The first time we saw Pete Seeger, we were so close that to him that we were literally within spitting distance. He was giving a free concert at Penn’s Landing under the old fiberglass pavilion. I believe it was 1981. Bethann and I went there with our friends Frank and Colleen. We arrived just in time for the concert to start. The place was full. Everyone was seated on blankets spread out on the concrete floor of the pavilion leaving a ten foot space in front of the stage. Frank sees the space and says, “Look, they left room for us right up front!” and proceeds to the front, lays down the blanket and sets us up. We were front and center. Once Pete got going, we were, indeed, blessed with his saliva. It was a great experience, nonetheless. When tugboats came up the river they blew their horns to salute Mr. Seeger, as they knew he was giving a concert there that day. He was famous for his love of rivers and boats. He promoted environmentalism and spearheaded the clean-up and restoration of the Hudson River.
I was to hear Pete Seeger perform live on three more occasions in the 1980s, all of them demonstrations that I was taking part in, in Washington, DC. He was famous for his union organizing songs and work with the Weavers. There is too much to be said about such a full and long life for one little blog post. He lived over 94 years (May 3, 1919 – January 27, 2014). He published a magazine of sheet music of folk music and protest songs. He was a communist and blacklisted for it, during the McCarthy era. There is a petition to name the new Tappan Zee Bridge in New York after him. Read more about him here.
Painting is 18″ x 14″ acrylic on stretched canvas.
Price: $200 plus postage
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Odetta Holmes was born December 31, 1930, in Birmingham, Alabama. She is one of those rare personages who went through life known by only her first name: Odetta. Martin Luther King, Jr. called her “the queen of American folk music!” She sang folk, blues and spirituals. Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, Janis Joplin and Mavis Staples all claimed her as a major formation influence for their music. She started performing publicly at age 13. Her last performance was October 25, 2008. She was invited to perform at Barack Obama’s inauguration, but, sadly, she passed away of heart disease on December 2, 2008.
I painted her as part of my “Personal Heroes” series, because she never just sang for her supper. She sang for a higher purpose. She was always seeking to break new ground, to make progress. She has been called the “voice of the civil rights movement.” I’m sure that is hyperbole. Surely that title needs to be shared with the Staples, the Weavers, Paul Robeson and many others. But she was not just pushing for civil rights; she promoted human rights and economic justice. She considered herself to be “just one foot soldier in the army.” Nonetheless, President Clinton awarded her the National Endowment for the Arts’ National Medal of Honor. She performed all over the world, and received many honors. This did not change her message. This is an iconic pose for her. She has a determined look on her face and she is pointing upwards. Her whole life was dedicated to using the gifts she was given: her beautiful voice, sharp mind and determined spirit, to get us all to move onward and upward!
We had the great honor and joy to be able to hear her perform live at the Philadelphia Folk Festival in 2001. (We had received complimentary tickets.) I was thrilled!
Painting is 12″ x 24″ acrylic on stretched canvas.
Price: $200 plus postage
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When one “Bings” Karl Marx, the first thing that comes up is: “Scientist – Karl Marx was a German-born scientist, philosopher, economist, sociologist, journalist, and revolutionary socialist.” One thing is for certain, a lot of misinformation has been circulated about him and what he taught, in capitalist countries. The first word in the description is the most important, however, and, in the end, science always wins, because it is reality. Science does not play favorites, does not discriminate on who your relatives were or how rich your parents were. Thermonuclear war will kill you just as dead whether you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth or in a mud hut. Global warming will flood you, starve you, burn you, impoverish, kill you, no matter how many billions of dollars you amass. Science is science. Facts are facts. Alt-nothing! It’s time to share! It’s simple justice! It’s human survival. It’s better for all of us. It’s more secure and happier for all of us.
Yes. Marx is a hero of mine. But, if he had not written what he had, someone else would have. It was inevitable. It is science. Like Martin Luther King, Jr. said, “The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards justice.” He was a Marxist, also. That’s why the government killed him.
There is a new Socialist movement growing. Capitalism has failed fantastically. The masses, especially the disenfranchised, educated young people are rising up to claim their place and their fair share of the fruit of their forebears investment in infrastructure and technology for the common good.
The painting is acrylic on 16″ x 20″ stretched canvas.
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This painting is the latest in my “Heroes” series and my first with two people together. It is based on the famous photograph taken of Fidel Castro and Che Guevara as they were preparing for their triumphal march into Havana in 1959 to take control of the central government after the corrupt Batista regime, along with their US carpet-baggers had fled. Castro managed to not only hold the country together, but transform it into the most stable, egalitarian, healthy country in the western hemisphere for over 50 years, despite over 600 American CIA assassination attempts, a draconian trade embargo, a failed, US led invasion. He eliminated childhood hunger, homelessness and rampant gambling. He instituted universal, free healthcare and free education through university. Cuba has a lower infant mortality rate and longer life expectancy than the US despite spending 1/5 as much on medicine. They send more doctors around the world to help developing nations and in crisis situations than the US does, though they are relatively tiny.
Fidel Castro said, “Capitalism is using its money. We socialists are throwing it away!” What he meant by that is that they weren’t using it to make more money. They were spending it on the people. All the profits from the factories and industries went to the people. There has been scarcity in Cuba, but no one has gone hungry. No one has gone uneducated. They have the highest literacy rate in the hemisphere at 99%. No one has gone without top-notch medical care. It is a medical tourism destination! The scarcity is because of the lack of trade because of the bullying of the US. In the US, when business is bad, the ones who work the hardest are the first to suffer! Not so in Cuba! Furthermore, Fidel wanted to have a free and open democracy. Honduras had tried that. They elected a socialist. Our CIA, under Dulles, went and overthrew him, and reinstalled fascism. So Che persuaded Fidel to maintain a benign dictatorship.
Fidel Castro was born on August 13, 1926 and died on November 25, 2016, proving once and for all that the best revenge is a long life.
Ernesto Che Guevara was born on June 14, 1928. (My birthday is June 14, 1955.) His early life is documented in the book and movie: “The Motorcycle Diaries”, about his travels from one end of South America to the other on a motorcycle. This trip was formative in his education as a revolutionary. He became a medical doctor first. In 1955, Fidel’s brother Raul introduced them, and he joined the revolution in Cuba. On June 2, 1959, he married Aleida March. He stayed in Cuba until 1965; then he joined the revolution in Kinshasa, Congo. In 1966, he joined the revolution in Bolivia. He was captured by the CIA on October 8, 1967, and summarily executed the next day. So much for human rights and due process and Geneva Convention.
These two are unlikely heroes of mine, since I am a pacifist. As Winston Churchill said, “Consistency is the bugbear of small minds!” The result of what they did cannot be questioned. They improved the lives of millions of people and literally made hundreds of thousands more lives happen. Vision, combined with action, blended with stubborn love for common people. Heroes indeed!
“If you tremble with indignation at every injustice, then you are a comrade of mine.”
“Let me say, at the risk of seeming ridiculous, that the true revolutionary is guided by great feelings of love.” – both by El Che
Painting is acrylic on 24″ x 18″ stretched canvas.
Price: $150 plus postage
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On February 9, 2014, I posted an article featuring Bob Marley on the website for The King’s Jubilee entitled One Love. That site is down now, since TKJ went out of existence a couple of years ago, after my health failed and the church abandoned me. It was written when I was still a believer of sorts. It still makes sense, if one just substitutes Love for God. After all, “God love is” according to the Bible. Bob Marley was one of my heroes, not because of his music, although I love that. It is because of his life of peace and simple generosity.
“The greatness of a man is not in how much wealth he acquires, but in his integrity and his ability to affect those around him positively.”
“The people who are trying to make this world worse are not taking the day off. Why should I?” – Bob Marley
Painting is acrylic on 16″ x 20″ stretched canvas.
Price: $150 plus postage
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Martin Luther King, Jr. was not just a civil rights leader working to elevate the estate of people of color in the US. He was a prophetic voice for human rights and dignity and economic equality. His image has been sanitized and his socialist rhetoric is ignored to co-opt his legacy to make him acceptable as a national hero. His birthday has been turned into a national day of servitude where students are compelled to pick up litter in parks or paint restrooms in poorly funded public schools. We must keep the young people busy lest they actually read his words or watch the three hours of extant newsreel footage of him, which would reveal the horrors he and his comrades endured just to be allowed to vote, or to stay at the same motels as their oppressors.
The federal government tolerated King as long as his focus remained on “colored folks issues.” He shifted his focus, however, once it became clear to him that poverty and the disparity between rich and poor were inextricably connected to racial hatred and discrimination. The CIA had him assassinated as he was in Memphis to support a union action, on April 4, 1968.
And one day we must ask the question, “Why are there forty million poor people in America?” And when you begin to ask that question, you are raising questions about the economic system, about a broader distribution of wealth. When you ask that question, you begin to question the capitalist economy. – MLK
So today capitalism has outlived its usefulness. It has brought about a system that takes necessities from the masses to give luxury to the classes. – MLK
Painting is acrylic on 16″ x 20″ stretched canvas.
Price: $200 plus postage
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Dorothy Day lived from November 8, 1897 to November 29, 1980. She lived with Lionel Moise, by whom she became pregnant. He persuaded her to get an abortion. She married Berkeley Tobey and was divorced a year later. She did give birth to a daughter, Tamar Teresa, by her common law husband, Forster Batterham, a biologist and anarchist, in 1926. They parted ways in 1929, after her conversion to Catholicism. She was a journalist and an activist for socialist causes and women’s suffrage. She was jailed on several occasions and engaged in a hunger strike after being arrested for demonstrating in front of the White House in 1917. She converted to Catholicism in 1927. This did not put a damper on her zeal to help the poor or to secure rights for the disenfranchised.
