the art closet

We had an art closet at the house on Scenic. It had a double sliding door. There were art books about drawing, painting and fonts in there. There were large art pads, canvas board, old wooden boxes of brushes, ancient tubes of watercolors, acrylics and oils. Dad did some brochure paste-up work for Green Valley Drag Strip, Bethlehem Camp, Gadsden Table Tennis Association, etc.  He'd also do logo work for a legal client from time to time. I still have the large amber bottle of Carter's rubber cement with brush he used for his layouts. The kids went to that closet more than my dad did because the pencil sharpener was mounted on a shelf in there. I remember dad had a box of India inks of various colors, a bunch of useless parts, nibs, tubes from fountain pens. To go into the art closet, one would have to dig to find what one needed for a project.  I rarely had to buy art supplies for a school project as a kid.  It was a mess in there, but I could find the implements and material needed to do the task.

That closet had always fascinated me.  When I grew up I became a graphic designer with too much stuff to keep in a mere closet.  As time went by and technology changed, I had no real need to keep the tools once required for my trade. No more hording of paper scraps.  My large arsenal of Pantone and Design markers, most of them older than my children's ages combined, are slowly drying and dying in a in my garage. Only my youngest daughter has uses them from time to time. I no longer use them. I don't think I would have enough art material to even warrant an art closet anymore. I have my light table, a variety of common pens, a scanner and my CPU. It's all I really need these days. Every thing changed in time.  How many years has it been since I actually had to make a mechanical?  It's been well over a decade.

I picture my father with his wheelchair rolled up to our round kitchen table. He'd be working on one of those brochure designs.  He'd want to do as much of it himself, but often needed me to hold the ruler down so her could draw or cut the line.  As a child I was fascinated by it, wondered if one day I could do it too.

beneath the shadow of war

I was born thirteen years after World War II and five years after the Korean War, and three years after President Eisenhower sent first military advisors to South Vietnam to train the South Vietnamese Army.  I was a sophomore in high school when the Vietnam War ended.  The draft was over by then too.

Since I was knee high to a grasshopper, I grew up playing with little green army men and G.I. Joes.  When I ventured outdoors ~ you'd find me somewhere with other neighborhood boys playing army.  My 'toys' included actual military surplus ~ helmets, web belting, back packs, etc.  One of my guns was an actual carbine stock with a cut off broomstick as a barrel ~ my sniper rifle.  I had a pile of gear and an arsenal of play guns. My older brother had some old military manuals that I would flip through to see if I could acquire an edge while playing an opponent. But I wasn't the only kid in my neighborhood who took his war games serious.

My favorite television shows were COMBAT! and TWELVE O'CLOCK HIGH.  My favorite movies were primarily war movies. I can't count the amount of these movies I have watched and how many times I've re-watched them (over and over) over these past six decades.  I still enjoy the good ones whether they be 'History or Hollywood'.  My list of favorites would simply be too long and tedious to mention within this post.

I remember when I was in junior high school, the Vietnam war was still raging.  The news  of casualties daily being reported on our old Zenith. The draft was still in effect and my brother still carried his card in his pocket.  It was one of those days that was in the yard readying for a neighborhood mission, when he casually passed by me and remarked, "In a couple of years, you might be doing this for real."

Strange.  I grew up thinking that I might very well have to do it for real ~ that one day it might be required of me to serve.  That day never came, but I think every boy born in the shadow of those wars were raised with the idea of the possible inevitability of one day riding out on that bus.