am most grateful for is that I did not have him ripped away from me unexpectedly. No it was about 3 and a half years to say goodbye. He died in slow motion. As he faded, he lost the abilities of his hands so he had to quit dentistry and little by little he became accustomed to having us look after him. It was not a bad gig for him to get used to. He could no longer hunt or practice. He couldn’t do anything. He could hover upon the porch and talk… to the Ravens. So he began to fashion his Raven ‘caw’.

So it went with him as he set to teaching himself the language of Corvus Corax {the Common Black Raven} a wonderful and entertaining bird sent to keep Papa Landerman company as the peaceful days wiled away…

I have fond memories of the rest of us gathered round in the kitchen and whenever the conversations died down- we heard the Old Man in the backgound, king of the Corvids, ‘cawing’ back and forth to his Black feathered companion. There were fond giggles from us. I would come out to sit with him on the Porch. Asked how he was- he would say, “I can’t seem to get that… Clicking of theirs”. I was used to hearing this. His growing dementia had us reliving this conversation day to day or within the span of one day. Every time I was about to fly back to my place he welled up saying, “Well buddy- I…Love you- incase I don’t… see you again- I’m proud of you”. I was always touched to hear that. We were briefed by the Doctors to mind this emotional tendency. Stroke victims apparently have a tendency to ‘go there’. It is prudent to laugh it off or make light of the situation such that they come away laughing and in good humor. So I put on my Actor’s training and drove the scene to a humorous place.

I had many conversations with him- the kind many young men wish they might have with their Fathers. I got to witness his vulnerability and his age regression. I got to see him not go gently as he got frustrated with his fading awareness and control over life as he knew it. My favorite moments were when he spoke with the Ravens though. When he passed away- I found a few books he used to keep in his office- there was ‘Common Sense’ by Thomas Pain and ‘The Complete Tales & Poems of Edgar Allan Poe’. I held them dearly like they were pushed over to me by some ghostly unseen pair of hands. It was from the latter book which I read Poe’s poem, ‘The Raven’ From…

Before I painted this Raven I sketched out several to the point you might say that I had a Conspiracy of Ravens {as they are known in groups}. On a bustling Windy day this April- when I had several other plans- the wind roared and wailed. The windows rattled and the trees were being blown all over the place. So it went that I was moved to randomly table everything else and record the reading , score it, edit it and release it. The response was fantastic and I even sold the Painting almost a week after the film was released. It went to a terrific home and I am happy for the new owner...

One last thing… My Dad, Andy had a beautiful memorial. We scattered his ashes where the Russian River meets the Great Pacific. Then we got back into our little caravan of cars and drove up the Hill back onto Highway 1- back to the speed of life.

A funny thing happened on the winding way up to the 1… suspended in the air diagonally not 15 feet ahead of my windshield- a single huge Raven glided up the road staying in front of me- matching my speed curving to follow the curve of the winding road- all the way up until we reached the Highway… everyone in the car watched transfixed and slightly chilled by that Bird the entire way. He was peaceful and rarely flapping his wings… just leading us out of there. Then he turned away and was gone as if crossing the threshold somewhere- to be heard from… nevermore.

In an instant—everything changed.
 

I was the proud son of a Great man. Then- I lost him to the fates. It was like I watched him spread his great black wings and give one last crackliy ‘Caw’ and off into the cool blue horizon- he left me forever. But what a gift he had left me with. To go from Proud Son- to a Proud Man.

So here we come to the little film I made. See it if you havent already. I hope you enjoy it…

A Note to the Reader.

This particular post possessed me of a fever to write it despite the pattern of ghost stories I tend to enjoy creating. I yearned to return to the haunted blogger that began my Ghost in the Gaslight art project years ago- after all this place began simply as a blog that was ghostly and turned into ghost stories through own autobiographical point of view. I found over time that I was very much at home freeing myself from my own ego and inhabiting other characters and so the ghost stories flowed forth. This piece happened as I recalled my Late Father’s 80th birthday- and I wanted so much to talk with him. So… I kind of did.

At the time I had not made this particular blogging page. So it sat along with my Stories and seemed a bit out of place. Little did I know- it was actually inspiring The Solmanac- my Kind-of Art-Journal/ Weblog. Once I made the Blog I transported this strange bird over to it- about two years after it was written. This is all to say that I credit it with the creation of something that has been a wonderful return to form for me… Hope you enjoyed it.