"The quinces on my kitchen counter are starting to look a little mottled. I probably should cook them, but they're the last of a small bag of the fruits given to me by my friend and co-worker, Jack McMahon, from a tree in his yard. Once these are gone, I won't be getting any more. So there they sit, hard and bitter, as indigestible as grief."
""He was the very model of how one can devote their life to their art. Jack never took time off from songwriting and performing to say, go live in Tibet as a monk, there are no lost decades, just Jack McMahon for decades, kinda being a monk here, doing his thing - consistently working at the record store, maintaining his sobriety with grace, tending to his gar"
Quinces on the narrator's counter serve as a metaphor for unconsumed gifts and lingering grief. Jack McMahon died unexpectedly in late October at age 76. He was an admired singer-songwriter and a stalwart of the Portland music scene since the early 1970s. He supplemented a performing career by working at Music Millennium. Brief workplace interactions included an exchanged hope for more time to chat and mixed feelings of pride and jealousy over others' closer friendships. Facebook filled with heartfelt testimonials praising his compassion, devotion to songwriting, sobriety, and steady work at the record store.
Read at Oregon ArtsWatch * Arts & Culture News
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