drinking deeply from the cups

I wrote a brief history of the "Cups" song, You're Going to Miss Me, back in May. Vulture has published a much more extensive and quite interesting Comprehensive History of the ‘Cups’ Phenomenon. I recommend looking it over (I had no idea the cups-rythm-to-folk-songs went back so far).

I still love the song. And I still can't hear it without thinking about Dad.  Now he's got mountains, he's got rivers, and he's got sights that would give me shivers. And I sure do miss him now he's gone.



The lyrics, as I think about Dad, in my mind sound like this:

You got your ticket for the long way 'round.
Two bottles of whiskey for the way.
And I sure do miss your sweet company.
We're leaving tomorrow what can we say?

When you're gone (when you're gone)
When you're gone (when you're gone)
I sure do miss you now you're gone.
I miss you by your hair, I miss you everywhere.
I sure do miss you now you're gone.

You got your ticket for the long way 'round.
The one with prettiest of views.
It's got mountains it's got rivers it's got sights that'll give you shivers
And I know now it's prettier with you.

When you're gone (when you're gone)
When you're gone (when you're gone)
I sure do miss you now you're gone.
I miss you all your walks and I miss you all your talks,
I sure do miss you now you're gone.

You got your ticket for the long way 'round.
These feet weren't built to stay too long.
You had to go there on your own,
And we miss you here at home,
And it's for you, Dear, that I sing this song.

When you're gone (when you're gone)
When you're gone (when you're gone)
I sure do miss you now you're gone.
I miss you by your hair, I miss you everywhere.
I sure do miss you now you're gone.

When you're gone (when you're gone)
When you're gone (when you're gone)
I sure do miss you now you're gone.
I miss you all your walks and I miss you all your talks,
I sure do miss you now you're gone.

Those of you who knew Dad hear it too.

Happy Birthday Dad

Missing you.

missing you

Tomorrow is the first anniversary of my father's death. And it's hitting me much harder than I ever thought. I think I have spent so much time over the past year caring for Mom and holding myself together, only now am I beginning to fully process and less some of this out. I didn't realize the pressure behind the floodgates.

While the Man that was my father was taken piece by piece for so long, the fading memory of the fading of the man has made the Memory of the Man much more bright. Dad stands tall again in my mind, and I miss him ever ever so much.

Dedication

The newly renovated Indian Springs Shelter wil be dedicated and named for John Hardcastle in a ceremony starting at 6:00 on Thursday, August 26 in Percy Warner Park.

All are welcome!

Happy Birthday Dad!

Carrington Nelson Fox celebrated John Hardcastle's birthday with her sons by enjoying the Warner Parks Nature Center Dad helped make possible.  And she sent some love via text message along with this pic of "his bench":

Happy birthday Dad—











I miss you.  A lot.

missing my original Easter Bunny

I posted this earlier, but this was the scene when I popped out to the Castro for a haircut last week:


I took this pic with my iPhone and edited while waiting for a chair with the new, very cool iPhoto app for iOS. I sent this pic to my Mom.

She wrote back earlier this week saying, "I love it! You look do much like Dad with that Bunny. - same smile, same humor..." I miss Dad a lot, and loved hearing that, but the reminder also brought everything back to the surface again. I really can't imagine how hard it is for Mom, who has never lived alone and has been in love with Dad since she was 19. For her, every day and every thing is a reminder of what is lost, and I don't think I could bear that.

Thinking of Dad on Easter I am reminded of my favorite Dad-at-Easter story. We got pretty awesome Easter back sets growing up. Nothing fancy or over the top, but stealthily placed baskets with some chocolates, plastic eggs—some filled with jelly beans and some filled with coins—and generally a small toy. Not Christmas, but springtime excitement and a morning surprise left by an equally magical benefactor.

And the Easter egg hunts—Dad was good at those, and the side yard was perfect for that. Mac always found the Golden Egg. Every friggin' year.  I'm still a little frustrated at that.