Dorothy established a Christian hospitality commune and started publishing the Catholic Worker in New York City. This started the Catholic Worker movement, which now has over 125 hospitality houses for the homeless and poor in the US and overseas. She advocated that every Christian household should maintain an extra room to provide hospitality to the poor. She is famous for saying: “When I feed the poor they call me a saint. when I ask why they are poor they call me a communist!” She also told people to not call her a saint. She understood, as I learned early on, that when people call you a ‘saint’ or ‘radical’, it is just a way of excusing themselves from taking similar actions to serve the poor.
Pope Francis included her in a short list of exemplary Americans, together with Abraham Lincoln, Martin Luther King, Jr., and Thomas Merton, in his address before the United States Congress.
“Don’t call me a saint. I don’t want to be dismissed so easily.”
“Men are beginning to realize that they are not individuals but persons in society, that man alone is weak and adrift, that he must seek strength in common action.”
“Our problems stem from our acceptance of this filthy, rotten system.”
Painting is acrylic on 20″ x 16″ stretched canvas.
Price: $200 plus postage
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Sister Mary Elizabeth Hanssens was the only woman to ever take me out for a meal other than my wife. It was at a time when we were both working as volunteers in the Philadelphia prisons and jails, and we were both facing major problems that demanded resolution. She helped me over the hurdles to start the only tutoring program for the Women’s Detention Facility. I encouraged her to pursue leaving the convent in order to serve homeless and battered women.
She took a year of discernment away from the convent before being excused from her vows by the Pope. During that year, she resumed her education to become an attorney. She then bought a cheap row house in an at risk neighborhood, took in battered women, and joined the Habeas Corpus Task Force in the Philadelphia public defenders’ office. She helped countless poor and homeless people, especially women. Mary died at age 58, on November 4, 2010. She left behind her parents, siblings and two cats.
The painting is acrylic on 12″ x 12″ stretched canvas.
Price: $100 plus postage
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André Trocmé was a Huguenot pastor in southern France. Before and during the Nazi occupation of France, he led his city and the neighboring city and surrounding countryside to give refuge to Jews fleeing Hitler’s genocidal death camps. It started with the boarding school his church ran. He did not believe in discrimination, so the school accepted Jewish students, who wore the school uniforms and lived lives indistinguishable from the Christian students. It grew into families sheltering families. He trained them on how to blend in and how to respond to the authorities. They set up an underground railroad to help families escape from France to safety in non-Nazi occupied countries. No one in their network betrayed a refugee into Nazi captivity. His nephew’s class was raided, where he was teaching a few dozen Jewish children. The Nazis seized the children to take them to a camp. Trocmé’s nephew insisted on going with them, as their teacher. He died in the concentration camp. It is estimated that they saved over 3500 lives.
I read Pastor Trocmé’s story over 30 years ago. It was also made into a movie. As always, the book was better. He had correspondence with Dietrich Bonhoeffer and with Gandhi. He was a pacifist and had a strong ethical belief in honesty, charity and non-discrimination. He never made excuses for having to lie to the authorities. He felt that it was still sin, but to tell the truth would make him complicit in the deaths of fellow human beings, which would be a greater sin. He had been taught a hard lesson by his strict father, when he was a lad. He learned that it was not only right to do good; “it was essential to do the good on time!” It was his position that Hitler’s rule, the rise of the Nazis, and World War II was totally preventable, if only people of good conscience in Germany had done the good on time. Once Hitler and his cohorts were in power, it was too late to stop him without doing evil and causing death and destruction. This is an important lesson and one that America needs to heed today.
We have both major parties putting forward the most despised presidential candidates in our history. Both are bigots. One is a capricious fool; the other is a shrewd politician committed to endless war. One would incarcerate Muslims and Latinos here; the other would (and already has) kill Muslims, Latinos and others overseas. They have 30% acceptance rating between them from the electorate. Yet people are deciding their votes on fear of one or the other, instead of doing the right thing and rejecting both.
It is time to do the good on time.
This painting is my first monochromatic work. It is done entirely in shades of burnt umber to give it the look of a vintage photograph. This painting was used on posters and programs for a seminar on the life and work of Pastor Trocmé shortly after I finished it.
Painting is acrylic on 11″ x 14″ stretched canvas.
Price: $120 plus Postage
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Many years ago, I wrote an article in The King’s Jubilee newsletter about the Autobiography of Malcolm X, in which I recommended that every white man in America should read it. I got some feedback on that! Of course, the negative feedback was all from people who were too narrow-minded to read it. Several people said that “everyone should read it!” That missed my point. To overcome racism, it is important to gain understanding from other perspectives. Malcolm X became a hero of mine not because I agreed with everything he said or did, but because he had the courage to live a self-examined life in public. He was not so proud that he would not change his course when confronted with hard new truth.
“A ballot is like a bullet. You don’t throw your ballots until you see a target, and if that target is not in reach, keep your ballot in your pocket.” – Malcolm X
Painting is acrylic on 16″ x 20″ stretched canvas.
Price: $200 plus postage
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Mohandas K. Gandhi (Oct. 2, 1869 – Jan.30, 1948) became known as the Mahatma or the “Great Soul” due to his wisdom in leading the people of India in non-violent resistance against British colonial rule in the 1930s and 40s. Gandhi was a great teacher. He wrote many books to train the people for the inner discipline necessary for non-violent civil disobedience. He drew on the teachings of Hinduism, Buddhism, Jesus Christ, and Mohammed. He was regarded as deeply spiritual, yet he professed faith in no deity or particular religion, saying: “My uniform experience has informed me that there is no other God than Truth.”
Many claim that his path of non-violent civil disobedience ultimately failed to liberate India, since they resorted to violent revolution. The truth of the matter, however, is that it is unlikely they would have had the cohesion and discipline to do that as a unified people had he not trained them in civil disobedience first. His teachings were instrumental in instructing MartinLuther King, Jr., Simone Weil, and Dietrich Bonhoffer, thus, he impacted US civil rights, and the French and German resistance.
It was through Gandhi’s correspondence with two different actors in the resistance to Hitler that I first connected with him; that was Dietrich Bonhoeffer in Germany and Simone Weil in France. This led me to read his biography and most of his works. I had to learn a fair amount of Hindi to understand them. I came to truly revere the man and fully embrace his philosophy of non-violent civil disobedience.
“I object to violence because, when it appears to do good, it is only temporary; the evil it does is permanent.”
Painting is acrylic on 16″ x 20″ stretched canvas.
Price: $200
This was a gift to my friend Ray Acker on the occasion of his ordination to the priesthood in the Antiochian Orthodox Church, as Fr. Herman. I wrote the words of Gandhi, above, on the back of the canvas frame:
“My uniform experience has informed me that there is no other God than Truth.”
She was born in Kovno, Russian Empire, now Kaunas, Lithuania, on June 27, 1869, and died in Toronto, Canada, on May 14, 1970, having been exiled from the US. It was over thirty years ago when I read Emma Goldman’s memoir. She connected me to such a cast of great actors and thinkers in the world: Lenin, Margaret Sanger, Simone Weil, Mahatma Gandhi, John Reed, Sasha Berkman, Peggy Guggenheim, Jackson Pollock, Peter Kropotkin, and others. She was pivotal in my maturing to be a more compassionate person, and eventually a Socialist.
You can read her Wikipedia entry to get just a smidgen of the activities she was involved in and the lives she touched. She had been abused and misused by men all her life, starting with her father, yet she loved a few men and was loyal to a fault in her lifetime.
I set out to attempt to paint Emma smiling. I could not find a single extant photograph of her smiling, yet her most famous quote is when she said to V.I. Lenin: “If I can’t dance I don’t want to be part of your revolution!” This was when she arrived in Russia shortly after the Bolshevik revolution and wanted to celebrate, but Lenin told her, “Dancing is bourgeois!” I have been sitting across the room (about 11′ feet away) at eye level with Emma. She stares piercingly. She is both solid as a rock and on the verge of a flood of tears. This effect is quite accidental or subconscious on my part but it is quite haunting; and appropriate considering the abuse she had endured.
Painting is acrylic on 11″ x 14″ stretched canvas.
Price: $120 plus postage
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Dimitri Papagiani was born with a mysterious, incurable birth defect; more like, multiple birth defects. He is crippled. He cannot speak, except in unintelligible grunts. His body and limbs are twisted and he is confined to a horizontal wheelchair. His mother has cared for him for all of his 54 years, with help from his sister.
If you have followed my work on this website, you know that I have had 43 acquaintances who have committed suicide including 19 people close to me, who include my sister and my baptismal godfather. I also know many others who have attempted suicide, but failed. When I saw Dimitri at St. Andrew Orthodox Church, Lewes, Delaware, last Sunday, I was so moved. With so much stacked against him, he still decides to wake up every morning and face the day.
Painting is acrylic on 20″ x 16″ on stretched canvas
Price: $195 plus postage
Amber Evans was a youth worker, youth justice advocate, and activist in Columbus, Ohio. She was passionate about her work and touched many lives. Like so many of us who deal with the disenfranchised, the poor, the oppressed, the cast-offs of society, she had a hard time just coming home from work. She grew increasingly depressed and isolated from others. She disappeared on January 28, 2019. Many speculated about possible foul play from any of the authorities she could have offended in her many outspoken protests and petitions. It came out during the search for her that she had left her boyfriend a couple of days before she disappeared, after they had an argument when he urged her to get counseling.
Her body was recovered from the Scioto River on March 23, 2019, and identified the next day. It was then revealed that she had texted her family and boyfriend a cryptic message about leaving on the day she disappeared. They assumed this was her suicide note. She was 28. Some doubt has been cast on this, and further investigation is still ongoing. Her mother even helped produce a documentary movie presenting possible evidence of foul play. So we do not know if she took her own life or if she was martyred.
The painting is acrylic on 12″ x 12″ stretched canvas.
