My Reward

Drying the dinner dishes and putting all of them away was followed by homework time. When summer came, Mom and Dad had their own ideas of what homework was. The March Of Dimes was Mom's way of introducing us to the neighbors. I didn't know what the March of Dimes was, only that Mom took me and Francis around the neighborhood asking for money. Some gave just a dime while some gave a dollar. Most knew Francis already. I was new to this so Mom made me introduce myself and shake everyones hand.

Dad took me with him when the Knights of Columbus gave Tootsie Rolls away to people who dropped coins into a can. Again, I shook hands with people and told them my name, handing them a Tootsie Roll. I think this was a way of Mom and Dad knowing what us kids were up when we were out on our own… They were always getting calls from people letting them know what I had done that day that I shouldn't have. Like cutting through people's yards and helping myself to Mr. Miller's cherries, or Mrs. Mattes grapes. Mom would send us kids to apologize and we would have to offer to do chores, like sweep Mr. Swares sidewalk.

Sometimes we had to do things for people who we hadn't even done anything to. Mr. Toadas was one, he was born with a body that didn't work right. Many times I had to put my cowboys away, to carry Mr. Toadas' groceries home for him. My Red Flyer Wagon came in handy for a lot of those things Mom volunteered us kids for. Dad tried to explain why we had to return the dimes people gave us kids for those things we did for them, and then why it was okay for Mom to go door to door asking for dimes.

Mom loved to explain how doing things for others is a good thing. Mom always told us how much better we felt after doing such things. I always felt hot and tired, or freezing cold shoveling snow for someone at five in the morning before school... What I did feel good about afterward though was hitting Maurie Misner. He was a bully who picked on Francis and me. I didn't win that fight, it just felt good hitting him. The phone call came and mom sent me down to his house to apologize and shake his hand. Dad didn't let Mom see him smile when she told him I was fighting.

Mom taught me how to treat other people. Dad taught me how to treat my tools. I clean my brushes every night when I finish painting and do the best I can with every painting . There is a look in people's eyes that is a reward for me when they see my work, even when they are not going to buy. That is what Mom and Dad taught was my reward.

The People Who Keep Towns Alive

Sitting in a cafe in Nebraska waiting for my sunny side-up eggs and rye toast, I pull out my “security sketchbook”. That's what it is, for 23 years I've never been without one. It’s a diary, a planner, and a scrapbook, holding memories and those values gifted to me as a child. I see neighbors of my youth in the faces I record between bits of toast.

A leather-faced farmer is my morning's first prize, secured amongst the other drawn faces that I treasure. I flip through the pages with a warm sense of accomplishment. My eggs arrive with a smile from the waitress. Dipping my toast into a deep yellow yoke, a nod from my farmer as he passes puts me dreaming. Uncle Chuck had such a face, I remember his little shed at the far end of his yard where he hid out from my Aunt Taresa. He kept his collection of oddities there, each with its memory, much like my sketchbooks.

Wiping the plate clean with my last bit of toast, I surveyed the room for one final face to capture. I could sit and sketch faces the whole day, but painting pays the bills. Just like chocolate cake, one more face wouldn't hurt... A pink, soft-skinned face with gold-rimmed granny glasses was my second helping. This was how each painting trip went - taking gravel roads from small towns to small towns with an occasional old barn or creek put to canvas. Camping out, counting stars, and talking to cows.

Meeting cowboys in Wyoming, and drawing stripers in Idaho. My sketches took on different meanings as I moved along my unplanned trip. Turn south here and west next. Talking to people who directed me to local places of interest, to county fairs and horse auctions. A baseball game just outside Fort Collins and a bowling alley in Beaver, Oklahoma. A cow chip throwing contest took me back to my days of cow pie fights at Hupp's farm. The Hupp girls really knew which pies to toss and which not to pick up. I filled three sketchbooks with people before I reached Bartlesville, Oklahoma where my gallery waits. Dropped off my paintings and met a few collectors before I moved on. I picked up a couple new sketchbooks in Tulsa for the trip back to Chicago.

Drawing and sketching is the passion I feed, both a necessary skill for my dream profession and the food that feeds my soul. Crossing over into Missouri, a visit to a visitors center shows me several ways to fill another sketchbook with stories written on the faces of those living the hard life. Abandoned farms, with wind torn barns to paint and the people who keep towns alive wait for my pencil to release their stories through lines and smudges. Black coffee, nods, and more eggs come with another smiling waitress.

Looking through one book I remember the lady at the laundromat who told me where to get a great hamburger in Littleton, Colorado and the roller skating waitress who served it. Planned for a watercolor of the waitress.

Most times these drawings are just my little snapshots to look at when a painting takes a bad turn, or a model decides to go to a ball game and leaves me waiting.