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It was New Years Eve 1969 I was sixteen years old. There was a fresh blanket of snow on top of the Christmas storm that had come our way a week ago. The thermometer hovered close to really damned cold. Outside it was bright and crisp as the new moon filtered through the tree branches reflecting its light off of the new snow, a typical Iowa winter scene. In a few hours the clock would roll over to 1970 and the party was on. My girlfriend at the time, I’ll call her ma Chérie or Chérie for short had convinced her mom and dad to let her have a few friends over to their house to celebrate New Years Eve. It would be a quiet affair, only a few close friends and no drinking. Puleeeze! Promise. Promise. Promise.

Chérie’s normally very strict parents relented, and the party was on. The one caveat was that Mom and Dad would be home early, as they too were invited to a party but would return by one AM. As a secondary player in this drama I was enlisted to help set up the party, chips, soft drinks, and other snacks. I arrived early, just in time to hear the stern admonition from Chérie’s mother to “take care with the couch. It’s brand new and I don’t want to see a spill or a smudge on my new white couch.” Having witnessed Chérie’s mother’s temper in the past we both promised and we meant it. Off Mom and Dad went to their celebration.

Soon our friends began to arrive. Before long cars full of partiers were disgorging Princesses and Princes from their winter chariots. Soon the driveway and even the gravel road out front were lined with internal combustion pumpkins. The party was swelling rapidly. With a mere 200 hundred students in our high school it seemed to me like a majority were here to revel in the New Year. Still all of the partiers were well behaved. The music was loud and the conversations louder. Dancing, laughing, there was drinking to be sure. No few cans of beer were being passed around and bottles of hootch tipped into cans of pop. But still the merrymaking was not out of hand. Yet.

Then it happened.

What were the chances? I was standing in just the right place to observe the calamity unfold like a slow motion movie. Here’s how it went down: two girls passing each other in the living room, both a bit tipsy, and neither paying attention to each other. As they passed they bumped shoulders, laughed then moved on. The cigarette ash went unnoticed at first, then “oh my God!” The glowing ash had of course landed on one of the cushions of the new white couch. Smack in the middle. Now, here is where it gets interesting. Someone grabbed the cushion and flicked off the ash. But that wasn’t enough as the fiery ash had already burned into the cloth. A poke at the hole, then flip the cushion over to hide the damage. Problem solved, or so we thought. Fifteen minutes later smoke began to drift out from under the couch into the room.

Everyone stood in a circle and pointed at the smoke. Having a least some sense of urgency I grabbed the cushion and threw it into the snow on the stoop. A couple of guys picked up the couch and set it outside, just in case the fire was not really out. The formerly new white couch now sat on the back stoop, pathetic and lonely illuminated by the light from the kitchen window and the winter moon. I must say the formerly new white couch was doing its best to blend in with the winter landscape, unsuccessfully I might add.

As if by some mysterious signal the party immediately cleared out. Those kids left that house like rats on a sinking ship. In a few minutes the only car left in the driveway was my little green Rambler. It looked awfully lonely setting there in the cold moonlight. I confess if it had not been Chérie’s house I too would have been like Kerouac, on the road and away from the scene of the crime. But… I thought about it and knew I could not abandon ma Chérie to the legendary wrath of her mother. There were no adequate words to console. No Hallmark card to make it better. There was just an empty space in the living room where a formerly white couch proudly sat, a mere few minutes ago. We waited in dejected silence for the ax to fall.

We did not have long to wait. When Chérie’s parents turned into their drive the formerly new white couch pointed like an accusing finger caught in the headlights of their car. By the time the parents parked and started up the steps of the stoop the situation hardly needed to be explained. The burned cushion was a clue even a tenderfoot could decipher. We told our best story and I stuck up for ma Chérie as much as possible.

Fortunately for Chérie the formerly new white couch was not a total loss. Since the main part of the couch had not combusted the damage meant simply a new cushion and a good cleaning. Ma Chérie’s mother was not nearly as angry as I feared she would be and certainly had every right to be. I like to think her anger lessened in part because I stuck around to soften the blow. That coupled with the fact that Mom and Dad were somewhat tipsy after returning from a successful party. I’ll tell you one thing I certainly was sober by then.

It is true that what had begun as a great holiday celebration had a comi-tragic ending. But on the positive side I always felt that I gained a bit of respect from Chérie’s parents that night. However, doing the right thing by sticking around did not get me any accolades. But still I had stuck. It can be no surprise that even though the party came to an abrupt end life did not. Though there were no more parties at Chérie’s house. Within a couple of months, like the formerly new white couch I too was put out on the stoop. Young love, what can I say?

For as far back as I can remember I have been reading. When I turned four years old I was itching to go to school so I could learn how to read. Unable to wait, I learned to read before I turned five. When I was five I was off to our one room country school where my reading improved by leaps. Soon I was devouring every type of book I could get my hands on. After two years of country school I was attending school in town where I discovered the public library. The library was a revelation to me, I would stop in after school and spend hours reading. Soon I was asking to check out large hardbound novels. The librarian tried to discourage me because she was sure no child my age could read such advanced books. Boy was she wrong.

Over the intervening years my taste in literature has been catholic. I have a special fondness for early American history, the expansion of the West for example. This encompasses Cowboy fiction, real history, and historical novels. But not to be in a rut I love modern fiction, I have read the Bible, most of Shakespeare, Russian novels, The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire, and so much more. Somewhere at sometime we came into possession of several volumes of the ancient philosophers, which I read one-by-one. I have conservatively read thousands of books in the many years intervening between the age of four and my rapidly advancing age.

Some of the great American writers I enjoyed reading are Mark Twain (Samuel Clements), Jack London, and Bret Harte. I found it interesting that Harte spent time in Iowa traveling and lecturing. Harte traveled west and east via the railroad, stagecoach, and horseback and north and south via a Mississippi riverboat staying in Iowa where he wrote letters home to his wife. Harte wrote letters posted from Davenport, Rock Island, and Iowa City over a two-year period between 1873 and 1875. I have a first edition volume of his letters, which are fascinating to read these many years later.

It was Jack London’s descriptions of the great wilds of Canada and Alaska during the Gold Rush of 1896-99 that really lit my imagination. Countless readers thrilled to his tales of the raw wilderness, native Indians, wolves, sled dogs, miners, rivers, the bone-chilling cold, and man’s thirst for gold. London’s short story, To Build A Fire is arguably his finest work. Every time I read it I want to go stand in the sunshine and get warm. To Build A Fire is London’s classic tale about a man who ventures out alone in in the Yukon in minus seventy-five degree weather, ignoring advice from an old timer to predictable but tragic results.