Price: $100 plus postage.
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I have been painting two series of portraits, one of personal heroes, the other of people who have committed suicide. Someone asked me if it were possible for one person to be both. Unfortunately, it is. Aaron Hillel Swartz (November 8, 1986 – January 11, 2013) is part of both series.
If you use the internet, especially if you use Reddit, Facebook or almost any news websites, you have benefited by using code and/or protocols written by Aaron Swartz. He was a world-renowned hacktivist, political organizer, computer programmer, entrepreneur and writer; all this in his teens and twenties. He was co-founder of Reddit. He authored RSS 1.0 for sharing news stories. He was instrumental in creating Creative Commons to facilitate sharing of copyrighted material on the web. He advocated for and facilitated a more open web. To that end, he also organized campaigns against bills that would make the internet costly and less egalitarian.
In 2011, Swartz was arrested by Massachusetts Institute of Technology Police on state breaking-and-entering charges, after connecting a computer to the MIT network in an unmarked and unlocked closet, and setting it to download articles using a guest user account issued to him by MIT. Federal prosecutors later charged him with two counts of wire fraud and eleven violations of the Computer Fraud and Abuse Act, carrying a maximum penalty of $1 million in fines, 35 years in prison, asset forfeiture, restitution, and supervised release. In January 2013, he was offered a plea bargain for six months in federal prison. He made a counter offer. Two days after that was rejected, he was found dead in his Brooklyn apartment He had hanged himself. He was 26. Later that year he was inducted into the Internet Hall of Fame.
“This is your life, this is your country – and if you want to keep it safe, you need to get involved.”
“Be curious. Read widely. Try new things. What people call intelligence just boils down to curiosity.” – Aaron Swartz
I painted this portrait in black on white to represent binary, which is what all computer code comes down to. It is larger than life at 24″ x 24″. The sides of the gallery wrapped canvas are red, so no framing is necessary. I painted the name and my signature on the edge, because I wanted to keep the portrait clean and simple.
It is acrylic on 24″ x 24″ stretched canvas.
Price: $320 plus postage.
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Stephen was from Nutley, NJ. He moved with his family into the house across the street from our family in Golden Valley, MN, when we were 11. He had no sense of style. He wore brown “dungarees” and slicked down hair, and fully buttoned-up shirts. Whoever heard of dungarees?! I had to whip him into shape before school started, so he didn’t get laughed out of there before he started. We got the grease out of his hair; got him into blue jeans and flared pants; taught him to unbutton his top button, and listen to better music. We spent a lot of time together. We explored ESP and telepathy and tales of the Windigo. We meditated together in the dark. We were convinced we had achieved telepathy. We played around with the OUIJA board, except we were serious.
In seventh and eighth grades, almost every teacher in our junior high who had a paddle, broke it over Stephen’s bony butt. He had attitude. Sometime in our eighth grade year, Stephen’s dad got transferred back to Nutley, so the family moved back. One Saturday, Stephen was playing soccer at a school. Being a hot dog, he kicked the ball on top of the school roof. He promptly climbed up onto the flat roof after it. He chased it until he fell through a skylight onto the floor of the school below. No one could find the key to the school or break in to get him before he bled to death from his injuries. His mother called our neighbor to let us all know. It was still winter in Minnesota.
I cried my eyes out. I went up to my room . I looked out the back window into the blackness of the night and I tried to have telepathy with Stephen. I thought we had been communicating over the previous weeks. This time, I got a message, but it was different. I immediately broke it off and never attempted telepathy again. I was convinced that it was a demon, and that it was probably demons who had been carrying the messages all along. Then, I started to sing the song I had learned as a 4-year-old when the Ericsons had taken me to their little Bible Church in North Minneapolis: “What a Friend We Have in Jesus”. I soon started to weep, since I realized that Jesus was not my friend, since I was not his friend. That’s when I started to read my New Testament.
The story goes on to further spiritual quest and further confusion. My Lutheran pastor / confirmation instructor kicked me out of confirmation class for asking too many questions about heaven and hell, just one month shy of being confirmed. I eventually was ordained 3 more times in 4 more denominations. (I was ordained to the priesthood with my infant baptism.)
This painting is not of Stephen. I have no photos of Stephen. I do have his image firmly etched in my brain. I have started to sketch him to paint him several times. This time I decided to continue to paint who came to me instead. I don’t know who this beautiful boy is. I just went ahead and painted him, so I could tell you the story of Stephen, whose death I always considered a type of suicide. You see, Stephen was a misfit. He was not the smart one in his family. That was his little brother, Doug. He wasn’t the pretty one, or his mother’s helper. His dad kept getting transferred, so he was perpetually the new kid. His dad didn’t have time for him. So Stephen did outlandish, dangerous, risky things, to get attention and praise from strangers. It cost him his life at age 14.
Whoever this beautiful boy is or was, I hope he has or had a happier life.
The painting is acrylic on 11″ x 14″ stretched canvas.
Price: $100 plus postage
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When I first went on Facebook about 10 years ago, I did a search to see if there were other people named Cranford out there. I found Cranford Nix, Jr., and sent a friend request. It was accepted. I learned that he was a drug addicted rock musician, originally from Royal Oak, Michigan, who later lived in Blairsville, Georgia. What I did not learn until several months later was that he had been dead for about five years. He had “lived fast, died young, and left a beautiful memory” like the country song says.
Cranford Nix, Jr. was born on January 17, 1969, to Mama Dean Nix and Cranford Nix, Sr. His dad was the leader of a bluegrass band with two of his brothers and was inducted into the Bluegrass Hall of Fame. Cranford, Jr., suffered with mental illness and became addicted to the various drugs used to treat it. He mixed them with alcohol and heroin as well. He wrote songs about it. He had a gift of being lovable and conveying the joy of life to others. The irony was that he could not find a way to face life himself without self-medicating. A loving friend who maintains his music website put it this way:
This site is dedicated to the memory of Cranford Nix, Jr.. He was a really cool guy. He wrote and played great music. He made a lot of people smile.
How did Cranford die? – He died from drug and alcohol abuse. Please don’t do drugs, or try to emulate Cranford’s lifestyle. He struggled with addiction his whole adult life. His death wasn’t cool or glamorous. It was terribly sad and a tragic waste.
Cranford died on March 12, 2002, leaving behind a young widow and two sons. He was just 33. He had touched a lot of lives. So many people loved him. It wasn’t enough.
Cranford, Sr., passed away on October 14, 2012, and was buried next to Jr., whom he always called “Little Man”, in Blairsville, according to his instructions. So I remain, to my knowledge, the only known, living, first-named Cranford.
Painting is 24″ x 12″ acrylic on stretched canvas.
Price: $100 plus postage
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Michael was a classmate in high school. He was a year older than the rest of us, as he had been held back at some point. He wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed academically, but he was good at mechanics. His younger brother was a better scholar and was in the same graduating class as him. I’m afraid we did Mike a great disservice. There were a half-dozen guys who went to the same huge, fundamentalist, Baptist church in the city, who were intent on evangelizing our classmates. We met for prayer every morning before school in the library. Our church had youth recreational activities every Saturday and training activities most other evenings of the week. We invited Michael to these outings and talked to him about becoming “born again”. At some point, he made a profession of faith, got re-baptized and joined the church. I’m sure this caused a rift in his Irish Catholic family.
The pastors of this church (there were eight of them) would never bother to contact the parents of teenagers who were getting baptized and joining their church. I now find this reprehensible and totally irresponsible. My dad threw me out of the house for converting (literally), two months after I was re-baptized. If it were not for my mom insisting on leaving with me, forcing my dad’s hand, I would have been stranded, homeless, in rural Wisconsin. He decided to keep my mom even with me. So I don’t know what all Michael went through. Whatever it was, he went through it with no adult help.
We graduated together in 1973. We had good times that summer, with camp and lots of activities, bicycling together, etc. Then all of us went off to Bible college, that is, all of us except Michael. He lost his gang of comrades, his support group. It was sometime during that school year we got word that Michael had died. Then we learned it had been a suicide. We never got details, never knew about a funeral or burial. His family wanted nothing to do with us or the Baptist church. Since it was a suicide, he couldn’t be buried in the Catholic Church. We had been in college more than an hour away, taking 22 credit hours a semester, being self-absorbed 18-year-olds, too busy to notice that our friend was suffering.
I painted Michael in monochromatic, burnt umber with shiny golden hair. He had naturally wavy, blond hair. I chose to do this to signify the hope and promise of youth, “the golden-haired boy”, snuffed out.
This painting is monochromatic burnt umber on 11″ x 14″ stretched canvas.
Price: $100 plus postage
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This painting is based on a 50+ year old black & white snapshot of my friend Dean and his new, German Shepherd puppy, Prince. We were about ten years old. Dean and his dad treated Prince in such a way that he became nervous and mean. Dean became more wild as he grew up. The only time I went egging houses, it was because Dean brought the eggs, when I was just planning on toilet-papering. I found out the day after, that eggs peeled off paint. We were thirteen. That was the last time I got together with Dean. We went to Carl Sandburg Junior High and were in the same graduating class of 1973 at Robbinsdale Senior High, but both schools were huge and our paths never crossed.
In January, 1974, Dean went to see The Exorcist, shortly after it was released, at a theater in downtown Minneapolis. He was high on LSD. He came out of the theater and blew his brains out with one of his dad’s handguns. His dad was a local sheriff. At least, this is the story as it was relayed to me by my mother.
The painting is acrylic on 12″ x 12″ stretched canvas.
