Art has a life of its own, and each life has an art of its own too; it is discovering them both and making them one that makes the artist the necessary man.
So here we are on New Year's Day of 2015. It has always had a kind of significance for me, because my father was born on January 1, 1915, and that makes for one hundred years today. Of course, he died in 1989, having lived only 75 percent of the century, but it still seems to hold significance to me. So I have been thinking of him on and off all day. Grandma was born in Sweden in 1878, having been working in the field when labor pains took her. I think he was actually born in that field. She died in 1974, which is a good long life. Dad spent his entire life in Eau Claire, born and died there. It would surprise him to think that this day has come. When I was a child he told me he didn't think he would live much past sixty, since he worked at Uniroyal in a demanding tire building job, but when he did die, he still looked strong, not debilitated at all, and still with dark hair, like his dad's.
As for me, I am glad to see 2014 in the rear-view mirror. I hope 2015 has a better feel to it and doesn't urge depression on us. Nothing we can do about it anyway, I guess. If anyone reads this entry, I do wish you a good 2015.