My interest in Western American literature dovetailed naturally with my interest in firearms. Once I was old enough I began to collect antique guns. Not satisfied to merely hang the relics on my wall I wanted to make the old guns shoot again. Speak to me, if you will. I would spend hours cleaning them up and then take them into the field hunting and to the range target shooting. For any serious shooter a foray into muzzle-loading guns also means all the accruements that go along with the passion. Patch knives, possibles bag, powder horns, the list is much longer. Many of the new old-timers even dress in period clothing and eschew anything modern while attending gatherings or Rendezvous.

Personally I would toddle off into the wilderness armed with a one hundred and twenty year old rifle dressed in a mix of modern and period clothing. I might have on my leather hat and buckskin fringed vest atop blue jeans and sneakers. But I was well equipped with authentic gear. I had my handmade hunting knife with elk horn handle, a handmade patch cutting knife, homemade scrimshawed powder horn, deer horn powder measure, fringed leather possibles bag, and silver caps holder. Oh I was ready all right.

In my desire to be at least a little authentic I endeavored to start a fire the old fashioned way. Accordingly I ordered a small tool from my antique gun bible, the Dixie Gun Works catalog. This tool is a piece of iron bent to a shape kind of like a handle. All four fingers slip inside the curved metal and when it is struck by a piece of flint it gives off a shower of sparks. The set is called a flint and steel, the American pioneer’s version of the Bic lighter.

Well I had my steel and I had a nice piece of flint that went with my flintlock shotgun, now all I needed was the opportunity. One weekend I decided to drive out to the country and let off a few rounds with my guns at some truly dangerous tin cans. Once there I found a nice little grove of trees with some dry leaves and bark. I collected the leaves, bark and some small sticks. I made ready by laying tender under a pyramid of small sticks. I had seen in books that a little black powder was often used as a cheater to get the sparks to take instantly. I chose a very dry leaf and dribbled a few grains of powder onto it.

The time was now; I fished in my possibles bag and drew forth my flint and steel. Hovering over the leaf I struck sparks. They fell harmlessly away from my intended spot. Holding the steel closer I struck a hard blow with the flint. A shower of sparks hit the leaf and whoomb! The black powder exploded throwing leaves and sticks in all directions. There was no fire, merely a smelly black cloud that rose and dissipated over my startled head.

The powder flash had burned the back of my hand singing off all of the hair to boot. It even singed my eyebrows though not too badly. For a few weeks I would look permanently surprised. Which, in point of fact I was. I had grossly over estimated the amount of black powder to sprinkle on the leaf. Obviously. I sat back on my haunches and began to laugh at myself. That is I laughed between the shooting pains that throbbed in my hand. The burn proved to be minor, thank goodness but after that I stuck to Bic lighters for lighting fires.

This incident was many years ago and like the character in Jack London’s story I failed to build a fire. Of course for me the consequences were not nearly so drastic. In the many years that have followed I have not lost my enthusiasm for antique weapons or my sense of history. However I have long ago retired my old guns foregoing the subsequent cleanup that must follow their usage. These days my treasured antique guns and their accruements are displayed nicely in my gunroom. Each item becomes a conversation piece for all of my visitors and a mini time machine for me.

Mingo’s cable was stretched taut behind me undoing every kink in the line as he swung back and forth in tight arcs, first one way then the other. I’d just hopscotched over the steel cord that secured Mingo as he charged towards some imaginary beast. It was most likely a grasshopper that had him romping across the grassy spot where our hunting party chose to relax after a mornings hunt. Our crew, the same core group that has been hunting with me for many, many years was once again assembled in Iowa for the opening day of pheasant season. It was a beautiful morning in Iowa as we hunted the home farm with no success. It was a down year for the pheasant population but the camaraderie and familiarity of our group assured us of having a great time, birds or no. This year it looked like no.

Mingo was the latest in a long line of bird dogs that had owned me through the years. I have had the distinct pleasure of working with, and over some fantastic dogs. Black Labs, Springer Spaniel, Yellow Lab, English Pointer, English Setters, each of them excellent hunters and wonderful companions. I have also had the heartbreak of sending them one by one off to Hunting Dog Heaven when their time was up. This is of course the dichotomy of life and death, which in one way or another we are each forced to face.

Each of my bird dogs had their strengths. One was my best pointer, the next the strongest nose, retriever, flusher, or finder of downed birds. To watch them work a bird was a thing of beauty. Each dog has a spot on my gunroom wall and a big place in my heart.

Six-months after we relocated to Missouri from New Jersey my wife, Karen suggested that I might want to look for a new dog. Cromwell was coming up to nine years old and would soon begin to slow down. I was way ahead of Karen. I browsed the Internet and within a day I found a man with a bird dog he wanted to give away. Enter the dog.

I forget what dog’s name was supposed to be Buddy or something like that. He wouldn’t answer to it at any rate. Dog had been penned in a back yard for two years. It was obvious the only attention he got was poor treatment. I think small children teased the dog mercilessly. The minute I brought him home he jumped out through the kennel gate and before I could get the gate closed dog was in the woods in a flash. I spent the entire night getting that dog inside where I could catch him. The thing is that after meeting me for five minutes he did not runaway. He kept coming back… to me. It seems that I was the only person dog would trust. We had a bond, a tenuous bond but still a bond. I had been adopted.

Since dog would not respond to his name I set out to re-name him. Dog was reminiscent of a wild Indian roaming through the woods hunting all night long. I was reminded of Daniel Boone’s Indian companion from the TV show, so I dubbed him Mingo. The name stuck. Mingo seems to like his name and he seems to like me. Mingo stuck.

For months Mingo would spend entire days chasing the shadows of birds, bugs, and falling leaves. He was like a whirling Dervish charging around the kennel until the grass was worn off of the hillside. “That dog is crazy,” was the regular response from those who saw him. In truth I too questioned my choice in dogs, but I had never failed before. So I soldiered on not really sure if I was getting through to Mingo or not.

The first fall I had Mingo in the field hunting he broke the lead rope (twice) and went charging across the land chasing cattle, grasshoppers, and tweety birds. But when the hunters came back there would be Mingo waiting under my truck. Sigh. I despaired that Mingo would ever be anything but a silly fool in the hunting field. Even so I persisted in his training. When I added a shock collar to his regimen he stopped charging way out ahead and stayed in close. I still had no idea if he was hunting or merely enjoying the outdoor romp.

