Scott was a good friend of mine in junior high. He was on the ski jump team. At Theodore Wirth Park, there was a huge, wooden ski jump. Next to it, was a smaller jump built into the hill. Scott would be there, training with his jumping skis. I would be skiing on the downhill slopes on the park board slopes on the Saturdays I couldn’t get away to Wisconsin, or after school. One Saturday, Scott found me and let me use his jumping skis on the smaller jump. What a thrill! He tried to coax me to go off the big, wooden jump. I knew I didn’t dare. The likelihood would be I would jump off the wrong side of it. Another Saturday morning, Scott finished with his jumping practice. He had forgotten to bring his downhill skis and didn’t have a ride home until later. He found me and persuaded me to share my skis. He let me use both my poles. He just used a single downhill ski. He taught me how to ski downhill on one ski! That was a useful skill. The rope tows were a little tricky. I would end up slowly wilting to one side and pull all of the other passengers on the line with me, down into the snow.
Scott was a beautiful boy, and charming. He had a fort he had built behind his house. In the summer after 8th grade, guys and girls would hang out at his house. Couples would use his fort to make love. I was not aware of this until my girlfriend told me it was “our turn”. I declined. I was caught completely off guard. That ended my relationship with that redhead. That was OK. I am so glad I waited until marriage.
During junior high and into high school, Scott was one of those who called me on a few occasions contemplating suicide. My sister, Sue Ann, and I, it seems, were known as the suicide counselors for our junior high. How that came to be is anybody’s guess. All I know is that Scott and I spent time talking, listening, crying, laughing, renewing a reason to live.
We went to different high schools. The night in 1972 in our junior year when Scott took his life, he did not call me. It still hurts.
Painting is 12″x12″ acrylic on stretched canvas.
Price: $100 plus Postage
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I am the youngest of four siblings, yet my memories have always gone back further than my sisters and brother. This is a painting of the house where I lived for my first six years (June 1955 – June 1961). It still stands. The outside finishes and windows have been updated, but it is still the same tiny Dutch Colonial. It is almost totally obscured by trees on Google Earth. When we lived there, those Google Earth shots would have been impossible! The place was literally crawling with children! (also skipping, jumping, climbing, hiding & seeking, chalk drawing, running,etc.) 1955 was the crest of the Baby Boom after all. Crystal Lake was across the street. That is where the Ericksons, Hostermans and DeLays lived.
Our house was at 4438 Shoreline Drive, Robbinsdale, 22, Minnesota. Postage stamps were 4 cents. Flags had 48 stars. Everybody liked Ike. Our phone number started with KEllogg 7. I knew all this when I was three. My earliest and most powerful memory was being held in the arms of my godfather, Harold, when I was not yet two years old, in the dining room of that house. He was looking out the door to the screened-in porch. I remember the feel of his laugh, and that it was one of the few times I felt truly happy and safe in that house.
Not long after that party, Harold took his own life. It wasn’t clear, at first, that he intended to. There was no note. Harold had the form of acrophobia that would cause him to have a strong urge to jump from open heights. I have it, too. It is actually an idea, seemingly hardwired in the brain, that the scariness of being on the precipice would be relieved, if one would only throw oneself on the wind and fly. Harold flew. His wings burned up like Icarus’ in the Sun. I simply never saw Uncle Harold again; never smelled that smell; never saw that smile; never felt that embrace; never felt that laugh again. (Further investigation revealed that he apparently did mean to exit that day.)
That’s me, in the red jumper, asleep in Harold’s arms. My therapist asked me, when I showed her this painting, “So safety must be a big concern for you. What do you do to make sure you are safe?”
I asked her if that was a trick question.
Christmas Eve, 1971, my neighbor across the street and childhood playmate, David Erickson, was dead in a plane crash in Peru. That wasn’t the start of the deaths. The suicides started from 8th grade on: Dean and Stephen and Mark and Scott and Bobby and Lynn and Sue Ann and Fred and the list and the tears don’t stop . . .
Painting is 11″x14″ acrylic on stretched canvas.
Price: $100 plus postage
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It’s here, folks! A book with these beautiful paintings and stories, plus a bit more bound in an 8″x10″ softcover that you can hold and share with friends.
This little book is an invitation to YOU to step into a new comfort zone with your sisters and brothers in this world. We are all frightened children trying to find the silk edge of the blanket at times. Let us be kind.
Click the cover to view and read a sample and purchase a copy.
Hopefully this is the first of several books of art and stories. Order today to share the joy and beauty in quiet moments.
