Vincent Craig - his was a challenging, beautiful, rich, life, well-lived: 1950 - 2010
Sunday, May 16, 2010 at 11:33AM ;)
I woke up this morning to the tragic-comic tune of a song being performed only in my head, sung in an intentionally exaggerated Navajo accent to the accompaniment of acoustic guitar chords rapidly struck. These were the first words that I heard: “I told her that I wanted to marry her but she said ‘you’ve got to steal the candy bar…’”
My friend, Vincent Craig, is gone. The words that I heard in his voice come from his famous ballad about a young man who loved Rita so passionately that he did steal the candy bar and so wound up in the Window Rock jail.
It was my heartbreak and privilege to be in the room with Vincent and his family just minutes after he exhaled his final, peaceful, breath. All present were related to him either by blood or marriage and that includes me, as his brother, Emerson, is my brother-in-law. It is Emerson who holds his brother’s hand earlier in the day in the photo above. For the past 35 years, this family has shared the great, wonderful, talented, funny-yet-deeply probing man that was Vincent Crair with his legions of fans all across Indian Country, USA, but now they wanted him for themselves.
So I took no pictures and I will not now describe what I saw except to say that, yes, it was mournful, bitterly sad and I was struck by that feeling one gets at such moments, that feeling about how there is no fairness in this life. It hurt deeply, even more to see the pain felt by his wife Mariddie, his children, grandchildren, brothers, sister and other relatives.
Yet...
I also saw great beauty in that room, and felt a strong sense of awe and power.
The beauty was that of love, for Vincent Craig was a man of love and all present were bound by love - love for him, love for each other, love that will carry them through the sorrow that his departure leaves behind. There was awe and power, because although the silent beauty of his presence still lingered over his still and quiet body, he had passed through this stage of his journey; he had moved from a challenging life lived well and full into that which waits beyond.
Those left behind expressed faith that they would one day again resume that journey with him.
As for me, in death Vincent left me with the feeling that I wanted to live a better life than that I have been living, that I wanted to be a better man than I have yet been, that I wanted to spend more time with my wife and to hold her in my arms and to let her know that despite my perpetually erring and wayward ways I love and cherish her ever so dearly.
I wanted to do better with my children than I ever have done, and to bring the same kind of love, joy and devotion to my grandchildren that I could see Vincent brought to his.
Perhaps on this final count, I can yet succeed - although Vincent Craig left a very high standard to match.
;)
The bed upon which I awoke was a cot inside the house of Vincent’s oldest son, Dustinn, the filmmaker whose works you may have seen on PBS. The cot was placed in his office, surrounded by computer, video and still photography equipment, and a library filled with books on Apache and Navajo history and culture, gathered as research both for his past and future projects.
Along with Vincent’s song, I could also hear the muted sounds of jets, approaching and departing Sky Harbor Airport, of air being driven by the fan that hangs suspended from the ceiling above me and of traffic, barely heard, passing by on nearby University Avenue.
Otherwise, it was quiet in the house. I immediately opened up my laptop and began to write this, because I knew it would not be long until people began to appear and gather and my attention would then be taken elsewhere.
As I neared the end of this write up, I heard the small sound of chords being rapidly struck on an unplugged electric guitar. Although very different, the sound strongly reminded of that of Vincent playing “Rita.”
I stepped away from this computer and passed through the door of this office into the dining room and this is what I found, Vincent’s grandson, Kraig, playing his guitar.
“What are you playing?”
“Nothing, really,” he answered. “Just a random progression of chords.”
Since I arrived here about 24 hours ago, I have heard many great stories about Vincent from his family members. It may take me a few days or I may do it in pieces over days, but I will post a tribute to Vincent based on such memories.
