Archive for the ‘Conroe Texas’ Tag

Growing Old Together   Leave a comment

Growing Old Together — Photo-Artistry by kenne

“Every heart sings a song, incomplete,
until another heart whispers back.
Those who wish to sing always find a song.
At the touch of a lover, everyone becomes a poet.”

― Plato

 

Col. Jerry Noel Hoblit, RIP   2 comments

Jerry, George and Kenne Toasting the Good Life During a Wonderful Hike Visiting a Series of Scenic Lakes
Nestled in a Gorgeous Valley Surrounded by 13,000-ft Peaks in the
High Sierras. (August 6, 2006) — Image by joy
 

I first met Jerry in the late 1990s when he became a member of our book club, The Society of The 5th Cave — A Reading Club for the Non-Discriminating Bourgeoisie. His first selection was The Future and it Enemies by Virgibia Postrel. “Postrel’s book stands out as one of the best popular defenses of the ideal of a free society precisely because she covers the skeletal principles of liberty with the flesh and blood of history, everyday real life, and examples of things around us that we take for granted. It is one of those rare instances of a well-balanced blending of theory and practice that may yet make free men and free markets a reality in the next century.”

In a dream I meet
my dead friend. He has,
I know, gone long and far,
and yet he is the same
for the dead are changeless.
They grow no older.
It is I who have changed,
grown strange to what I was.
Yet I, the changed one,
ask: “How you been?”
He grins and looks at me.
“I been eating peaches
off some mighty fine trees.”

— Wendell Berry
 

3/11/22, 9:58 AM Col. Hoblit Obituary (1936 – 2022) – Conroe, TX – The Courier of Montgomery County

Col. Jerry Noel Hoblit, the greatest ghter pilot of all time, flew west on January 31, 2022, at age 85 in Conroe, TX. Pilots around the world were heard to say YGBSM. Some knew him as Hognose, but his call sign was Dragon. While no SAM could catch him, Dementia and Parkinson’s finally did. Aside from being a world-class fighter pilot, Jerry was a loving husband and father, doting grandfather, and generous friend.

Jerry Hoblit graduated from the U.S. Military Academy at West Point, Class of 1958. During the Vietnam War, where he served three separate tours, he was awarded three Distinguished Flying Crosses and three Silver Stars, among others. Decades later Colonel Tom Wilson (USAF, Retired), who had been Hoblit’s “backseater” learned that Jerry had one less Silver Star and had been recommended for the Air Force Cross but never received it. Three and a half decades after his service in Vietnam, the Air Force awarded Col. Hoblit with its highest honor, The Air Force Cross. Jerry retired as a U.S. Air Force Colonel on June 30, 1982.

While his military career was marked with incredible success, he counted his marriage to Rosalie Ward as his greatest and most happy achievement. The couple was married on May 24, 1963, at Spangdahlem Air Force Base in Germany. Their family grew to include three daughters, Holly Virginia, Heather Elizabeth, and Heidi Noel. Jerry loved his three girls but found being a grandparent to Eric, Ethan, Rhegan, and August to be the most enjoyable.

A Memorial will be held at Metcalf Funeral Home in Conroe, Texas (1801 East White Oak Terrace) at 3 PM on Saturday, March 12. Chocolate Cake (of course!) and light refreshments will be served following.

This summer the family will honor his wishes and spread some of his remains at Lake Rosalie in the High Sierras. Date TBD.

Col. Jerry Noel Hoblit will have full military honors and yover at Arlington Memorial Cemetery at a future date (most likely in 2023 due to the waitlist). Following this ceremony, the family will honor his request and host a roast in his honor.

Jerry’s wishes were for donations to be made to

Shriner’s Children’s Hospital

Dinner with the Hoblits, the Boyles and the Turners at the Hoblit cabin in Mammouth Lakes, California
(August 4, 2006)

The Great Horned Owl   3 comments

Great Horned Owl — Image by kenne

Owls

Wait; the great horned owls
Calling from the wood’s edge; listen.
           There: the dark male, low
And booming, tremoring the whole valley.
           There: the female, resolving, answering
High and clear, restoring silence.
           The chilly woods draw in
Their breath, slow, waiting, and now both
           Sound out together, close to harmony.

           These are the year’s worst nights.
Ice glazed on the top boughs,
           Old snow deep on the ground,
Snow in the red-tailed hawks’
           Nests they take for their own.
Nothing crosses the crusted ground.
           No squirrels, no rabbits, the mice gone,
No crow has young yet they can steal.
           These nights the iron air clangs
Like the gates of a cell block, blank
           And black as the inside of your chest.

           Now, the great owls take
The air, the male’s calls take
           Depth on and resonance, they take
A rough nest, take their mate
           And, opening out long wings, take
Flight, unguided and apart, to caliper
           The blind synapse their voices cross
Over the dead white fields,
           The dead black woods, where they take
Soundings on nothing fast, take
           Soundings on each other, each alone.

