The Collective - Jack Epperson by Debi Bodett

The Collective Jack Epperson

ALASKAN PIONEER . VISIONARY . HEALER . FRIEND October 21, 1921 – July 9, 2013

The Collective Jack Epperson

ALASKAN PIONEER . VISIONARY . HEALER . FRIEND October 21, 1921 – July 9, 2013 by Debi Bodett

Copyright ÂŠ 2014 Debi Bodett This book may be purchased online @ www.DebiBodett.com/jack All photos and media are also available online. Debi Bodett, Author debi@debibodett.com Dia Sabella, Editor dia@quilleditorial.com

Introduction Jack Epperson passed away on July 9, 2013, leaving in his wake a wide arc of unending love. There’s a collective that exists in that wake: People, often unknown to one another, whose lives were influenced deeply with subtle and life-changing transitions through their relationships with Jack. The morning after Jack passed I found myself saying, “I wish someone had written Jack’s story.” Jack was my dear friend and I wanted to pause and honor the wealth of his influence in my life as well as in others’. I reached out to the large Jack community. This book is offered as a venue to share my story and the collective voice of those folks standing in the wake.

Note from the Universe I just want you to know that those animals you’ve known, who have moved beyond the veils of time and space, were forever changed by your love, they’re alive and well, and they’ve banded together to ask me a favor— that I make sure you get this message Bark, meow, chirp, ergle . . . Message received July 10, 2013, the morning after Jack’s passing.

Table of Contents Debi Bodett. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Jude Gardner. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Chris Laing. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Shannyn Moore. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 Janet Levin. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 Rebecca Hill Shipley. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15 Debi Poore. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 River Meyer. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19 Jack Walsh. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22 Gratitudes Diane Reinert. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25 Judy Little. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25 Judith Rothstein. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25 Claudia Larson. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25 Jack Epperson.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27 Resources. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28 About the Author.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 About the Editor. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29

Jack Epperson and Jude Gardner on Epperson Knob ÂŠ2002 Debi Bodett

THERE ARE ONLY TWO THINGS— LOVE AND FEAR

Debi Bodett

laskans refer to anything beyond their borders as Outside. When I moved to the Lower 48 a friend once said, “I lived outside for two years.” I replied, “Oh, I didn’t know you lived in Alaska?” “I haven’t. I lived in the woods under the trees,” she said. I got it: life is different in the Lower 48. The Alaskan landscape is dramatic and great beyond belief. But I’ve always held that it’s the hearts of the people that hold the most attraction. I landed in Homer in the early ’80s and lived eight miles north of town and several miles up the south end of the North Fork Road. It felt remote and the neighbors felt important in a different way than neighbors in suburbia. Down and around the corner from our little house on the hill was a mountain the

locals referred to as Epperson Knob. That’s all it meant to me from there; a piece of the neighborhood lore. Years later, I met Jack, the owner of Epperson Knob. Jack and his family homesteaded out on the North Fork, which I can only imagine was a hard and challenging life. Jack was in his early 70s when I met him. By then, he had lived many lives and was a practicing hands-on healer. He had traveled to Egypt to visit the pyramids, had out-of-body experiences, followed every top spiritual leader in the country, and had a comprehensive library on many subjects. Each week fifteen to twenty people visited Jack at his home on West Hill, overlooking Kachemak Bay. He had a sixth sense about when we drove in the driveway, one after the other, and automatically appeared at the door with a warm welcome. We each sat in the chair under the acrylic pyramid, beautifully inscribed with Egyptian forms, created by local artist, 2

Adele Hiles. Jack and I often talked about that chair and how much energy it held from so many. Jack had the ability to make each of us feel special. We were one of many for him and he was singularly the one for most of us. I’m sure we each hold intimate memories. Certainly many were miraculously healed after visiting Jack, and probably equally as many mysteries remain unsolved for others.

community and could be seen at nearly every performance in town. She has always been the gal about town. The mayor of Homer recently declared June 6th as Mary Epperson Day. Not many live long enough to experience such an honor. Jack was, however, mostly silent and next-to-invisible to the Homer community. Although, you might have been lucky enough to catch a glimpse of him with Mary during their early-morning grocery run.