Price: $100 plus postage
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I knew Fred since 1998, when he was 20 and I was 43. This was when he started working at Keeney Printing in Lansdale. I printed all of my icons and notecards there for my icon business for several years. I got on Fred’s nerves as I was a customer run amok. Marg Keeney had given me a key to the shop. I would come in after hours and use the copiers and the computers to make my prints. At times, I had to come in during the day to print as well. Fred was friendly enough, but he had an even darker sense of humor than I do. He loved heavy metal music and extreme graphics that to me appeared fantastical and gruesome. He was excellent at what he did, with attention to every detail. He was serious about what he did and was not afraid to put in long hours to get jobs done on time and done right.
Fred worked at Keeney for 13 years, until he was 33. He finally found a woman whom he loved. On 4th of July weekend in 2011 he intended for her to join him at his cabin in northern PA, where he was planning on asking her to marry him. However, she broke up with him. He took his own life at that cabin on July 4, 2011.
Fred’s death was devastating to his dear friend, boss and co-worker, Michael Keeney, as they were close comrades at and after work. Michael loved Fred like a brother.
I have lost 18 close friends and relations to suicide and a total of 43 acquaintances. My therapist asked me how I deal with all that grief. I replied, “Apparently not that well. That’s why I’m here.”
We have all heard people say that suicide is such a selfish act, because it hurts everyone who loves or even knows the victim. We have all heard that suicide is “the coward’s way out”; that it is braver to stay and fight to solve one’s problems. These sound like logical arguments against suicide to those who are left to grieve. But to the one suffering extreme depression and despair, they are bullshit. Through the depression and bipolar support group I attend I have met several people who have tried to commit suicide several times. It is not easy to carry out. It is not for the ‘coward’ or the feint of heart. If one does it wrong, one can end up living with permanent brain damage or some other lasting disability, along with the shame and regret that one did this to oneself. When a person is contemplating suicide, it is not to hurt other people; quite the opposite. It can come from a strong, false belief that the world, including one’s nearest and dearest would be better off without them.
So what is the best suicide prevention? This may sound trite or simplistic to you, but I believe it is love. But that love needs to be expressed by a willingness to just be with a person who suffers with a mood disorder. Logic, persuasion, expert advice don’t go near as far as just a willingness to take the risk to be a friend, knowing that may not be enough.
“Live in harmony with one another. Do not be haughty, but associate with the lowly. Never be wise in your own sight.” – Paul of Tarsus
The painting is acrylic on 11″ x 14″ stretched canvas.
Price: $80 plus postage
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Pete was a friend of mine in Bible college. We went to a strict, fundamentalist school. Everyone majored in Bible. A strict moralistic rule book was enforced with anyone able to give anyone else demerits for so much as shaking hands with the opposite sex. He graduated in 1975. Later that year he ended his own young life, because he could not reconcile his fundamentalist, Baptist dogma and convictions with his homosexual desires.
This painting is monochromatic Black and White on 11″ x 14″ stretched canvas.
Price: $100 plus postage
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Bobby was a good friend in grade school and junior high. His family lived two blocks away from mine in Golden Valley, Minnesota. We would bicycle together, sled and skate together in the winter, and sometimes camp out in our backyards together in the summer. He was a beautiful boy! He was handsome, with thick, dark hair, athletic and smart. All the girls loved him. Most of the boys wanted to be him. He did not appreciate all the attention. He was shy and became more withdrawn in his junior and senior year in high school; to the point of not allowing any pictures of himself to appear in the yearbook. This painting is based on his two pictures in the 1971 Robin. The pose is from the soccer team’s group shot, but his eyes were closed, so I looked at his yearly picture for details of his face.
The last time I saw Bobby was in the spring of 1974. I was visiting a few of my friends at the University of Minnesota’s main campus. At that time Pioneer Hall was for both men and women; every other room for each gender. I greeted Bobby as he darted stark naked from the showers to his room. I was shocked at this, not because of modesty, but his apparent lack of it. He had changed, and changed radically. Early December, 1974, we heard the news that Bobby had shot and killed his father, his mother and his sister, Ann, then himself, with a 12 gauge shotgun in the middle of the night in their Golden Valley home. A neighbor discovered their bodies four days after when North Memorial Hospital called her to check on his father, because he had not showed up for his on call assignment. He was a doctor.
Bobby’s case was written up in a feature article in the Minneapolis Star Tribune. He had suffered some sort of mental breakdown prior to this and had been in treatment. He left the treatment and had been alienated from his family. They reached out to him. He was home for dinner that night to discuss re-entering treatment as an inpatient. After they had all gone to bed, Bobby got his hunting gun and shot his parents and his younger sister while they lay in their beds. Then he shot himself.
The four of them had a joint memorial service at Valley of Peace Lutheran Church. Their were four, beautiful Christmas wreaths on stands in the front of the packed church. Pastor Stine gave this horrible message. He said, “Heaven is God’s gift to us at Christmastime. Bobby gave his family their Christmas gift early.”
I got up, then and there, and walked out of that church! What an ass! This was the same ignorant pastor who had kicked me out of confirmation class one month shy of completion for asking too many questions about heaven and hell, and how one gets to heaven, after my best friend, Steve Rainoff had died by falling through a skylight, chasing a soccer ball, in a locked school in New Jersey.
In the spring of 1975, the Mpls. paper had a feature article on Angel Dust. The authorities had just seen a rise in its use. The symptoms of its use and long-term effects sounded just like Bobby. I have always wondered if he could have been exposed to that, and that is what changed his personality so never know.
I painted his portrait in monochromatic phthalocyanine blue, from a happier time in his life. Bobby was a beautiful boy. He had all the advantages. This could have been me.
Painting is acrylic on 11″ x 14″ stretched canvas.
Price: $100 plus postage
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I decided to paint this moment in my sister Sue Ann’s life in the same style I originally captured it on film with my Instamatic camera just over 45 years ago. The painting is square, slightly out of focus, with a yellowed border as if it sat in a drawer all those years like the actual snapshot.
Sue Ann was copy editor for our high school yearbook, the Robin, for 1971, her senior year. I was the only sophomore on the annual staff. That was a violation of longstanding tradition. They were shorthanded for the Academics Section due to illness. I had submitted a number of poems for the book that demonstrated my talent. I started writing secretly, submitting articles through Sue Ann. A couple of months in, I was publicly accepted, when we had to start doing all-nighters to meet deadlines. Sue Ann was a tough editor. Articles had to be brief, yet packed with stories that would be understandable decades later. She and Janice Eisenhart, editor-in-chief, and Helen Olsen, our adviser, wanted a book that was to be a true time capsule; a reference students and others would be able to read years and decades later and get an accurate picture of the year at RHS. We all worked extremely hard to make that happen. This was before personal computers or word processors. We had to manually print on the layout grids each character of text, accounting for exact pica widths and justification. Then we would ship sections of the book off to the publisher at a time and wait to see how it looked. This painting is of my sister taking her first look at the finished book, the night before it was to be distributed at RHS.
The book won national awards. It received mixed reviews at school. That was OK. We expected that. It was not the usual, school spirit, jock centered, kitschy review of the year. There are no inside jokes or private messages. Forty-five years later, it reads well, and its style does not seem dated. This was a proud moment for Sue Ann, and no small accomplishment.
Sue Ann went on to Concordia College, Moorehead, MN, for a year, then continued at Augsburg in Minneapolis. She had taught me to write, and to be a ruthless self-editor. While at Augsburg, she lived at home. I ended up typing her English Lit. papers, in the wee hours of the morning. I became her editor. Her English prof. was my British Lit. teacher’s husband. They compared notes. One day, Mrs. Wood asked me if Sue Ann helped me with my papers. I told her No, but that I edited hers. However, Sue Ann had taught me how to write, so our styles were indistinguishable. She shared this with Prof. Wood, and reported back that they had a good chuckle over their Chardonnay.
This is in my suicide series of paintings. Sue Ann had started drinking regularly, as well as using various recreational drugs, while at Concordia. Both of our parents and three of our grandparents were alcoholic. Sue Ann got married, had three kids, was a paralegal, then an accountant. She decided to try to do an intervention on our dad to get him treatment for his alcoholism. That’s when she confronted her own. She went into treatment. She and her husband joined AA. She was after everyone to join AA. At some point, in her 40s, she became addicted to gambling. She ended up squandering the family’s resources, and had just separated from her husband and moved into an apartment on her own when she took her own life with a drug cocktail. She was about to be confronted by her boss for embezzling money from his companies. It was November 29, 2000. She was 47.
She had been a great mom. The great irony here is that she and I were the main, informal suicide hotline counselors when we were in junior and senior high.
We knew Lynn nearly our whole time growing up, at least the part in school. She was in my sister, Sue Ann’s, class, so she was two years older than me. We were in Girl Scouts together, the musical, swim team, Student Service Organization in junior high, Annual Staff in senior high. She was one of the gang.
Lynn kept you on your toes. She always had a snappy answer. I have yet to meet another person as quick-witted or funny as she. She was smart. She developed early, so she was bigger and taller than all the girls and most of the boys all through junior high and most of senior high. This gave her body image issues. She so desperately wanted to be liked. Nothing worked out. She had academic success, but couldn’t find a man who could embrace her amazing intellect, her quick wit, while at the same time simply love her “like a boy loves a girl” as the song says.
We got word that Lynn had killed herself when we were in Minnesota visiting family in 1989. Lynn would have been about 36.
Painting is 11″x 14″ acrylic on stretched canvas.
Price: $120 plus postage
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Scott was a good friend of mine in junior high. He was on the ski jump team. At Theodore Wirth Park, there was a huge, wooden ski jump. Next to it, was a smaller jump built into the hill. Scott would be there, training with his jumping skis. I would be skiing on the downhill slopes on the park board slopes on the Saturdays I couldn’t get away to Wisconsin, or after school. One Saturday, Scott found me and let me use his jumping skis on the smaller jump. What a thrill! He tried to coax me to go off the big, wooden jump. I knew I didn’t dare. The likelihood would be I would jump off the wrong side of it. Another Saturday morning, Scott finished with his jumping practice. He had forgotten to bring his downhill skis and didn’t have a ride home until later. He found me and persuaded me to share my skis. He let me use both my poles. He just used a single downhill ski. He taught me how to ski downhill on one ski! That was a useful skill. The rope tows were a little tricky. I would end up slowly wilting to one side and pull all of the other passengers on the line with me, down into the snow.