— W.D. Snodgrass

Kenne and W.D. Snodgrass (1999) — Montgomery College Writers In Performance Series

New Year’s Day With Friends, 2006   1 comment

New Year’s Day With Friends, 2006 — Image by kenne

Those Were The Days

— Gene Raskin

 
Once upon a time there was a tavern
Where we used to raise a glass or two
Remember how we laughed away the hours
And think of all the great things we would do
 
Those were the days my friend
We thought they’d never end
We’d sing and dance forever and a day
We’d live the life we choose
We’d fight and never lose
For we were young and sure to have our way
La la la la la la
La la la la la la
La la la la La la la la la la
 
Then the busy years went rushing by us
We lost our starry notions on the way
If by chance I’d see you in the tavern
We’d smile at one another and we’d say
 
Those were the days my friend
We thought they’d never end
We’d sing and dance forever and a day
We’d live the life we choose
We’d fight and never lose
Those were the days, oh yes those were the days
La la la la la la
La la la la la la
La la la la La la la la la la
 
Just tonight I stood before the tavern
Nothing seemed the way it used to be
In the glass I saw a strange reflection
Was that lonely woman really me
 
Those were the days my friend
We thought they’d never end
We’d sing and dance forever and a day
We’d live the life we choose
We’d fight and never lose
Those were the days, oh yes those were the days
La la la la la la
La la la la la la
La la la la La la la la la la
la la la la la la
La la la la la la
La la la la La la la la la la
 
Through the door there came familiar laughter
I saw your face and heard you call my name
Oh my friend we’re older but no wiser
For in our hearts the dreams are still the same
 
Those were the days my friend
We thought they’d never end
We’d sing and dance forever and a day
We’d live the life we choose
We’d fight and never lose
Those were the days, oh yes those were the days
La la la la la la
La la la la la la
La la la la La la la la la la
La la la la la la
La la la la la la
La la la la La la la la la la
 

Helping Our Friends — Conroe Catfish Festival, 2005   Leave a comment

Volunteering at the October 2005 Conroe Catfish Festival (Joy & Kenne)

Our friend, Jerry Bernhardt, owner of Bernhardt Winery, with good friend Michael McBride 

Plenty of entertainment for everyone.

Diunna Greenleaf — Images by kenne

Celebrating Walt Whitman   3 comments

Lowell Mick White Reading at the 2008 Walt Whitman Birthday Celebration in Conroe, Texas — Image by kenne

A Supermarket in California

  What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I
walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-
conscious looking at the full moon.
   In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the
neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!
   What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping
at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in
the tomatoes!—and you, García Lorca, what were you doing
down by the watermelons?

   I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking
among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys.
   I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork
chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?
   I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following
you, and followed in my imagination by the store detective.
   We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary
fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and
never passing the cashier.

   Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in a hour.
Which way does your beard point tonight?
    (I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the 
supermarket and feel absurd.)
   Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add
shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we’ll both be lonely.
   Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue
automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?
   Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what
America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you
got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat disappear
on the black waters of Lethe?

— Allen Ginsberg

Conroe’s Corner Pub   2 comments

Sonny Boy Terry & Michael Durbin-HopperSonny Boy Terry and Michael Durbin In Conroe’s Corner Pub (04/14/07) — Photo-Artistry by kenne

“The more one loves music,

the less music one loves.”

— Really?!!

I was going through some of my brother’s notes on music this morning and came upon the Roger Sessions statement, “The more one loves music, the less music one loves.” From my own personal experience, there is music I may not have liked but learned to love it.

So, I decided to research the context of what Sessions was saying.

“. . . this initial stage in listening to music is an entirely direct one; the listener brings to the music whatever he can bring, with no other preoccupation than that of hearing. This is, of course, what is to be desired; it is the condition of his really hearing. He will hear the music only to the extent that he identifies himself with it, establishing a fresh and essentially naive contact with it, without preconceived ideas and without strained effort.

. . . the listener’s reaction is immediate and seems, in a sense, identical with the act of hearing. Undoubtedly this is what many listeners expect. And yet, on occasion, one may listen to music attentively, without any conscious response to it until afterward; one’s very attention may be so absorbed that a vivid sense of the sound is retained, but a sense of communications experienced only later. It is this sense of communication to which I refer under the term ‘enjoyment’; obviously, one may not and often does not, in any real sense, ‘enjoy’ what is being communities. There is certainly some music that we never ‘enjoy’; experience inevitably fosters discrimination, and there is certainly some truth even in the frequent, seemingly paradoxical statement that ‘the more one loves music, the less music one loves.’ This statement is true in a sense if we understand it as applying to the experience of an individual, and not a general rule. But if our relation to the music is a healthy one — that is to say, a direct and simple one — our primary and quite spontaneous effort will to deny it.”

The more you learn about something you like, the more you will love it.

— kenne

 

 

“Original Pat Green”   3 comments

Patrict Green-2-art-72“Original Pat Green” (2004)– Photo-Artistry by kenne

Like so many people the past St. Patrick’s Day, we were sheltered-in-place and missed celebrating the 17th the only way it should be, with friends. So I turned to the many photos of St. Patrick’s Day I have taken over the years, and I have many.

