The Salina Journal from Salina, Kansas • Page 11

SQNDAY, MAY 15, 2005 SAUNA JOURNAL Life MILESTONES B2 FASHION B5 CROSSWORD B7 Photos by JEFF COOPER Salina Journal James Penquite, aka "the Byrdman," is pictured in front of his shop on his farm east of Delphos. Penquite uses salvaged lumber and various found objects to build yard art, primarily birdhouses. XSKJ One of Penquite's birdhouses is on display at Community Access Television in Salina. Delphos artist's works mirror his own life's frugality By GARY DEMUTH Salina Journal DELPHOS James Penquite, aka "The Byrdman," is a tury man trapped in a 21st century world. Modern communication devices have little meaning for the 58-year- old Penquite, who lives on a small farm in rural Delphos.

He has no home telephone, cell phone or fax machine, and he won't go near a computer, much less send e-mails or use the Internet. The only effective method of communication is the old-fashioned way by posted letter, to which Penquite replies with a handwritten one, sealed in a homemade envelope. And don't even talk to him about television, which he said he hasn't watched with any regularity since the 1970s. "I do have an antenna, which I set up when my Roxanne, comes to visit, and an old TV that gets five channels, so she can watch 'Survivor' or some such nonsense," Penquite said. "I only made it 15 minutes, and then I had to leave the room.

"I turned off my TV in the 1970s when I saw one too many commercials that tried to sell you things you don't need and can't afford. They're even worse now, and so are the shows. I don't need them, and I don't want them." What Penquite does instead is retreat to his workshop in a converted ramshackle garage at the rear of his property which is stacked with rusted oU and brake drums, door hinges and knobs, faucet handles, window frames, spUt wood, table legs, stove tops, Ucense plates, metal lampshades, tin sheeting and burned-out fuses. It may look like an explosion of junk, but to Penquite, it's the raw material of art. Penquite takes aU this scrap material and molds it into yard art, primarily birdhouses he then sells to collectors at art shows, festivals and flea markets.

His nickname, "Byrdman," is a tribute to the popular 1960s folk group "The Byrds." Penquite's xmique birdhouses, made with rusty tin roofe, creaky doorknobs, hinges and faucets and scrap wood, sit on cut telephone poles and bases made tcom brake and oil drums and sell anywhere fl-om $25 to $1,500, depending on the size. "I really started making art out of junk because it's the best way to cut overhead," he said. Penquite also makes custom clocks, benches, mailboxes and outhouses out of scrap pieces. About 600 pieces of his art have been displayed in Wichita, Lawrence, AbUene and in Salina at the Smoky Hill River Festival (in 2002) and at Sunday flea markets on Broadway and South streets. A selection of Penquite's work currently is on display in Salina at Community Access Television, 410 W.

Ash, through the end of May "Everything on display is for sale," Penquite said. "I need the money" Sparse lifestyle Although Penquite has been an artist most of his life, only in the last five years has he pursued his art on a full-time basis. Even so, he doesn't make a lot of money, which is another reason he lives a self- imposed sparse lifestyle. See BIRDHOUSES, Page B6 A Penquite birdhouse stands in his yard in rural Delphos. LIFE STORIES A brother's difficult request This would be the hardest thing he ever would ask me to do The moment I saw him, I decided there was nothing I wouldn't want to do for him.

I later rethought that decision. There were plenty of things 1 would not want to do for my brother. But at the time, I was only 4 years old. What did I know about brothers? Besides, I was desperate to have a dog. Born 10 weeks premature, weighing barely 2 poimds, Joe was not much bigger than a Chihuahua.

Moreover, he was one "pet" my mother might let me keep in the house. So 1 took him in, so to speak, like a stray in need of a home, and he soon took over my life. That's how it is when you love something, isn't it? You offer a piece of your heart and end up losing the whole thing. At first, he only wanted me to sing to him. I'd make up goofy little lullabies that could either distract him from crying or, with any luck, put him to sleep.

As he got older, he preferred stories to songs. I made those up, too. They weren't very interesting, but he didn't seem to care as long as I kept talking. When 1 got tired, I could recite the alphabet over and over. He was 6 months old, crawling like a turtle, when my mother told me he was blind.

"He can't be blind," 1 said. "He smiles at my face." "No," said my mother, "he smUes at your voice. He'U never see your face." Pretty soon, my stories weren't enough for him. He insisted that I teU him what things looked like, even things I couldn't see the ticking of a clock, the drip of a faucet, the whisper of angels in the trees. I hated that.

It's hard work, tedious and boring, trying to see things that you can't see, unless you happen to be as stubborn as my brother. He's been doing it his whole life especially after we grew up and he didn't have me aroimd to do it for him. One of life's big surprises is the stunning realization that the people you were sure would always need you don't really need you at all. Or at least, not for the reasons you thought. My brother and his wife (she, too, is blind) manage just fine without me which is good, because we live 3,000 mUes apart.

When I heard their message on my machine asking for a favor, I wondered what was up. "Hey, Cheever," I said, when he answered the phone. That's a name I've always called him. It's short for "mischievous." He laughed his best laugh, then got down to business. "I know you're getting married soon," he said.

"What time is the wedding?" What tune? "No," he said, "I don't plan to come. I just want to know what time to pray for you." It soimded like a joke, but it wasn't. Cheever likes to joke about lots of things, but he's dead-serious about prayer "I'd appreciate that," I said. But that was not the only reason he called. They've had a few health scares recently, and while they're both fine now, they'd decided to do a living wUl and they wanted me to serve as an executor "Sister?" he said.

"Can we count on you for that?" I thought for a moment about what that might mean making life or death decisions in theu: behalf, carrying out their wishes after they are gone. Of all the thmgs my brother has made me do, this was the hardest, the one I'd hate most. "I'U do it on one condition," I said. "Promise to pray really hard for us not just for the wedding, but forever." "I will," he said. "What kind of cake are you going to have?" Write Sharon Randall at P.O.

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