As we grew older and into adults, there were younger kids for Papa John to hide eggs for, and he enthusiastically did so. Dad also had a separate "Easter egg hunt" for the young adults/grown ups: strategically placed mini bottles of booze. Love my Dad.

One year the weather on Easter Sunday was less a lesson on the resurrection and more a lesson on Noah's Arc. Dad creatively hid the eggs for the kids around the living room. And he hosted another hunt for the adults in the library (what other people might call a den). Both were much fun, but here's the thing: it's not like Dad had a map or a count of the liquor bottles.

For years afterwards we would find a random mini-bottle of bourbon or vodka squirreled away in an obscure part of the library. I was having people over one night and as we visited in the library, a guest put her hand between the sofa cushions and produced a tiny bottle of Jack Daniels. She looked first puzzled then seriously concerned. She thought one of my parents had been hiding liquor around the house, which I suppose was in fact true, but not in the way she suspected.

In hushed tones she asked, "Wilson...does your Dad have a drinking problem?"
Me, laughing, "Oh no...that's just from Easter."

It then occurred to me that my answer, while also true, must have sounded like a non-sequitur, leading her to think that perhaps I was the one with the problem.

I believe it was this day that I adopted my policy: Never explain.

Great is the mystery of our faith.

Tennessee Titans

Someone forwarded this link to me with the question, "Does this make you then son of a titan?"  This is The Nashville Scene's 2011 In Memoriam spread of the influential and notable people who will be missed ("Titans" is the word they used.).  My father, John Hardcaslte, tops the list under Business.  Betty Brown, all around awesome person and mother to my good friends Susannah, Nina and Eliza (and Martin 3), tops the list under Connectors.  Both passed this year, and both from the same kind of Parkinson's.  We've been through a lot and loss together.  And Nashville is the less for their moving on.

Business

JOHN HARDCASTLE
1936-2011
Real estate titan, H.G. Hill Co.

By Bruce Dobie

John Hardcastle combined a banker's manners with a historian's intellect, and that mix produced one hell of a delightful and agreeable man. With his wife, Fran, he was firmly planted in Aulde Nashville social circles, but displayed a driven intellectual curiosity and often thumbed his nose at convention — such as his participation, in 1976, in a re-enactment of the storied 1779 flatboat trip from Kingsport to Nashville that historians consider the founding of the city. Similarly, the first time I ever heard Hardcastle deliver a lecture, on Nashville history, he was dressed in a coonskin cap and other 18th century attire. If memory serves me correctly, he was channeling James Robertson. Perhaps "performance historian" would be an apt description of his metier.

Besides his passion for Tennessee history, Hardcastle was an ardent environmentalist, active in the early efforts to save Radnor Lake from development. He was also active in the Nature Conservancy. (At his funeral, a son offered the remark that while his father loved nothing more than sleeping outside in a tent, the only tent his mother ever really loved was the one enveloping the Cheekwood grounds once a year.) Professionally, Hardcastle started out as a banker but later was named president of the H.G. Hill Realty Co. Under his watch, the company developed the upscale project Hill Place on Post Road.

Hardcastle was an extraordinarily sociable man and had a fabulous laugh. In fact, just about everything he said seemed to start out seriously but then detour down a trail of good humor. At one point in his long slide into so-so health, I ran into him at the Whitland Avenue Fourth of July picnic, which he loved. He was dressed in a natty red-white-and-blue. "Age is getting to me," he said, taking a seat on a nearby bench. I then repeated to him what John Jay Hooker had told me, when he had turned 70. "When I woke up this morning," Hooker said, "I grabbed my penis and told it, 'Penis, if you were alive today, you would be 70.' "

John Hardcastle laughed so hard I thought I was going to have to call a doctor. At his funeral, a Dixieland jazz band played classics, and smiles broke out everywhere.

Connectors

BETTY BROWN
1939-2011
Environmentalist, philanthropist, progressive, single degree of separation

By Bruce Dobie

Betty Brown tended to a broad array of interests from her (and her husband Martin's) almost feudal spread out Hillsboro Road. Her agenda seemed to flow rather organically, although an official obituary would point to the fact that she was the founder and guiding light behind the Nashville Tree Foundation, which has planted thousands of trees here. There were other board memberships certainly, but most of her official commitments stemmed from a love of the outdoors. Friends often found themselves traipsing after her to inspect one or another wildflower on the family's property. Her environmentalism was, in many ways, her religion.

