Greg's Memorial

Here's a memorial for Greg Jackson. Please pass this along to those who knew him. Either tell people to come to this website or print it off and give it to those people who don't have access to the internet. I'm not trying to toot my own horn, but, instead, trying to preserve a positive memory of a good friend. Email me at sisenmann@hotmail.com if you have any questions or comments you'd like to share. Enjoy.

I’ve been assigned the Herculean task of encapsulating the life of Greg Jackson in only a few words. At first, I was intimidated by this task, unsure of what to say. I mean, how can you boil down anybody’s life or the impact of said life into mere words? Attending his funeral service helped give me a focus for this piece.

I sat through a service filled with religious overtones and the woes of an unrecovered addict. This was not the Greg Jackson I knew. I’m not saying that he was falsely portrayed at his service, only that he was not fully portrayed. Greg had many positive aspects which drew people to him and compelled them to love him deeply. My focus for this piece, therefore, is to reveal Greg Jackson for the glorious bastard that he was. So without further ado, here’s the Greg I remember:

We choose how we want to remember those we’ve lost. For me, I’m choosing to block out what I saw and heard at the visitation and funeral. I prefer the devil-may-care Greg over the repentant addict. I prefer to hear Greg, with turned-backward “Chicks Dig Me” hat, belting out “Black Betty” in the back of Evo’s truck, instead of a couple of ladies singing “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.” Instead of an ashy-faced corpse with pink lipstick, I choose to picture an overall-adorned wild man, stripping down amidst chants of “Jacko time! Jacko time! Jacko time!” Once everything except his boxers are off, he’s sprinting down the hillside, slipping on snow. A thin layer of ice greets him as he leaps into the frigid creek. Immediately vacating the water, Greg rushes towards laughing friends who’re waiting with towels and warm clothes. He marches back into the cabin like a Roman emperor with his throng showering praise upon him. In short, I remember Greg at his most joyful.

Greg Jackson was a man of stories. This point was made clear after both the visitation and the funeral. Many of us who knew him well, gathered together to celebrate his life by laughing and sharing stories about him. Hour after hour flew by as we reminded each other of the outrageous exploits of our friend. I had forgotten more great stories about Greg than most people accumulate throughout lifetimes not cut short and lived through to ripe old ages. Some of you may want me to transcribe some of these stories for you. I won’t. Not here anyway. My motivation is not driven by spite, instead by fear of inadequacy. There’s no way I can adequately tell a Greg Jackson story with mere words, nor can I only pick a couple of stories from the plethora available. They all fit together to depict who he was and what he was about. Only sharing a few of these stories will fail to capture the essence of Jacko, and I don’t have enough room here to share them all.

My ex-girlfriend met Greg only once. Once was enough to leave an indelible mark. When I contacted her about his passing, I wasn’t sure if she remembered him, so I prompted her memory. I love her response to my prompts: “Of course, I remember Greg. How could I not? Almost every Jasper story you’ve ever told me involved Greg in some way.” Like many others, Greg is at the forefront of my experience of Jasper. His prominence in storihood is owed to the fact that he lived life to the fullest.

Carpe Diem. This Latin phrase, made famous by the movie Dead Poet’s Society, means “seize the day.” Living a life unhindered by fear of who to be and how to act entails “seizing the day” to me. Greg lived this motto better than anyone I have ever known.

Several of you may have balked at what I just mentioned, knowing what Greg chose to do with his life. Let me be clear: Greg was a troubled individual with many demons left unresolved in his life. I’ll never condone many of the decisions he chose for himself. Neither do most of his friends. Each one of us, at some point in time, tried to get him to slow down, to get help. He wouldn’t listen. Greg Jackson did what Greg Jackson wanted to do when he wanted to do it. He said it better than I ever could: “I’m here for a good time, not a long time.”

Greg believed in having fun. Everyday he squeezed the last drops out of the fruit of life. Henry David Thoreau is misquoted as saying, “Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them.” Not Greg. He was of the “few.” Greg Jackson lead a life of loud anticipation: anticipating the next moment, the next chance to do something fun, to drink the next drink, to share the next laugh, always laughing in the face of Convention; never a moment wasted in the pursuit of happiness. He was always looking for the next rush; the next chance to outdo and go beyond what “normal” people do. Unafraid of what people may think, he dressed how he wanted to dress and behaved how he wanted to behave.

Greg lived the life we all secretly wish we could: a life of freedom. Free from societal limitations and expectations. When it was proper to shake a friend’s hand in public when you greeted them, Greg chose to envelope you in a bear hug and dry hump your leg, all the while telling you how “sexy” you were. Free from holding oneself back in the here-and-now, in order to prepare for what’s down the road. “I’ll worry about tomorrow, tomorrow,” was another motto Greg adopted for himself in the last few years. He didn’t care about what was to come, instead, focussing on what was going on right then and there.