Scott was a beautiful boy, and charming. He had a fort he had built behind his house. In the summer after 8th grade, guys and girls would hang out at his house. Couples would use his fort to make love. I was not aware of this until my girlfriend told me it was “our turn”. I declined. I was caught completely off guard. That ended my relationship with that redhead. That was OK. I am so glad I waited until marriage.
During junior high and into high school, Scott was one of those who called me on a few occasions contemplating suicide. My sister, Sue Ann, and I, it seems, were known as the suicide counselors for our junior high. How that came to be is anybody’s guess. All I know is that Scott and I spent time talking, listening, crying, laughing, renewing a reason to live.
We went to different high schools. The night in 1972 in our junior year when Scott took his life, he did not call me. It still hurts.
Painting is 12″x12″ acrylic on stretched canvas.
Price: $100 plus Postage
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I am the youngest of four siblings, yet my memories have always gone back further than my sisters and brother. This is a painting of the house where I lived for my first six years (June 1955 – June 1961). It still stands. The outside finishes and windows have been updated, but it is still the same tiny Dutch Colonial. It is almost totally obscured by trees on Google Earth. When we lived there, those Google Earth shots would have been impossible! The place was literally crawling with children! (also skipping, jumping, climbing, hiding & seeking, chalk drawing, running,etc.) 1955 was the crest of the Baby Boom after all. Crystal Lake was across the street. That is where the Ericsons, Hostermans and DeLays lived.
Our house was at 4438 Shoreline Drive, Robbinsdale, 22, Minnesota. Postage stamps were 4 cents. Flags had 48 stars. Everybody liked Ike. Our phone number started with KEllogg 7. I knew all this when I was three. My earliest and most powerful memory was being held in the arms of my godfather, Gordon, when I was not yet two years old, in the dining room of that house. He was looking out the door to the screened-in porch. I remember the feel of his laugh, and that it was one of the few times I felt truly happy and safe in that house.
Not long after that party, Gordy took his own life. It wasn’t clear, at first, that he intended to. There was no note. Gordy had the form of acrophobia that would cause him to have a strong urge to jump from open heights. I have it, too. It is actually an idea, seemingly hardwired in the brain, that the scariness of being on the precipice would be relieved, if one would only throw oneself on the wind and fly. Gordy flew. His wings burned up like Icarus’ in the Sun. I simply never saw Uncle Gordy again; never smelled that smell; never saw that smile; never felt that embrace; never felt that laugh again. (Further investigation revealed that he apparently did mean to exit that day.)
That’s me, in the red jumper, asleep in Gordy’s arms. My therapist asked me, when I showed her this painting, “So safety must be a big concern for you. What do you do to make sure you are safe?”
I asked her if that was a trick question.
Christmas Eve, 1971, my neighbor across the street and childhood playmate, David Ericson, was dead in a plane crash in Peru. That wasn’t the start of the deaths. The suicides started from 8th grade on: Dean and Stephen and Mark and Scott and Bobby and Lynn and Sue Ann and Fred and the list and the tears don’t stop . . .
Painting is 11″x14″ acrylic on stretched canvas.
Price: $100 plus postage
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It’s here, folks! A book with these beautiful paintings and stories, plus a bit more bound in an 8″x10″ softcover that you can hold and share with friends.
This little book is an invitation to YOU to step into a new comfort zone with your sisters and brothers in this world. We are all frightened children trying to find the silk edge of the blanket at times. Let us be kind.
Click the cover to view and read a sample and purchase a copy.
Hopefully this is the first of several books of art and stories. Order today to share the joy and beauty in quiet moments.
Fred’s presence was always a little more than one could contain. One never knew quite what to expect, except that he would be high energy, assertive, and want to be involved.
Fred Benjamin lived on the streets for over twenty years. He landed there after his dad died and the pre-paid rent on the loft he had shared with him ran out. That was the story as I heard it from Fred. I learned at his funeral, it wasn’t as simple as that. There was a brief marriage and a son left behind along the way. Fred was proud of his son, when he finally did mention him. He is a career military man, stationed overseas. I met him at Fred’s funeral. Man, was he pissed! He let his dad have it in the most honest eulogy of the day, speaking from a broken heart, like only true love can.
Fred volunteered with The King’s Jubilee regularly. He liked to take charge, a little bit too much at times. He had a different perspective. After 20 years living in a box, a social worker approached him to help him move off the street. Part of the process was a psych eval. Fred asked her, “What? Do you think I’m crazy?” She replied, “You have been living in a box for 20 years. Do you think that’s normal?” Fred conceded, “OK. Point made.”
He was able to move off the street into an apartment. Fred had a temper and could be ornery, but he was loyal and with his charm and smile, one could not stay angry at him for very long if he got out of hand. He kept fights away from volunteers more than once or twice.
Fred and I led three tours of how the homeless live in center city Philadelphia, in 2010. This painting is based on a vidcap of Fred explaining how he lived in his box under the bridge by the police station. It takes a special set of skills and knowledge to live homeless. These people are not just bums. They are survivors!
After four years in his first apartment, they moved him to a different apartment. He had adopted a cat. His blood sugar had gotten very erratic and he had some episodes where it went dangerously high. The Wednesday before Fred died, I spoke with him on the phone to get together with him to go over nutrition and supplements to more naturally, better control his blood sugar. We were to get together the following Monday. His mother could not reach him on Saturday morning. She went to his apartment and had police and fire break in, when Fred did not respond. They determined time of death to be 7:08 am, July 18, 2015.
There was a meal after Fred’s funeral. Fred’s mom did not invite any of his homeless friends to attend. I asked her why not. She said she didn’t want her lady friends to be worrying about their purses. I said, “Do you realize Fred lived in a box for 20 years?”
I did not attend. I waited outside for my ride.
The painting is acrylic on 14″ x 11″ stretched canvas.
Price: $100 plus postage.
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To say that Angie was not a pleasant person, is the kindest euphemism I can muster. Let me just say, when her body was found dead of murder, no one was surprised, and there was a long list of people with possible motive. Yet we considered it a joy to serve her a hot nutritious meal in the park, rain or shine, once a week for about fifteen years. I think she died around 2007.
Angie loved to tease people. That is an understatement; it was more that she liked to torment people. She wanted to tease and provoke until blood was boiling. She positively delighted in making other people angry. She was proud of being a Native American “squaw”. She was always bundled up and totally covered, even when the weather didn’t call for it. She always had some scam going. She would give one of the volunteers some tea or some special lip balm. The next week they were informed they owed her $10 or more; and, by the way, she had the rest of their order now. She didn’t care whether she was picking on children or adults. She could be relentless.
Once I brought venison stew down to the Love Park from a roadkill deer that Alex Smerkanich had picked up while it was still twitching alongside of the 309. A coworker and I butchered it after work. I just left the ribs long. I roasted them and served them as an added bonus to those who wanted them. Many of the people were puzzled as to what kind of animal these bones came from. I let them know it was deer. They asked where it came from. I told them. Angie was off to the races! And she didn’t stop until she died. She was constantly after me about sweeping pigeons off the pavement, running down squirrels, etc., to put roadkill in the soup. It frustrated her that I never got angry with her over this.
One night, the entire McGraw family, all eleven of them, came down in their short bus to help serve. They even brought along their three-legged Great Dane. After we were done serving, they got the dog out for a little social time and walk in the park. Angie saw this dog and exclaimed, “What happened to that poor dog’s leg?!” Sweet little Elisa McGraw, who had never uttered a word down there before, immediately replied, “We put it in the soup!” We were all surprised. It sure shut up Angie.
I have painted a terrible picture of Angie, but I recall tender moments, as well, and times when she apologized with tears and said thank you. It is hard to imagine what torments she must have suffered to have built such terrible defenses for her psyche. We all start life with great potential and aspiration. No one looks at a little baby and envisions a bitter, contentious, homeless lady leaving conflict in her wake. Who and what did this to her? Why did it happen to her and not to me? When we start to ask these questions, we are starting down the path of understanding what Paul of Tarsus was saying when he said we should each look at ourselves as the worst sinner ever. (1 Tim. 15) This puts Jesus words, “Judge not”, to the test. People do what they feel they need to do to cope. We rationalize our own behavior. At the time, in the moment, our behavior, no matter how bizarre or hurtful, always seems rational. And we’ve done some pretty stupid, bizarre and hurtful stuff in our lives, no? Everyone you see is fighting a great battle. They haven’t had the same advantages, perspectives and privileges as we have.
As ornery as Angie was, we still looked forward to seeing her as part of the mix on the nights we would serve. I still remember her gruff laugh. I didn’t mind being the butt of her jokes. I could play along, if it kept her from picking on someone else. I just wasn’t raised to throw people away. And people she was!
Let us be kind.
The painting is acrylic on 11″x14″ canvas with painted sides.
Price: $80 plus Postage.
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I met Robert when he was an inmate in the Philadelphia House of Correction and I was Mennonite Chaplain. He was then transferred to the Phila. Industrial Correctional Center when it opened in 1986. He attended my Bible studies there. He asked me to bring some groceries, a Bible and a few other items to Joyce where she was living, Richard Allen Homes.
When the other inmates heard I was going there, they urged me not to go. They assured me it was far too dangerous for one such as me.
I went. I was shocked to find such deplorable conditions. Joyce was living on the couch in a tiny, bug & vermin infested apartment with an older woman who was dying of leukemia. Joyce was there illegally, but she exchanged care for the woman in lieu of rent of couch space. There was a waiting list to get into RAH. The entry hall had been firebombed and never cleaned up.