Here I must regress. In 1987 there were two life-changing events for me. The first happy event was that my youngest son, Bradley was born. The second happened when I volunteered to help a friend cut up a huge downed tree. When I cut through the middle of the trunk the bulk of the tree rolled over onto my foot and crushed it, breaking three bones. The bones healed but the whiplash from coming to a sudden halt as I tried to leap away from the tree left a knot in the middle of my back. We referred to the knot as my walnut. At first I was very concerned and went to a couple of doctors. It seemed to be a result of the accident. Over the years I treated the pain, initially with shots and then chiropractic. Sometimes the lump and the pain would be better, but after twenty-plus years it was a constant pain, always with me like a ringing in the ears. I had pretty much decided to live with the pain and to spend no more money doctoring my walnut.

Back in Iowa in the present day of the pheasant opener, our little group of Natty Bumpos’ had arrayed ourselves sitting, laying, and standing around the back of my truck. We were enjoying a cool drink before we headed into Lenox for lunch. As Mingo charged by me someone said, “you better watch that cable, that dog is running at full speed.”

Engaged in conversation with another, I broke off and said in an aside, “yeah, I see him, I’m watching.” Then out of the corner of my eye I saw the cable move. As Mingo shot by heading in the opposite direction I nonchalantly raised my right boot. The cable swept under my foot and I hopped onto my right and raised my left foot. I was a fraction too slow. The cable caught the back of my boot heel and snapped me backward. I fought to gain my balance. Inexorably I went down, falling straight back. The scene resembled a Jackie Chan movie stunt, my face registering my surprise as my feet went up into the air. My hands were full so I had no way to break my fall. I landed solidly on the middle of my spine then with a nasty thud my head snapped back and hit the concrete-hard ground.

Stunned I could only lay there as electricity jolted throughout my body. My friends pretended shock and concern as they rushed over to see if I had been killed or sorely wounded. They really wanted to laugh but waited to see if I was dead or seriously injured. It took a few moments but I could tell that I did not have a concussion. Heck as it turned out I hardly had a bruise. Mr. Hard Head that’s what they call me. It was the muscles in my back that really hurt. I rolled onto my hands and knees to stand. I was woozy and when I stretched it hurt. My head soon cleared. I could tell that the muscle pain would go away in a couple of days. Slowly I realized that not only was I not hurt badly but also something was missing… my walnut was gone! The pain that had been in the center of my back for twenty-four years was no longer there. It was a doggone miracle. After many months the pain has stayed gone. Whenever I think of that day I just shake my head and laugh.

Mingo you may ask, what about Saint Mingo? Well, I’ll tell you that very afternoon he honored a point on a rooster that Steve promptly decked. Not only that but at the end of December I shot a pheasant and was shocked when crazy old Mingo retrieved it to hand. By the end of that day Mingo was pointing and retrieving with the best of them. Mingo will take his place of honor on my gunroom wall with all of my other champions. They are all champions to me, champions of the field and champions of my heart.

From their origins in Asia over 2,000 years ago the common Brown Rat has made its way to every continent in the world except the Artic and Antarctica. The Brown Rat goes by many other names: sewer rat, Hanover rat, Norway rat, or wharf rat. As every old farmer can attest they certainly made their way to the Iowa farmsteads. Definitely they made themselves at home on our first farm south of Lenox. As a small boy one of our favorite games was rat killing. Often we would venture out in the evening with a .22 rifle and a flashlight. We would catch them up against the buildings or when we would move a pile of old lumber. Our farmhouse had no indoor bathroom so the facilities were a double-holer outhouse. Our dogs were rat crazy and when we tilted the outhouse the dogs would jump underneath and pull out any rat that had taken up residence. Grabbing the unfortunate rodent by the back of the neck the dog would shake the rat until they broke their little neck and crushed their skull.

Growing up on a farm in Iowa in the 1950s until the mid-1970s buildings for storing grain were a common sight on any farmstead throughout the Midwest. Back then most farmers raised livestock, so grain was stored in large quantities for feeding purposes or to sell when the market looked good. Granaries filled with oats or corn, both shelled and on the cob were a common sight in any barnyard. Until the mid-1960s corn was picked on the cob and shelled later. It wasn’t until around 1970 that the picker-sheller had virtually replaced the old corn pickers.

Back in my childhood it was not uncommon for a farmer to fill a corncrib with ears of corn and not shell it until needed, often for several years. I recall in about 1969 Harry Freeman asked my dad if he would help shell corn and would he bring me along? Frank Stanger was contracted to bring his old sheller to do the job. Harry's son Gary, Dennis Hayworth, and I were the muscle. I don’t remember who all was there but the usual suspects for sure; Harry, Dad, Edgar Weese, and Russ Wurster. The adult's job seemed to be to set on an over turned bucket, drink beer, and direct us kids to do the work.

Today the kids' job was to empty a very large corncrib of some extremely old ear corn. I’m not sure how long the corn had been in that crib but it was many years. It had been there so long that the passageway built to leave space to run the sheller links in had collapsed and years of dust had settled into the loose ears of corn. As an added bonus there were rats and mice in droves. It was a corncrib high-rise of nasty vermin. The dust was so heavy we tied our t-shirts over our mouths in order to breath. We would shove our scoops into the pile of corn and when we pulled back the scoop little creatures would scamper in all directions. After a short time of trying, and mostly failing, to whack the quick little fuzz balls with corn scoops each boy found a weapon then we killed rodents as we scooped corn. I picked up a part of an old horse collar that had a nice brass ball on the end. When a rat ran by I’d whack him with my improvised club. There were so many mice we just grabbed them behind the head and pinched. Everyone wore leather gloves to protect our hands. This worked to our advantage, as the mice could not bite our fingers. Though sometimes the little critters would get a hunk of leather and sink their sharp teeth in far enough that we had to shake them off after they were squished. To this day I have never seen so many rats and mice in one place.

By the time I was twelve we had moved to a different farm a few miles away. This old homestead had been there for a hundred years. Along with the house there was a summer kitchen built in the days when cooking was done over wood stoves. We also had the luxury of indoor plumbing. There were no more outhouses to overturn or for rats to hide under. However, we still had plenty of rats in the out buildings. My mother raised chickens and liked to keep some shelled corn for their feed. Dad purchased a small granary that sat near the road, where along with the shelled corn we stored cattle and hog food in 50 lb. sacks. The building was built with two 2" x 14" boards in a large X to hold up either end. It was not slatted but the rats had managed to chew through the wooden floor and had built quite a subterranean village underneath the granary.

Ever since I was old enough to chore I always kept my work jeans on the back door of the bathroom. I had a Cub Scout hunting knife hanging from my belt and, unless they were in the wash, my jeans were always ready-to-wear. When I was seventeen I added a small .22 revolver to my armament. I liked to carry the pistol in case I surprised old Mr. Rat on my rounds while doing chores in the mornings and evenings.

