A "Mendacious" Friend
I was reminded yesterday of my late friend, Robert Van Kluyve. Milady was home from an eye operation and needed a supply of absolutely sterile water. I’m great at boiling water. Later, trying to bring a smile to her face, I reminded her of my artistic skills in concocting the pot of “gourmet water” for her, showed her how you can’t get it right unless you bend your fingers around the stove knob just so, to give the process a touch of impressionist magic. She did smile and added that my description of my talent reminded her of Bob’s trick with the pitcher . . . and those few words ignited memories I am glad are still there to be recalled.
Bob was a retired university professor of the classics, a master potter, a master calligrapher, a musician, and a one-time navy pilot who, after leaving the navy, operated his own airline flying rich folks and their mail back and forth from the mainland to Block Island. But most of all, Bob was a story teller, and by “story” I mean what my mother meant when she continuously reminded me to “stop telling stories.” Bob could take an absolutely unbelievable situation and work it into a captivating yarn so perfectly and enthusiastically related you would have sworn it happened just as Bob said it did. Like when as a young man (he being an Eagle Scout) he put on his scuba gear and dove into the ketchup vat at the Heinz factory to retrieve a large monkey wrench that had been accidentally dropped in. You could feel your legs tensing up as he detailed the size and weight of the wrench, so heavy he could hardly lift it, one of those really, really big ones that he had found almost impossible to bring to the surface, but finally managed it after returning to the surface for a “stout rope” that he then tied around the wrench. then organizing a team of strong men to hoist the wrench to the surface, him along with it. “I held on to that wrench so my girl friend could see me as I emerged victorious from the ketchup." He claimed he could taste ketchup for a month afterwards, the stuff having apparently seeped through his skin.
Maybe that adventure would explain where Bob got the idea to dramatize for his classes Oedipus Rex’s pulling out of his eyeballs. Bob claimed he had palmed two fists full of those little plastic containers of ketchup they hand out at fast food joints. Placing his hands over his eyes, he screamed in pain and squeezed, "causing Oedipus’ blood to spew forth in great gushes of agony.” I heard him tell that tale at least five times to different audiences, and he always ended it by declaring the lesson “a failure unless at least one of the fair young sophomores fainted.”
He also flew a jet plane through the arch at St. Louis, under the Golden Gate bridge, and twice crash landed in farmland, “harvesting,” he said, “half the crop.” He had been everywhere, done almost everything, shook hands with three different presidents, and, “more importantly,” with the CEO of General Electric. He flew actors and politicians to Block Island, sometimes in “typhoons,” and once managed to turn Jimmy Cagney into a sniveling wimp when he “nose-dived” the two engine prop job to within 200 feet of the earth before “pulling her out.” “I volunteered to pay Cagney’s laundry bill but he was still in shock. So I got away Scot free.”
But as I say, Bob was also a genuine master of several arts. When I knew him, he was the proprietor and resident genius of “The Swinging Bridge Pottery,” named for the suspension foot bridge swung across the Robinson River in front of the pottery, a quarter-mile upriver from my place. He did a large wholesale business in stoneware garden markers, each decorated with the name and a silk-screened picture of a different herb. But it wasn’t the money that kept him devoted to pottery – and he definitely was devoted. The art pieces he designed and crafted were responsible for that. And, to shorten this story a bit, that’s where the “pitcher trick” came in that Milady had referred to.
You see, Bob and I went into the arts and crafts business, opening the “Robinson River Trading Post,” a small scale emporium dealing in Bob’s pottery and the crafts of several other Madison County artists. Bob’s specialty – at least the one we sold more of than the others – was pottery pitchers, decorated with Bob’s own original art. Now, I don’t want you to believe that those pitchers would not have sold on their own merits, but I’m sure they sold faster because of the trick. “First, you show them how the pitcher balances when you hold it loosely by the handle, letting gravity to its thing. Then you tell them that the perfectly designed pitcher will have poured exactly one cup when that balance point is reached.” Bob then handed me a pitcher and added the coup de gras sales pitch to the innocent customer. “You hand them the pitcher and let them balance it on their hand as you just did. Then you ask then to tilt the pitcher back and forth from upright to the balance position. After they’ve done this twice – no more, just twice – you point out to them that if the pitcher is a good pitcher it will get lighter as it finds the balance point. They will then tilt the pitcher themselves, seeing if this one is ‘good.’ If they do it more than twice, you’ve got a sale.”
And that was the trick. You notice, Bob didn’t say the pitcher will seem to get lighter. He said it will get lighter. And so it will. Try it yourself, with any pitcher. You’ll see that if you hold the pitcher with all five fingers, and tilt if toward the horizontal, it will get lighter. We-l-l-l, not actually, but it will certainly seem to get lighter. The reason for this is simple. In the upright position, all the weight of the pitcher is on the top finger, but in the tilted position, the weight distributes across the whole hand. The pitcher will definitely be lighter.