Jack held no judgements, believed there were only two things in the world—love and fear, held that everyone had the answer, and would be the first to say, “I do nothing.” We all knew better. They say, behind every good man is a good woman. That is often true, and visa versa, as in the case of Mary and Jack Epperson. Mary has touched nearly everyone’s life in Homer at some time or another. Until recently, she owned and operated the Etude Music Studio downtown on Pioneer Avenue. Any child in town who ever took a piano lesson knows Mary. She was integrally involved in the arts Mary and Jack Epperson © Shannyn Moore

Jack was the consummate fix-it man. He loved working on his tractor that he used to plow snow through the winter months. He told many stories of fixing a variety of things for others. He was the proverbial knight in shining armor for many. Jack was my friend, first and foremost. We shared similar interests: technology, photography and resources, as well as a maniacal sense of tidiness (there was never a blade of grass out of place in his yard, even years later after he had lost his sight). We were 33 years apart, shared the same stature and boot size, and when I hugged Jack, I always felt like I was hugging myself. Jack could have been my grade-school pal, if life had been different. I visited Jack early in September of 2009. By then he had been legally blind for some time, although it was hard for most to notice. We walked Bishop’s Beach all the way to the west end, just below the cliffs. It was a delicate balance between feeling foolish for having taken him there in the first place and thrilled to be “living on the edge” together. I interviewed Jack that day on the beach, and I was Jack Epperson on Bishop’s Beach © 2009 Debi Bodett

Sandhill cranes ÂŠ 2009 Jack Epperson

particularly interested to hear about his new hobby, digital photography, and how it could possibly work, given that he was blind. Jack took hundreds of photos of the sandhill cranes that returned to his property each year. In 2010, I produced a movie of that interview along with Jackâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s photos for him, and to share with others. See Resources, page 28

Jack was a featured guest photographer in the Fall 2009 issue of Landmarks, a bi-annual publication of the Kachamak Bay Land Trust, Homer, Alaska.

Left to right, Jack Epperson, Michael Orth, Diane Reinert, Tricia Caron ÂŠ 2011 Debi Bodett

In September 2011, I visited Jack to celebrate his 90th birthday. My visit coincided with the Kachemak Bay Wooden Boat Festival, marking our next big adventure. With Jack sporting new sunglasses from Ulmerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s, we headed to the Spit for the festivities in a borrowed pickup truck. After a warm welcome, Michael

Orth, Captain of the Rolfy, gave Jack a first-class tour of the galley and boat house. We shared the day on the Rolfy, a magnificent tender and main attraction for the festival. It was a red-letter day for everyone on board. It was the first time Jack had been on the Spit in 20 years and it felt like a real frontier adventure for both us.

BREATH IS LIFE ALL PAIN IS RESISTANCE

Jude Gardner

y life has been profoundly influenced by my friendship with Jack. His words and advice are integrated with my own internal voice and continue to ring true for me. Do you know how to meditate? If not, let me recommend that you do. Just put both hands on your third chakra. You don’t know about chakras! Let me loan you a book. All of my negative feelings just seemed to dissolve. Are you breathing? Breathe deep into your abdomen and then slowly release. Breath is life. All pain is resistance. 7

Jack had many lives before he began working with energy and Spirit. It wasn’t until midlife that the energy appeared. It all started in my 50s. I felt on fire. I couldn’t sleep with covers on my body. I started reading anything I could find to help me understand what was happening to me. First I tried applying the energy coming through my hands on animals, and then acquaintances. People starting coming to my house. It seemed that everyone would fall asleep during a session. It became clear we were all carrying too much tension in our bodies, that we all wanted to have a deeper relationship with ourselves and others. I began reading and studying about the human body as well as Spirit. Did you know each organ in the body has a different vibration? AND then there was the small drawing as you walked down the stairs from the loft of his home—a male figure from the back, who was naked and exuberantly happy, dancing,