I may be envious of the freedom Greg held, but, at the same time, I don’t respect what he did with that freedom. What I respect, and the main point I’m trying to make with this memorial, was Greg having a clear vision of what he believed in and never veering from that vision. Most of us sacrifice our beliefs everyday. We’re terrified of not “fitting in,” of “sticking out” from the crowd. To stick to your beliefs even under the utmost scrutiny is noble in my eyes. I think it was this nobility of his, which drew people to him and compelled us to love him.

If the measure of a man is the love he left behind, then Greg measures among the best. This love was evident with the unceasing line of young and old alike at his visitation, with the never-ending stories told between mournful friends, with the winding funeral procession lead by tear-filled horsemen, and with the multitude of friends and family sinking in the cemetery mud, heavy with remorse and sorrow. As clichéd as it sounds, Greg would give you the shirt off his back if you needed it, as well as his pants (he didn’t mind wearing only underwear in public). Greg could make you want to slap him one minute, then the next minute have you rolling on the floor with laughter. He was truly one in a million.

For me, Greg shines as a light of unpredictability in a world too often made predictable. This is the Greg Jackson I choose to remember. You’re free to remember Greg however you wish. I choose to hold onto the memories which bring a smile to my face.

Sage Isenmann

12/26/2009

Jasper in the Media

Today on my way to work, I heard the morning show people on 96.5 The Buzz talking about Patrick Swayze's movies, particularly "Road House."  Of course, all of us Jasperians know that the movie is set in a fictionalized Jasper, MO.  The morning crew couldn't remember where the movie was set. One of them said Kansas City, the other Joplin, MO. After being given the correct answer, Jeriney said she knew where Jasper was. I would hope so. She's from Diamond. Anyway, I thought it was pretty cool that Jasper was "sort of" being discussed on Kansas City radio. 

On a current events note: Jasper Appreciation Days are this weekend. Come on out and enjoy the small town fun. I'm definitely taking my notepad and pen, hoping to get a wellspring of material for the blog and my book. 

Jasper Facts and Fictions

The largest recorded bowel movement occurred during the school year of 2001 in the men's bathroom, located near the basement staircase, at Jasper High School.  Dubbed "XDL-2" by Matt Theil, the mass bore its own slight gravitational pull.  The object's producer is unknown to this day.  Mr. Talbot was the main suspect--God rest his soul.  

Louis Dysinger, holder of the Guinness world record for the "yellowest urine," was stripped of his title when he tested positive for B12 supplements. His trainer, Matt Rives, has claimed responsibility for the presence of the performance-enhancing drug in Dysinger's blood stream, saying that he injected Dysinger with the injections while the world champ slept.  Mr. Dysinger has appealed the decision and awaits his day in court.

Chuck Norris knows no fear.  Zack Hartley knows even less.

Believe it or not, professional lumberjack, Josh Braker, was not voted "Most likely to cut down trees" his senior year.  Today, he can usually be found playing in a Sequoia forest.

James McNary is famous for ALMOST holding in his puke for an entire assembly.  Near the very end of said assembly, he exploded like a South Park character, spewing what appeared to be two scoops of mashed potatoes across the bleachers.

The first known utterance of the name "Betty Humpedher" occurred in Mrs. Sample's freshmen history class in 1997, during the Sweepstakes game.  Matt Rives, who had been pestering the teacher the entire game, answered the following question with the aforementioned name: "Who was the first female Prime Minister of Israel?"  He was promptly kicked out of class.

Be on the lookout for Mr. Jones's "left-handed brooms" on your local infomercials.  These handy items aren't sold in stores, unlike Theil's Emergency Stain Remover.  You never know when a glaringly obvious stain will come into your life.  With Theil's Emergency Stain Remover, you never have to worry about stains again!

Travis Grotheer holds the dodgeball record for being thrown at the most times after already being out and sitting in the bleachers.  He also holds the record for most attempted half-court shots in a junior high basketball game with 34 (on a serious note: I truly hope Travis has been able to find some happiness in this life).

Shangri-La for a Big City Girl

A great piece of art, whether it be a painting or a novel, appeals to a unique part of each person's soul.  Ask a hundred people what they think of the piece, and you're likely to get a hundred different responses.  So too, is it with our hometowns.  

I associate Jasper with family and camaraderie, as well as, desperation and monotony.  Each quality deserves an elaborative post, and will receive one in due time.  However, I'm choosing, instead, to write about what Jasper means to a friend of mine.