Since I was a small boy I had always fancied myself as a cowboy; albeit one without a horse. I never let that small detail stand in my way. From the time I could hold a toy gun I practiced my quick draw. When I eventually graduated to a real pistol I was shooting at clods, tin cans, and other stationary objects. If the enemy were to ever come “over the hill” I was ready. I even had my trusty companion, "Boots the Wonder Dog."

One afternoon I headed to the granary to get a bucket of corn to feed the chickens. When I swung open the door there sat Mr. Rat on one of the crossbars just staring at me. As surprised as I was, Mr. Rat froze. I slipped out my little pistol, took aim, and fired. He jump like he was stung, then charged own the cross bar directly at me. He was coming like a wounded lion. That rat came down that crossbar so fast he charged right underneath Boots. I back peddled about five feet and Mr. Rat at last collapsed in a death rattle. He lay there looking at me, sides heaving, snapping his nasty yellow teeth, then died. Some help the wonder dog was.

After that I felt it was time to declare war on the rodent population on our farm. I dug out my old muskrat traps and set a few inside the granary. I stapled the chains to the floor so any trapped rat could not drag them down their holes. I covered the traps with old feed sacks to give the rats a feeling of safety. My plan was a success as I caught several of the nasty little critters over the next few weeks.

One bright spring morning I opened the granary door to see the chain on one trap taut underneath a feed sack. I stepped into the building to move the sack when Boots charged by me, stuck his head underneath the sack, and with a horrible Yelp! pulled back. As he frantically backed away I saw Mr. Rat firmly attached to the end of Boot’s nose. Boots retreated as far as the chain length would permit. Mr. Rat was stretched out as far as he could stretch, one leg in the trap and the other three clawing air. As quick as a blink, I jerked my pistol and shot the rat right off the end of Boot's nose. I’m not sure what made me do it, but I am sure I could never do it twice. Boots was no worse the wear for his rodent encounter. Once Wonder Dog was free from the angry rat he mauled his tiny attacker with doggy zeal.

Within a few weeks of the rat incident I graduated from high school. The day after graduation I was off painting houses and working road construction. My farm chore days were over. The rats, rat dogs, and other such adventures are now only the memories of a long ago youth. It seems odd that these are the things that stick in our memories, not the home cooked meals of our mothers, or the bright sunny mornings and beautiful red sunsets of the Iowa prairies. Go figure. But… even today in my gunroom is an antique pistol and knife, both hang on a small board, all that is left of that same old granary where Boots the Wonder Dog and I waged war upon the rat population of the Callahan farm.

I was three-years old in 1956. That is the year my mother took a job at Terry's Produce in Lenox. Or so I am told, as I was too young to remember. My sister tells me that Mom worked at Terry's before I was born and that after I arrived she did not go back to work for three years. I suppose economically Mom was forced to return to the workforce, so my sister took over the task of rearing me, at least until I was old enough for school. As I grew older hanging around the produce building became a normal part of my life. The tiny entry room where my mother sat behind the counter answering phones and customer inquiries also contained shelves of medicines for various ailments in chickens, hogs, sheep, and cattle. In fact I remember one day when Mom tilted my head and pronounced, "You have Pink Eye." She reached on the shelf and opened a bottle of Pink Eye medicine labeled for cattle then she proceeded to squeeze a powdered substance into my eyes. After a few treatments the malady was cured.

Periodically, on any day except Sunday, rough-dressed farmers would shoulder their way through the door and place orders for feed, seed, medicine, or to deliver eggs and cream to be sold. Most paused to engage in a little gossip about crops, prices, the weather. In the depth of winter they often lingered around the red-hot stove, reluctant to venture back into the Iowa deep freeze. Farming done for the winter they had no need to hurry home. I don’t now recall each their names but of course they were the fathers and grandfathers of my schoolmates so I knew them. I do remember they each possessed their own personalities. If they were naturally cheerful they would charge through the door with a loud greeting and a smile. If taciturn, they would come in quiet using as few words as needed to get back outside and on with their life. Some were just plain grouchy as if they were constantly setting on a burr, nothing in life seemed to please them. It was a wonderful place for a small boy to collect all of the personalities of our small community.

In the summers especially I would chase through the various rooms, the egg candling room, the refrigerator room, and the cavernous back room piled high with palettes of bagged feed for various types of farm animals. The produce sold Garst and Pioneer seed and Gooch's Best feeds. Gooch's Best was a mill in Nebraska and along with their extensive line of animal feeds they sold grocery items such as flour and pancake mix. I remember my mother using Gooch's products to cook with, I am sure from loyalty to the brand but also to get the coupons on the bags. To entice customers Gooch's Best bags were printed with coupons of various value, 25, 50, and 100 points per bag. These coupons could be cut off and redeemed by kids eighteen and under at the Gooch's Best Auction in Salina, Kansas each summer. The coupons acted as money and kids bid according to how many they collected. I recall that it took a whole lot of points to buy a steer, many thousands. In the early 1960’s my brother bought a beautiful steer at the auction. He fed it up to a prizewinner. A few years later I bought a Duroc sow and began raising my own hogs.

Bill Terry who opened the store in 1945, Mom, and several local youths staffed the business. At such an early age I paid little attention to who those young men were but one was Mervin Shawler and in 1959 Terry’s Produce became Shawler's Produce when Bill retired and Mervin took over the business. By then I was getting old enough that my mother thought if I were going to be hanging around I should be doing some work. I was sent on errands to grab needed items from the back, but my most important job was candling eggs. The eggs came in from the various farms in the immediate area that still raised chickens. Each egg had to be placed onto a small projector that shot a light through the eggshell. That way one could see if the egg had been fertilized, or if it contained a spot of blood, those eggs were set aside, to be discarded. The good eggs were then graded by size, medium, large, extra large. We had a hand stamp and stamped the boxes of eggs Grade A, Grade B, or Grade C. It was a bit tedious but I enjoyed it anyway and I felt I was a real help.

Mervin Shawler had a younger brother, Galen who was still in high school at the time. I remember Mervin employed his brother and Donny Young to load and deliver the heavy bags of feed. Galen often drove the panel truck making rounds to farms where he would deliver a small quantity of feed but more importantly to pick up eggs and cream for those who did not want to drive into town. I often accompanied him on his route. I was a young boy learning the invaluable secrets of older boys.

