No. 243: Father of the Bride

I could not fit the entire dress onto the paper.

There's a wedding this afternoon in Bazetta Baptist Church.  It's a small place, just eight pews a side, and the aisle is very short -- a good thing for this father of the bride.
I'm sure to have blurry vision from a few tears. I almost cried at the rehearsal -- said it was allergies.
Got a new suit, shirt, tie, shoes and belt. Haven't had this many new clothes at once since my own wedding 29 years ago.

The first pane of glass shattered. This is Plexiglas.

I've joked for nearly two years about "passing the torch" to Keith, husband of the bride and father to the grandson. Torch? Ha. More than likely he will be trying to hold on to a rocket.
My first child, Kara, has her mother's forceful dynamic and my big mouth, and her own lethal brown eyes. Somehow two very average people made two beautiful daughters.
I still call her "Keezle," the little girl who found a cat in the trash and put him in our mailbox, brought home two more felines and four or five dogs, a rabbit, lizards, crickets, fish, turtles, an iguana. All for Daddy to take care of, many for more than a decade.

Choose wisely.

Waylon. Weez. Santino. Bella. Corly. Hank. Sam.  
Pook.
Beanie Babies.
Girl Scouts.
Dance lessons.
Braces.
Prom dresses.

We lost Waylon a month before the wedding.

Ford Mustang.
Four (or five) types of education.
Bitchin' tan. Even in February.
Tattoos.
Michael Kors.
Loans, lawyers, lunacy.
"Yes huh!"

Kara after a bath, 1989

I still jump every time Kara's name pops up on my phone. God knows, what's next?
I swear at Kara more than anything else.
Love. Hate. Spit. Love.
Cry. Ache. 

We had lots of books.  Anthony now has many books.

They say that I've been "blessed with girls."
Just who ARE "they" ??
Her poor sister Emily has been in the background of all of Kara's life dramas, and there have been several, including this wedding.
The second child always feels like she's No. 2 but that's not true.
She is much taller ... she'll be taking off her shoes at the reception.

Emily, Kara and Sam

Each girl -- each woman, now -- has her own strengths and weaknesses. They support each other, even if they rarely agree with each other.
Both have good, built-in bullshit detectors. They get that from me.
Both have slammed doors off hinges. They get that from mom.
Thrown things. Again, mom.
My grandson Anthony is a door slammer too. The force is strong within him.
He also has those same lethal brown eyes. Irresistible.
Odds are that he will spend most of his evening with the grandpas.
Grandpa Tom. Grandpa Bill.
Now we are patriarchs.

"We are out here in the grass and ants are crawling up our pants."

There's a fishing pond outside of Candlelite Knolls, the reception hall, and the "old men" have thought about hitting that.
Emily is the one who learned and loves to fish. Kara never liked the worms and would throw rocks into the water to scare the fish.
Or, to save them.
God I miss my cigars.

Crayons, 1991

It has been such a struggle to make this night, and this union, a reality.
Things have not been easy for the young couple and their son, and this has made things difficult for the parents of both.
 

"Unity Tree" planted for Anthony, Keith and Kara.

My wife Patty will tell you that she ran nearly every errand for nearly a year. Kara would be blocked, then unblocked, from her cell phone.
Dresses, decorations, centerpieces.
A whole lot of cookies.
Saying "yes" to the dress.
Love. Hate. Spit. Love.
Cry. Ache. 

Look what we did!

The mother-daughter bond is probably stronger than than a father's. It's definitely more painful.
Small things can explode into big deals with just one text message.
Enjoy those f**king chair covers, for example. They caused a month of drama and are not standard equipment. Don't they look nice?
Be sure to thank Judi and Bill Armistead for the booze and the ice. He's been bagging cubes for a week.
Scotch, ice. Repeat.

"Dad, can we keep him?"

They say it's bad luck to see the bride in her gown before the wedding.
Bad luck? That's my trademark. I own it.
Meh.
Emily had snapped a photo in the dressing room months ago, and I took some liberties in drawing it -- removing glasses, darkening and lengthening Kara's hair to bring her into the present.

I kept this drawing under wraps for about two months.