At first, I was thinking about doing a collage, but then I found this one of a friend, Patrick A. Green. Starting in 1995, Pat and his friends would meet on the Court House Square in Conroe, parade around the Square, and party at the Corner Pub on the Square.

Pat practiced law in Conroe for 43 years, retiring in 2015. The “Original Pat Green” gave freely of whatever he had to whomever he met, a man of limitless generosity. With unbridled enthusiasm for his Irish and Cajun heritage, Pat could host a party unlike any other. Through his generous spirit and disarming humor, he possessed an extraordinary ability to bring people together. 

Pat died on July 12, 2016. He was an original, and I’m blessed to have known him — somewhere in the universe, he is still partying!

— kenne

You Do What You Have To Do   Leave a comment

Bryan Lee2006-06-10-26-art-72Bryan Lee — Photo-Artistry by kenne

Blues musician Bryan (Braille Blues Daddy) Lee has been a fixture on Bourbon Steet for
four decades. He was frequently a live music stop for us during our many trips to New Orleans
during our time living in the Houston area.
We first saw him at the Old Absinthe House on Bourbon Street. 

When Katrina hit New Orleans in 2005, like a lot of New Orleans musicians he began
touring more through Texas and up into the mid-west. In 2006 we saw him and his
band at a live music bar in Conroe, Texas north of Houston. The above photo artistry
image was created from a photo taken during one of his stops in Conroe.

— kenne

 

The Society Of The Fifth Cave Christmas Celebration, 2009   Leave a comment

Cave Christmas 2009The Society of the Fifth Cave Christmas Celebration, December 19, 2009

The Society of the Fifth Cave, “A Reading Club for the Non-Discriminating Bourgeoisie,” has existed in one form are another, since 1983. I became a member in 1998. The last time I was able to attend one of our monthly meetings was September 2012

— kenne

“May your trails be crooked, winding, lonesome,
dangerous, leading to the most amazing view.
May your mountains rise into and above the clouds.”

— Edward Abbey

Friend, AJ Murphy   Leave a comment

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAFriend, AJ Murphy — Photo-Artistry by kenne

AJ Murphy past away 2003, a close friend
and the heart and soul of a young organization,
“Friends of The Blues, Montgomery County.”
In May of that year, the Friends held a celebration
at the Texas Arts Venue in downtown Conroe, Texas.
Click here for an article that appeared in the Houston Chronicle.

— kenne

The Power Of The Spoken Word   Leave a comment

SlamWinner IIIorg grunge art blogBlue Bonnet Poetry Slam Winner, Conroe, Texas, April 2004 — Image by kenne

“Keep’n the Blues Alive” — Ten Years Out   Leave a comment

bryan-lee2007-06-02-01keepingxMember of Bryan Lee’s Band Taking A Break Outside the Corner Pub (June 2, 2007), Conroe, Texas — Image by kenne

Bryan Lee (1 of 1)-Art blog IIComputer Art by kenne

“I always thought that one man, the lone balladeer
with a guitar, could blow a whole army off the stage,
if he knew what he was doing. I’ve seen it happen.”

— Bob Dylan

 

Conroe, Texas   Leave a comment

B&W (1 of 1) Conroe Art blog(March 2004) — Image by kenne

A damp gulf coast night
on a slow Tuesday evening —
Rover on the move.

— kenne

 

“Snodgrass Is Walking Through the Universe”   Leave a comment

dave-w-d-kenne-1-of-1-bw-blogDavid Parsons, W.D. Snodgrass and Kenne Turner (Conroe, Texas, 1999)

In 1999 I had the honor of spending an evening with the poet, W.D. Snodgrass, first at a reading at the Conroe library, finishing off the evening at the Hofbrau Steaks. Since then I have continued to enjoy reading the personal nature of his poems, and he will forever remain in my heart — “Snodgrass is walking through the universe.”

kenne

THESE TREES STAND . . .

These trees stand very tall under the heavens.
While they stand, if I walk, all stars traverse
This steep celestial gulf their branches chart.
Though lovers stand at sixes and at sevens
While civilizations come down with the curse,
Snodgrass is walking through the universe.

I can’t make any world go around your house.
But note this moon. Recall how the night nurse
Goes ward-rounds, by the mild, reflective art
Of focusing her flashlight on her blouse.
Your name’s safe conduct into love or verse;
Snodgrass is walking through the universe.

Your name’s absurd, miraculous as sperm
And as decisive. If you can’t coerce
One thing outside yourself, why you’re the poet!
What irrefrangible atoms whirl, affirm
Their destiny and form Lucinda’s skirts!
She can’t make up your mind. Soon as you know it,
Your firmament grows touchable and firm.
If all this world runs battlefield or worse,
Come, let us wipe our glasses on our shirts:
Snodgrass is walking through the universe.

—W.D. Snodgrass

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