I think the year was 1989 or it could have been 1992, but I found myself spending all morning and most of the afternoon hanging out with Blues Farley at my brother's loft in New York City, the two of us seemingly assigned to babysit each other as each of us waited for John and his wife Linda to arrive. I would see Blues on numerous occasions in the following years throughout the nineties, always at events including John and Linda and friends and family, for example, at Thanksgiving dinners in New York, New Year's Day celebrations in Kutztown, or summertime gatherings at their homestead near Fleetwood.

But that day at the loft was the first time Blues and I met. He was very easy to talk to, and, though genuinely interested in anything I had to say, such as my typical proud father descriptions of my family or my recounting of several overseas teaching jobs I had experienced, what most impressed me was how much Blues loved to speak about himself and his prowess and exploits. If I proudly said something about my own children, he would quickly follow with a fervent presentation, taking big strides across the floor and almost dancing with the movements of his hands and arms and head, establishing without any doubt the fact that his offspring and his jobs and his worldly adventures were far more vast and remarkable than anything I might wish to offer in rebuttal.

He did this with a big smile continually flashing across his visage and I think I remember him having tattoos on his arms, but that may just be my imagination embellishing the memory of being overwhelmed and in complete awe of this Paul-Bunyan sized human being who at the same time spoke with a tone that pierced the air like a gentle arrow hitting its target over and over again. He may have put his hand on my shoulder once or twice and, unless my memory is hallucinating, it is possible that he struck me in a friendly manner yet solidly and in a way that left a bit of a sting.

He described what I think I remember were traveling adventures that included bonding with members of a motorcycle gang. The knife he wielded was one my brother had left for us to use in cutting bread and stabbing pieces of cheese, tomatoes, and other vegetables for making ourselves sandwiches at lunchtime, but Mr. Farley's vivid description of physical situations he experienced in episodes he lived to tell from his days on that motorcycle trip perhaps had me feeling a little on edge as I sat down to eat with my new friend.

If you go to his "Forever Missed" web page or on facebook where friends have been commenting since Blues passed away, you will find the adjective "passionate" and the noun "passion" used a lot. When I strive to remember the details of the conversation with Timothy Farley on that day I had the great fortune to make his acquaintance, I have to say I was struck most by his passion for the work he was known for professionally, as an expert builder of custom crates to protect and transport art objects safely. That is the job he did for several decades at the Philadelphia Museum of Art and it was through his excellent craftmanship and ingenuity for resolving art-packing and art-transporting challenges that Blues came into the life of my brother John, an art conservator. That day in New York, I was mesmerized by the tales told by Blues about projects he and John had collaborated on, and in truth those stories gave me insights to help me understand more deeply my brother's profession as well.

I am sad enough myself that I am not to have the pleasure again of greeting the man who over the years has become such a great friend of John and Linda's and of our family. After such a lengthy and ever deepening friendship, my brother and Blues seemed to dress alike and wear their hair in the same style, short grey pony tail pulled tight in back; they spoke with equal facility about the elements of art as well as higher conceptual matters related to art; their politics were often very much in tune with each other's, and Blues had just as many solid practical suggestions for improving the country and the world as my brother John also has.

I am doubly saddened because my brother has lost a very close friend. I am hopeful that he can feel and that Blues would feel the love that has motivated me to write these few lines to tell my imperfect recollections of the day I spent in the presence of one of the most impressive people I have ever met. Rest in peace, Timothy Farley. Condolences to your friends and family, including my brother among those most affected by the loss.

By Robb Scott
DrRobbScott@gmail.com

2018 ESL MiniConference Online