A Colossal Wreck (82 page)

Friends took it for granted that they would one day see his ninety-five-year-old figure behind the wheel of the 1959 Chrysler Imperial as he roared past the ordinary Subarus on the road out of Petrolia. His cars were more than just vehicles. Repeated breakdowns, though exasperating, provided adventure that would otherwise be missing. Each time one of his various cars failed last year, he was miraculously rescued, by a really nice Marine for example, or an engaging nurse,
and in the most unlikely or dangerous of spots. He would report on these encounters when he got home. He was always interested in people. A few days before he died, when a doctor asked him, “How are you feeling Mr. Cockburn?” he replied, “I’m good. And how are you?”

When I was a teenager my father used to suggest I read the dictionary when I had a spare minute, or if I was feeling a bit down. His own father Claud had recommended a dip into Marx if darkness descended. The point being made was a reminder not to collapse, to find meaning, counter chaos with spirited punches—get to the root of things and then improvise, blow your trumpet from there.

“Beat the Devil,” “Fanning the Flames of Discontent”—these phrases were at one point in the ’80s darned into colorful patches onto his jacket and baseball cap. And more recently
Counterpunch
designed a badge featuring the slogan “Dogs Against Romney” above an image of our dog Jasper (who wouldn’t forget Seamus’s ordeal on the roof of Mitt’s car).

His death came as an impossible blow, not only to those closest to him, but to the thousands that depended upon his voice week after week. That voice remains, and is at its constant best, in
A Colossal Wreck
.

Daisy Cockburn
Petrolia, March 2013