I don’t think it will come as a surprise to anyone who knew me growing up but I was an ornery little cuss. Quick and mouthy, I loved to taunt Donny and Galen. I was much younger but quick as a cat. Unless they were less than an arms reach away they could never catch me. Some times they would even chase me into the stacks of feed bags stacked in the back, where I would scramble into the rafters and perch until they got tired of waiting for me and they had to go back to work. Inevitably when one of them got fed up with me, and Mervin or my mother, were not around, they would get me cornered and grab me. One would pull down my pants and the other stamp Grade D on my butt with indelible ink. My punishment generally ended with them throwing me into the cooler. The cooler had a huge wooden insulated door that locked from the outside. I would be tossed inside and left in there for an extended period. Usually I was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, brrr I can still feel the cold. Of course it was all in good fun. I figured someone would find me, eventually. Although there were a couple of times…

A few more years passed and the boys became men. Tragically Donny was a fragile diabetic who eventually became blind and later passed because of his disease. By the time I was in high school I was the one Mervin employed, part time to heft the bags of feed and help load and unload the straight truck as we made our way around to deliver to various farms. For me it was a great way to stay in shape for football and wrestling and earn extra pocket money. Time went by, Mom got sick and had to quit working. I would still help Mervin when he called, usually when he had a delivery of a couple of tons of feed. Soon enough I too was off to college and my days at the produce were finished. Sadly in 1988 Mervin died suddenly while working at the produce where he had spent so much of his life. After Mervin’s death the produce was closed and the inventory liquidated. A 43-year institution in Lenox faded into history.

In 1990 the old produce building was sold to Larkin and Johnson to become a funeral home. Eventually becoming Larkin and Shelly. In 1998 my father, Bob passed after being bedridden for several years. The irony was certainly not lost on me when the funeral home that did his service was located in the old produce building. It seemed to me a most fitting exit from this world. After all, it was all in the family.

"Layla, you've got me on my knees.
Layla, I'm begging, darling please.
Layla, darling won't you ease my worried mind."

Spring 1975 in Iowa was particularly beautiful. I remember clearly so many details from that time as it was my final semester in college. I left Lenox in the fall of 1971 for Graceland College. The next year I followed my girlfriend to Drake and while yet students we married in November of '73. It was a struggle to be sure, but Karen kept me on the straight and narrow after one disastrous semester just before we tied the knot. I took a full load of classes, worked on campus at the computer center, and on weekends I stocked shelves all night at Dahl’s grocery in Beaverdale. In the evenings after I clocked out of the Computer Center I would head to the library to study. The start of my senior year Karen dropped out of school to work at the university and take a couple of free classes. It was on me to finish my degree so Karen could finish hers.

I registered for classes with some confidence my senior year. I had several class credits transfer in from my time in the ROC program with the US Navy. I spent the summer of ’74 in Newport RI in Officer’s Candidate School and those classes were going to put me over my limit for graduation. Or so I thought. My advisor pulled me aside and pointed out that I would need more than a full-course load. That, and the fact that I worked, he said, would make it difficult to graduate. I guess as an art professor he was unfamiliar with the principal of physics that states a body in motion stays in motion. I was not about to be stopped.

The first semester went by and we toiled on and off campus through a severe Iowa winter. At last spring arrived. That year Eric Clapton had released his monumental album Layla and other Love Songs. It seems he had fallen in love with his best friend’s wife Patty. His best friend was none other than George Harrison of the Beatles fame. To assuage his passion and guilt he fled to America, did lots of drugs and alcohol, and cut an album based on the ancient tale of Leda and the Swan. Thus Layla as the object of the love struck singer.

"What'll you do when you get lonely
And nobody's waiting by your side?"

That spring if you were a young person on campus you could not escape Layla. I am sure I heard it (or snatches there of) at least six times a day for months. I loved the song and every time I heard it, it lifted my spirits. Walking across campus it would play out of the doors of the art studios, the student lounge, and on the car radio. It was simply ubiquitous. Believe me I needed all the lift I could get.

When I showed up to register for classes in my final semester I received a surprise. If I wanted to graduate with my class in May I would have to take a nineteen-hour course load. Groan. Now for those who think art classes are just drawing pretty pictures let me dispel you of that notion. Not only would I have nineteen-hours of classes four of those classes were studio classes. Each studio class is three hours per session, graphic design (my major), painting (advanced), sculpture, and print making (a minor and an advanced class). In addition to my class schedule I worked at the computer center and continued the all nighters on Friday and Saturday nights at Dahl’s. It seems that sleep was not to be an option.

Now, before you all get to thinking that I am whining, and this was the worst thing in the world, it certainly was not. I was in a place in my life where my job was to learn and create. I was loving it. I found it much more satisfying than farm work or construction.

March inevitably gave way to April and I had to address some weighty things as graduation approached. My entire grade in Graphic Design was based on my portfolio presentation at the end of the semester. I HAD to make a good grade in Art History to complete the required twelve hours. The JC Penny Student Art Show was approaching and I wanted to enter a painting and a print for competition. If that were not enough my sculpture instructor Doug Hendrickson announced that Drake would be the host to the ten-state Flatlands Sculpture Show and we (the sculpture students) would be preparing the space downtown on our own free(!) time. Also we were to present at least one sculpture to a jury of art professors and our student peers in order to be accepted into the show.

Heading into the final month of the semester coffee, cigarettes, and No-Doz were my constant companions. After class, after work, after the library, I would head to my little studio in our two-bedroom apartment in the married students dorm and work on drawings for my portfolio. Keep in mind this was the Dark Ages when we actually drew our work. It was many years before personal computers and digital art. Generally I would fall into bed around two or three in the morning. Karen would rouse me for my eight AM Journalism class where attendance was required. As Journalism was one of my two minors I had to be in class. Ugh!

One Friday night in early May Karen made a dinner date with our married friends, the Krambeers. We were to attend before I was off to my night job. I was exhausted. I excused myself to the bathroom and took a five-minute nap (ten?) when I came back to the table I rejoined the conversation. The next thing I knew my face was in the mashed potatoes and I was snoring.

"Like a fool, I fell in love with you,
Turned my whole world upside down."

Graduation was approaching it was nearing the end of May. I could see my goal in sight. Everywhere I went Eric’s epic love for Patty played on and on. And each time I heard it my sprits soared a bit. Damn I loved that song and the sentiments that went with it. I was in a very emotional state, to be sure.

As the Flatlands Sculpture Show approached I would head downtown to put in my time sweeping out rooms and picking up trash. The show was to be held on the second floor of an empty office building owned by the Hubbell family, one of the wealthy families in Des Moines and a huge supporter of Drake. It was hard not to know the Hubbell name, as one of our buildings on campus was Hubbell Hall.