I know that the only things people really want to look good at a wedding reception are the bride and the food.
But I tried with the drawing, too. Feel free to stop and check it out.
Then, keep on moving. It's a party.
Have fun -- but don't break anything. Clean up your messes and tell your kids, "Remember to flush."
These Cortland Optimists are a picky bunch and I can't afford any mayhem. We already pissed 'em off by rearranging their tables.
We had to hire a Bazetta Township cop for security, just in case.  And Cortland cops (Officer Jules!) and the German Shepherd are watching the neighborhood.
My family is small but dangerous. Gerry, Pam, Chick ...

Practice pose.

But she does look good, right?
She busted out a four foot pane of glass when I first placed the drawing into the frame. Shattered all over my drawing board.
It's those goddamned boobs.
Like the bride: Always bigger and louder than anyone else.

Good luck finding a wall for this!

No. 249: "Roll Over"

"ROLL OVER" By Tom Wills, May 2014

Everything to a child is interactive. Touch, sound, movement -- you can see them putting it together in their own unique way. One of the sweetest and most natural interactions is between a toddler and a dog. They are wired for playing together.

(Click on images to enlarge)

The original photo

I captured this moment in the driveway as my grandson Anthony was playing with Bella, my Puggle. Anthony is almost 19 months and Bella is 6. This started out with a petting session -- a little hand going bap! bap! bap!-- then turned to playtime.

Playtime!

Anthony, who can't yet talk, directed Bella with his little noises and squawks and with his finger. Bella responded with a few roll-overs. They did it a couple of times, because they had figured out their rhythm, and then it was enough. On to the next sight and sound, smell and taste.

Little friends.

Although the original image had a backdrop of asphalt and a Pontiac wheel, I chose a grassy field for this watercolor painting.  A creative liberty, yes, but the original spirit is retained.

Getting there

"Watercolor" is not really accurate here, either. For, yes, the image was washed in with watercolor paints. But I could not get the type of detail that I wanted -- like I would want with a drawing. My solution was to work over the painting with a selection of colored pencils and pastels.  So the medium is mixed, either a hybrid or a mongrel.

Watercolor wash

I try to do one or two colored images each year.  This is the first for 2014 and I had thought it would take more time. It was just two days.  The truth is, this also happened naturally.

Everything has a beginning.

My Mother's Paintings

My mother, Linda Wills, was an artist of oil paints. She had an art room in the house where my brother and I grew up, and that was her space. She created 34 paintings that I am aware of, in the last years of her life. Some were sold, many were given, and the family has a cherished few.

Mom kept a photo album of her work, little Kodak snapshots from a cheap Instamatic camera. They have faded and yellowed over the years, and these copies from the scrapbook really do not do her justice. The colors are much more vibrant, the lines much more defined, and there is a thick texture to them.  Many times she painted with a knife -- no kidding -- and she put it on thick.

These snapshots were further ruined five or six years ago during a basement flood. I did what I could to save them, putting them into a new photo album and rewriting her handwritten labels for which person got what painting.

I remember most of these being done. The big mountain painting still hangs in St. Joseph Hospital in Warren, where she had worked.  I have five or six.  My brother Gerry has the big train. Other friends and relatives have a few.  I would like to know of those that she sold, and I wonder where they are now.  If you know, or if you have one, send a photo to me.

Regret

I regret the 27 years it took to do my homework

Published: 4/25/10 in The Vindicator, Youngstown, Ohio

By THOMAS WILLS
I am a 1983 graduate of Kent State University. I walked up Blanket Hill to Taylor Hall nearly every day for two years, past a metal sculpture with a hole through it.
It, too, was in the path of a National Guard bullet.
Of course I knew about May 4, 1970. And I’d looked at the hole in the Don Drumm sculpture. But I never went to any of the memorial observances. I thought it was time for Kent State and Ohio to get past the past.
I’m not at all minimizing the tragedy of “four dead in Ohio.” It was just not my decade.
Last week, however, I did pay attention.

I learned how things unraveled in the face of frustration and misunderstanding. I learned that I failed to grasp essential American history in my zeal to learn journalism inside Taylor Hall.
What happened 40 years ago, as well as my recognition of it now, were both unforeseen.
The Vindicator, in preparing for stories in advance of the anniversary, obtained a transcription record, which is a very slow-spinning (16 2/3 rpm) two-sided vinyl disc. It’s from the 1971 Chestnut Burr, the KSU yearbook. Our managing editor asked if I would use some vintage equipment in my home studio to transfer the analog audio to digital.
I was on vacation last week and wasn’t too enthused about exhuming the tragedy, but I promised to deliver a CD to the newsroom in time for Sunday’s paper.
This soundtrack to tragedy remains incredible. I had never heard it before.