Jack Epperson and Jude Gardner on Epperson Knob ÂŠ2002 Debi Bodett

HE WAS LIKE A PEBBLE DROPPED IN A POND

Chris Laing

ack had a powerful influence on my life. I don’t remember how or when we actually met but it was fortunate for me that we did. He embodied true unconditional love. When I was experiencing difficult emotions and felt anxious or depressed just sitting and talking with Jack always helped me relax in the knowing I was alright and could handle whatever was on my plate. I felt truly validated by Jack’s open, loving presence. He was like a pebble dropped in a pond. I tried to emulate his spirit in my own interactions with others. He was a healer in the truest sense making the body/mind connection apparent in how well his healing touch could bring peace to the whole of a person. He would humbly sit on a stool at the foot of my chair while we talked, and ask to hold my stockinged 9

feet in his hands. Each time he did I would immediately feel a warm flow of energy rise from my soles to my heart and head, softening my experience of being, allowing me to accept and release tension. Pain of any kind, whether physical, mental, spiritual or emotional would simply melt away. My analytical brain would want to understand what was happening, which we would sometimes discuss. Jack said he was as surprised and bewildered as anybody when he first realized the powerful gift with which he’d been blessed. His modesty, introversion, and yet, willingness to serve others, countered any possible suggestions of ego-driven motives. Jack was the real deal. In my life experience he remains one of my most influential teachers. Because of Jack I know what I am capable of giving. I try to be as open, honest, loving and genuine as he. Though Jack’s body has transitioned, his spirit lives on in me and others whom he has influenced. We are blessed by the life he lived.

HE'S PART OF ALL THE WONDER HE RECOGNIZED WHEN SO MANY OTHERS WERE BLIND TO IT

Shannyn Moore

opeless romanticism plagued my childhood. On a random day I’d wonder if that day was my true love’s birthday. At Christmas I’d stare at the snow outside and wonder what my true love had found under his tree. I was convinced that a great love would be mine. The one. The ONE. Part of it came from watching my parents and hearing my grandmother talk about her deceased husband. He was the grandfather I never met. She never took off her ring because she was still married. That was a love for all time. But really, I fault Mary Epperson. She’d been my piano teacher since before I knew that letters went past G. She and her husband Jack came to Alaska in 1954. They set up a homestead still 11

known as Epperson’s Knob in Homer. It’s hard to imagine what Homer would have been like had they settled somewhere else. I spent as much time as I could at Mary’s Etude Studio. By the time I was in high school, I had my own key. Mary never asked for it back and it still lives in my jewelry box. That studio was Grand Central Station for the arts scene in Homer. Folks stopped by during lessons to get tickets to whatever Pier One Theatre was producing . . . you get the idea. Mary had her little bag of events; as Homerites would come through her door she’d report on ticket sales and how rehearsals or opening night had gone. The Homer Council on the Arts ran the town, as far as I was concerned. I loved my front row season tickets to everything about Mary. When I asked her how she could do so much, she told me, “Jack takes good care of me.” What got me weren’t her words, but rather her smile when she said them.

I wanted to smile like that about my someone someday. She and Jack had a love Nicholas Sparks wishes he knew to write about. Think of the greatest love stories—but without the drama. I knew Mary first, and then Jack. That was when I started to better understand Mary’s endless energy for our little town. Jack taught me a lot about healing— about breaking a cycle of violence and patching holes in auras. He talked to me in boat talk because it was what I knew. He explained, when I was quite young, the difference between energy and matter. Tesla vs. Edison. That matter and what matters were two entirely different things. How the universe worked and my place in it. He said what we really are is the action of our matter. He believed that love was stronger than anything—greater than jealousy and revenge. He said looking at the beauty of the mountains would feed me. Even when he lost his sight he still saw all he remembered. Many people went to Jack to be healed. It wasn’t

magic; it was him. Jack died this month. Everything he taught me rebels at that last sentence. He’s not dead, he’s free. He’s part of all the wonder he recognized when so many others were blind to it. I was lucky to see the love between Jack and Mary. They were married for 70 years, and faithful witnesses to each other’s lives. They depended on each other in the best way. Not codependent in an ’80s sort of way, but together. One picked up the slack when the other faltered, and lent strength to the other’s weakness. I realize now that regardless of how we each live our lives, we are always teaching the people around us. Some of us teach what to be. Some of us teach what not to be. Mary taught me music. Jack taught me to hear it. Together they taught me what it means to love. I think that’s a fine epitaph for anyone. See Resources, page 28 12

WITH HIS STEADY PRESENCE, JACK SAVED MY ASS AGAIN AND AGAIN.