One morning I had just finished sweeping a pile of dust into a bin. In one hand was a cigarette and the other held a bright orange ceramic cup of coffee. The cup came from home and I liked to drink out of it as it reminded me of my mother. I stood to contemplate my good work when I went sound asleep on my feet. The empty cup slipped from my fingers and shattered on the floor and the cigarette burned my fingers. For a minute I was wide-awake. After cleaning up my broken cup I crawled into a corner, curled up and went fast asleep. I was nearly at the end of my rope.
That weekend the show opened to large crowds. Room after room filled with wonderful, imaginative sculptures created by students across the Midwest. My own sculpture a carved wooden piece titled The Tower Of Orthanc at Isenguard had been accepted into the show. My first in any show! Karen and I dressed in our student best and headed downtown to see the exhibit. As we entered the venue I spied my professor, Doug talking with another couple. He saw us and motioned us over. To my surprise he introduced us to the Hubbells, our very wealthy patrons.
With a sly smile and a twinkle in his eye Doug put his arm around my shoulders. He turned me toward the Hubbells and announced, “see this boy? Underneath those shoes and socks, this boy is barefoot.” Then he laughed. I guess after four years at university I was still a hillbilly from the sticks. Ah well.

The next night Karen and I were relaxing at our apartment when the phone rang. It was one of my art teachers, she wanted to know if I planned to attend the JC Penny art show opening in a couple of days? "Well yes," I replied. My painting was not in the show but my intaglio etching had been accepted. “Okay, be sure and be there,” and hung up. Imagine my absolute shock to discover that I had been named co-winner of the printmaking division of the show? And that it came with a cash prize. Believe me as destitute college students, we needed the money.

"Please don't say we'll never find a way
And tell me all my love's in vain."

Suddenly it was a beautiful May in the state of Iowa. My portfolio was done, my paintings, prints, and sculptures completed. I had a paper for my journalism class to complete and finals to take. It was all of a sudden a downhill slide to the finish line. Then those tasks too were behind me. Graduation was here.

The Saturday of graduation our families gathered in Des Moines for a family first, a college graduate in the Callahan family. When I got in the car to drive to Vets Auditorium Eric Clapton’s Layla was playing on the radio. I smiled. My old friend had brought me through to complete my goal. Now it was on to the next chapter of my life.

Not long ago I found myself rummaging through old photo albums looking for pictures for a birthday party. In my search I came across my personal scrapbook. After the birth of each of her grandchildren my Grandma Gray would start a scrapbook for each of us. After a time it was up to each child to add to it and keep it going. Along with baby pictures and school activities the book is a record of my athletic accomplishments through high school. Carefully preserved under plastic, taped to the inside back cover are my wrestling medals. I smiled when I rediscovered them and was transported back to a time when one of my most important possessions was my letter jacket.

The antecedents of the letter jacket go all the way back to 1865 and Harvard College. In need of an “identifier” for the football team the letter H was sewn onto gray sweatshirts and a uniform was born. If a player put in enough time each season they kept their jersey. By 1891 the H was being sewn onto sweaters that “letter winners” could sport on and off campus.

Fast forward many years and countless college and high school teams and in 1968 you would find me at Dale’s Clothing proudly buying my own black and gold letter jacket in preparation for entering Lenox High. Of course as a freshman I was just over five-foot and barely weighed 112 lbs. Hardly an auspicious physique for an aspiring athlete but I was determined to hang an L on my new jacket. And over the next four years I did, along with letters in football, wrestling, track, and music. Our footballers were particularly proud of the “Conference Champs” patches we sported both our junior and senior years. At that time a first in the school's history.

I was quick to discover that the letter jacket was not only a great identifier of status in one's hometown but it told an instant story when one went to a gathering of teenagers from other towns. From across the room you could instantly identify what school, what sport, and how good they were at that sport. This was particularly true for wrestlers. That is because wrestlers and those who ran track traditionally sewed their medals onto their letters. A really good wrestler would "clink" when they walked. The more medals the more clink. I desperately wanted to clink.

By my junior year I was beginning to hang medals on my L. I placed at Mt.Ayer, Leon, and Sectionals. I would add a couple more my senior year. That first lonely medal was getting company. Of course I hedged my bets by sewing them close enough together to clink at least a little when I walked. I still recall there is no sight quite like seeing a wrestler who never loses wearing his letter jacket. After awhile they run out of room to sew on their vast array of gold medals. Whew! The burden must be heavy. It always reminded me what a minor player I really was. The thing is that unless the medals are all gold even though each one represents a triumph they also represent a heartbreaking loss. Still I was proud of my medals.

Like any school anywhere our prettiest girls were cheerleaders. Of course for the football cheerleaders the Fall Friday nights could get pretty chilly. I was often asked to "loan" my jacket to one of the girls to help them stay warm during the football games. My only stipulation was that they count my medals after each cheer. They never lost one.

For four years I proudly wore my jacket. In the fall it kept the chill off, in the deep winter I would wear it over a yellow Tiger hoodie, and of course it warded off the spring rains. When I traveled to other towns it was my status symbol, letting all know that I was a Lenox Tiger and at Lenox we were pretty good at a lot of sports.

Of course after four years as a Tiger the administration finally kicked me out of school by actually graduating me. That fall I was off to Graceland College and of course I wore my high school letter jacket. In the last half of my senior year I was at a party. In the crowd someone stumbled and threw a glass of bourbon all over my jacket. Of course I had it cleaned and all seemed well enough. Walking across campus at Graceland with friends it began to rain. Instantly I started to smell like a highball. If you could have added ice cubes I would have done Halloween as a drink. My beloved jacket had to be retired. For years it hung upstairs in my closet at my folks house. I don’t know when it was discarded but it had certainly served me well.

Last year I found myself sitting next to a young athlete who was about to graduate from high school. I congratulated him on his successes and asked if they still wore letter jackets or if they were no longer "cool." He assured me that the letter jacket is still going strong. Looking back it may seem silly to some to have attached so much importance on awards, games, medals, and prestige. I am always aware that one can fall into the "old man" trap of remembering being much better than I actually was. Truth is I was able to compete on a very small stage. But I didn’t need to go wrestle at Iowa, or aspire to the NFL. No, what I needed, what I used, was the opportunity to parley my small successes at Lenox High into the idea that I could go to college. Eventually they kicked me out of Drake by graduating me in 1975. Who knew if you hung around long enough they gave you a diploma and kicked you into the real world?

I have always had a fascination with history, particularly Early American History. As a little boy I exercised my imagination by making wooden swords, knives, and pirate pistols and rifles. I would read of Daniel Boone, Davy Crockett, Bowie and a host of other early American frontiersmen. I would carefully study the pictures of their weapons then I would cut a pattern out of an old board and shape them with a pocketknife. I made Bowie knives, bow & arrows, swords, lances, and the Kentucky rifle paired with its' ubiquitous pistol. A discarded broom handle would serve as a barrel, bent nails as both trigger and hammer. It is safe to say my interest in antique weapons has yet to wane. Only today my wooden toys are now the real thing collected over a lifetime.