Fred’s presence was always a little more than one could contain. One never knew quite what to expect, except that he would be high energy, assertive, and want to be involved.
Fred Benjamin lived on the streets for over twenty years. He landed there after his dad died and the pre-paid rent on the loft he had shared with him ran out. That was the story as I heard it from Fred. I learned at his funeral, it wasn’t as simple as that. There was a brief marriage and a son left behind along the way. Fred was proud of his son, when he finally did mention him. He is a career military man, stationed overseas. I met him at Fred’s funeral. Man, was he pissed! He let his dad have it in the most honest eulogy of the day, speaking from a broken heart, like only true love can.
Fred volunteered with The King’s Jubilee regularly. He liked to take charge, a little bit too much at times. He had a different perspective. After 20 years living in a box, a social worker approached him to help him move off the street. Part of the process was a psych eval. Fred asked her, “What? Do you think I’m crazy?” She replied, “You have been living in a box for 20 years. Do you think that’s normal?” Fred conceded, “OK. Point made.”
He was able to move off the street into an apartment. Fred had a temper and could be ornery, but he was loyal and with his charm and smile, one could not stay angry at him for very long if he got out of hand. He kept fights away from volunteers more than once or twice.
Fred and I led three tours of how the homeless live in center city Philadelphia, in 2010. This painting is based on a vidcap of Fred explaining how he lived in his box under the bridge by the police station. It takes a special set of skills and knowledge to live homeless. These people are not just bums. They are survivors!
After four years in his first apartment, they moved him to a different apartment. He had adopted a cat. His blood sugar had gotten very erratic and he had some episodes where it went dangerously high. The Wednesday before Fred died, I spoke with him on the phone to get together with him to go over nutrition and supplements to more naturally, better control his blood sugar. We were to get together the following Monday. His mother could not reach him on Saturday morning. She went to his apartment and had police and fire break in, when Fred did not respond. They determined time of death to be 7:08 am, July 18, 2015.
There was a meal after Fred’s funeral. Fred’s mom did not invite any of his homeless friends to attend. I asked her why not. She said she didn’t want her lady friends to be worrying about their purses. I said, “Do you realize Fred lived in a box for 20 years?”
I did not attend. I waited outside for my ride.
The painting is acrylic on 14″ x 11″ stretched canvas.
Price: $100 plus postage.
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To say that Angie was not a pleasant person, is the kindest euphemism I can muster. Let me just say, when her body was found dead of murder, no one was surprised, and there was a long list of people with possible motive. Yet we considered it a joy to serve her a hot nutritious meal in the park, rain or shine, once a week for about fifteen years. I think she died around 2007.
Angie loved to tease people. That is an understatement; it was more that she liked to torment people. She wanted to tease and provoke until blood was boiling. She positively delighted in making other people angry. She was proud of being a Native American “squaw”. She was always bundled up and totally covered, even when the weather didn’t call for it. She always had some scam going. She would give one of the volunteers some tea or some special lip balm. The next week they were informed they owed her $10 or more; and, by the way, she had the rest of their order now. She didn’t care whether she was picking on children or adults. She could be relentless.
Once I brought venison stew down to the Love Park from a roadkill deer that Alex Smerkanich had picked up while it was still twitching alongside of the 309. A coworker and I butchered it after work. I just left the ribs long. I roasted them and served them as an added bonus to those who wanted them. Many of the people were puzzled as to what kind of animal these bones came from. I let them know it was deer. They asked where it came from. I told them. Angie was off to the races! And she didn’t stop until she died. She was constantly after me about sweeping pigeons off the pavement, running down squirrels, etc., to put roadkill in the soup. It frustrated her that I never got angry with her over this.
One night, the entire McGraw family, all eleven of them, came down in their short bus to help serve. They even brought along their three-legged Great Dane. After we were done serving, they got the dog out for a little social time and walk in the park. Angie saw this dog and exclaimed, “What happened to that poor dog’s leg?!” Sweet little Elisa McGraw, who had never uttered a word down there before, immediately replied, “We put it in the soup!” We were all surprised. It sure shut up Angie.
I have painted a terrible picture of Angie, but I recall tender moments, as well, and times when she apologized with tears and said thank you. It is hard to imagine what torments she must have suffered to have built such terrible defenses for her psyche. We all start life with great potential and aspiration. No one looks at a little baby and envisions a bitter, contentious, homeless lady leaving conflict in her wake. Who and what did this to her? Why did it happen to her and not to me? When we start to ask these questions, we are starting down the path of understanding what Paul of Tarsus was saying when he said we should each look at ourselves as the worst sinner ever. (1 Tim. 15) This puts Jesus words, “Judge not”, to the test. People do what they feel they need to do to cope. We rationalize our own behavior. At the time, in the moment, our behavior, no matter how bizarre or hurtful, always seems rational. And we’ve done some pretty stupid, bizarre and hurtful stuff in our lives, no? Everyone you see is fighting a great battle. They haven’t had the same advantages, perspectives and privileges as we have.
