Character Building in the Scouts

Ninety-five degrees and a sleeping bag to carry. Grasshoppers  keeping up with us as we kicked stones and told each other stories we believed to be true . Dicky, eyeing each stone we kicked in case they might be worth putting in his rock collection. He collected rocks and spiders. As Dicky looked for rocks, the rest of us had our stories to tell. Jesus told us of his visits to his granddad in Mexico. Donny told us about his fishing trips with his dad and the Musky they found with a beer can in its throat. Peter tried to explain his green tooth. I told them why I carried a sketchbook everywhere and told them why I let Ray Gasper take it away from me. 

We listened to facts about spiders and how big they are in Mexico. We recalled the winter hike when Joey fell  through the ice crossing Blackberry Creek. Changing his pants in the freezing wind, they froze solid. We toweled him off with our extra shirts. Then tried to bust his frozen pants by bashing them against trees. We laughed now, on that steaming hot day, back then though it wasn’t so funny. Joey was up ahead of us on the hike, telling his own version of falling through the ice.

We argued about which scout outing was the best and which was the worst. It was agreed Mr. Miller was the best leader. He took us to a rodeo once and a demolition derby, and stock car race. That day it was too hot for the leaders to hike with us, they rode in cars trying to keep us together, ready to give a ride to any baby who couldn’t take it. Only Dicky’s dad hiked with us. He tried to set the pace but there was a hundred yards between him and us stragglers.  We were having fun telling stories, kicking stones and seeing who could squash a grasshopper.

A field full of black and yellow spiders was a good place to rest.  Stopping to see which was the biggest spider for Dicky’s collection was a way to rest from hiking. The field we were in was full of those spiders that he liked. He could not make up his mind which one he wanted. His decision was made for him when Peter yelled, “Snake!” A bull snake, charging straight for us, made the decision for all of us. We denied being afraid, but that snake got us all back to the road and moving a bit quicker than we had been moving. The snake stories came as we hiked on. At about two miles left to go and no stories coming from anyone, the leaders thought it best we pile into the cars.

 At the campsite we were in no rush to unpack the tents from the cars. A promise of a cold pop when all the tents were up got us moving. Not the neatest roll of tents, some sagging in places, but they were up at least.

My Uncle John arrived with the cold pop and sandwiches. He was one of the leaders of another troop from another parish. They were driven to the campsite. Due to Dicky’s dad’s love for hiking, we hiked most of the way...  Uncle John passed out pop to all the scouts and that day he was a hero.  We laid in the shade sipping pop looking at Dicky’s spider in a glass jar. His dad arrived at the campsite late, he hiked the whole way.  Dicky rushed to show him his prize, no one else moved from their spot in the shade. A slight breeze was welcome as empty pop bottles fell from hands too tired to straighten those sagging tents.

I added a drawing of my Uncle to my collection of people I thought of as heroes .  Alongside my portrait of Abraham Lincoln, I placed my Uncle setting up his iron cooking plate. Not everyone would see it was my Uncle, but for me it was a drawing of a character builder. Someone to respect and admire.

Camping was like school, only classes were outside and all day. Making splints from saplings to fix a broken leg was one lesson. Learning how to stop serious bleeding was another. How moss growing on trees could point us home yet another. We learnt about how the rat snake (that none of us were afraid of…) was helpful, and we were told about the miniature Illinois rattlesnake, rarely if ever seen.  Poison Ivy was another lesson. Not good to use those leaves to clean oneself off with when doing business. A lesson one scout learned the hard way. We bowed our heads and said a prayer, it nothing to joke about. We were taught codes to live by, rules to keep, and respect for one another. No bullies in the Scouts.

     I got a merit badge for public speaking on that trip, to go with my merit badge for bird spotting. No one may have understood me but they applauded the effort. They did not give merit badges for drawing...

The Paintings That Stayed With Me

Saturday morning, Dad ready to go and Mom checking me over. I was on my way to my very first art exhibition, a portrait of Abraham Lincoln was my entry. I do not remember entering this exhibit. I believe Sister Bernardo and Mom entered my drawing for me. Drawing was the one thing I was good at in school. I couldn’t spell, couldn’t read aloud, had a speech impediment, and couldn’t pay attention for more than a minute. I found the new church being built next to the school more interesting than catechism.   

Hiding behind Tom Erath, drawing, was how I spent my time in school. Somehow I managed to absorb what was being said in class. When Dad asked me to name the seven deadly sins I rattled off all seven and what they meant.  What that had to do with taking me to the art exhibition I didn’t know. Every so often dad would ask a random question like with spelling. Spelling was always my downfall. While giving me my monthly haircut, he’d throw out a word and say, “Sound it out.” I’d hear myself mispronouncing it, and then spelled it my way.  They tried a speech therapist with me, I swallowed the marbles she put in my mouth.  Doctor Balthazar assured mom I’d pass them. She checked to be sure. The therapist switched to bananas. To this day I don’t enjoy bananas and still mispronounce words  

Arriving at the fair grounds, Dad pointed out where the art exhibit was as he headed for the old steam tractors. I was to meet him at the tractors exhibition.  Entering the big barn, a man from the Aurora Art League greeted me assuring me I was in the right place as he led me to the old milk shed part of the barn where the children’s exhibition was.  The fair grounds were once a working dairy farm .  Now there were paintings, handmade jewelry , jars of pickles, and quilts on display where the cows were milked.  A lady took my drawing from me, another handed me an entry form to fill out.  It was like test time in school - wishing I had studied, I just stared at the paper. I filled it in best I could. A watercolor set on display was first prize for the winner. Like my papers in school this lady corrected nearly everything on my entry form, only the F was left off. Abe Lincoln was taped to the white walls of the milk barn and my name was there to see. Thirty kids from all over the county had their work on that wall. That watercolor set was mine, I was sure.

Looking at the works in the adult section I got the idea some art is created simply by throwing paint at a canvas. “Abstract “ I heard the man say. It would never be on the cover of the Saturday Evening Post, I was sure of that. A painting of an Indian was next to the abstract. 

The painting that really stopped me was a painting of a lady standing in her kitchen. She was not attractive like those ladies in magazine ads. She looked worn out, like Mrs. Martin, our neighbor in back. In the painting this woman stood in front of her stove, that needed cleaning. Maybe there was rhubarb cooking in the pot in the painting. Rhubarb was what mom was always sending me over with to Mrs. Martins. I found myself standing there looking at all the things the artist had put into that painting. A tea pot like ours, dishes waiting to be washed, towels hanging from an open drawer. I didn’t know it at the time but it was a painting that was going to stay with for a lifetime. Something so real about it, could have been our kitchen. It was the only painting that grabbed me. The next time mom sent me over with rhubarb to Mrs. Martins I was going to check out her stove.

Years later, walking into the American Academy of Art for the first time, there, in the office, hung a painting of a girl setting a table. She was lit by sunlight coming through slotted blinds just like the light in our dinning room. The painting was by Richard Schmid.  Those two paintings set me on the path of doing things that were familiar to me.