Because of her husband's family ownership of Jack Daniel's, Betty had standing the moment she moved to town. But from then on, it was her ballgame. Smart, progressive, unabashedly happy and willing to do whatever she wanted, she was a force. Betty didn't spend her time grooming future Swan Ball chairwomen. But the social arts were, in fact, her forte. Betty was a consummate and inveterate connector of people, always at the center of something. A visitor to her and Martin's house might find seated around the table a talking medley that included a congressman, an Episcopalian bishop visiting from California, and an environmental activist just in from the woods. Her summer trips to the family compound in the Canadian wilderness, attended over the years by dozens of thankful guests, were studies in how to make the difficult look easy. Betty's running buddies were a who's-who of literate, well-heeled Democrats, and at the Brown home they were often refreshed.

One time around Betty's table, someone mentioned a nasty divorce whose details were rocking the city. "Yes, they're negotiating here," she said nonchalantly. Activity often found Betty. She was comfortable in the fray. She loved spotting talent, putting people together, mixing it up. Her native Louisville pulled hard, but Nashville was where she invested her time and energies. An epic struggle with Parkinson's claimed her far too early. What we all would have given to see a vibrant Betty, 25 years hence, still presiding, the city's grande dame. She was buried in a wooden casket made from a tree felled on the family property. The gal had style.

haunting melodies

I can't tell if my iPod is haunting me or consoling me. He's strumming my pain with his fingers.

I am alone in the attic, having mentally and chemically (coffee) revved myself up for the task of examining, evaluating, cataloging, storing and weeding three generations of deeply personal memorabilia in the attic, alone, and trying not to feel so deeply and fall into sobs with every visceral moment prompted by some piece of tangible evidence of my father's life and my father's love.

I brought one of Dad's iPod speaker docks up to the attic, plugged it into the corner and set it to shuffle. And loud.

Out of the more than 6,000 songs available, the last three in a row have been about love and loss:

Lady Gaga's Yoü and Ihttp://youtu.be/X9YMU0WeBwU

It's been a long time since I came around
Been a long time but I'm back in town
And this time I'm not leaving without you

Katy Perry's The One That Got Away

In another life
I would make you stay
So I don't have to say
You were the one that got away

All this money can't buy me a time machine
Can't replace you with a million rings
I should've told you what you meant to me

Gavin DeGraw's Not Over You

Dreams: that's where I have to go
To see your beautiful face anymore. I stare at a picture of you
And listen to the radio

If you ask me how I'm doing
I would say I'm doing just fine
I would lie and say that you're not on my mind
But I go out, and I sit down at a table set for two
And finally I'm forced to face the truth
No matter what I say I'm not over you

So I just stood there in the dim and dust, wept, and let myself feel it for a while. It occurs to me I can only cry like that when I am alone.

I first heard the wonderful Not Over You this week with Mom attending Ellen's highs school talent show performance. The freshman who sang it has some serious talent, and we were moved and impressed by his performance. (As well we should be I suppose, as it turns out that was Hank William's grandson). Only after his performance did I start hearing the Gavin DeGraw's single on the radio, and then I bought it off iTunes. I have been listening to it almost on repeat.

But the first time I heard it on the radio I was driving back from Mac and Emily's with Mom, and it felt so intimate in the car with her. The lyrics adding a knife's edge to her mourning. I had to wipe away tears while driving and just stay quiet. I imagined what she must feel listening to the words:

Dreams: that's where I have to go to see your beautiful face anymore.
I stare at a picture of you and listen to the radio.

If you ask me how I'm doing, I would say I'm doing just fine.
I would lie and say that you're not on my mind.
But I go out, and I sit down at a table set for two
And finally I'm forced to face the truth: No matter what I say I'm not over you.