I will not recount for you the long hours Bob and I discussed this phenomenon in the context of philosophical empiricism, how the reports we make of the physical world are shaped by our perceptions as well as by reality. Instead, I’ll confess that the trick, in possession of the master salesman – me – sold so many pitchers Bob was kept up late making them. But this is by no means an apology. The pitchers are still worth every dollar paid for them, the more so now that the life-centricities of their creator have been lovingly recorded by a faithful Mouse. There is no trick at all in my telling you that graceful memories of Robert Van Kluyve will live at least as long as I do.
Bob was a retired university professor of the classics, a master potter, a master calligrapher, a musician, and a one-time navy pilot who, after leaving the navy, operated his own airline flying rich folks and their mail back and forth from the mainland to Block Island. But most of all, Bob was a story teller, and by “story” I mean what my mother meant when she continuously reminded me to “stop telling stories.” Bob could take an absolutely unbelievable situation and work it into a captivating yarn so perfectly and enthusiastically related you would have sworn it happened just as Bob said it did. Like when as a young man (he being an Eagle Scout) he put on his scuba gear and dove into the ketchup vat at the Heinz factory to retrieve a large monkey wrench that had been accidentally dropped in. You could feel your legs tensing up as he detailed the size and weight of the wrench, so heavy he could hardly lift it, one of those really, really big ones that he had found almost impossible to bring to the surface, but finally managed it after returning to the surface for a “stout rope” that he then tied around the wrench. then organizing a team of strong men to hoist the wrench to the surface, him along with it. “I held on to that wrench so my girl friend could see me as I emerged victorious from the ketchup." He claimed he could taste ketchup for a month afterwards, the stuff having apparently seeped through his skin.
Maybe that adventure would explain where Bob got the idea to dramatize for his classes Oedipus Rex’s pulling out of his eyeballs. Bob claimed he had palmed two fists full of those little plastic containers of ketchup they hand out at fast food joints. Placing his hands over his eyes, he screamed in pain and squeezed, "causing Oedipus’ blood to spew forth in great gushes of agony.” I heard him tell that tale at least five times to different audiences, and he always ended it by declaring the lesson “a failure unless at least one of the fair young sophomores fainted.”
He also flew a jet plane through the arch at St. Louis, under the Golden Gate bridge, and twice crash landed in farmland, “harvesting,” he said, “half the crop.” He had been everywhere, done almost everything, shook hands with three different presidents, and, “more importantly,” with the CEO of General Electric. He flew actors and politicians to Block Island, sometimes in “typhoons,” and once managed to turn Jimmy Cagney into a sniveling wimp when he “nose-dived” the two engine prop job to within 200 feet of the earth before “pulling her out.” “I volunteered to pay Cagney’s laundry bill but he was still in shock. So I got away Scot free.”
But as I say, Bob was also a genuine master of several arts. When I knew him, he was the proprietor and resident genius of “The Swinging Bridge Pottery,” named for the suspension foot bridge swung across the Robinson River in front of the pottery, a quarter-mile upriver from my place. He did a large wholesale business in stoneware garden markers, each decorated with the name and a silk-screened picture of a different herb. But it wasn’t the money that kept him devoted to pottery – and he definitely was devoted. The art pieces he designed and crafted were responsible for that. And, to shorten this story a bit, that’s where the “pitcher trick” came in that Milady had referred to.
You see, Bob and I went into the arts and crafts business, opening the “Robinson River Trading Post,” a small scale emporium dealing in Bob’s pottery and the crafts of several other Madison County artists. Bob’s specialty – at least the one we sold more of than the others – was pottery pitchers, decorated with Bob’s own original art. Now, I don’t want you to believe that those pitchers would not have sold on their own merits, but I’m sure they sold faster because of the trick. “First, you show them how the pitcher balances when you hold it loosely by the handle, letting gravity to its thing. Then you tell them that the perfectly designed pitcher will have poured exactly one cup when that balance point is reached.” Bob then handed me a pitcher and added the coup de gras sales pitch to the innocent customer. “You hand them the pitcher and let them balance it on their hand as you just did. Then you ask then to tilt the pitcher back and forth from upright to the balance position. After they’ve done this twice – no more, just twice – you point out to them that if the pitcher is a good pitcher it will get lighter as it finds the balance point. They will then tilt the pitcher themselves, seeing if this one is ‘good.’ If they do it more than twice, you’ve got a sale.”
And that was the trick. You notice, Bob didn’t say the pitcher will seem to get lighter. He said it will get lighter. And so it will. Try it yourself, with any pitcher. You’ll see that if you hold the pitcher with all five fingers, and tilt if toward the horizontal, it will get lighter. We-l-l-l, not actually, but it will certainly seem to get lighter. The reason for this is simple. In the upright position, all the weight of the pitcher is on the top finger, but in the tilted position, the weight distributes across the whole hand. The pitcher will definitely be lighter.
