Studying For When I Would Be An Artist

 Somewhere along the path of growing up the roles of caregiver changes. Not sure when it began to happen, maybe when dad asked us to help mom clear the table, or maybe earlier when we were asked to put our toys away. Before we knew it we were drying dishes and sweeping up dad's workshop. Doing these little things made us aware of things around us, like at a friend's house we got water in a store bought glass made for drinking, at home we drank from little jelly jars with flowers painted on them. Money was for really important things, and little jelly jars worked just as well as a big store bought glass.  

 Dad cutting our hair was another thing.   We climbed up onto the table-saw in the basement and sat on a box that wobbled, to get a haircut from dad. We were sure everyone in church stared at us. Dad really cut hair short. It was hard looking at your hair in the dustpan and putting it into the trash barrel, even worse was the next morning when, brushing your teeth, you say yourself in the bathroom mirror. At least I had my little Frank Sinatra hat to cover my head walking to church.

Part of growing up was, after church, getting a dollar to go to Shab's Store to buy 7 rolls for Sunday breakfast. After breakfast we sat on the front porch to see who was going to the later mass and who was going to St. George's Church, which was in the other direction. Only half built then, St George's was something for kids to ponder.  There were the grand stairs that went nowhere. They held their services in the basement. Three Catholic Churches within a block of our house also gave us something to think about.

My granddad helped build St. Joe's Church, where we went on Sundays. There were classrooms on the first floor and two behind the Sacristy. I loved the feel of the benches which were so smooth, and loved sitting right away and sliding down to make room for the rest of the family. Mom said I was going to wear out the seat of my trousers and said not to slide and, “Act like a gentleman.”  Everyone wore their finest, women in fancy hats and in the colorful summer dresses. I loved looking at the way these dresses revealed the form of each lady and watching them walk up the aisle to receive the sacrament was a treat. The nuns later made it a sinful treat that we needed to confuse . White gloves and hats are gone now, but when I was a little kid, women did not enter the church without them. I did not know it at the time that I was studying for when I would be an artist. 

Mom expressed herself by making clothes and I believe every lady in the neighborhood made their own dresses. Every now and then mom made a shirt for my brothers, and all I got was hand-me-downs and more chores... Chores mom did when we were littler became ours, and making clothes was her form of painting. Us doing all those things she used to do freed her up for her love.  

All these are life's little things that create how I see, think, and express myself. I love the bright colors of my youth and try to apply them to my paintings. The lady who stood in front of me at church as a child is now the model who poses before me telling me who she is and about her memories and dreams.  I look for subjects that take me backwards and forwards at the same time. I can not help but revisit my youth when painting. Those sermons, those sins of dreams, being Catholic, all are in my brushes, on my palette. Those hand-me-down shirts and jam jars come out on canvas. A pot made by one model is holding a plant given me by another reminds me of mom's windowsill plants. I mix the past with the present - and then I paint.       

Long Ago Summers in Present Day Paintings

Grandpa's car was a big old pale green LaSalle, always spotless. It smelled of metal and shop oil from he and dad riding home from work in it every day.  We did not have a car of our own, so getting to ride in one was a treat. Grandpa would pick one of us kids up to help with garden work. Carrying water was what we did. Though Grandpa was retired he still smelled of the railroad, machine oil and metal. Dad, and three of my uncles worked for the Burlington. They were railroad men. Hands of steel, hardened from handling and shaping steel. Indian and Harley motorcycles were their mode for getting around. Old photos show motorcycles surrounding my grandparent's house when dad and my uncles were young. Some of the bikes belonged to men dating my aunts, who later became uncles. Real men.  Now there are just a couple Harleys left around. If we finished gardening in time and my uncle John was home from work, he'd take me home on his Harley. We’d go the long way if he had the time. 

The “river garden” was the big garden where we scooped water from the local river and carried it past the hobo camp to where granddad wanted it. Ten trips and out would come a grape NeHi soda pop. We split the pop as we rested and watched the river flow by. With the weeds gone and carrots and cucumbers in the car, granddad would take a couple cans of beans over to the hobos and harvest a cabbage on his way back. Cabbage salad with shredded carrots and cucumbers sliced so thin you could see through them was the cool treat for dinner for grandad and Uncle John who, unmarried, still lived at home with Grandpa and Grandma. 

Bacon fried and vinegar sweetened with honey was waiting for the small harvest I carried into Grandma. With freshly pinched cheeks,  I returned to the car with a cold Orange Crush this time. Now it was off to the country garden. Again, I was the waterboy, accompanied by Mr. Zake's old collie dog. Here I pumped the water and carried it out behind the horse barn where the garden was. Grandpa had to catch up on the news of old friends and share the news he had. I sat with Ranger, who lapped water from the pail, sometimes he seemed to need it more than the garden.  Ranger and I watched the chickens and ducks patrol the garden for bugs. Looking under the large pumpkin leaves the hen seemed to disappear, rooster tails were always above all the plants.  The Zake’s small pinto pony would watch us, almost calling for attention… but I learned the hard way that some horses bite… 

From the house I’d hear Grandpa tell me there was manure in the barn. That was my other job at the Zake’s, shoveling out the stalls. Grandpa had to wheel the wheelbarrow of manure out because it was too heavy for me. The horse manure would not be ready for the garden for a year. Too many unwanted things grew from the fresh manure.  It was dumped on the compost pile where leaves and other yard debris rotted.  Mom would request a bushel of well-aged horse manure for her roses. With a bushel of manure in the trunk , gardens weeded and watered, Orange Crush gone,  we were on our way. Dropping the manure at the house with mom Grandpa would take me home with him, knowing I’d want a motorcycle ride. When Uncle John was there I’d get my spin around the neighborhood.

All these dreams of long ago summer days drift into present day paintings.         

--