Everyone asks her how she is doing. Every night she sits down at a table set for two. And of course she's not over losing Dad. None of us will be for a long while, and the bride of 53 years the longest.




Closing note: I thought about embedding the videos to these songs here, but the video to Not Over You is just so offensively awful it degrades the emotional connection I have with the song now and can't bear to view it again, nor to subject you all to it.

Dia de Meurtos

Kevin and I try to spend Day of the Dead together and participate in the ceremonies in the Mission, and this year was particularly poignant for both of us.  The Mission event has gotten larger, and larger, and we consider sort of the "New Halloween," but hopefully with less trouble as it is not an ego-centric event but an other-centric event, and respectful and celebratory to our mutual dearly departeds.  I was impressed this year that the vast majority of attendees were fully participatory in victorian death garb and/or face paint.

We started at Chris and Tom's, who have generously and kindly kept me on their giant Day of the Dead party list these past several years. Chris and Tom also own/run Regalito's so their food was amazing. They moved their altar to the garden this year, which was gorgeous as always.  By the way, the cross of calla lilies is carved from wood.  Beautiful.


I added my tribute to Dad.

The whole night was rather emotional, and I didn't think it through beforehand that, yes, I needed to be participatory and face painted as is my way, but I didn't consider how much it might run every time I teared up.


The altars in the park ranged from intricate and creative to simple and unabashedly honest.






I added another memorial for Dad at one of the public altars set up, and Kevin placed this photos and remembrances of his brother and grandmother. We shared our grief and appreciation and celebrated their lives as we could.

Ode to Papa John

Ellen Hardcastle, my very talented niece and namesake to the new Hank Green album, composed a piece for Dad the afternoon that he died. She performed it at the service celebrating his life and I love this in all sorts of ways.

Here is the Ode to Papa John, by Ellen Hardcastle.



She writes, "This is a song that I wrote the night my grandfather passed away. He loved jazz music so I thought he would appreciate this. It's not really like what I normally write, but I think it captures everything I want it to."

The father formerly known as prince.

Another heart-felt letter about Dad, sent to my brother Mac, and forwarded to the other sibs:

Mac, I hope your doing ok. I know this has been a difficult time for you. I know this sounds trite but when my mom died this summer I was struck by the finality of it all. The eternal aspects of the whole thing are just overwhelming.

I think I told you this story, but when I returned to Nashville 24 years ago your Dad wrote me the nicest letter. I had inquired about a job and Alex Buchanan had spoken to your Dad about me. While he had no openings at the time, he wrote me the kindest letter, as if I was an old friend of his coming back to his home town. I took that as an opportunity to call him and we exchanged phone calls for several years after that.

I have never met anyone in this town who didn't think your Dad was just a prince of a man.

I know that as time passes your pain will fade, and you will remember proudly all the great memories you must have.

Paul

Paul Gxxxxx
Nashville Personal Trust

making history

Sent in from Alert Reader Holly. From the Metropolitan Historical Commission Newsletter, November 2011:

MHC Updates
Remembering John Hardcastle
As many of you know, John B. Hardcastle, a former member of the Metropolitan Historical Commission, died in October. Mr. Hardcastle joined the commission in July 2003. He was a devoted and active member of the commission for many years. A long-time advocate for the preservation and protection of our community’s cultural and natural resources, Mr. Hardcastle served as President of Friends of Warner Parks, board member for Friends of Radnor Lake, Director and President of the Tennessee Historical Society, Trustee and Chairman for the Tennessee Chapter of the Nature Conservancy, and numerous other roles with additional organizations. Thank you, John, for your service to our commission, and to our city!

Photos of Papa John

As I collected photos for the slideshow to play during the visitation, brother Mac sent me this pic snapped just weeks ago with a camera phone.  It sort of encapsulates the coolness of my Dad. And seriously, Leland in the driving goggles? How ridiculously awesome is that?

Best. Funeral. Ever.

