Twenty Dollars for a Portrait of a Hound Dog

Mr. Goosemen, fresh out of college, was D class's English teacher. At 5'9, his front row of 6'4 and taller students was the offensive front line for Mr.  Nardonie's football team. He immediately had the guys move to the back row so he could see the other students. I wasn't a member of the football team, and had no time for football. Homework and work filled my time.  Just the same, I was moved to the back of the room. First class assignment was to read "To Kill A Mockingbird," and tell why we thought it was banned in so many communities. I read the book twice and could not come up with any reason for banning the book. Concheta, Simon-the-school-cook's sister, gave me the reason as I scrubbed the school's kitchen floor. I would have gotten an A had Concheta been able to stay and help with my spelling. Instead, I had a big red F on my paper. Nouns, pronouns, adjectives, and prepositions I got. Spelling simply puzzled me. 

I wrote about Marmion, and how the military part of the school would play a part in how we might go through life. My first A came with my essay on Kathe Kollwitz. I put everything into that easy. Mom provided the spelling. There wasn't a word Mom couldn't spell. 

I lost my afterschool job (working at a diner being catered by the head chef in the school mess hall) when I spilled a dish of cottage cheese on a lady wearing a black dress. I swear a man tripped me on purpose. Being fired gave me more time for my art. I found I could make money with my art. More than the penny-a-minute that I had been earning. Twenty dollars for a portrait of a hound dog.  Another twenty for a portrait of an English Pointer.  I was ready to do more dog portraits thanks to Walter Foster's How to Draw Dogs books.

Still I didn't know what I would do for the rest of my life to earn a living. Whatever I would do, it couldn’t rely on spelling... How would it look for a man to show up for work with his Mom there to spell for him?

Simon's Sisters

An all-boys Catholic Military School was my High School. Military classes, Latin classes, English class, but no art class. Not even one art book in the school library. Father Mario, who ran the school library, had a few prints of these big-eyed kids in his office. The idea of art was out of the question at Marmion when I was there.

I did not dare try sketching in any of my classes, like I had done in grade school. My Latin teacher, Father Leonard, carried a nine iron golf club to keep you loving Latin class.  The history teacher just whacked you up alongside the head if you weren't quick enough with an answer. It was hard making it through the day without having someone taking a swing at you. Some teachers threw erasers so hard they put cracks in the walls. Seems like all the teachers had their own way of keeping us boys in a state of fear. Homework was always on time, your brass polished and a spit shine on your shoes when you showed up for school . The military teachers were the only ones that didn't have some way of killing us. 

There were trips below the hill where you went to settle things, when there were disagreements between students. It wasn't always the expected winner who returned with a smile. Sometimes the gym teacher set up boxing matches when he knew there were plans for below-the-hill events. 

I had no time for trips below the hill, or for marching off demerits. I walked the line and away from trouble, except for mopping the mess hall floor Simon's sisters were... Simon was the main cook for the "day dogs,” the name for us kids that went home every day. "Border rats" was the name given to the kids who lived at the Butterfield Campus. Simon's two beautiful sisters had me rush from my last class to get to cleaning the mess hall and my dirty pots. The real purpose for rushing to scrub floors and dirty pots was to see Simon's sisters. They served the faculty their lunches in a small private room and washed the dishes. They were usually leaving just as I was getting there to begin my work. Jet black hair with dark brown eyes… I didn't mind working for a penny a minute with them there. I got to sit with them and sketch them for a few minutes if I was lucky. Mike the Barber said I would have to take up charcoal if I want to really do them justice. Not sure how those sketches of them led to commissions, but soon I was getting commissions from other students to draw things for them.

I learned you should not use oil paints to paint Woody Woodpecker on a white jacket... It came off onto his dad's car seat on a date. Cleaning the seat was the real lesson there. I illustrated my homework when I had to write about Jack and Jill running up the hill. Took a queue from one of Mike's Barber Shop detective magazines. My story was a hit in class with my fellow students but not with Father Maindard. That illustration disappeared. I did get permission to start an art club and they brought in Adrian Fraziser from the Aurora Art League to guide us. We made trips to art exhibitions and learned about fine artists. Frank, one of the club members, continued drawing his funny caricatures of the teachers, Jim continued drawing hot rods and I continued drawing pretty girls - something I still do.