In memoriam, Ontons Kūkōjs

Ontons Kūkōjs was a Renaissance Man. Though little known outside of Latgale, the easternmost province of Latvia, Kūkōjs works and deeds have had a lasting influence upon generations. Many Latvians will remember him as an actor, notable for his performance in the motion picture "Cilvēka Bērns" ("Human Child.") Others will regard him for his writing, poetry, plays and screenplays; as an educator, a teacher and school director, artist, and museum curator. He was a champion of Latgale, a largely rural province that oft comes out on the short end of both politics and economics. Latgale is beset by high unemployment, which has hastened the flight of many young and able-bodied residents to Western Europe, and a crumbling infrastructure that lags far behind that of the city of Rīga and the more Western provinces of Latvia.

Ontons was born the son of a Blacksmith in the little village of Ruduki in the borough of Nautrēni, in the district of Ludza, in the eastern part of the province of Latgale in the midst of a World War at the time of Winter Solstice, December 23 1940. After receiving elementary education, he studied Art in the city of Rēzekne. He would become a teacher, first in a rural schoolhouse, and later in the Rēzekne school district. He had a long affair with the screen and stage. As an actor he tackled many roles among the classics of Latvian drama, and he would always find work in most every capacity of the theater -- as an actor, director, set designer, and even wrote some plays and telefilms himself. His most famous play was "Traks vai no Rogovkas," ("Crazy or from the village Rogovka.") He had a deep respect and love for his native land, its language and culture, and this was often expressed in his many poems and in his paintings. Ontons also composed the school song of the University of Rēzekne.

Ontons was a loving husband, father, and grandfather; and friend, mentor and inspiration to many. He had been ill for some time, and passed away in the wee hours Wednesday, April 18, 2007. A wake will be held on Saturday April 21st in the Nautrēnu parish Roman Catholic Church in the village of Rogovka. He will be interred in the Nautrēnu borough "Desetnieku" cemetary, the final resting place of many notable sons and daughters of "Māra's Land," such as Pīters Miglinīks, Andrievs Jurdžs, and Pēteris Jurciņš.

So it goes...

Alas, Kurt Vonnegut has passed.

He was born on Lācplēša day in 1922, and departed from the mortal coil in New York City, on April 11th 2007. He died at Mount Sinai Hospital at 9:45 p.m.

Not wishing to dwell on his foibles and “clunkers,” he shall remain in my memory as the kindly, frumpy, off-kilter author who wrote many works that helped shape (or warp) my character. In the times that I met him he was a personable fellow.

In high school, he was one of the writers that got shoved down your throat. “Slaughterhouse-5” was a required read, and it would not have been so bad had an uppity teacher not tried to micro-analyze it. That experience almost put me off of Vonnegut for good. Luckily, at University I started reading a copy of “The Sirens of Titan” that one of my dormitory mates had unwisely left laying about. Rather than dismissing his work, I became addicted to it. To be fair, some works were more painful than others, “Slapstick” and “Wampeters, Foma, and Granfaloons,” for example. Others were riotous romps—“Breakfast of Champions,” and “Deadeye Dick” stand out among his finest. His work could be quite captivating. I first read “God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater” in one all-day marathon session, thoroughly enjoying the ride, but feeling like I had cheated myself by not parsing it out. A treasured memory came a summer I lived in Bavaria, and finding “Bluebeard” and “Cat’s Cradle” in English at a small bookshop on Leopoldstraße, part of the University neighborhood in the Munich city district of Schwabing. Meting them out in timed doses was like having the company of a good friend while traveling the S-bahn or just sitting out in the summer sun in the Englischer Garden.

In the 1990s, Kurt stopped writing his great works of fiction and witty and black comedy, and dropped the dark humor, and just got dark. “Fates worse than Death” was his MisranthOpus. At the end he became suicidal and was hospitalized with a brain injury, suffered as the result of a fall in his Manhattan residence. I would rather remember him as frumpy “Uncle Kurt,” who shared tales about working as a cub reporter at the Chicago City News bureau, and also as the tour guide of surreal journeys through his many a good book.