January (yes, her name is a month on the calendar) and I met my first semester at Park University.  Elizabeth, a mutual friend, invited me to hang out with her crew for Galactic Bowling.  I met Jan that night, and it's been peaches and cream ever since.  Many friends pop in and out of our lives based on Chance's whim.  January, however, is one of those few friends who remains a constant presence and enriches my life. 

Every trip we took to J-Town delivered a new experience and bred new stories, which continue to be told.  They are a testament to the spontaneity which can be discovered in the monotonous.  For January, Jasper is a place where she can feel special.  Her Shangri-La.  Although elusive and illusory, its power lasting only a couple of days before Reality creeps back, it resonates with her still.  Several elements came together to contribute to this "otherworldliness" of Jasper.

Jasper is small.  January had lived in many small towns growing up, but nothing which compares to the massive shrimpicity of my hometown (quite the oxymoron, isn't it?).  It takes me longer to take a crap, than it took to give the comprehensive tour.  Even after spending time in Jasper and meeting Jasperians, Jan still can't comprehend what it would be like to grow up in a place so devoid of human beings.

Acceptance.  The residents of Jasper were quick to welcome January and my other "big city" friends into the fold.  It started with my dad taking us to Barto's for dinner as soon as we rolled in from KC.  We feasted on orgasmically good fried chicken (each crunchy, divine bite hinted with garlic) and watched the elderly patrons dance to polka music.  After dinner, my Jasperian friends welcomed my Kansas Citian friends with open arms and never-ending cups of keg beer.  Matt Evans left such an impression upon my Canadian friend Joe, that Joe brought Evo a Canadian t-shirt on his second visit.  The only problem was that Joe couldn't exactly remember what Evo looked like and ended up giving the t-shirt to Big Storm.  Oh well, Storm appreciated it.  

January garnered her fair share of acceptance as well, never failing to have the prospect of coitus laid upon her by my buddies.  One memorable night, she received three offers from three different gentlemen.  One of the suitors went so far as to ask for January's help out of the back of the pickup we rode in to the old Cadillac Ranch.  When she grabbed his hand, he pulled her in and plunged his drunken tongue down her throat.  

Weird stuff happens in Jasper.  I can't think of a more appropriate bumperstickerism for my hometown, can you?  The first night I brought friends down to Jasper, Matt Theil made sure their visit was a memorable one.  He offered to take my friends on a "real" Jasper road trip.  As we filed out of Evo's garage towards Theil's truck, Matt whispered the following to me: "Let's scare the shit out of the city folk."  The ensuing experience more closely resembled an off-road, jeep safari instead of a road trip.  He had us tearing through cornfields, mud holes, and even the creek behind Evo's house.  Matt showed little concern for the condition of his truck, seeming to aim for every hole he could find.  You'd have thought we were on a carnival ride, instead of a white Chevy.  As we approached the stop signs on sparsely populated roads, Theil would suddenly veer the truck down into the ditch in front of the sign, then back up through the adjacent ditch.  As he explained it: "Down here, you don't have to stop at a stop sign if you go in front of it."  Later on, another friend showcased the proper technique in taking down a "Tippy Canoe" road sign.  Needless to say, Theil's plan to scare my "city" friends was successful. (Disclaimer: the previously described behavior is NOT typical of a Jasper road trip)

The Cadillac Ranch also served as a haven for small town weirdery.  The building itself looked nothing like any bar my friends had previously seen.  "It looks like a big shed," said an incredulous January as we pulled onto the gravel driveway.  The infamous "flex-off," which was mentioned on a previous post, occurred when my KC friends were down for a visit.  We closed the bar down and, as we were walking back to our vehicles, Shannon Pankratz called out to Matt Rives and I, wishing us a good night.  Shannon had procured a drunken admirer who was propping himself against her car and, no doubt, flinging drunken flatteries her way.  When she called out to us, her aspiring beau flashed Matt, Canadian Joe, and I a provocative look and declared: "Hey! You!"  The three of us stood in a line and stared our adversary down.  Out of nowhere, he starts flexing his muscles, not saying a word.  We quickly glanced at each other, then immediately start flexing our muscles right back at him.  The only sounds to be heard were sporadic grunts and "You like this" or "Snack on that" types of phrases. There we were, four grown men, having a spontaneous "flex-off" in the middle of the Cadillac Ranch parking lot, with all the other patrons vacating the premises around us.  The incident carried on for a solid two minutes, then, as quickly as it started, ended.  The four of us simultaneously dropped our arms, stared at each other for a few seconds, then walked away from each other without saying a word.

To you native Jasperians, these brief anecdotes will, most likely, not seem surprising.  They may even inspire you to recall your own peculiar tales from our beloved town.  For January, however, these events are unlike anything she habitually confronts in the grind of the city.  Jasper's soil offers her a journey to a distant world fraught with unpredictable adventures.  Her Shangri-La. 