One of the principle interests of my life was, and still is, with the American fur trade of the early 1800’s. My fantasies of the old mountain men would run rampant while pretending to be a lone mountain man riding into the wilderness of the great Rocky Mountains, and living among the Indians. Some days I would be fighting with the mighty Blackfoot nation and other days I would be wintering amongst the Hidatsa or Crow.

In the 1960's trapping fur-bearing animals like the muskrat and mink was still a viable way to make extra money. I knew two grown men who worked summer jobs and in the winter they “ran” trap lines. These guys put out hundreds of traps covering many miles in a radius around Lenox, IA, my hometown. Every day they hit the back roads and creeks checking traps in a different area, and, if I knew these men a couple of the nearest bars to boot. Back then a muskrat pelt would bring $2.50 to $5 and a mink $20 to $40 per hide depending on their condition and the open market. There were, of course other animals that were saleable, the skunk, raccoon, fox, and coyote each had some value.

My older brother decided to run some traps as the ponds, creek, and ditches around our farm were teeming with ‘rats and the potential of earning the extra income of a few hundred dollars through the winter was good money for a young boy. By the time I was 10 years old I was following his lead. I bought a couple of his old muskrat traps and set out to become a fur trapper.

At first, I set my few traps in the ditches close to our house and had little luck. In time I began to range further from the house and use the drainage ditches where I could see 'rat sign. The muskrat is herbivorous, a plant eater, and builds its lodge out of plants and mud. In the winter they may even eat the inside of the "house" if the snow cover on the vegetation is too heavy. When 'rats leave the water to eat or cut plants for their lodges they leave a distinctive trail and wear down a path along the banks going to and from the water, a telling sign of where to place one’s traps. With my traps better placed I began catching 'rats, learned to skin them without making any holes in the hide, and earned a few dollars for a lot of work.

The year I turned 12 years old we moved a few miles west and by that time my older brother was near to graduation and no longer in the fur business. Our new farm had a substantial creek that flowed around the farm. It made a long loop from one-half mile south of the farm and one-quarter mile north, winding around like a huge snake, this, before most of our creeks were "straightened" to help prevent spring flooding. There were no ponds, but plenty of 'rats, a few mink, and even a beaver or two populated the creek. The beaver I left alone, as there was no market for them. By then I had a couple of dozen traps, which I set out along this long meandering path of the creek and a couple of others in some select ditches.

In the mornings I would rise around 4:30, grab my rifle, knife, and billy club and walk south of the house until I hit the creek then follow along it checking each of my traps. If a trap held a 'rat he would most likely be drowned, if not I would smack it smartly on the head to avoid damaging the pelt. In the afternoon when school was done I would do the same thing along the north branch of the creek.

When I caught a 'rat it took only a couple of cuts along the back legs, turn the skin inside out while pulling it off, then it was pulled onto a stretcher that kept the skin taut. The skins went into our freezer, much to the consternation of my mother. When I had a good pile of skins I’d take them to town on a Saturday where I sold them to Mr. Swank. He would give me 20¢ for a ‘possum skin which I knew to be worthless and market price for the 'rats. Once I caught a beautiful brown mink, which netted me $20. I left there rich and as proud as a peacock.

Trapping was far from exciting, it was a chore, a chore I did before my farm chores, breakfast, and then the bus to school. But, it was my work and I did it on my own and I got paid for the work I put in. Can you imagine the excitement of a boy turned loose on the land to roam free with knife, gun, and dog?

I did have a couple of exciting moments though. I had set a trap in the middle of an animal run in a slough south of the house. I guess I was thinking I might catch a coyote as it was pretty far from water and unlikely to catch a 'rat.

Generally this trap stayed empty, until one afternoon I went boppin' back along the path and I could see something in the trap. It was no coyote, it was a huge old yellow tomcat, and boy was he mad. Now back then most farmers would simply shoot a stray cat and leave it for the coyotes, as they were often chicken killers, but I didn’t have the heart to shoot something that had done me no harm and I couldn’t eat or sell the skin. But what was I to do?

Old Tom was wall-eyed, and every time I would make a move toward him he would wallow around the trap to face me spitting and growling in a low mean rumble, needle-sharp claws extended, ready to rake me. I moved off a safe distance and sat down and we studied each other for a long few minutes. Suddenly I smiled. I knew the answer. I reached out with my rifle and dropped the barrel on him then stood on my gun. The huge cat was howling with pain and spitting with rage. With my other foot I squirmed around until I could step on the trap mechanism and release him. I hopped off of my rifle and old mad tom tore off with an extremely indignant look back, and not even a thank you very much for his rescuer.

Another time, when I was 14 years old, it was in the dead of winter, the temperatures were down to minus 20°, so when the old fashion alarm clock jangled at 4:30 AM I certainly did not want to leave my warm pile of homemade quilts for the cold, dark morning of my unheated bedroom. Grabbing my clothes I tore down the stairs and dressed by the warmth of the gas stove that heated the only main rooms in the downstairs. I dressed in everything warm I had, long johns, extra shirts, heavy coat, two pairs of gloves, and over boots.

It was still dark when I slipped from the house, but the waning moon reflecting off of the snow and my feeble flashlight gave enough light for my journey. The dead weeds along the fences threw long, eerie blue-black shadows from light cast by the feeble moon. There was no wind, just the vise grip of the extreme Iowa cold, the early morning silence broken only by the squeaky crunch of rubber boots on snow.

Trudging south I headed through the farm lot opening and closing gates, followed the edge of a wide slough until I hit the neighbors fence line, scaled the fence, and followed the slough down to the creek. It had been a heavy winter and snow was piled against the fences and old weeds in places where I had to wade through it up to my hips. Of course I tried to stay where it was the shallowest, on the hillsides and cow paths. Where the creek and slough meet is about one-half mile from home. The creek could be a tiny stream, which one could step across, but it also became much wider and deeper where the beavers had plied their trade.

At 20° below one would expect all water to be frozen solid but I knew that was not the case. I had previously observed fish swimming around underneath the ice in the depth of winter. I had even shot a few one day and we had a fresh fish dinner in January.

As I walked the banks of the creek looking for my trap sets, I discovered one with the chain stretched out into the frigid water indicating there was a 'rat on the other end. I couldn’t quite reach the end of the chain where it was staked into the water, so I stepped out onto the ice to grasp the chain and pull it back. The ice cracked and before I could step back, it broke and I plunged chest deep into the creek. Instant cold. Instant trouble. The icy water hit my skin like an electric shock and needles of pain shot through my hands, legs, and arms, everywhere it touched below my shoulders. Fortunately my rubber boots kept the water out and my feet stayed dry.

