A Bus Stop of Memories

Paintings bring back memories to me, and not always my own works. Sometimes another artist’s painting will stir a personal memory. A fellow artist’s painting of a bus stop in Ukraine sparked a memory of my oldest brother taking me with him downtown to turn our paper route money in. I remember getting on the bus for free and grabbing a window seat, while my brother paid his fare. The bus filled up the closer we got to town.

Getting off at Galena, we walked to the Beacon News building where we waited in line with other boys from across town to turn in the money collected from our paper route. I remember those trips from before my oldest brother, Mike, was stricken with polio. Polio not only changed things for my oldest brother, but for our entire family.

Mike would also take me with him to check out books at the library. This is one way I got my interest in art. Mike would take me upstairs where the floor was glass and the art books were found.

Flipping through the pages, I would sit on the floor looking at the pictures the great illustrators painted for ads and stories in such magazines as The Saturday Evening Post, Boy's Life and Life Magazine. The best-of-the-best Illustrators made it into those books. Science books were Mike’s interest. He would check out a half dozen and have them all read in a week. The first movie he took me to was about men from outer space coming to earth. Gave me nightmares for days. I tried to remember those great illustrations from the library, but all I could picture in my head were men from Mars biting Earth people heads off.

Fortunately, Indians quickly became my first favorite subject, putting an end to people eaters - until Purple People Eaters made the top ten music list...

Kite Hill & The Meaning of Tomorrow

Going with my Granddad to trim away the weeds from Grandma's headstone was one of the small summer things I did. Pulling the weeds and gathering a few dandelions to place in a jelly glass for my Grandma, then saying a prayer with Granddad. In silence, he drove me to Brown’s Store, where he would treat me to a grape soda and maybe a 10-cent kite and ball-of-string.

I had other chores to do when I got home and mom, seeing the kite, would tell me tomorrow would be a good day for flying kites… today, though, was a good day for folding clothes. Tomorrow was a few days away sometimes... Kite Hill was a bit far from home for my little legs she would say. They were certainly big enough to go to the store and get coffee for Mrs. Martin, and big enough to carry water to our garden a block away.

When “tomorrow” arrived, with other kids about, I assembled my kite with an old tie from my dad's closet for a tail. One by one we worked our way up the hill and waited for a breeze. An older kid always set off first. If he or she was successful the rest of us would hold our kites high and start the run down the hill. Wildflowers underfoot and flying grasshoppers jumping out of the way and bees causing us kids to speed up. Soon, a half dozen kites were airborne.

Red, blue, and pink kites made us proud. Who would get theirs the highest. Seeing the clouds drifting by and the blue sky was a proud sight when one's kite became a part of it. A full ball of string out, the older kids could get their kites to do tricks. Figure eights, breathtaking dives, and kissing another's kite were skills that came with practice. Some kites refused to come down peacefully and mine always seemed to take a nosedive into the ground and needed tender care to fly again... Granddad's car coming down the road signaled the end for the day. Mom would send him out to bring me home for dinner. Keeping track of time was not one of my talents.