I dropped off the groceries. We had a short visit. As I was leaving, I saw that several cars in the parking lot had their windows smashed. Another car with its windows smashed out pulled in just then. The next thing I see is a group of tough guys sizing me up. I was wearing jeans and a T-shirt; nothing to indicate that I was a minister of any kind. This was the kind of trouble the men at PICC had been worried about. Then, all at once, they all focused just above my head. Then I heard one of them mutter to the others, “Don’t mess with him. He’s a missionary man.” The tallest of them then said, “Have a nice day.” I replied with the same and proceeded to my car, hoping to find it with windows intact. They were.
After Robert got out of jail, we had Joyce and him to our house for dinner. There were more grocery runs. Then word came that Joyce had died from AIDS and then word from the street a month later that Robert passed, as well. We knew them less than a year, but they left a mark on our hearts.
They were the first people we knew to die of AIDS. This was several years before World AIDS Day in 1991 and the red ribbon AIDS awareness campaign. I put a little anachronous AIDS ribbon earring in Joyce’s ear in the painting. Once again, these are not accurate likenesses, since we have no photographs, and it has been nearly 30 years. They are likenesses painted out of loving memory.
The painting is acrylic on 11″x14″ canvas with painted edges.
Dorothy Williams was one of our adopted grandmas. She had no family left when we met her. She lived two blocks from us in East Greenville, PA. She lived in a small, second floor Section 8 apartment that was part of the Baumans’ half-twin on Main Street. Her only income was from Social Security. She grew up in Philly. Every grocery store was an Acme to her, pronounced in three syllables. We got to know her when neither of us had cars and Pastor Dave Benner would come, in his big Suburban, and pick up the six of us and Dot to bring us to Finland Mennonite Church. After we got a car, we continued to pick up Dot. We would have her over for dinner. She doted on our girls and taught them important life lessons that we quote to this day, such as: “Tables are for glasses not for asses!” Just the kind of lesson you want your four-year-old repeating at Sunday School! She especially loved the littlest ones. “Ba-aby!” was also a three syllable word, as she reached out her arms to receive any little one near her.
We also ran other errands with Dot. Whenever Dot got a bit of money in her purse, she couldn’t resist treating us to dinner at her favorite Chinese restaurant, over in Quakertown, or the “Pound o’ Roses”. (Ponderosa Steak House) We would try to pay or, at least, handle the tip. She would have none of it. We were all poor. We learned not to argue. She made it clear that this was one of the few things in her life that gave her joy and we were not to take it from her! She was in her glory in the New Far East Restaurant! It was such a shame when it burned and closed. We didn’t tell her. By that time, she was too ill to handle the food. She would still press cash, that she couldn’t afford, into my hand for me to take the family out for dinner on her.
She came with us to Bethann’s folks house for Christmas and Easter and all the birthdays. She was part of the family. I mean, that’s what one does. People are not made to be alone. I grew up with so many Aunts and Uncles. I didn’t find out until I was in high school that we weren’t related to but a quarter of them! Their families had either rejected them or died, so they became part of our ragtag clan. Our lives have been so much the richer for this!
This painting is Dot snoozing after Christmas dinner in 1985.
It was not long after this that she got so ill that she could no longer take care of herself. She minimized her illness to us. She moved into the Montgomery County Geriatric & Rehabilitation Center formerly known as the Poorhouse. We visited her with our four little girls. She was obviously very ill. We had to wait for a bit to see her once, so we visited other patients. Some of them had not had any visits in weeks! They had been warehoused and forgotten. Our youngest, Hilary, would climb up into laps. Immediately, there were smiles and tears. No words. These patients couldn’t speak. The next time we came to visit we planned extra time to visit “Dot’s new neighbors”. The nurses thanked us so much. That was the last time we saw Dot. She died of some form of cancer.
She was a little rough around the edges, with a heart of gold!
If it weren’t for Dave & Priscilla Benner going the second mile, Dot would have been one of those forgotten, warehoused cast-off souls, and we would have missed out on being blessed by another Grandma. I have learned, one can never have too many Grandmas!
Painting is acrylic on 14″x11″ canvas.
Price: $100 plus postage
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I met Brad on a late spring evening, I think it was 1990, when we were serving homeless people food with The King’s Jubilee. He was under 25, white, of slight build, literate. He had just found himself homeless. His mom had moved in with her boyfriend and there was no room for him. His dad had disappeared several years before. Brad was afraid of what might happen to him on the streets. Nothing in his life had prepared him for this. He felt completely vulnerable.
The next week, Brad came to eat with us again. This time, he was all disheveled and he was talking to himself and arguing with himself the whole time he was in the line. I was able to speak with him privately after everyone had eaten and the crowd had dispersed. He told me that a couple of the old hands on the street told him that the number one rule of the street is that you never mess with a crazy person. So he decided to start acting crazy as a defense, so nobody would mess with him. He learned to survive and cope on the street. I tried to direct him to programs that might help him get off the street, but space was very limited, and he didn’t fit into any of the usual categories.
After a few months, Brad stopped coming by to eat with us. A few more months passed and he showed up again. He was acting like a full-blown, psychotic, paranoid schizophrenic or someone on a very bad trip. The problem was he wasn’t acting anymore. He had fully inhabited the role he had chosen and had forcibly driven himself crazy; like method acting gone terribly wrong. Almost twenty years later I would still see him from time to time. Some nights he would be better than others. Instead of the frightened young man, he had become a quite aggressive 40 something man and was quite direct in asking for or demanding what he wants. It reminds me of a program I heard on the radio about bullies where a psychologist described aggression as preemptive fear.
The irony with Brad was that his crazy behavior was not irrational. On one level, it had served him well. He was still alive after spending almost 20 years on the street, because no one messes with a crazy person; but at what a horrific cost.
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We only knew Nancy for the last two years of her life. and she passed away almost 23 years ago now, on September 4, 1993, but she was a force of nature. I will be the first to admit that this painting is a poor likeness to photographs of Nancy. She looks healthier here than ever I saw her, with brighter eyes. This is more the way I remember her in my mind’s eye rather than what the camera saved. She had been so beat up by circumstances, by poverty, by drugs, and quite literally by people in her life, that the camera wasn’t always kind. But in real life, that is not who we knew or what we saw.
She had been married and had two sons. They divorced. She got involved in a lesbian relationship. Her lover ended up abusing her to the point of fracturing her skull, which gave her problems the rest of her life. I don’t know what else they got involved in. Her lover abused the children, as well. I do know, she knew the seamier side of Pottstown very well. Nancy joined us serving the homeless in center city Philadelphia. After several weeks, she implored me to start a similar ministry in Pottstown, where she had lived most of her life. I said I would be happy to, if there was a need and we could raise the resources and manpower to do so. I told her it might not look exactly like what we did in Phila. She and I spent two weeks, day and night, interviewing all the social service agencies and churches; talking to hookers, addicts, homeless, business owners, teenagers hanging out, cops, to find out what was and what was not happening to serve the poor in the city; and what else should be happening.
We found that the only day of the week when no food was served was Wednesday. There were three populations in two neighborhoods that needed food help: children, homeless adults, and homeless teens in central Pottstown and Stowe. I was actually doing more of the interviewing of the church people. Nancy was busy raising up a team and a van, etc., because it was the same night we served in Philadelphia, we had to double our team to make it happen. We determined to go forward as long as Nancy was willing to lead the Pottstown team. She humbly accepted. She was the best person for the job. She could not drive. She lived on SSI and Food Stamps in public housing. She knew the lay of the land and she had a heart for the people.
Within a month of her asking, we were able to start serving on two sites. She added a drop off spot for boxed meals for homeless teens who wanted to stay faceless, later that year. Nancy would call me on Thursday morning all nervous that she was out of peanut butter. I would ask her what day it was. She would tell me it was Thursday. I would remind her that she didn’t need to make PB&Js for another 6 days, so not to worry. She gradually learned to wait longer before she would call me, if she was out of something, until she learned to trust that things would be supplied when they were needed by the community of faith. Then one Thursday morning, I received a call from Nancy. She told me how she had used the last of her peanut butter for the sandwiches for the children the night before. She was worried about it, so she asked the team to pray for more peanut butter, before they went out to serve. When she got home to her apartment, she could not enter until she cleared the 3′ x 4′ front step of all the containers of peanut butter that had been left there for her! She said, “Oh me of little faith!” We have no idea where it all came from. We just refer to that as “The Minor Peanut Butter Miracle.”
About a week after Nancy and the team celebrated completing a year of service, Nancy Karpinski died of an apparent heart attack on Sept. 4, 1993. She was just 50 years old. Her legacy lives on. Her right hand man for that year, Kork Moyer, now leads an outreach and shelter ministry in Pottstown. I don’t think that would have happened were it not for the importunity of this unlikely organizer.
It is good to see her smiling face and kind eyes again.
Painting is 11″x14″ acrylic on stretched canvas, with painted sides so no expensive framing is required.
St. Marie of Paris said, “Each person is the very icon of God incarnate in the world. The way to God lies through the love of people.” So Gary Heidnik was an “icon of God”. Hmmm? Most religious people like to sort their saints and sinners much more discreetly than that. I guess that’s why almost all the religious people hated Jesus. He accepted everyone, no exceptions.
I had an encounter with Gary Heidnik. It must have been in 1988. I was Mennonite Chaplain for Philadelphia Prisons. I was waiting for an inmate to be released from the City Hall Court, so I could take him to visit his mom, then up to the aftercare program that I oversaw in the suburbs. My back was turned, but I felt a darkness of evil. I turned around to see Gary Heidnik, the serial killer, shuffling in shackles, being escorted by two guards from the courtroom into the caged holding area. The hair on my neck stood on end. And all I thought was, “God is gracious. He is still giving him breath. What is there possibly left that God loves and hopes to redeem? Yet here he was, the living, breathing evidence that God ‘is not willing that any should perish, but that all should come to repentance.’” I learned then, that even Gary Heidnik ‘was the very icon of God in the world.’