Janet Levin

ith his steady presence, Jack saved my ass again and again. Starting the very first night of my very first housesit: Late December, the tip of my nose gets colder as daylight dims. Alarmed, I call, he comes, snoops around, says the tank’s empty, chops wood, cranks up the stove, tells me I’m fine for the night and that he’ll be back in the morning to chop more wood for the rest of the weekend, until Monday when I can order fuel. He gifts me cash now and again that first year, always apologizing it’s not more; and a beater car; later, lunches, expertise, advice—like a dad would, I come to think. Not at all like my blood dad. Like a midwife, he introduces my Reiki hands to this community of so many likeminded recipients of the loving energy 13

of his hot hands, this energy that puts us out, way far out to no time. This dear, sweet man. This dear, sweet friendship. The rusted-out Subaru, its tire changes and numerous breakdowns that I stand in the garage workshop watching him fix; and then the less-used one he says is the best I can buy, the best models being the Legacy’s first two years; it starts, this friendship, with hands-on exchanges, me in the chair under the pyramid Adele made, then me giving Reiki to him. It evolves into nuked pepper jack cheese sandwiches on defrosted slices from his bread machine loaves—bags of them in the freezer, store-bought bread and butter pickles eventually replacing the home-made sauerkraut, a nod to reducing his salt intake. In the beginning, he serves me. Later we make an assembly line. Finally, I wait on him, wash and dry the dishes, wipe away crumbs and pickle juice from the place mats. Over the years, we look at decades of slides in the carousel: sunrises, sunsets, birds, moose and bears. He tells me stories. About cowboying in Wyoming,

built-in shelves surrounding his chair: the always amazing unmanifest world. About love. And how we heal ourselves. (About who had what; oh my god, Jack ignores boundaries!) Years of sitting in the chair, his hands first on my feet, last on the temples, morph into snuggling in silence on the couch, holding hands, limbs falling asleep, the Spit visible out the picture window. Single Seat Flyer

about meeting and dating and marrying Mary in LA before shipping out to fly a single-seat fighter in the South Pacific during WW ll. About arriving in Homer with a piano, wife and two kids. About the bust years, the winter that froze hundreds of pounds of potatoes they’d grown and stashed in boxes under the beds, about shooting the cows before they starved in drifted snow up on Epperson Knob. About the red prints on his thighs, the overnight clue that something was happening with his hands, something that could help others. About the trip to Egypt, standing inside a pyramid, feeling overwhelming power. About the contents of the books on the

Twenty years later, big trees block the view; but he can’t see much of anything anymore. A tough period, depression accompanying adjusting to macular degeneration. He doesn’t adjust, but succumbs to listening to books instead of reading them. He doesn’t adjust, his hands alone can switch out the snowplow for the mower, but he fills the house with smoke, turning on the oven without seeing what Mary’d placed inside. He’s grouchy with arthritis. And the catheter after surgery? First time ever I saw anger. Years of Sunday morning phone visits, delayed winter or summer by breaks in the weather to mow or plow; the last handful of years it’s not weather that delays the chores. The last few visits 14

all he wants is to walk up the hill to get the paper. Isn’t sure he’d make it back. Instead we make circles from the living room through the kitchen, catheter line trailing. Tethering. He hates this. Wants to live long enough to see the Mayan Calendar end. Is glad he won’t live to see many more insults to the environment. Around seven on the morning of his passing, I wake up. I’m in British Columbia, a few kilometers from Desolation Bay. Later, I remember the time difference and realize I awoke just about the time he exited. I don’t like to hike alone, especially in unfamiliar surroundings, but I want to make Hurtado Point. It’s a short walk, really, and I’m thinking of him the whole time, talking with him, saying—as I have these recent weeks since I learned he was steadily going downhill and especially these last few days—it’s okay to go, it’s okay to go, it’s okay to go. As I relax in conversation with him on the hike to the bluffs and down to the bay, his presence is steady as ever.