As ornery as Angie was, we still looked forward to seeing her as part of the mix on the nights we would serve. I still remember her gruff laugh. I didn’t mind being the butt of her jokes. I could play along, if it kept her from picking on someone else. I just wasn’t raised to throw people away. And people she was!
Let us be kind.
The painting is acrylic on 11″x14″ canvas with painted sides.
Price: $80 plus Postage.
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I met Robert when he was an inmate in the Philadelphia House of Correction and I was Mennonite Chaplain. He was then transferred to the Phila. Industrial Correctional Center when it opened in 1986. He attended my Bible studies there. He asked me to bring some groceries, a Bible and a few other items to Joyce where she was living, Richard Allen Homes.
When the other inmates heard I was going there, they urged me not to go. They assured me it was far too dangerous for one such as me.
I went. I was shocked to find such deplorable conditions. Joyce was living on the couch in a tiny, bug & vermin infested apartment with an older woman who was dying of leukemia. Joyce was there illegally, but she exchanged care for the woman in lieu of rent of couch space. There was a waiting list to get into RAH. The entry hall had been firebombed and never cleaned up.
I dropped off the groceries. We had a short visit. As I was leaving, I saw that several cars in the parking lot had their windows smashed. Another car with its windows smashed out pulled in just then. The next thing I see is a group of tough guys sizing me up. I was wearing jeans and a T-shirt; nothing to indicate that I was a minister of any kind. This was the kind of trouble the men at PICC had been worried about. Then, all at once, they all focused just above my head. Then I heard one of them mutter to the others, “Don’t mess with him. He’s a missionary man.” The tallest of them then said, “Have a nice day.” I replied with the same and proceeded to my car, hoping to find it with windows intact. They were.
After Robert got out of jail, we had Joyce and him to our house for dinner. There were more grocery runs. Then word came that Joyce had died from AIDS and then word from the street a month later that Robert passed, as well. We knew them less than a year, but they left a mark on our hearts.
They were the first people we knew to die of AIDS. This was several years before World AIDS Day in 1991 and the red ribbon AIDS awareness campaign. I put a little anachronous AIDS ribbon earring in Joyce’s ear in the painting. Once again, these are not accurate likenesses, since we have no photographs, and it has been nearly 30 years. They are likenesses painted out of loving memory.
The painting is acrylic on 11″x14″ canvas with painted edges.
Dorothy Williams was one of our adopted grandmas. She had no family left when we met her. She lived two blocks from us in East Greenville, PA. She lived in a small, second floor Section 8 apartment that was part of the Baumans’ half-twin on Main Street. Her only income was from Social Security. She grew up in Philly. Every grocery store was an Acme to her, pronounced in three syllables. We got to know her when neither of us had cars and Pastor Dave Benner would come, in his big Suburban, and pick up the six of us and Dot to bring us to Finland Mennonite Church. After we got a car, we continued to pick up Dot. We would have her over for dinner. She doted on our girls and taught them important life lessons that we quote to this day, such as: “Tables are for glasses not for asses!” Just the kind of lesson you want your four-year-old repeating at Sunday School! She especially loved the littlest ones. “Ba-aby!” was also a three syllable word, as she reached out her arms to receive any little one near her.
We also ran other errands with Dot. Whenever Dot got a bit of money in her purse, she couldn’t resist treating us to dinner at her favorite Chinese restaurant, over in Quakertown, or the “Pound o’ Roses”. (Ponderosa Steak House) We would try to pay or, at least, handle the tip. She would have none of it. We were all poor. We learned not to argue. She made it clear that this was one of the few things in her life that gave her joy and we were not to take it from her! She was in her glory in the New Far East Restaurant! It was such a shame when it burned and closed. We didn’t tell her. By that time, she was too ill to handle the food. She would still press cash, that she couldn’t afford, into my hand for me to take the family out for dinner on her.
She came with us to Bethann’s folks house for Christmas and Easter and all the birthdays. She was part of the family. I mean, that’s what one does. People are not made to be alone. I grew up with so many Aunts and Uncles. I didn’t find out until I was in high school that we weren’t related to but a quarter of them! Their families had either rejected them or died, so they became part of our ragtag clan. Our lives have been so much the richer for this!
