Drawing Wanted Posters

Hand-me-downs were a way of life when I was a kid. Shirts, toys, bikes and chores. Accompanying Mom to the garden was my older brother's job before he got a paper route. His Redwing wagon was mine once I began helping mom in the garden. T

urning over the compost pile was one of those chores and accompanying her out to Mr. Vagos’ pony farm to get manure, was another. A big sign on the manure pile read, “Free.” Mom loaded up on horse manure, and Dad said the car smelled for days afterwards. He never said anything to Mom, just gave me the chore of cleaning out the trunk. He said the roses looked better and the peas tasted sweeter after a visit to Mr. Vagos. The fresh horse manure added to the compost needing turned over and mixed really well. To do this, Dad presented me with my own spade. I wanted my brother's blue bike at the time, but the spade was it. Practical gifts were what we got. Dad loved giving us strange things, and calling them gifts… "Didn't I just give you a brand new spade?", he'd say, when I asked for a Hopalong Cassdy cap pistol. He'd get that cap pistol eventually, he just liked kidding us.

He found me a bike - one more my size. It was second-hand, but new looking after he worked on it. Annie, my older sister, taught me to ride it. I could only ride it around the block, and then, only on the sidewalk. Met my first bully riding that bike. Butch DaSale, I was on his street and told not to ride my bike past his house. So I would ride halfway around the block then turn around in Mrs. Martin's driveway. When I told Mom I was going to sock it to Butch, I was told to stay on our street only. Trouble was I didn't stay on our street, but just found turning around in Mrs. Martin's driveway was my way of not fighting Butch. Mrs Martin would stop me and find something for me to do, though. Like getting some grapes from the man at the end of the block - which meant passing Butch's house, which meant I was not keeping to my own street. I was confined to our yard for a day after testing my fighting skills. So with my cap gun strapped on, I drew wanted posters till it was time to head up the street with my spade and wagon to the garden to pull the weeds that grew out of the horse manure. Mom would spread compost around and chat with a passing neighbor who alway remarked on the wonderful helper she had. I always found weeds at the far end of the garden so I would not have to answer questions about who I was going to shoot. People liked pinching my cheeks and commenting on how quiet I was.  

Cleaning off my spade at home, I was struck by a rotten tomato. Butch just smiled at me, letting me know to stay off his street. He took off running when I stood up. Must have done pretty well punching him. How was it my fault getting hit by a rotten tomato? Wash the tomato off the bricks and another day of drawing wanted posters in the yard. I was getting quite a collection of wanted posters.   

Summer's Orchard

"You'll have to ask your dad", was Mom's way of saying, "No". Dad would continue on with his crossword puzzle, not even hearing the question, and say, “If it is ok with your mother.” Before you could get back to the kitchen to tell Mom it was OK with Dad, Dad would have you take off his work shoes and massage his feet. On days when dad went to his part-time second job, us kids had to struggle getting Dad's boots on him. Not sure what that second job was, but his boots always needed the mud cleaned from them.

All my Uncles had second jobs. I think it was why they sat in chairs napping at family get-togethers. I cannot ever remember Uncle George being awake. Only a broken down tractor or combine could excite them. I remember all of them heading over to the Burger's farm, neighbor of my Uncle Hank, to fix a tractor. The rest of the day they discussed how Ford redesigned that tractor. Again, us kids had our own jobs to do at family get-togethers. Fighting bees to pick up fallen fruit was just one of those things I recall doing. The orchard smelled sweet and was so colorful in the Spring. Summers changed the sweetness of the orchard, the time when Grandma wanted the fruit. That fallen fruit was claimed by bees and mean yellow jackets. Aunt Marie's chickens were set free to feast on those yellow jackets and bees, making them sting even quicker. One old rooster would always attack us, giving Uncle John a good laugh. With fruit picked up, us kids were set free to run around with my cousin's dogs and throw rocks at the old model T Ford half sunk in the middle of the farm pond. The dogs would jump in the pond looking for the rocks. I met my cousins Timmy and Johnny for the first time there at Uncle's Hanks pond. It was at those family gatherings I got to meet and play with kids my own age and find out what real trouble was. Shooting an old coffee pot off my little sister's head with a BB gun got my Aunt Marie moving really fast. Grandpa was told never to buy BBs for us again. 

Sitting in the studio painting, sipping hot chocolate, I am often visited by friends from the past. Some were not so friendly. Mike Perze is one such visitor. Only knew Mike for a second, never met him before and never saw him again after that second. It's a second I'll never forget. I was riding my bike on the school playground. I stopped to roll up my pants and out of nowhere came a fist right in my face. Felt like a rock, only I saw it was a fist. Another kid said it was Mike Perze. I pause with painting and wonder why that memory visited. After 65 years you'd think I'd forget. Back to adding the chickens to my painting of the orchard…