Framing Your Fear

Posted on by Thor

I went to the world premiere of “The Pink Ribbon Project.” Terry volunteered to help sell tickets and wine. I ordered a cup of white wine from her and then wandered to draw. A large canvas was set up in a side room where audience members were invited to consider the following question… “What am I, or what have I been afraid of.” Thick permanent markers were on the floor under the canvas. I wrote on the canvas twice, writing, “I am afraid of loosing the ones I love, and, Mortality.”

Cole Nesmith, the show’s creative consultant, devised this canvas of fears. He was one of the first to write something, scrawling out, “Judgement.” I sat in a dark corner of the room and started to sketch. People had a tough time reading the directions on the back of the program. They hunched over trying to illuminate the pink lettering on the black page using the lone spotlight. The first people were nervous and joked about their fears rather than facing them. A woman wrote “Spiders” and got a laugh from the rest of her family. Then a breast cancer survivor walked up and wrote, “I fear my cancer might return.” The idea of the interactive piece was to confront fears, expose them, so that they could be overcome.

It was a sold out house. Terry told me to go back to my truck and get my artist’s stool, I might need it. Volunteers were seated after everyone else. I tried to find two seats together but there were none. I found a seat for Terry and then was prepared to sit on the sidelines. Then I noticed one seat open in the front row. I asked the lovely lady from Eden Spa if the seat was available and it was. I couldn’t believe my luck, front row! Aradhana Tiwari the director, introduced the show and she gave a bouquet of flowers to the woman from Eden Spa. I was seated next to a VIP.

The entire cast jogged onto stage in bright pink t-shirts, moving to “Walk this Way.” They stretched and posed for photos. It was a scene typical of a breast cancer awareness walk or 5k. It was an energetic and humorous way to begin the show. Lindsay Cohen gave a monologue about her mom. When she found out her mom had breast cancer, she rushed to her. She leaped into her mother’s arms, sobbing. Ironically her mom had to comfort her. “Your father’s an ass man anyway.” Laughter turned to tears.

Marty Stonerock’s monologue hit closest to home. She was seven when she lost her mom. Having her mother die was her “brand” growing up. When introduced to a new class, she was the girl whose mother died when she was little. At pity parties it was an ace in the hole. A grainy black and white photo showed her dad along with the kids. Her mother stood in the background leaning against a chair. She was bleached out by the bright window behind her, a ghost of herself. “This is her post mastectomy.” Marty said. Why didn’t she write a letter? The type of letter that could explain everything.” Like Marty, as a child, I felt abandoned without warning. I was mad as hell.

My mom knew she was going to die when her breast cancer spread to her lymph nodes and then her liver. We hoped they would find a liver transplant that never came. She had six children and she knew Arthur, her husband, wasn’t emotionally going to be able to raise them himself. From her hospital bed, she told her lifelong friend, Joyce, to introduce him to Ruth when she died. Ruth, who went to the same church as my mom, had just lost her husband to cancer. She knew Ruth would make a good mother. Sure enough nine months after she died, Art and Ruth were married. What kind of strength and sacrifice was involved to imagine and hope that the love of her life would find a new love after she died, and to play matchmaker from her death bed? I didn’t know this about my mother growing up. I learned it many years later when I interviewed Joyce. My mothers heart held many secrets. She was, and always will be my hero.

I searched my pockets for a tissue. Finding none, I laughed and cried with abandon. The theater was dark anyway. No one could see. Behind me a woman breathed with shallow deliberateness. She must be fighting cancer. When the large canvas was wheeled in, the artist began painting away the fears, my fears. As a ten year old, I made a pact with God when he took my mother. I said, “If you guide my hand, I will use my art to celebrate and praise your great work.” I felt he owed me. Art has to be able to heal any wound. In the end, I hope I give enough. I left the theater feeling love, hope and faith. My heart overflowed. The three shows raised over $5000 for breast cancer.