Matt Rives (aka Ben Chastain)

Here's a classic Greg Jackson story told to me by Matt Rives:

One random Tuesday a few years ago, Mr. Rives received a phone call from an unknown woman.

"Ben?" said the woman after Matt's greeting.

"Ben?  No, I think you have the wrong number."

"Well, this is the number you gave me last Saturday night, Ben."

"My name is Matt Rives and I didn't go out Saturday night. Are you sure you have the right number?"

"Yeah, I'm positive.  You put it in my phone yourself. We met at J-Town North. You said your name was Ben Chastain. We were having a great time dancing and flirting. Don't you remember biting my ear and saying that people call you 'the nibbler?'"

"Ok. Hold up. What do I look like?"

"You were wearing a cowboy hat and you're kind of a bigger guy and you've got a tongue ring. You told me that I'd be amazed at what you could do with your ring."

"Who was I hanging out with? Was there a loud-mouthed red head?"

"Yes! It was just the two of you."

"I'm sorry miss, but you got a joke played on you. Those two are friends of mine. The guy hitting on you's name is Greg. I can give you his number, if you'd like."

"No thanks . . . click" 

(Note from the blogger: since the publication of this anecdote, there has been a claim that the guilty party is, in fact, Matt Theil, NOT Greg Jackson. Either way, it's a funny story.)

Starry Starry Nights in Jasper

It's amazing how many things you don't notice about a person or place until you step away from them. The main example of this phenomenon concerning Jasper, for me anyway, is how much of the universe you can witness most nights. In Kansas City, as well as most large cities I'm sure, there isn't such a thing as a true nighttime. Strobe lights, street lights, headlights, lights illuminating billboards, neon signs, construction site lights, thousands of stadium lights allowing the boys in blue to play, flashing police car lights, lights from the Power and Light district reflected off the Sprint Center, airport runway lights spread out like flat Christmas trees, and bridge lights casting their blue hue on the steel giants amalgamate to cast a pinkish hue across the city sky, which allows only the brightest stars to be seen. After being in the city for a couple of months, I made my first return trip to J-Town. The sun had set somewhere around Butler. The tunes were blaring and I was bubbling with anticipation: I was going home! I couldn't wait to tell my friends all about how different it was in the city.  The left turn onto Thorn Road brought me to a fever pitch. I was about to burst out of my seat as I pulled into my dad's driveway and heard the familiar crackle of the gravel under my tires. As I performed the inevitable stretching after a long drive, I looked upward and felt all the anticipation, all the energy, all the racing thoughts flow out of me like a shot of hot cocoa on a cold winter night, snaking its warmth throughout me on its trip to my stomach. I saw stars. Thousands of stars, no MILLIONS of stars filled the night sky. I'm not a religious person, but I felt a piece of the divine, standing there gazing in wonder at God's cosmic game of marbles. I wondered how I could have possibly missed THIS in all my 21 years of living in Jasper. I then noticed something else, or lack of something else to be more specific: there wasn't any sound! That's not totally accurate. Of course, there was the ubiquitous cacophony of insect song, but I hardly noticed it. A mere murmur. What I noticed was the lack of any other sounds. Living in the city, you're bombarded with noise, which slackens at night, but never ceases. It felt like I was in a vacuum, among those myriad stars shining brightly and proud. The wonderful part is that I get to re-experience this sensation every time I return to Jasper. The next time you stop by for a visit, or if you're still living there, head out to the country, turn off your radios and cell phones, and just enjoy the universe which you are a part of. 

Jasper Facts and Fictions

The 2001 Jasper High School baseball team won the state championship. Copies of the championship game may be procured from Matt Theil.

The Cadillac Ranch, a former bar located between Carthage and Jasper, boasts the only know case of a "flex-off." The participants chose to flex their muscles in the parking lot to settle a drunken dispute, instead of their fists. A Canadian was involved.

Jasper is also the home of Matt Evans, whose toy tractor collection is absolutely huge.

Former Jasper resident, Caleb Peterson, is well known for the dent in his chest as well as his family's castle in Ireland. To this day, his toughness has still gone unquestioned.

Guinness World Record holder of being the "Slickiest Slick," Austin Bunn, grew up in Jasper. He's notorious for once asking Matt Rives the following: "Tell Coach Cooper I'm taking a jizz."

Justin Storm's words of wisdom: "If you weren't left-handed, she wouldn't be pregnant" "When it storms, it pours"

Greg Jackson's retort to Mr. Storm's latter quote: "When it storms, it pours. When it pours, it rains. When it rains, it hails. And hail fucking hurts."

Piss Bridge, located southeast of Jasper, is a favorite locale for Jasperians to stop and urinate off the side of the road.