I am back in SF.  I hesitate to call it "home," but I am eager for the solace of my San Framily.  I was a little troubled as to what to title my first post back at the blog, but this was my tweet immediately after the service and I think it still stands.  The celebration of my father's life that was the Service of the Witness to the Resurrection was amazing. Sure, I was choked up and near sobs, voice quivering, during my entire celebration of life portion of the ceremony, but it was one great funeral.  I am again in awe of my brothers and their talents, and of the life and work my father inspired.

I am hanging in there.  I worry about mom a lot.  And in the calm, quiet moments, when peace begins to find me, I cry again.  I've decided that's okay.  Like now, typing this.  But that's not what I want to post about.  It was, as you might imagine, a deeply moving couple of weeks and I have much to reflect upon and write about.  But I believe I will wait a while, let some of the pain scab over, before I explore the experience by writing about it.  Like most of life's richest moments, it was a deep well full of both tears and laughter.  Two faces, same coin.  Intense joy for what was, intense sorrow at its loss, and celebration of the continuing legacy.

So, back to that.

Best.  Funeral.  Ever.

The music was incredible—Mom and Dad are heavy into the Dixieland Jazz scene in Nashville, and the incomparable Sam Levine, performer and member of the Church, arranged the musicians and all of the music for the ceremony, including the hymns requested by Dad: A Closer Walk with Thee, How Great Thou Art and Amazing Grace.  The music was so moving, the congregation applauded at a funeral—a first for this church and perhaps many others.  Ellen, my ridiculously talented niece, composed a piano piece in celebration of Dad and performed it from memory at the service.  I was, as you might imagine, a bit of a wreck.  But I found grace and comfort in a simple truth during the service:

You just can't cry in the face of a banjo.

The three sons each took 7-10 minutes to celebrate the life of our father.  We did not compare notes beforehand, and each of our expressions were as unique as our personalities, and reflected our own individual relationships with our father.  It never occurred to me prior to that point that, of course, we all would have a different relationship with Dad.  I just thought of him as "Dad,"  but each son brought to the dynamic his own time, trials, tribulations, and tributes and so naturally we each had a slightly different yet shared perception of "Dad."

Okay, I'm processing and narrating again.  This is supposed to be a brief post.

The service was awesome.  So much so that I started jotting down sentiments overheard as we were leaving the church.  Such as "That was so much fun!" "I would go to that funeral again tomorrow!"  and "If they were selling DVDs of that service I would buy one!"

In his typical superlative fashion, John Beasley merely wrote, "No one in Nashville dare die for at least two years."

Dad requested long ago that his service be full of music and laughter, and we honored that request to trumpets and banners.  So many friends and family have contacted us requesting copies of the sons' "performances" that I have made a website for people to visit and share.  I remember thinking that morning that I wish I could video record the service, but dared not vocalize that desire as it did sound exceedingly eccentric.  After the service we were surprised and grateful to learn that the church keeps an audio archive of each service, and they were able to burn for me a CD.

The website for the Service of the Witness to the Resurrection for John Bachman Hardcastle is split into five pages:

1)  The Transcript: the program of the service with the written portions of each son's celebration of life.
2)  The Service in Sections: The service, with transcripts from the celebration of life, with the audio track of the service broken into discrete sections so you can pick and choose which element you would like to hear.
3)  The Service as a Whole:  One long audio file of the service that you can listen to uninterrupted, in its entirety, with the transcript below.
4)  The Service with Slideshow:  Same as the previous page, but this audio recording of the service is accompanied by a slideshow of photos of John Hardcastle throughout the years.
5)  The Obituary: presented in a readable format.  The newspaper and the obituary website is convoluted with no line breaks.  This is just much easier to read and share electronically.

So, with no further ado, here's the site.  http://www.wilsonhardcastle.com/JBH/

Share.  Comment.  Enjoy.  You know, enjoy it for what it is.  It may be the best funeral ever, but it is still a funeral and I still can't listen to it without crying.  But you also won't be able to get through it without laughing.  I recommend listening to the brothers' bits (and Ellen's piano piece).  Those really are meant to be heard and not read.  After you listen to Ellen's piece.  So beautiful.

Raise a glass to Papa John!