There was no time to ponder the seriousness of my predicament. I scrambled out of the water and onto the bank, scooped up my rifle and ran, ran the half-mile back to the house. I knew if I stopped my clothes would be frozen to me in a minute and I would never make it the rest of the way. As it was, even in motion, my clothes began to freeze into one great block of ice. My soaked gloves froze around the shape of my rifle and made climbing fences very clumsy.

Fortune smiled on me and I made it home with no more problem than getting very, very cold. Once home I shucked my frozen clothes and drank lots of hot coffee huddled in one of Grandma's old quilts by the stove, while my mother quietly clucked her disapproval and prepared some hot oatmeal. After I could finally feel my fingers and the rest of me was felling warm, I dressed in dry clothes and headed off to do my morning chores. We soon learn that on the farm, cattle and hogs don't give a whit about near death experiences and still must be cared for.

The next fall was the year I started high school. I broke my leg playing baseball that summer so I was unable to play football my freshman year, so with no after school commitments my trapping continued. However, getting up at 4:30 AM caught up with me and I would often nod off in my classes. The principal phoned my parents and my trapping days came to an abrupt end.

Today, except for the rare trapper still out there in America, fur trapping seems quaint and distant, even barbaric to some. But back then, for me it was a way of life. It was certainly a way to assert my independence at a young age. The traps are long gone, but I have never lost my love of the lore of the American fur trapper, one man against a vast unknown wilderness. Today I even own some of the old rifles and knives that could have been used by these intrepid pioneers in the early days of our countries’ history.

The Beaver Men have been gone nearly two centuries, fur coats replaced by synthetics like Gor-Tex. Even the six to eight families per square mile of the hey-day of farming in Iowa are a thing of memory. Now, with so few farmers living on the land the fox, raccoon, skunk, muskrat, coyote, and beaver have reclaimed their rightful place and once again populate the creeks and valleys of our Iowa farmland.

From 1968 to 1972 Creedence Clearwater Revival was one of the biggest groups to hit Top 40 radio in America. "Have You Ever Seen The Rain" (coming down on a sunny day) was one of their big songs that blanketed the airwaves in 1971, the year I graduated from Lenox High. Even to this day so many years later when I hear that particular song I am instantly transported to a time that had great meaning in my life. And the day that causes to me remember an incident from another time.

I grew up like a weed, running loose on a farm in rural Lenox and when the time came I attended school in a one-room schoolhouse, one and one-half miles from home. As a youngster of five and six I was perfectly contented to consider this my entire universe. However in 1959 the gods of progress deemed that all of the rural schools should be shut down and all of us "country" kids should then attend "town" school. So, dutifully my older brother and I got up each morning and caught the big yellow school bus for the tedious ride to school.

Truth be told, after I was forced into town (that is how I felt about it) I chaffed at school for many years. It was all a bit much for me. I wanted to continue to roam the fields and hollows, play in the creeks, and discover my own universe without all of the rules being imposed upon me by cranky teachers and some anonymous state board. But as things often are in this world what we cannot change we endure. I made it through nearly all of my inaugural year in the big brick town school in Lenox. But nearly every day brought a fistfight or a punishment from the teacher, usually for not having my work completed. I generally sported a bloody nose and spent much of my year in the coat closet on punishment.

It was late in the month of May, well into spring, the day we begged the bus driver to let us off of the bus early, many stops short of our home. In this day of constant surveillance and vigilance for our children it is hard to image how laissez-faire the world of a small town was back then.

While we lived only three and one-half miles south of town the bus ride, because of its route, was over an hour long. An interminable amount of time for a young boy who wants to get out and explore the new world after a long pent up winter. Jack, our driver, pulled off of the highway two miles south of town and let my brother, a couple of neighbor kids, and me off of the bus. I am sure he was happy to see me off the bus early on any day and believe me we were very happy to be running free.

It was a stunningly beautiful day in May. The kind of day I believe you can only experience on the great prairies of the mid-west. The sun was out and it felt like warm butter after the long cold winter through which we had recently passed. There was not a cloud in the sky when we pointed ourselves down the road for our one and one-half walk to home and our waiting chores.

We strolled along in a loose group picking up gravel to throw in the ditches at old bottles and cans. Peering into the new grass for some sign of animal life. In a half-mile we stopped at the bridge to watch the high spring waters that raged down the creek, which was nearly out of its banks from the snowmelt. It was fun to see what was floating on by, if we could see an errant fish, or if anything interesting had been wash up onto the bank by the floods. Really we liked to see the angry power of the usually placid stream, the awe of Mother Nature, if you will.


That’s when it happened. It was a perfectly clear blue-sky day. As we turned to continue our homeward journey one small cloud materialized just over our heads. It began to rain softly. Within twenty yards we had walked into the rain, out of the rain, and back into the sunshine. I have "seen the rain coming down on a sunny day".

1960 was a pivotal year for me in so many ways. And in some ways it prepared me for the many other pivotal years yet to come in my life. I am far from that dirty-faced little boy I was then, but whenever I hear that song I am transported back to a sunny day in May.

Artist in Residence-Painting The Gratitude Girl

I had a request from another artist on FAA to show my "process" for completing a painting. I hasten to say this is how I do it and in no way do I suggest it is any better or worse than how any other artist may do their work. I am happy for any feedback or to try and answer questions.

Through a fortunate series of events last fall I was introduced to Joe Lanni. Joe is the art teacher at the Columbia Middle School in Berkeley Heights, NJ. I was invited to speak to his classes then invited back as an artist in residence. The goal was to do a painting on site and wherever possible involve the students in two of his 8th grade classes. The following blogs will demonstrate my process though words and photographs. Note: Because of problems exposing the images of the students on the Web I am not able to show you full on shots of my young painters. I wish I could as they are an enthusiastic and attractive group. Regardless, I hope you enjoy.

Step one (for me) was to choose a subject and a size for the painting. I have had this girl on my radar for a couple of years and I wanted to make a statement with the size of the work. Also I wanted to challenge myself, so off I went to the school with paints and a very large stretcher in hand.

Steps 1 - 4
1. Stretching the canvas
2. Background color: after the canvas is stretched we splash some gesso in what will be the background. After the gesso has dried the canvas is covered with the background color with some contrasting yellows added for emphasis.
3. In preparation for doing the painting I have already cropped and framed the photo (I took) and printed it full-size, taping the sections into one large piece. The back of the laser paper is covered in soft charcoal.
4. We flip the copy and the students trace the dominant lines with #2 pencils.
5. Time to paint.