HE TAUGHT ME HOW TO RUN MY OWN GIFTED ENERGY

Rebecca Hill Shipley

ack helped me run energy, and together we removed a blood clot that was in my leg. We worked for about two weeks before I experienced the “white light” energy that he gifted my awaiting awareness with. He taught me how to run my own gifted energy when I later had a life-threatening situation resulting from an operation on my foot. Dr. Bell and Lynn Walsh witnessed the miracle that occurred with the help of wonderful Jack Epperson. We all have this gift. It takes understanding and confidence to manifest it. I have total faith in myself since Jack helped me through those times. He is a wonderful spirit who has touched my heart-soul and I am very blessed to have had a small part of him and his techniques and methods of running energy. I am blessed to know you Jack. Aloha.

Jack Epperson at home in his living room ÂŠ 2009

HE BELIEVED IN THE HUMAN CAPACITY FOR RENEWAL

Debi Poore

believe Jack grounded each of us in our own healing wisdom. He believed in the human capacity for renewal. He had seen it work in his own life and wanted others to have confidence in themselves. My introduction to Jack Epperson came in August 1976, when I was 23, fresh from schooling and hired to teach in Homer. My roommate in college in Fairbanks and Massachusetts was married, for a time, to Jack and Mary’s son Dean. So it was natural that Mary and Jack were some of the people I met early-on. And later, talking with my family in Kenai, I found out that my mother knew Jack through his voice since he was the dispatcher for the Southwest Marine Pilots, and Mom was a steno-clerk for Kenai Pipeline Company and then the Standard Oil Refinery. They spoke frequently by phone to arrange tanker traffic docking in Nikiski. 17

Jack had a quiet inquisitive manner I felt at ease with. We had long visits discussing far-reaching ideas. When people began gathering regularly with Jack to listen to tapes of Patricia Sun, I attended and meditated. Jack helped many people with energy work. He would set an appointment, and when someone arrived there was a cup of tea waiting. Mary was often napping or at the piano studio in town. An easy chair waited in the loft where the person sat while Jack held feet, neck, or hands in his hands and together they would run energy through the body. Jack helped clear energy blockages. He wouldn’t accept payment, yet people brought gifts and books they thought he’d find interesting. He had collected a library of paperbacks neatly arranged on shelves around the log walls of the sitting room. Some of the authors and topics I had come across before and many were new; here was the chance for any of Jack’s visitors to read and discuss Edgar Cayce, Nostradamus, Egyptian metaphysics, pyramid energy, Tibetan Buddhism and Alexandra David Neal, among the many topics. He read countless books in these and related fields, and kept that fascinating lending

library so others could make use of it weekly. He always encouraged his visitors to continue the work on their own. He was humble and reminded us constantly that anyone could accomplish energy work for themselves. From then on, when I would see an acupuncturist, a massage therapist, or other caregiver, I practiced maintaining a mindful, intentional awareness during the session, and I strongly believe such a level of participation furthers the depth of work and healing. Jack knew what he was talking about, and was always deeply and genuinely humble about his gift. He was a busy guy, he kept projects going. A coral flowering bougainvillea vine trailed around the inside of their front windows and framed the expansive view of Kachemak Bay and the Kenai Mountains. It reminded him of a rare trip he took to Egypt to learn more about the pyramids. He tinkered with their vehicles and his tractor in the garage/ shop behind their house. He kept the wild lawn mowed. When I was pregnant with my first child I had dreams of my father building a hand-made cradle, but he was a framing carpenter and didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want

to tackle a piece of furniture, so Jack convinced me that with his minimal help I could build a cozy pine bed for my little one. Both of my sons slept in that cradle until they were old enough to climb out of it. I wood-burned their names and the years onto the underside. Over time, others borrowed the cradle for their babies and those names joined the list. Eventually the cradle was donated to the Haven House shelter. Jack and Mary and their young family homesteaded Epperson Knob on the North Fork. I think they had some really tough times during those years, yet, together they forged their way through. Certainly those experiences helped each of them go forward to accomplish marvelous connections in this community. Mary became the diva of music and the arts inspiring generations of musicians and performers, and Jack became a true healer. Their legacies speak to the authenticity of their commitment, of their heart-work, of their home. Thank you Mary. Thank you Jack. Sincerely and with love, Debi Poore 18

THROUGH IT ALL, HE LIVED INSIDE ME LIKE THE DANCE OF SMOKE IN A CHAMBER

River Meyer

ast night I lit a candle for a friend, a mentor suddenly gone. Our relationship, built on healing, on learning, on deep love, had rooted and then bloomed for many years, thriving through the recursive nature of our connection. Yet over time (and made apparent once I had moved away), the directions of our lives changed our commonalities. As my horizons widened and grew, his remained constant, by necessity in great part. Our daily-woven ties became less braided over years as physical distance increased, my shifting life moving me ever further and his still so grounded in home and hearth. The territory we had explored became shaped by past more than present, and the blooming I shared with him became one of many more as life expanded around me.