   
I am planning a "funeral listening party" to celebrate the life of my father.  This will be small and intimate and if you think you are likely to be there, you may choose not to listen and rather wait until that time so you may hear the celebration with fresh ears.

Thank you all for your love and support during this time.  That may sound trite, but it is true.

For the next several weeks, I will endeavor to post snark and City observations as much as personal introspections.  This may appear to feature a little split personality disorder, but it will depend on my mood and what interesting things catch my eye.  Things other than tears.

One last time around the lake

Here is the home movie from our last family vacation with Papa John, this past June at Emily's family's place on Pickwick Lake.

John Hardcastle, 1936-2011

HARDCASTLE, John Bachman. October 6, 2011. Born July 22, 1936.  Preceded in death by his parents, Kendrick Crossman Hardcastle, Jr. and Elizabeth Bachman Hardcastle; brother, Kendrick Crossman Hardcastle III; and nephew, Kendrick Crossman Hardcastle IV. Survived by his wife of 52 years, Frances Keltner Hardcastle; sons, John Bachman Hardcastle, Jr. (Stephanie), MacDonald Keltner Hardcastle (Emily), and Wilson Gaut Hardcastle; grandchildren, Bradley William Hardcastle, Ellen Merritt Hardcastle, and Leland Keltner Hardcastle; sister-in-law, Mia Canaris Hardcastle; and nephew Christiansen Niels Hardcastle.

John married the former Frances Merritt Keltner on September 26, 1959. Fran was the love of his life, confidant, and dance partner for 52 years, and with her he raised three sons: Jay, Mac, and Wilson. A family friend, Joe Calvin, gave John the nickname “Papa John” while Joe was in high school, and the name stuck – he was known as Papa John to his children’s close friends and his three grandchildren, Bradley, Ellen and Leland.

Outside of his family, John’s greatest joys in life were his involvement with his church,  his active participation in outdoor life, and studying local history. John was a member of Westminster Presbyterian Church, where he served as a deacon, an elder, a Sunday School teacher, and Clerk of the Session. John served as the moderator of the Presbytery of Middle Tennessee, was a commissioner to the 213^th General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church (USA), and served on the advisory board of Columbia Theological Seminary.

In a 1990 letter addressed to the then senior pastor of Westminster, John wrote “I stand in awe of God’s creative power and take seriously the stewardship implied in the grant of dominion over the earth, its growing things and creatures.” Because of his appreciation for creation, John loved the outdoors, and enjoyed hiking, backpacking, and long horseback rides. He was particularly proud of his efforts at conservation and saw these efforts as an extension of his faith. He served two terms as President of Friends of Warner Parks and received its Best Friend Award.

John served two terms as a member of the Conservation Commission of the State of Tennessee and one term as its chairman. He was one of the four citizen members of Governor Alexander’s Safe Growth Team and a member of the Tennessee Outdoors Commission. For more than a decade, he served as a trustee of the Tennessee Chapter of the Nature Conservancy, and three terms as its chairman. He received the Nature Conservancy’s National Oak Leaf Award for effective leadership and outstanding service. John was active in the effort to save Radnor Lake from commercial development and served for a number of years on the board of Friends of Radnor Lake. During the mid 1990s, John and his youngest son Wilson founded the informal Full Moon Walking Society, leading unique hikes and monthly walks though the Warner Parks on the Tuesdays closest to the full moon. 

John enjoyed local history and civic affairs. He was a director of the Tennessee Historical Society, served four years as its president, and was a significant contributor to The Tennessee Encyclopedia of History and Culture. John frequently addressed school and civic groups on Tennessee history, often in period attire and sometimes notably in the persona of James Robertson.  He served as a commissioner on the Metropolitan Historical Commission and was an alumnus of Leadership Nashville. In 1976, he participated in the reenactment of the 1779 flatboat trip lead by John Donelson from Kingsport to the banks of the Cumberland River settlement that ultimately became Nashville.  

John enjoyed story-telling and southern folklore, and was particularly fond of the Jack Tales, a collection of Appalachian folk tales that he often told over campfires to audiences of scouts, adults, and lucky passersby.