Now, I am no longer a believer in God per se, because I have seen and experienced too much evil done by people claiming to act in his name. I do, however, believe in the sanctity and dignity of life. People are not inherently evil. Every one of us was conceived and born with hope and potential to somehow add something wonderful, beautiful and unique to the human experience! So many of us get beat down by poverty, malnutrition, war, prejudice, or, in Gary’s case, severely mentally ill parents. We get broken.
Gary’s dad was a cruel man and Gary was a bed wetter. (chicken and egg?) Gary’s dad would force him to hang his wet sheets out the window for all in the neighborhood to see. He was good at academics. He was quiet and never made eye contact with fellow students; always looking down. He tested near genius on his IQ. He dropped out of the military academy he went to for high school and joined the Army at age 17. In the Army, he trained as a medic and earned his GED. He was stationed at 46th Army Surgical Hospital in Landstuhl, West Germany. In August 1962, Heidnik reported in sick, complaining of severe headaches, dizziness, blurred vision, and nausea. He was diagnosed with gastroenteritis, and it was noted that he also displayed symptoms of mental illness, for which he was prescribed trifluoperazine. In October 1962, he was transferred to a military hospital in Philadelphia, where he was diagnosed with schizoid personality disorder and honorably discharged.
He enrolled in a nursing program at U. Penn., only to drop out after one semester. He worked as a psychiatric nurse at a VA hospital, but was fired for poor attendance and rude behavior. From August 1962 until his arrest in March 1987, Heidnik spent time in and out of psychiatric hospitals, and attempted suicide at least 13 times. In 1970, his alcoholic mother Ellen, committed suicide. His brother Terry also spent time in psychiatric institutions and attempted suicide multiple times. Gary was a brilliant investor. He started with $1500 and turned it into over $1million. When he was arrested, they found his dilapidated rowhouse wallpapered with bearer-bonds. While in state prison, he helped turn several correctional officers into millionaires with the advice he gave them, as well.
Gary’s criminal record is well-known. He murdered two women and raped six. He dismembered and froze a couple of their bodies in order to hide them. While on death row, he attempted suicide again by saving up his Thorazine and taking an overdose. The State of Pennsylvania spent multiple tens of thousands of dollars to nurse him back to health, then tested him to make sure he was competent enough to be executed, then murdered him by lethal injection on July 6, 1999. As of this writing in 2016, he is the last person to be officially executed by the state in PA.
When it came time for his execution, two of his victims, including his former wife, filed for a stay. The state ruled that they had no standing. I find it telling, that they still could see something in Gary that was worthy of their love, “an icon of God incarnate in the world.” After all: God love is.
Painting is 11″x14″ acrylic on canvas. Price: $100 plus postage
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I never learned Pops’ name. Everyone just called him Pops. He was happier than any man had a right to be who was living homeless in the parks or under the bridges. I wondered if he was simple-minded, truly spiritually disciplined, or was just born happy. Scientists tell us that people’s happiness centers in their brains develop differently in the womb. At any rate, he took the lessons his mama taught him seriously! If he couldn’t say something nice, he wouldn’t say anything at all. He wasn’t homeless for being lazy. He was always busy. He had a big shopping cart. He used it to collect recyclables to turn in for cash.
He would go around to the renovation and demolition sites and ask for any of the metal they would part with. Many times the union men would have him go in and do some of the particularly dirty work, up in the vents, etc., in exchange for some of the metal and all the wire. They usually didn’t get much, if anything for the wire, unless it was stripped. Pops would recycle all the aluminum, steel, copper and tin. He would keep the wire. He also snagged cords from the blinds on these jobs. Pops would then painstakingly strip the used, copper, electrical wire. He would then wind it into crosses. He used the salvaged cord from the blinds to tie necklaces for them. He always wore one and had several more on his person. He was in the habit of giving these cross necklaces away. He would say, “Just trust Jesus” or “Jesus loves you” and offer you a cross. If you told him he had already given you one, no matter, please accept another.
Over the years, Pops offered me four crosses. I passed three of them onto others. Pops eventually did succumb to the dementia that comes with Alzheimer’s. He spent his last year or so living on the street in a large crate with a loving community of four other men living in adjacent shipping crates under a parking ramp bridge. These men looked after him with sensitivity and love rarely seen in nursing homes with all the amenities. They knew just how to deal with him when he was present and when he ‘went off’. It was tragic, yet also beautiful, to witness. Pops was reaping loving care in the roughest of circumstances from the most unlikely caregivers after sowing a lifetime of simple love and cheer.
I have to say, though, to witness this in the USA in 2002, and to have no way to intervene to get him to a properly heated space with proper treatment, because we as a people lack the compassion to muster the political will to provide universal, easy to access healthcare as a basic human right, was heartbreaking.
Cross Pops made for me
When I was chrismated in 1999 in the Orthodox Church, my godfather, Alex Smerkanich, gave me a very nice, shiny, real gold cross, on a gold chain. I lost it, one dark, winter night, while serving the homeless at 18th and Vine. So I had Pops cross blessed on the holy table at St. Philip’s and I started wearing that instead; in memory of Pops and for all my homeless brothers and sisters. When I started to tear out the wiring to rewire our house, I saved the old wire. I strip it and I make crosses like Pops did and give them away, for people to remember Pops and his simplicity; to remember all my homeless brothers and sisters; to work to end homelessness; to work for universal healthcare. It’s pro-life!
I painted Pops from memory. I made him younger than I ever saw him to reflect his childlike faith and unsinkable optimism. Yet I included his white hair and long white beard to reflect what a gift of wisdom this was. I made a small cross out of salvaged doorbell wire and fastened it to the canvas on the necklace.
Painting is 11″x14″ acrylic on stretched canvas. Price: $100 plus postage
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The other day a friend dropped by and saw my paintings and heard their stories for the first time. He asked me when I was going to paint a portrait of Myron Starinshak. He said Myron was one of the most annoying people he knew, but on Holy Saturday, to not hear his voice singing the litany in front of the tomb, brought tears to his eyes. This is the 4th Great (Holy) Week since Myron’s passing.
I used to stand next to Myron in the choir. He used to ride shotgun with me, faithfully, to serve the homeless in Philadelphia. He also accompanied me on three trips to Pittsburgh to icon festivals to help man the table when I had “Come and See” Icons, Books & Art. I know more about Myron than I should possibly write.
He lived in a rooming house in Lansdale, PA, and managed it for the owner for several years. When the owner wanted to sell it, it took four large dumpster loads to clear out most of the stuff Myron had squirreled away in every possible nook and cranny of that place to make it presentable to buyers. Myron wanted me to find homes for two, large, plaster, baroque gilded framed prints that had been in the narthex of of his Carpatho-Russian Orthodox Church as a child. The prints were not icons. They were sentimental, western guardian angel paintings. The frames were huge and gaudy. I had no place to store them. He just could not bear to see them go into the landfill. I agreed to find a home for them. I knew just the people who would like them. I gave them to a couple of good Haitian friends who dearly love each other and they have their pictures framed in these and hanging in their living room.
A couple of years later, Myron asked where those pictures were. I told him I gave them away. He was livid. He said, “Those pictures were in my family for over forty years!” I asked him, “Where were they displayed?” He said, “They were never displayed. They were too big. They were in my mother’s attic until she passed. then I took them.” I said, “They have not been in your family for 40 years! Your family has been hiding them for 40 years! Finally someone is getting some use out of them and enjoying them.” He simmered down.
Myron had a knack for saying the most inappropriate things. He didn’t have a filter. He had strong convictions, but they weren’t always educated with sound teaching. At the same time, he had compassion and humility and service that just would not quit! He did 100 little jobs around the church that no one but he and Fr. Boniface knew all of, to make the place cleaner and run a little more smoothly.
Myron and I had some great road trips. We had some great times serving on the street. Alex the Albanian asked when Myron stopped coming, “Where is that little man? Why is he not here?” When he died, he said, “I will pray for Myron.”
Painting is acrylic on 11″x14″ canvas.
Price: $100 plus Postage
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Kenneth Cobbs challenged me and instructed me like few other persons in my life in such a brief time. I can count on one hand the people who have had this kind of impact in this short a time, and they all seem to totally, irretrievably disappear. At least Kenny left me with a couple of books of his poetry, including one poem about me. It is not particularly complimentary toward me. I was alarmed when I read it. Kenny and I discussed it. He stuck to his guns and defended it. This was how he felt. It cut me to the quick. I was grateful for the critique and thanked him for his honesty. I asked his forgiveness, for that was not how I wanted to come off or how I intended our ministry to be perceived. At the time, I published it in The King’s Jubilee newsletter as a confessional, with an appeal to help, please, let’s all do better.
Kenny had given me two booklets of his poetry that he had typed up. He managed to photocopy several copies and staple and fold them. He would sell them for $5 each to raise a little cash. I made some copies for him. I told him I would retype and reset the booklets in nicer fonts, with full color covers. I did this. He never showed up to retrieve them or the money for the copies that I sold for him. I never saw him again. I contacted the nuns who he said he was visiting that week. they had not heard from him. I left my phone number. I have searched for him every couple of years, since, to no avail. That was in 1998. I keep hoping that he chose to disappear and become a Buddhist monk somewhere. He was an intense person, wise beyond his years, yet I fear the world was too rough for him. He had been part of the MOVE family and had not recovered from the terrorism inflicted by the city, and the lies and machinations to frame Mumia Abu Jamal for killing a cop; after Mumia dared to report sympathetically about MOVE.