Side One contains news broadcasts leading up to the shooting. It starts with fire and breaking glass in downtown Kent; then more fire and an ROTC building falling in on campus. Tear gas lobbed near tennis courts. National Guardsmen are on hand to assist civil authorities and campus police.
You can’t really tell who is talking: university people, local authorities, a fire chief, Gov. Jim Rhodes.
A sampling:
“At the present time I think that Vietnam would be a pleasure.”
“The hopes of all on campus have been placed in jeopardy.”
“This now is the problem of the state of Ohio.”
“We’re gonna use every part of ... law enforcement to drive ’em out of Kent.”
Rhodes: “They’re the worst type of people that we harbor in America. I think that we’re up against the strongest, well-trained, militant, revolutionary group that has ever assembled in America.”
“They can expect us to return fire.”
“Use any force as necessary.”
Tear gas: “Oh my goodness that stuff’s horrible ... We’re standing in the wind.”

Side Two is audio only of the tragedy:
“One, two, three, four, we don’t want your [expletive] war.”
An order is given to “leave this area immediately ... for your own safety.”
A bell rings. More “One, two, three, four ...”
Screams. Louder.
A rumble. Gunshots. Like thunder.
More of them. Longer in duration than I’d expected to hear. Sixty-seven rounds, 13 seconds.
Yelling. Shrieks.
“Stay back.”
“Get an ambulance up here. ... There’s people dying down here.”
Sirens.
“I’ve never seen anything like this in my life – and I’ve been in the Army.”
Disbelief.
“They dropped down ... and they just started firing.”
Someone says, “They’re dead. They have been shot. They are dead.”
“All of a sudden, the cops went trigger happy and shot the kids.”
“We don’t have any guns – they do, OK?”
“They’ve got live ammo, I wouldn’t have believed that.”
“Sit down please, just sit down.”
“The man in the brown suit is in charge of the whole thing. You should get a statement from him.”
“We’ve had bloodshed. It’s a terrible thing that happened here today. This campus will never forget it.”

It is insane. That truth holds regardless of your personal opinion of the events leading to May 4, 1970, at Kent State University.
It is also forever sad. The shootings killed four students and wounded nine.
Those screaming and shouting voices are young people. Terrified, for the most part.
That’s why it’s real for me now.
I regret that it took me 27 years to do my homework.

Tom Wills is a regional editor for The Vindicator.

No. 248: A Sense of Wonder

ANTHONY, 17 months.  May 2014

Two people in my own household actually asked me to stop doing so many drawings, because we've run out of space for them.
That's like asking me to stop breathing. The answer is no.
It really took me no time at all to find a place to hang "Anthony, 17 months."  I hung him in the family room, right next to a baby picture and a clock -- because time is flying.

Tick tock.

I draw for myself in between drawing for other people. April was a slow month so I was able to crank out a few rock stars, a beloved dog and the fourth installment of my Anthony series.
My hope is to accumulate a number of drawings as my only grandchild grows, and them compile them into a book for his 18th birthday. Eventually they'll be down to two a year, and then perhaps every other year, as he catches up to flying time.

At last, he has shoes on.

This drawing took grandpa about a week. It's from a photo, taken at someone else's house, on a hardwood floor. He's holding a little flashlight and he's sprinkled stars of cereal around him.
The wood grain effect was created by drawing in some grain and then rubbing the pencil across the wood of my old drawing table.
Give a kid a few trinkets and some snacks, and his sense of wonder will keep him occupied for a bit.

Wood grained.

Those of you who follow the dysfunction of my family here or on Facebook know that a wedding is coming up in less than a month. First came Anthony, and now his parents are going to make it legit. Activity is ramping up for the reception.
Anthony's activity level also is peaking at this time. During a visit to the reception hall to work out some details, he busied himself moving between long tables as Cortland Optimists played Bingo.
The kid is fast. And, he wants to experience the full catastrophe of life.

Ready to frame.

There was some debate over what to do with the boy during the wedding reception.
Little hands and little feet can create big messes and the potential for big noise.
And there are all of those tables to run between.
But we've settled on allowing him to stay the entire time, to stay up late and to be a part of the joy.
To have a sense of wonder, and to share  that gift with the big people who may have forgotten what it's like.
He will, I suspect, be the life of the party.

"Tone man"