John graduated from Montgomery Bell Academy in 1954, where he was president of the student body in his senior year. He graduated from Vanderbilt University in 1958 and the Stonier Graduate School of Banking in 1972.  He began his banking career at the Nashville Bank & Trust Company, which later became known as Nashville CityBank. John concluded his banking career as Vice Chairman of the Board at Dominion Bank of Middle Tennessee in order to become president of the H.G. Hill Realty Company. While at H.G. Hill, he spearheaded the development of the property on Post Road in Nashville now known as Hill Place, lead the redevelopment of parts of Hillsboro Village,  and at the end of his career was involved in the early planning of the redevelopment of the H.G. Hill grocery store property on Hillsboro Road into the open air pedestrian shopping mall known as Hill Center.

Honorary Pallbearers:  John Amidei, Thomas G. Andrews, William L. Bainbridge III, E. Warner Bass, Wentworth Caldwell, Jr., James S. Frazer III, James W. Granbery, Robert E. Harwell, Jr., Harold E. Jackson, Jr., Richard W. Lenderman, Joseph P. McAllister, George F. McCanless, Jr., Neil C. Parrish, Edwin P. Voss, William M. Ward, John S. Warner, M.D., W. Ridley Wills II, and C. Prim Wood, Jr.

Pallbearers: James H. Armistead III, William G. Bainbridge, James F. Baxter, Jr., Joseph H. Calvin III, Scott W. Campbell, William G. Crook II, Charles K. Evans, Carrington N. Fox, T. Hartley Hall V, Christiansen N. Hardcastle, Jonathan M. Harwell, Elizabeth R. James, Margaret P. McAllister, W. Paul Wallace and J. Sloan Warner, Jr., M.D.

A Service of the Witness to the Resurrection will be held at Westminster Presbyterian Church at 2:30 PM on Monday, October 10, 2011, with a visitation with the family at the church preceding the service, beginning at 11:30 AM.

Memorial gifts may be made to Westminster Presbyterian Church or Friends of Warner Park, earmarked for the renovation of the historic WPA-era shelters in which John shared many stories and rested during many walks.

Funeral arrangements by Mount Olivet Funeral Home and Cemetery.

We love you, and goodnight.

John Hardcastle left the party today just after noon, surrounded by his wife and sons, and departed as peacefully as could be hoped.  The love he brought to this world was tremendous.

Visitation with the family will begin at 11:30 Monday morning October 10, 2011 at Westminster Presbyterian Church. The Witness to the Resurrection will be at 2:30 p.m.

We ask that donations be made in his name/memory for the Warner Parks Shelter Restoration, specifically the preservation and restoration of the Indian Springs Shelter, where Papa John told many stories and led so many groups of hikers, walkers, campers, scouts, and friends of the wood.

singing it

I inherited many things from my father: tendency towards the narrative, my hairline, my waistline,... my singing voice—which is on par with the hairline and waistline. Even in six years of forced church choir, I was often asked to be a "listener." Dad has asked for music at his memorial, and I can honor him best by not singing.

But there is a song that I always imagined I would sing at his funeral, or would ask my friends to do so. The closer the time comes the less I think I will cite the song, save for the opening lines. I remember vividly the first time I heard Suzi sing this song: I was with Jennifer Farnette, Patsy Reed, and Mary Jo Freeman at the Douglas Corner Cafe to hear Suzi Ragsdale, Verlon Thompson, Darrell Scott and Jelly Roll Johnson sing in the round. It was maybe 1994. I teared up then, and I almost full out cry when I hear it now. One of my absolute favorite of Suzi's songs is My Father's Eyes (link opens in iTunes). She has a keenly beautiful voice, and the lyrics cut a little close to the heart as well.

I was born with my father's eyes,
and my mother's disposition.

Now and then, in a town this size, it's a cross to bear the resemblance.
Once I ran away to Memphis, to find someone different to be.
But all I could change was my address.
And now I know, I'll always see through my father's eyes.

yeah my Dad, he;s still going strong, and she still in love with my mother.
I just know we could last that long if we work things out together.
If this world is any indication, it's a longer than longer shot.
But I think we could be the exception.
Hell, I just can't see why not through my father's eyes.

