The Story of Bobby Hearst

I shared a room with my two older brothers. My tiny space was decorated with drawings of grasshoppers, hollyhocks and cowboys like Ward Bond, star of the TV show Wagon Train, and James Garner of Maverick.  From the ceiling hung two dozen model airplanes, my brother Mike had assembled from kits while recovering from Polio. Aircraft carriers, destroyers and battleships sat atop the cedar chest where mom kept her linens she saved from Grandma Schen. I loved the smell of that chest.  My other brother Francis, who was very religious, had pictures of Saints and Popes around the room. Cathy, my little sister,  decorated her half of the girls room with golf & tennis trophies, and basketball medals and ribbons she had collected over the years. 

Dad said I invited bullying with my constant drawing of flowers and bugs. Baseball was what I needed in my life, and so came a trip to Crosby's Sporting Goods Store. Monday I was to go to Garfield Park with my friend Donny, and sister Cathy, to test our baseball skills and maybe find a game we could join in. With Donny's bat and ball and my brand new baseball glove, we took turns fielding, hitting and pitching while waiting for other kids to show up. Cathy, at 11, was already showing signs of being the athletic one.  Cathy was pitching when Bobby Hearst showed up. White, tight t-shirt with a pack of cigarettes rolled in the one sleeve, Bobby was the typical teen back then, and nearly twenty years old, at least ten years older than Cathy. I was twelve, a big twelve. Donny, eleven I guess. Donny and I were both intimidated by Bobby picking up the bat and demanding a turn. My sister Cathy had no problem telling Bobby where to get off. I told her to pitch one to him which she did and he sent it down the third baseline screaming at me. Much to my surprise I snared it with my bare hand. Tossed the ball back to Cathy, like what I had just done was nothing. My hand stung like all hell, but I acted like it was nothing.

Bobby demanded another pitch. Cathy refused him. He was out because I had caught the ball on the fly. Both Donny and I yelled to Cathy to just pitch him another one. Now Cathy, at 11, was just starting her baseball career. Her next pitch was right at Bobby's head and he knew it was on purpose and charged the mound with bat in hand. I charged Bobby full speed, catching him off balance just as he was about to reach Cathy who was ready to swing at him.  Driving him off the field into the home team's dugout we both tumbled with the dugout, over turning it as we went. The dugout seemed to fall apart as it toppled over with us inside. Bobby tangled in the broken dugout was yelling what he was going to do to us as he pushed free of the loose boards. Scrambling free, I yelled for Donny and Cathy to run. Scooping up the ball and bat, Donny and Cathy were at full speed, as I grabbed the glove. Running across two baseball fields and full speed through peoples yards - for two blocks we just ran. When I could not run any farther I stopped and turned ready to take my beating. No Bobby. Had I killed him? Cathy and Donny, still running, were a full block ahead. Lungs burning,  dragging myself onward, I was thinking up a story to tell my folks over dinner about what had happened at the park.  I stumbled the rest of the way home. That night was collection night for the paper route. Bobby's house was on my route.  Would he turn his two pit bulls loose on me? I was sure death was waiting for me… or would the police come and take me away for murder?           

Baby Steps to Becoming an Artist

My red wagon is a source of both pain and pleasure. When mom called for me to get my red wagon I knew it was going to take me away from my toy cowboys and my imaginary ranch under the lilac bushes for some time. Washing my hands and putting on a clean t-shirt meant we were going to be doing something for a neighbor. Which meant sitting still and being quiet for an hour or so, sometimes longer... Seemed like a punishment, like a timeout or sitting in the corner, for things I didn't do well.

     That day I was to accompany Mr. Todas to the store and haul his groceries to his house with my wagon. Mr. Todas' right hand just hung there and his right leg was short and permanently bent. Mom volunteered me to be a good little boy, which I wasn't. Unaware that I was a quiet one, that I didn't speak, he peppered me with questions as we walked. He might have figured it out after several questions with no answers coming forth from me, I gave no answers to anyone, talked to no one.  At the store I pushed his shopping cart down one aisle and up the second aisle. Kroger was a tiny store then and had just two narrow aisles. At the time, it seemed big to me, but it was a very tiny store. Across the street from Kroger, was another grocery store where I received my reward, a piece of hard sour candy. There were grocery stores for every nationality on Pigeon Hill back then.  

Loaded with groceries, Mom had to take over the wagon pulling when we reached our house. Miller's driveway was too steep for me with a loaded wagon. Mom thought I would be dragged out into the street and hit by a car. Since the big accident on the corner, Mom kept us kids close to the house, in the backyard most of the time. I remember seeing the turned over car and a blonde lady laying in the grass. Mom and the neighbors rushed to help and Mom yelled for us kids to stay in the house. She didn't want us kids getting used to the idea of crossing streets alone.

Mom directed Mr. Todas to hold my hand crossing High Street and Edwards Street, but coming back from Mr. Todas' I would have two streets to cross alone. So mom pulled the wagon but still had me accompany her to Mr. Todas'.

My real reward came while Mom and Mr. Todas talked. Mom loved long goodbyes, Dad said.  Piled up over in a corner of his porch, next to a stuffed chair were magazines and books, Saturday Evening Post, Boy Scout Life, Life Magazine, and others. His back porch was more like an outdoor living room, a standing lamp for reading at night, potted plants set around , and a radio. Only Patty Mathew listened to a radio outside while sunbathing. I use to watch her with my cowboys from my lilac ranch  

Saw my first Norman Rockwell and NC Wyeth paintings on his porch. He had prints pinned up on his porch. We had a painting of St. Joseph and one of the blessed Virgin in our living room. Seeing these pictures sparked my interest in drawing cowboys. Mom said maybe if I took to reading I might find more illustrations I'd like. Donald Duck and Peter Rabbit filled the pages of my books. At home that day I drew a rough drawing of John Wesley Hardin.  Dad could not recognize that I had drawn a cowboy, only that he might have to pay for a library book if he couldn't get my fingerprints erased from the book. I wasn't supposed to touch my brother's books... Time for a real time out. 

Memories of long ago, and not quite forgotten, come back while painting. This memory influenced my painting of Jordan posing for the tired gardener resting on a porch.