A Poem of Titles (An ode to my Uncle Clint, with analysis) by C.R. Patton Jr. "Twinkle Toes, Twinkle Eyes," "Our Family Witch Doctor," "Salesman, Soulsman;" "Holy Weatherman in the Family," "The Scotch Indian," "How Should One Be Called (Or, What's in My Name);" "Twink the Shrink," "The Humanist Believer." "Then the Wagon Tipped;" "My Dinner with Uncle Clint (Of 'Bury a', and 'Capture the', Flag)," "Of Great White Naugas in Pine Forests: " "The Best Wasted Times." "A Poem of Titles." "Twinkle Toes, Twinkle Eyes" casts a shadow of a tall man. Not only in physical stature but the pillar of inner strength, and the support it lends to those who surround it, are revealed as in silhouette. The levity is garnered too, in the Fred Flintstone bowling images. Stars above and toes growing into the ground like roots stretch apart and pull together as though rubber banded together by the nickname of this man. "Our Family Witch Doctor," every clan should have one. "Salesman, Soulsman;" tells the tale of a man of many roles. Holy robes to J.C. Penney suits for the masses. Wedding the rich and famous from mismatched meals of generic canned goods. But always with spirit, a 'joie de vivre'; always 'carpe diem', seizing the day. Those of us who know and love him recognize and respect his dichotomy. He is revered and reverend. "Holy Weatherman in the Family," an incongruous mix that twists and flashes until it melds into a molten vision of a military man trained to watch clouds and a seminary graduate fully capable of doing the same thing -- but with disparate motives. One can see what the weather will be in a few hours while the other can sense which way the wind is blowing. And he shares them out in appropriate measure: from educating a nephew to presiding at marriages and at funerals as well. The Mundane, the Happy and the Shattered; to mangle a title from another "Clint". "The Scotch Indian," -- is this one about his drink, his heritage or his wished for connection to the indigenous peoples of the land he roams? I read it and see the raised cheekbones as Scottish, like the mythic Highlander or the more real Rob Roy (there's the drink again) -- it's in the grey eyes too. He reads it and sees Cherokee or the remnants of another trodden tribe. The pride and self-esteem burns through either way. Please don't litter. "How Should One Be Called (Or, What's in My Name)" a treatise on naming conventions revealed through the dialogue of an elder and an apprentice. Should one be called by an appellation of one's own choosing, thus ensuring comfort and self-esteem? Twink thinks so -- though he may prefer to be referred to in the dialogue by a different moniker. The other voice puts forth that names given by others carry more meaning, particularly if they are granted by someone with insight. Especially in the case of nicknames. These are Indian style names granted by the chief or shaman, "Dances with Wolves". Such names can also create stigma, as labels and so the debate flows.... "Twink the Shrink," a serious occupation leads to more than most of us ever want to know about the inner workings and failings of the human mind. Yet here's a man who handles it, if not always in stride then usually in perspective. God's world, His children; in health and in frailty. Cherish the days of sanity while you have them. "The Humanist Believer." "There are no atheists in foxholes." I haven't spent any time in foxholes but I've seen enough and felt enough to have no doubt of the verity of this aphorism. But in the more serene moments I wax agnostic, at least. Clinton Reynolds, as far as I know, has never wavered -- peaceful meadows and sane cognition probably make him more certain of the Deity. The difference between us hasn't mattered. Because, I think, we share a Humanist interpretation of our purpose for existing. How we live and how we treat one another, here, today, tomorrow, while we live, while we can, is what matters. That's what's worth devoting energy to. Time spent in worship for God's sake is not as useful as time spent lifting a human spirit. "Then the Wagon Tipped;" is a pleasant collection of brief essays in the vein of Robert Fulghum's "All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten". I have no doubt that Uncle Clint could fill volumes with endless tales providing insights for all into the minutiae of everyday life. The title refers to one summer evening's minor events at the Patton cabin involving a single axle open bed tractor wagon filled with 7 or more cousins. "My Dinner with Uncle Clint (Of 'Bury a', and 'Capture the', Flag)" -- I don't know that I've ever eaten a meal alone with my uncle Clint but there's a story that I remember as being from one of the first "art" or "critic's choice" type films that I ever enjoyed. The film is "My Dinner with Andre" and the tale is about a banner, or a flag, hand sewn by someone's wife. I envision it as one of these secular flags that have recently become popular on front porches that depict anything from nothing to a hobby, university or a holiday. Anyway this flag gets passed around from one individual to another and bad luck follows. Attempts to purify the flag with 20th century pagan rituals ultimately fail and the flag is buried on a beach, or something. I associate this karmic continuity and ability to make us feel like more than ourselves with my ministerial uncle. And one flag leads to another, as they say (Do they say that?), so my memories of games of Capture the Flag at our camp have become entwined with the supernatural symbolism of Andre's flag and so make them maybe more than they were. Or maybe they were that much. "Of Great White Naugas in Pine Forests" -- this volume is similar in it's light hearted nature to "Then the Wagon Tipped" but focuses on stories which are not necessarily true -- although most can not be easily disproven. Like the one where a single continuous stream of the sing-a-long "Found a Peanut" lasts the entire drive from San Diego to northern Arizona; or the sad tale of Luigi Cornhusker and the Blind Venetian. This collection will stick in our memories, always. "The Best Wasted Times." The powerful images of a consanguine congregation contiguously corralling the conflagration that is a campfire misleads the unwary wandering reader into a sense there's more in store -- before eviscerating him of these pretensions and allowing him to see that this tale is about nothing, much like "Seinfeld" or "Mary Tyler Moore". But indeed for those who've lived it, for those many of us who have; there is no better usage when that tempest doth fuget than to sit and watch the flicker than to sit and watch the flame with our near and dear around us and included in those folds is the one we know and remember as our shaman of an uncle; the one who's appellation matches Sir Clinton of the Reynolds. And we'll sit with him and others and know there's nothing we'd'ruther do but wallow in the shallow fire's ring and mark the passage of the best of wasted times. "A Poem of Titles" I have only scratched the surface, and it's only one point of view. Many eyes looking back at the vista which is Clint's-life-so-far would see many other points of interest. I can see only about halfway back but it is a rich land. I wish I had time and creative energy to flesh out each title fully. But I've cheated for now at least and leave these as a reflection of the man that weaves many roles together and is indeed himself a poem of titles.