Though we may travel fast and travel far,
One thing we can;t get past is who we are.

If someday we should have a child, I hope he's just like his father:
Heart of gold, and brilliant smile and a perfect sense of humor.
Or maybe some combination of the best that we both can be.
And wouldn't it be amazing, to see him looking back at me through my father's eyes.

Sure, the parentage line takes on a twist with the whole "my kid would have two dads" thing, and I don't think all of Dad's friends would be able to work through that bit so it's best left out, no matter how powerful a notion I find it to be.

crossing the line

You know that whole "students taken by hostile governments" thing?   Like the two hikers just freed from Iran?

Yeah, Dad did that shit old school. From the The New York Times, August 10, 1958:

That's some cold war crazy right there.  And while the Czechoslovakian "authorities" claimed that Dad climbed over barbed wire fences to pose for photographs, Dad reports it was a country road and an open field in the middle of nowhere and soldiers jumped from bushes to take them, claiming the board was somewhere "over there near a rock" and that he was two feet on the wrong side of it.

Family friend and U.S. Senator Al Gore, Senior, helped get Dad out.

The last time some American students were taken in Korea, E. Thomas Wood reported on Dad's experience in the Nashville Post.

the time has come, the Walrus said

to talk of many things.  Of shoes and ships and sealing wax.  Of cabbages and kings.

I remember this line of Lewis Carroll's clearly as they were painted elaborately on a rough hewn greeting card I bought years and years ago to write a letter to my parents telling them I was gay.  I never wrote the letter (I did come out, obviously), but I think I kept the card in my old desk.  These lines keep ringing in my head this week as, sadly, the time has come.

Papa John is in the hospital with pneumonia.  Last week it looked like the beginning of the end and I bought a seven-day advance ticket home to Nashville.  We weren't sure which way things would go and I was told to "wait and see."  I bought a ticket anyway.  Today, it looks like the end is very definitely nigh.  I am still getting conflicting advice regarding either to get an emergency ticket home asap or to keep my Wednesday flight plans.  Some argue that I can't do anything even when I get there, so not to over-rush it.  But there is value in being present, and I want to be there with him if only to be there with him.  I'm seeing what I can do with flights now.  And packing.  I have't worn a suit in years (California living) and had to buy one Friday.  The alterations won't be ready until tomorrow.

Jay and I have been writing the obituary.  I have been trying to rehearse a eulogy in my head but can't get though it without sobbing and can't imagine getting through it with a congregation.

I worry a lot about Mom, maybe more so as she has been the stalwart so far.  I fear that when the bough breaks, the cradle will fall.

Sharing experiences with my San Framily, I am struck by how fortunate I am to have such a close, loving, and honest relationship with my parents.  That is not nearly as common as it should be.

With the ever-advancing Parkinson's, I thought I had been able to prepare myself bit by bit, saying goodbye to pieces of my father as they left us.  Preparation was an illusion.  I can only think that while my pain is acute it is because it is pure, and I can be comforted that it could be worse as our relationship was relatively uncomplicated.

I have no unresolved "issues" with my father.  We say "I love you" as often as we can, and furthermore we mean it.  I know that he is proud of me and he knows how much I have admired him.  We touch.  We talk.  We hug.  We hang.

We have left nothing unsaid. ("Of course not, you're a Hardcastle." I hear you jest.)
yet, there are tales left to be told.  ("Again, of course you'd say so.  You're a Hardcastle.")

I regret that I have not partnered in time for him to meet the love of my life.

And where are my father's lectures?  His history lessons?  Or his monologues on the extended genealogy of anyone and everyone he may ever come across— now that I want to hear them?  Those were taken from us first, and far too soon.

The blog will be dormant for a while.  Unless I feel the need to vent snark as part of my process, don't expect many postings for the next several weeks.   Updates and details may be posted here as appropriate.

Peace out.


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