I had only recently started Havahand and was taking on any work I was competent enough to complete, from running errands to small moving jobs, building porch steps, trimming trees or painting a house, if I could do it I would.
About that time, I met Jordan Fishman, a designer by trade and artist among other things. Due to infirmities, he had long needed a reliable mule to lift and move the things he couldn’t; to reach awkward places; stand on a ladder; organize things, and all else made too daunting by the wondrous amenities of senescence.
Since childhood, I have always had a fondness of elders, the friendly ones mostly. There are qualities and nuances that more than a half century of conscious existence impart, things that tend to be unavailable through substitution. Experience, wisdom, the living record of a remote and otherwise inaccessible time — things not easily shared by even the best of books. And then there’s character, the ambling, often onerously earned, living sculpture of self that is encoded with the unique attributes of the individual.
Jordan had character. He’d traveled the world both by foot and book, ardently pursued art and culture, and operated a business that is keystone to the global production industry. As an artist and thinking man, he was a naturally dandy collocutor who could always offer substantial discussions. Often, I would arrive at his home to assist with a list of trivial tasks, where half my time spent there comprised of conversation. He’d insist on paying me for such time and despite expressing my opposition to profiteering from educational content and good discussion, generally not yield.
I learned quite a bit about the tire industry. One of Jordan’s specialties was tires, the big industrial type, the kind that couldn’t fit in the average four-car garage. Tires, that he himself designed. I learned a lot more, much that with my ephemeral memory, has faded. Those who’ve had conversations with insightful, well-traveled people, especially when the context is both business and adventure, know the richness and value inherent there.
The last hundred years has been saturated by the unprecedented. Much of what might be excluded still remains temporally proximal. The printing press came about nearly 600 years ago, and nothing recent has quite matched the Chicxulub impact, but it has regardless been an objectively eventful interlude. And every time I see a witness of this epoch succumb to the stalker of mortality, that insatiable corpulent, merciless gormandizer of life, I palpably feel the world decrease in value.
I reckon it was a year or so ago, and remember standing in his living room, admiring a very unusual rocking chair while Jordan explained to me what he knew of it. When I say unusual, it certainly was, though magnificent might better describe it. What he didn’t mention at the time was the name of the artist who crafted it, and from then until a few weeks ago, I had no reference for it nor knowledge of the maker. But I distinctly recall telling Jordan that day, while hovering over the rocking chair, how I’d be grateful to meet its creator.
A few weeks ago, I was showing some of my spoons to an interested couple. They were interested in purchasing some of them, though I had to decline because at that time, I had no adequately sized pieces of wood (cocobolo) to replace them with. In that awkward moment, I quietly determined that I would, the following day, attempt to buy any remaining available pieces, whether I could afford it or not. So I did.
While at the lumber shop, there were several folks rummaging through the many stacks of fine woods. Among them, for no reason other than being within audible range, I asked a stranger what he’d be doing with the walnut boards he was examining. He said he’d be making a cabinet. “So you’re a cabinet maker…” I said. “Well, I make cabinets, but other things too” he replied. “Such as?” I inquired. “Sculpted rocking chairs” was his reply. And I knew then, it was him, who’d soon introduce himself as Parker Converse, maker of, in my opinion, the world’s most intriguing rocking chairs, published author, and generally interesting fellow.
Before my suspicions were confirmed, I had asked if he happened to know Jordan Fishman, which he quickly confirmed. Jordan was a customer, hence the Parker Converse rocking chair in his living room.
And that was a few weeks ago. The next day, I called Jordan to tell him of my seemingly improbable encounter. He was amused. We discussed the health issues he’d been dealing with and treatments he’d received. It genuinely seemed his problems would soon yield to restored salubrity.
This morning, I read my messages, one of them informing me that Jordan had stepped into the great cosmic recycling bin via heart attack. My thoughts went to the hand-filed silver Magen David on his wall. After some point a while back, at which ‘customer’ transformed to friend and myself conspiring to gift him something, I had asked him as an artist and practical person, if he thought it would be worthwhile to carve the star of David from a coin. Jordan was (is…) Jewish. He advised me to abandon the idea, saying that it would be difficult. That, of course, was sufficient justification to do it, which after a long stretch of procrastination, I did. I hand filed the star of David into a 0.6oz round of .999 silver. It was difficult and unpleasant, bloodying my hands by the end and challenging my perseverance the whole way. The results were rough and unrefined and I expected it might have been a waste of time… and silver. It wasn’t.
It was well received, the imperfections welcome and effort acknowledged. It took some time, but eventually was mounted on his wall. I was pleased. Yesterday I had expected to soon talk to Jordan again, and probably help him with more trivial things. I cannot honestly say whether he considered me a friend or merely a friendly mule, but he remains a friend to me and will be missed. I try not to count the many others he’s joined, and I know we will all be heading a similar direction too soon. He’s someone I’ll not forget. He picked a pretty good actor to go with though. Gene Hackman is one of my favorites, particularly for The Conversation.
PS:
Jordan,
if any of the strange folks on the other side start talking about reincarnation, ignore them. Stay yourself and maybe I’ll see you when I see you. Till then.