I will not recount for you the long hours Bob and I discussed this phenomenon in the context of philosophical empiricism, how the reports we make of the physical world are shaped by our perceptions as well as by reality. Instead, I’ll confess that the trick, in possession of the master salesman – me – sold so many pitchers Bob was kept up late making them. But this is by no means an apology. The pitchers are still worth every dollar paid for them, the more so now that the life-centricities of their creator have been lovingly recorded by a faithful Mouse. There is no trick at all in my telling you that graceful memories of Robert Van Kluyve will live at least as long as I do.
posted by Benedict S. at 11:09 AM
8 Comments:
Your story reminds me of my Grandpa and his story telling.My grandpa used to say that the train tracks were haunted as he used to ride his bicicle by them all the time. One night he came home and told of a light that followed him for some distance. He thought nothing of it at the time as it's close to the tracks right, but as he pulled away it followed him - off the track and whipped right past him like a bat out of hell, he was spooked.
Then about a year after his death my sister claimed to see him (his
head anyway) in her closet and could not sleep for a long time. I am
very confused by this now, as my Mom said I was his favourite, why
them did he end up in the wrong room?
I'm sure there's a scientific reason behind it ...
Or NOt....
Please read my response to the accusation I am plagiarizing.
Tales of strange lights and other unexplainable phenomena abound in my distant childhood. Dr. Van Kluyves' tales were none of that sort. They were mostly just plain out-and-out lies. But he knew that we knew he was lying, so that made him a story teller," just an entertainer.
I read your explanation. Don't understand it, but it's no big deal to me either way. I clicked over to the site you linked. Didn't see much there but a list of topics, moderated by somebody name of Michael Hoffman.
Your grandfather's "story" involved railroads, which puts him and me squarely in the same conincidental world. Mt father was a RR engineer and my first real job was in a rail yard, "pounding cinders." I never have seen strange lights, but one of these days I'll email you a true story that is bit more fabulous than the lights . . .
My dad was an electrician for the Pennsylvania RR, I remember taking a long ride with him once, we went by bus to 30th Station in Philadelphia, and then by train to Reading. In Reading, someone- I think it was his boss - bought me an ice cream cone. Dad just left about half an hour ago, my wife made a nice Roasted Beef for the family, quite the little hostess my wife.
Another time I remember surrounding trains was the time my grandparents were going to California via the RR. My dad and uncles were helping them on with thier bags when the train pulled out of the station with them on it; they had to ride the train all the way to Baltimore before they could get on a train coming back into Philly- I can imagine my grandfather's reaction to the scene with his two sons and son -in -law stuck on the train, the uncles had to pay for tickets to Baltimore and back, dad was lucky enough to get a free ride both ways being a card carrying employee , I guess membership had its priveledges even back then. The really comical part though was back in Philly with my mom and two aunts hounding the poor guy at the ticket desk about the fate of thier husbands. Three ladies, 15 kids ( Uncle Jim had nine) and everybody talking all at once. Whatever that guy was making wasn't nearly enough that day!
I have been reading your blog for sometime now but have not left a comment.I decided to this time because i enjoyed the story about your friend very much.Keep the blog's coming..it's very refreshing.
Anonymous's trip reminded me of several I took to Birmingham with my mom during the "second great war." The trains were always packed with soldiers and sailors, going somewhere from elsewhere, and who knows where they wound up. Hectic was the word. Standing room only. My brother and I sat in the aisle, and my mom stood so the "boys" could sit. My dad being an engineer, we rode on a pass, so were expected in any case to give our seats to paying customers.
My fondest memory of those wartime trips centers on the hawkers, the guys who went through the coaches selling candy and crackerjacks. I hope I never forget the way the civilian passengers, my mom among them, would buy three or four candy bars and give them all to the servicemen. I'm sure that's how I learned what little I know of honor and gratitude.
My tragedy,I have never been on a train ride,but I do remember going to the old train station as a kid,it always had a peculiar smell to it,it smelled like a train station.
My friends and I would walk the tracks,it was always so exciting to hear the roar of the trains and the train whistle.In my ten year old mind the train was a phantasy,it was something that could take you to faraway and exotic places.
I just saw an interesting medieval relic and remembered with pleasure studying Chaucer with Bob Van Kluyve at Duke in the 60s. He was so exciting in the classroom, and he and his wife Libby gave great parties for students, serving home-made brew. I googled his name and found your post and also that he died in 1996. What happened to him after he left Duke--I don't see anymore scholarly publications.
I am writing to find out if "Swinging Bridge Pottery" is still there. I read with interest your account of the original owner and potter. I googled the shop tonight because our cleaning company accidently broke a pepper shaker yesterday from a salt&pepper set my husband bought from "Swinging Bridge Pottery" in 1982, the year before we were married. We have always used it in our kitchen right next to the stove. We were sad to see it break. Thank you for this blog. When you sell even small works of art, you never know how long other people will continue to enjoy them and think of the artist/potter who created them.
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