Kenny took me down a peg. I was glad for it. He did it with honesty, in the spirit of true brotherhood and love. I have gone back again and again to our conversations and his critiques to see how I measure up “according to the Kenny scale.” If he knew, he would laugh so loud!
I painted this from emotional memory. My counselor and I talked about this painting. This is the first time I have obscured a part of a face. I think this is because both of us were blocked in some major ways. He was dealing with PTSD from Mayor Goode’s bombing of West Phila. I was a recovering fundamentalist; had been abused by clergy, yet still playing the clergy game. Kenny’s right eyebrow is raised. This was done subconsciously on my part, but it makes perfect sense. Whenever I think of Kenny, I think of our conversations and his piercing, unflinching criticism. It is rare that I can find someone who can give as good as he gets. “Faithful are the wounds of a friend, but the kisses of an enemy are deceitful.” (Prov. 27:6) I measure my progress on stepping down from my “god complex” and getting over being a “white knight” on the “Kenny Scale”. This is the raised eyebrow and slightly more open right eye. The background color of orange and shirt as bright red were chosen because of the MOVE fire on Mother’s Day, 1985. My missing front tooth is from that night, as well. But that’s another story.
Acrylic painting on 11″x14″ stretched canvas.
Price: $130 plus Postage
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This is a portrait of Alex Bejleri or “Alex the Albanian”, my dear friend. We have known him since I started to serve on the streets of Philadelphia in 1988. He appeared to be crazy. With what I later learned of what he had been through, he had every reason to be. Most of the other street people would have nothing to do with him. They tagged him with the moniker “Russian” by which he is still known to this day. He seemed to have a hollow leg, as they say. He would sometimes eat 8 cups of soup, then ask for leftovers. He always loved our food. He would keep track of our volunteers; who kept coming; who dropped out; and asked why.
We helped him learn English so he could get his citizenship. He walked over 5 miles in the snow to visit me in the hospital when I was ill. He would call me when I couldn’t make it to the street; even after he no longer needed our service, but he loved my soup. He prays for me and for my family daily. He still believes what they told him on Radio Free Europe, even though he has spent most of the last 28 years in Philadelphia, living on the street. I guess, if you go to jail for something, then escape, give up your homeland, your family ties, move half a world away; it’s hard to come to terms with the idea that the reality that it was based on was an illusion. You see. He was a ‘political prisoner’ in Albania for listening to American propaganda radio broadcasts. I had to find him a shortwave radio so he could try to tune them in here. I kept trying to explain that America lied to him and they were not allowed to do that here. It was too much for him. Of course, now, they have changed the law. The CIA is now allowed to lie to us “legally” by broadcasting propaganda within the US. I guess Alex should try firing up the shortwave again. Of course, now he doesn’t need to. He can just turn on NBC or CNN, etc.
My health has taken a turn for the worse and I am sidelined until I can get an aortic valve replacement in June. Alex took the train and bus up to ‘get his mail’ the other day. (They failed to forward several pieces of his mail. He used our address so he could open a checking account, etc.) I showed him this painting and my self-portrait. He did not seem too impressed. He looks better now than in this painting; sophisticated, business-like. I look more like he did. He confirmed that my health is bad and he committed to praying for my heart every day in the Basilica of SS. Peter & Paul in center city Phila. I thanked him. He went to dart out the door. I stopped him to give him a hug. He said what he always says when he calls me on the phone, even when he leaves a message, “I love you my brother!” And I love Alex.
My life is so much richer for knowing him.
Painting is acrylic on 11″x14″ canvas.
Price: $120 plus postage
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I shared Oscar’s story more than 20 years ago in a TKJ newsletter shortly after he had died. Oscar was in his early 50s. It was 1992. I was 37. We were serving on the sidewalk on the City Hall side of JFK Plaza at that time, more commonly called the Love Park because of the world-famous LOVE art in front of the fountain there. We would see Oscar on occasion. Every time he came, he made it a point to seek me out afterward to say how thankful he was for what we did. He would say how special that I am for doing this. I always deflected by saying something like, “I’m just doing what Jesus compels me to do. I wouldn’t be happy if I didn’t do it. It is Jesus who loves you.” He would reply, “I don’t believe in any of that god stuff. I just know that you are really special and I am truly grateful. Thank you!”
At times, we would talk about history or philosophy or the arts. He was well-educated. He had had a good paying job at one point. I don’t know if I ever learned how he ended up on the street. He had used cocaine and had suffered a couple of heart attacks as a result. He is among the most civilized people I have ever known, with a twinkle in the eye and a Bohemian side.
Hurricane Andrew hit Homestead, FL, in August of 1992. Church groups were sending clothing and supplies down to the more than 100,000 families whose homes had been destroyed. Word got out that people were having a hard time surviving because it was a slow process to get any cash to buy necessities. So people started tucking cash into the pockets of clothing to short-circuit that process, and get money into people’s hands quickly. Several bags of men’s clothing did not fit onto a truck bound for Homestead, so they got re-directed to The King’s Jubilee. They told me about the potential money in the pockets. Between working full-time, leading a Bible study at Graterford prison that afternoon while Bethann made the soup, coordinating with the Pottstown and South Carolina serving sites, somehow searching pockets got missed.
When we gave away the clothing that night, it was a free for all, like always. There was one garment no one seemed to want. It was a corduroy sport coat with suede elbow patches. Oscar grabbed it and put it on. It fit. It was warm. He said, “I’m not proud. It’s warm. It’s clean.” The others laughed and called him “professor”. Who knows? Perhaps, that’s what he had been. He disappeared for a couple of weeks. When he came back, he told me what happened. Later that night, he checked the pockets of the sport coat and found a $50 bill. He told me that he wished he could say he did something productive or constructive with it. Alas, he said, he had a good meal at a fancy restaurant and went on a week-long bender. He said, “I’m sorry. But it’s been a long time since I had such a good time and could forget about all of this. Thank you. Can you forgive me?”
I told him there was nothing to forgive. He found the money. It was his to do with what he wanted. If he got some relief, well, who am I to judge? (I am weeping as I type this.) His eyes welled up and he thanked me again with a hug. The next time he thanked me for serving all the guys on the street. He said, “I thank God for you, Cranford.” My eyes welled up with tears.
I don’t know if he had found faith, or if he was just being gracious and kind to please me. It was the last time I saw Oscar. He died of a heart attack at 53. I attempted to paint this from 23-year-old memories. It is a poor likeness. The beret and the neck scarf are there. The beard, long, full hair, and brown eyes are there. I tried to convey both his thoughtfulness and the mischief, with the intent stare, the tilt of the head, and the slight smile.
The painting is 20″x 16″ acrylic on stretched canvas.
Price: $100 plus postage.
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Or, in my case, for the first time. I spent most of my time as a child with adults, or at least older children. I would help my older sister with her homework. My brother took me to college when I was 13, got me drunk; and I still held my own in theological discussions with the divinity graduate students into the wee hours of the morning. I still remember the discussion nearly 50 years later! I was born old! This was not the case for Nebraska.
Even though Nebraska had had a pretty hard knock life so far, he remained childlike, cheerful, confident; just a downright happy guy and a joy to be around! We hosted Nebraska (yes, that is his real, first name) for a weekend in our home, while he was staying at Liberty House prison aftercare program in Schwenksville, PA, in 1986. I was Mennonite Chaplain and Volunteer Director with Liberty Ministries at the time and had helped reorganize the aftercare program there, after it had closed in Phila. Nebraska was one of the early residents. He was just 20, and had already been in prison. He had been raised in the foster care system. Who knows if he actually committed a crime? He was a dark skinned, black youth. He was irrepressibly cheerful. That is enough to get one locked up in any number of towns and neighborhoods in Pennsylvania.
We had a great time with Nebraska. The one memory that sticks out is our trip to Ikea. We all went to Ikea together, all seven of us: Bethann and I, our four daughters and Nebraska. Now Bethann and I were about 30. The girls were 9 and under. In the store, we got a little spread out, but we could see each other. One or another of the girls would exclaim, “Mommy, come see!” or “Daddy, come see!” when they saw something they liked. Then Nebraska exclaimed, “Mommy! Mommy! Come see!” loud enough for the whole floor to hear, and they all watched Bethann answer. We have been tickled by that scene every time we have recalled it, in the 30 years since!
We don’t know what happened to Nebraska after that weekend. I was so busy overseeing over 500 volunteers in eight different jails and prisons and starting several tutoring and other programs. We never saw him again in prison or in aftercare, or on the street, so I’m taking that as a good sign. But I don’t know.
This I do know. Nebraska was not a throwaway. He was not a ‘taker’. He was, and hopefully still is, a beautiful human being, and our brother someplace.
This painting is acrylic on an 11″x14″ stretched canvas.
Price: $90 plus shipping.
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“Other People’s Children” is a totally different approach to pro-life. It looks at adults whom the world has thrown away and sees the absolute beauty and value the world missed. The term “pro-life” has been hijacked by the anti-abortion mob, who are anything but. I celebrate my friends, true loved ones, whom the so-called “pro-life” crowd cast aside as ‘takers’ because of their disabilities, gender, color or economic standing. I am painting their portraits to go along with their stories. Some are from my weak memory. I have very few photos.
I tried to capture the essence of Rosalie, a woman I met in the Women’s Detention Facility in 1985. We became lifelong friends. She was irrepressible. She attached herself to me immediately. We were both about 30, just a month apart in age, worlds apart in backgrounds. She died of leukemia on the street in 2008, when we were about 53. This is just a poor cartoon representing her. It really looks nothing like her aside from the freckles, frizzy red hair and big smile, but does capture some of the emotional impact of her coming toward me for the first time in the House of Corrections, more than 30 years ago now.
I miss her.
The painting is 16″x12″ acrylic on canvas. It stands quite well on its own: a provocative conversation starter.
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