Through it all, though, he lived inside me like the dance of smoke in a chamber, moving with the slight currents of change and showing up in unexpected moments. Thoughts and memories—how they affect us no matter their placement in time. And so I stood last night over a lit candle, remembering, honoring, feeling such gratitude that the spirals of our lives had crossed as they did. Knowing his frustrations built of limitation—health, age, vision, and more—I felt a sense of relief for him even as the sadness of loss filled me. Free at last. Always in me, and released from life’s shape. Awakening this morning I stood over the still-burning candle and debated blowing it out. Sudden clarity came in accepting that his form, like the dancing flame, had been simply an embodiment of the spirit of this special man. I blew, softly. And in that moment where flame turned to ember in wick’s tip, and where ember turned to dancing smoke, twisting and

dissipating not to disappear, but to infuse the space, I saw that he will always be with me and with all whom he touched. I breathed him in, I felt him around me. You are here, my dear friend, in presence now forever.

Homestead on Epperson Knob ÂŠ2002 Debi Bodett

WISDOM SHARED

on Epperson Knob from the original homestead that Jack and Mary settled after the war. Later, we created Forest Creek Association with a few homesites and 24 acres of common land.

Jack Walsh

Those were very pure days, steeped in amazing optimism and idealism. The land almost uninhabitable from my point of view, was worth preserving wildâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; something the remaining partners and I continue to do.

met Jack and Mary in 1978 while living in Kenai. Brian Springer introduced us with the hopes that my wife (at the time) Lynne and I would join him and others in buying 40 acres of Epperson Knob land to establish an intentional community. After moving to Homer to take a teaching job in 1980, I became interested in living in Alaska long term. By 1982 I had become friends with Jack and Mary, spending many afternoons and evenings at the Ridge homestead. Jack was always generous with his interests and his time which often concerned his personal exploration into energy healing. We watched many Ramtha tapes and always had lively discussions afterward. I became more involved with Jack and Mary after 1983 when I went in with a group of people to purchase land

Most of all, I learned many important lessons watching Jack work and sit with people in his gentle non-judgmental ways. I had a 1972 VW bug that I found in Kenai in 1977. I was making a trip back from Kenai to Homer in 1983 when I blew the oil gasket, splattering oil all over the Spur Road. Jack came to get me and hauled the bug up to his place where he housed his farm tractor with another open bay to work on whatever. We pushed the bug in and Jack assured me that he would help me get it back on the road. A few days later I started working on the 22

old thing with the “Idiot Book” for help. After serious study, I realized I was in over my head on this one. It needed more than adjusting values and re-timing; I had to drop the engine and insert a new oil seal behind the flywheel. A VW engine is held in place by four long, strong bolts, three of which are easy to get at and one that’s not. After lots of struggle with little progress, Jack appeared asking if I need some help to loosen up the bolts. “I do,” I said. He went over to the bench wall, grabbed a long bar and came back to the bug. He inserted a wrench inside the long, hollow steel bar and stepped away to fetch a stool to stand on. With almost no strain, this light-framed older man pushed the bar down with one leg and a little smile on his face and says to me, “The job of a young man is to learn to become an old man, so you don’t have to rely on anyone if no one’s around to help.” I pulled that engine, put in the seal, shined up the flywheel, and drove it away thanking Jack for the most important wisdom anyone has ever shared with me. 23

THE JOB OF A YOUNG MAN IS TO LEARN TO BECOME AN OLD MAN SO YOU DON’T HAVE TO RELY ON ANYONE IF NO ONE’S AROUND TO HELP

Diane Reinert and Jack Epperson ÂŠ Judith Rothstein

Gratitudes Diane Reinert Jack was the most unconditionally loving being I have ever known. He opened my world to energy healing and thinking beyond the box. His spirit stays with me wherever I am.