The Funeral

Posted on by Thor

On the day of the funeral I had to arrive early as a pallbearer to help get the sealed coffin into the church. The 6 men in black suits slid the box out of the Hurst and then started struggling up the few steps up to the entrance. The black iron railings were to narrow and we couldn’t fit through. We had to back it down and then go up the wheel chair ramp instead. A gurney helped when we got to the church door which we also would not have fit through. I sat in the second pew alone. My brother Wayne sat in the the pew in front of me with his wife Jennifer and two of his three boys. His wife put her arm around him. The organist began playing “Amazing Grace” and I started to well up. The organ music went on and on. A cousin of mom’s sitting behind me stated humming and singing the songs to herself and I found myself getting annoyed. I kept my anger in check focusing my attention on the Hawaiian flowers on top of the casket. A large leaf had been crushed inside the coffin lid when it was closed. I wanted to go up and free it but I sat numbly.
There was a short sermon which I didn’t really notice, and several hymns requiring standing and then sitting again. I went through the motions exhausted. Finally the pastor started talking about the last time he had visited Ruth in Ellen Memorial Health Care Center. He had dropped his bible as he got out of his car and he couldn’t find it. When he got to mom’s room he found she had her own bible on the night stand beside her. It’s cover was worn and the pages tattered from so much use. When he opened it he found many passages that she loved were already highlighted. She was on morphine and not able to talk and he read to her for the longest time. When he recited the lords prayed she raised her hand up to him. He held her hand through the prayer and she smiled. She was devout and a firm believer right up to her last breath.
The pastor then asked if anyone would like to get up and say a few words. Loretta Ernst, Ruth’s step daughter from her last marriage to Ken Krause got up. She began to talk about how happy her dad was when he and Ruth were dating back in 1995. She called her dad about something and he said he couldn’t talk long since he was expecting a call from “Ruthy.” She kept the conversation short and when she hung up the phone she realized she had forgotten to tell him something. She called him right back. He answered in a sultry voice she had never heard before saying, “Hello blue eyes.” She said, “Dad my eyes are brown.” Everyone in the church laughed. I laughed and began to cry. I have only net Loretta two times in my life and here she was showing me a side of my mom I had never seen.
Walter got up and said, “Wow this is harder than I thought.” He started to tear up. “I knew Ruth for 44 years and to me she was and would always be mom. She was there when my mom died. Ruth and I would sometimes argue about religion. She would say, “You say your a christian but you’re not living up to it.” In the end I would have to admit she was right.” He said, “For putting up with me, she deserved sainthood.” Then he pointed out her shrill high pitched and earth shattering way that she had of sneezing. When she sneezed birds would take flight and deer would turn and bolt into the woods. Once again everyone laughed.
After the service when we had maneuvered the casket back into the Hurst, the director shook my hand firmly and said, “I’d like to meet you again sometime, well not under these circumstances mind you…Uhm you know what I mean.”
That evening around the dinner table after drinking many cups of wine, all the children talked about the stupid things they had done in their youth. I found out things about my older brothers and sisters I had never known before. Walter arranged for a final farewell celebration by setting off large fireworks mortars in Ruth’s honor down near the pond. There were three mortar tubes and they kept trying to set up three blasts at once. The trouble was that there were only two lighters that Walter had picked up at the dollar store. Ben instructed me to wait three seconds after he lit his mortar fuse. I waited but then could not get the fuse to light. The darn lighter wouldn’t stay lit. I was still leaning towards the tube when the Ben’s mortar blast sent me jumping back. The hot flash blinded me for a second and the noise caused my ears to ring. I never did light the darn fuse, and I handed the lighter off to one of the kids. The men behaved like kids and the kids tried to act like men. I just wanted to make sure I had both my hands when all was said and done. Some of the fireworks circular blasts were so close to the ground that the sparks would come withing inches of our faces and many sparks remained glowing embers on the ground. With each new mortar blast we would all shout out, “OOOOh Ahhhh, that was a pretty one.” Cindy who is from California was particularly excited. Fireworks are banned out there. These sudden bursts of light and noise lighting up the cold starry sky were the perfect way to celebrate life’s short journey.

1000 Miles of Silence

Posted on by Thor


I drove straight through. As I write this I am seated in the Himilayan Institute in downtown Honesdale, Pennsylvania. The stereo is playing gentle Indian music with the distinctive sounds of a sitar and drums. A singer chants ohmmmm. The Institute’s coffee bar is the only place in town with a WiFi connection. Yesterday I left Orlando at 9AM and I drove into my step-mom’s driveway at 4AM . The last time I drove this route I had my stereo blasting the whole trip. I let the music sway my mood up and down the whole way. This time I drove in silence. My spirit needed the rest. I stared straight ahead a the vanishing point at the end of the infinite road ahead of me. The road soared beneath my feet. My sketchbook sat on the passenger seat as my co-pilot. I fueled myself with peanut butter cookies and Mountain Dew. Once my right eye teared up, probably from eye strain. I put on my sunglasses but soon took them off so I could see the vibrant spring colors unfiltered.
By the time I got to Pennsylvania, it was dark and many of the big rigs were parked on the exit ramps. I got lost several times, once in Baltimore and once on the hilly winding side roads around Harrisburg. when I finally found my way back to the main highway, I was exhausted. Driving past Scranton at three in the morning, my spirit soared. The highway hugged the side of a mountain and in the pitch black, I felt like I was flying. The lights of Scranton could be seen stretching out to the horizon and I was flying above them at eighty miles an hour. I imagined myself flying the Spirit of Saint Lewis safely across the Atlantic. My darn right eye is watering up again as I write this. I can still write with one eye open.
On the final miles driving through the mountainous back roads, I started to see flashes of darkness that would dart in front of my truck. I knew there were plenty of deer up here, so I would pull my foot off of the accelerator. My eyes were playing tricks on me. The dark flashes were phantoms, figments of my overactive imagination and tired retinas. When I rolled into my step-mom’s empty driveway, I was ready to sleep sitting up. I opened the front door and the first thing I saw in the empty house, was a plaque that said, “Having a friend is a comfort that can never be taken away. ” I have no idea what friend might have given Ruth this plaque or even if she is alive. I dropped onto the couch and fell asleep thinking nothing lasts.
The next morning I went outside to sketch Ruth’s former home. Huge bumble bees crawled into the light purple blooms of the Rhododendrons near the porch. The light was radiant and bright. As I sketched, a Fed Ex truck pulled in the driveway. when the driver pulled out a package and started walking to the front door, I got up, thinking I might have to sign for it. My foot was asleep so I stood stamping, trying to bring it back to life. The driver left before I was able to walk. I realized that he hadn’t even noticed I was there. I took the package to my step-sister Juanita, who lived next door. She opened it up and discovered two beautiful Hawaiian leis. My father and Ruth visited the islands many times. Ruth will be wearing these leis for her wake. Juanita asked me to bring the flowers to the funeral home downtown. As I drove I kept getting calls from my step-sister, Gail, since she was concerned that no one was there, and she didn’t want me to leave the flowers at the door. Mr Hessling greeted me at the side door and crushed my hand with his firm handshake. Gail wanted to talk to him, so I handed him my cell phone. He started joking with her saying that he had given the flowers to his wife for secretary’s day. He joked with me as well but I felt a bit uncomfortable since Ruth’s body was probably lying in the next room.

Garden Party

Posted on by Thor

Leslie Lormann invited me to attend a turn of the century garden tea party which was held at The Heritage at Lake Forest. The Heritage is an assisted living facility. Only a few weeks before I had visited my step mom, Ruth, as she was moved to a nursing home in Honesdale, Pennsylvania. As I searched for Ruth in the halls of that facility, I found one resident was unable to get into the common room because a slight molding blocked her wheelchair from going through the doorway. I gave her a gentle shove and she was in. As I walked the halls, many residents were comatose unable to move in any way. They sat idly in wheel chairs or in bed, staring blankly into space. The smell of urine and decay bought back memories I had of visiting my grandmother, Josephine, when I was perhaps eight years old. I have since heard that my mom has been put on morphine because she was in so much pain from the bone cancer, and is no longer able to get around on her own. In other cultures the elderly are respected and revered. In America being old seems to make you disposable and insignificant.
When I entered The Heritage, I was shocked to find myself in a turn of the century tea party with all the women sporting gorgeous exotic hats. Leslie was dressed as Mary Poppins with a white dress and hat accented with a red belt and ribbons. Her husband, Matt, stood in the entry to the building taking pictures of residents in their finery. I wandered from room to room trying to decide where I should sketch. I finally decided that the photos being shot at the grand staircase were the center of interest. I climbed to the top of the stairs and started sketching. From this vantage point I could see the full effect of all the ovals of the highly decorated hats the women were wearing.
There were several other artists on property demonstrating their art doing easel paintings. There was a harpist who performed in the back parlor. After I finished this sketch I went back and listened to her play. There were perhaps 30 residents listening intently. I decided I didn’t have enough time to sketch this whole gathering, so I waited for the singing that was going to take place upstairs. There residents gathered in a large room with an Italian landscape fresco gracing the wall. The piano player turned out to be Erik Branch who also plays at the Parliament House Karaoke on Sunday afternoons. The female singers were lively and entertaining. Theresa Segers had a quick costume change for the last number and came out in a red and white striped single piece turn of the century bathing suit. She of course then sang, “By the Sea.”
As I got in an elevator to head back downstairs, a resident with a walker got in with me. She asked how I liked the event and I told her I was impressed. She said it was all very nice and they hold similar events every month or so for the residents. She said “This is the best nursing home in the area and I certainly pay for it.” I’m left feeling guilt that I can not afford to help find my step mom a better nursing home.