Judy Little I have been attuning to Jack through his transition. I was pleasantly surprised by a vivacious, younger Jack. He was beaming and said he was so happy to be helping others from where he is at present—a little twinkle in his eye! I was so surprised, yet not—this amazing one! What an amazing being. When I asked Jack, “How did you exit your body?” he responded, “Through my heart.” In the Aztec Toltec beliefs, a heart exit represents a joining in the stream of unity with all beings; a very high vibrational level.

Judith Rothstein So many beautiful memories of Jack…like when I had rheumatic fever and he’d come to my house at night to give his wonderful healing attention so I could sleep for a couple of hours! Or when I’d go to his house, and besides the amazing session, he’d also insist on giving me one of his delicious fresh-made breads. And his heart-to-heart HUGS! He taught me that resisting pain creates contraction and more pain. Jack’s energy of love and acceptance was the antidote to contraction. That energy is always with me.

Claudia Larson I am grateful for having known Jack, because of his unconditional love. 25

Judith Rothstein and Jack Epperson ÂŠ Judith Rothstein

Jack Epperson Oct. 21, 1921 – July 9, 2013 Homer News – Posted: July 17, 2013 Jack Warren Epperson, 91, of Homer, passed away July 9, 2013, after a short illness at his home in Homer. Per Jack’s wishes, no memorial services are planned. Jack, born Oct. 21, 1921, in Frontenac, Kansas, spent his school days in New Raymer, Colorado. After serving as a P-51 pilot during World War II, he returned to Los Angeles, Califorinia, where he and his wife, Mary, had two children, Dean and Terry. In 1954 Jack moved his family to Alaska and homesteaded, first in the Ninilchik area and later on Epperson Knob. Eventually, Jack and Mary had a home built on the hillside in Homer with a large yard and spectacular views of Kachemak Bay. One of Jack’s favorite pastimes was watching birds throughout the year, and most especially, the sandhill cranes that frequented the family property every summer, including the morning he passed away. Jack was preceded in death by his mother and father, Mary and Allen Epperson; his brother and sister-in-law, Wayne and Vivian Epperson; his brother, Keith Epperson; and his grandson, Shane Harrington. He is survived by his wife of 70 years, Mary Epperson; daughter and son-in-law, Terry and Stan Harrington of Anchor Point; son and daughter-in-law, Dean and Cindy Epperson of Anchorage; grandchildren, Shanna Baxter and Heath Harrington of Anchor Point, Heidi McLay of Anchorage; 14 great-grandchildren; and three greatgreat-grandchildren. Memorial donations may be made in memory of Jack to Hospice of Homer, PO Box 4174, Homer, Alaska 99603. 27

Resources The following resources can be accessed online at www.DebiBodett.com/jack Book The Collective, published by Blurb and available for purchase Movie An Interview with Jack Epperson about his digital photography, September, 2009 Audio Interviews with Jack Epperson by his daughter, Terry Harrington Publication Landmarks, Fall/Winter 2009, Kachemak Heritage Land Trust Article Shannyn Moore: A hopeless romantic learns about love Photos A collection of photos of Jack Epperson

About the Author Debi Bodett was a long-time Alaskan resident, living in Homer from 1982â&#x20AC;&#x201C;1997. She served on the Board of Directors of Bunnell Street Gallery and was part of the larger artist community. Jack Epperson was her dear friend. She visited Jack often after she moved to the lower 48. Debi lives in Olympia, Washington, where she is an independent graphic designer. She works with many individuals and small businesses, as well as the Pratt Museum of Homer.

About the Editor After living in Alaska for five years, Dia Sabella found her way to Homer in 1988, where she lived her passion as part of an expedition cruise company working with research scientists along the coast of Alaska, and guiding ecotourists among the brown bears of Katmai National Park. Sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s deeply grateful to Jack Epperson who, with love and laughter, offered a guiding light. Dia lives on a houseboat with her husband, Rusty Sabella, in Scappoose, Oregon, where she works as a freelance copy editor/writer as Quill Editorial Services.

Jack Epperson of Homer, Alaska, singularly inďŹ&#x201A;uenced the lives of many through his work as a hands-on healer. The Collective is a compilation of stories and gratitudes from a few of the people whose lives were forever inďŹ&#x201A;uenced and changed by knowing Jack.