This painting is Dot snoozing after Christmas dinner in 1985.
It was not long after this that she got so ill that she could no longer take care of herself. She minimized her illness to us. She moved into the Montgomery County Geriatric & Rehabilitation Center formerly known as the Poorhouse. We visited her with our four little girls. She was obviously very ill. We had to wait for a bit to see her once, so we visited other patients. Some of them had not had any visits in weeks! They had been warehoused and forgotten. Our youngest, Hilary, would climb up into laps. Immediately, there were smiles and tears. No words. These patients couldn’t speak. The next time we came to visit we planned extra time to visit “Dot’s new neighbors”. The nurses thanked us so much. That was the last time we saw Dot. She died of some form of cancer.
She was a little rough around the edges, with a heart of gold!
If it weren’t for Dave & Priscilla Benner going the second mile, Dot would have been one of those forgotten, warehoused cast-off souls, and we would have missed out on being blessed by another Grandma. I have learned, one can never have too many Grandmas!
Painting is acrylic on 14″x11″ canvas.
Price: $100 plus postage
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I met Brad on a late spring evening, I think it was 1990, when we were serving homeless people food with The King’s Jubilee. He was under 25, white, of slight build, literate. He had just found himself homeless. His mom had moved in with her boyfriend and there was no room for him. His dad had disappeared several years before. Brad was afraid of what might happen to him on the streets. Nothing in his life had prepared him for this. He felt completely vulnerable.
The next week, Brad came to eat with us again. This time, he was all disheveled and he was talking to himself and arguing with himself the whole time he was in the line. I was able to speak with him privately after everyone had eaten and the crowd had dispersed. He told me that a couple of the old hands on the street told him that the number one rule of the street is that you never mess with a crazy person. So he decided to start acting crazy as a defense, so nobody would mess with him. He learned to survive and cope on the street. I tried to direct him to programs that might help him get off the street, but space was very limited, and he didn’t fit into any of the usual categories.
After a few months, Brad stopped coming by to eat with us. A few more months passed and he showed up again. He was acting like a full-blown, psychotic, paranoid schizophrenic or someone on a very bad trip. The problem was he wasn’t acting anymore. He had fully inhabited the role he had chosen and had forcibly driven himself crazy; like method acting gone terribly wrong. Almost twenty years later I would still see him from time to time. Some nights he would be better than others. Instead of the frightened young man, he had become a quite aggressive 40 something man and was quite direct in asking for or demanding what he wants. It reminds me of a program I heard on the radio about bullies where a psychologist described aggression as preemptive fear.
The irony with Brad was that his crazy behavior was not irrational. On one level, it had served him well. He was still alive after spending almost 20 years on the street, because no one messes with a crazy person; but at what a horrific cost.
Price: $80 plus Postage.
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We only knew Nancy for the last two years of her life. and she passed away almost 23 years ago now, on September 4, 1993, but she was a force of nature. I will be the first to admit that this painting is a poor likeness to photographs of Nancy. She looks healthier here than ever I saw her, with brighter eyes. This is more the way I remember her in my mind’s eye rather than what the camera saved. She had been so beat up by circumstances, by poverty, by drugs, and quite literally by people in her life, that the camera wasn’t always kind. But in real life, that is not who we knew or what we saw.
She had been married and had two sons. They divorced. She got involved in a lesbian relationship. Her lover ended up abusing her to the point of fracturing her skull, which gave her problems the rest of her life. I don’t know what else they got involved in. Her lover abused the children, as well. I do know, she knew the seamier side of Pottstown very well. Nancy joined us serving the homeless in center city Philadelphia. After several weeks, she implored me to start a similar ministry in Pottstown, where she had lived most of her life. I said I would be happy to, if there was a need and we could raise the resources and manpower to do so. I told her it might not look exactly like what we did in Phila. She and I spent two weeks, day and night, interviewing all the social service agencies and churches; talking to hookers, addicts, homeless, business owners, teenagers hanging out, cops, to find out what was and what was not happening to serve the poor in the city; and what else should be happening.
We found that the only day of the week when no food was served was Wednesday. There were three populations in two neighborhoods that needed food help: children, homeless adults, and homeless teens in central Pottstown and Stowe. I was actually doing more of the interviewing of the church people. Nancy was busy raising up a team and a van, etc., because it was the same night we served in Philadelphia, we had to double our team to make it happen. We determined to go forward as long as Nancy was willing to lead the Pottstown team. She humbly accepted. She was the best person for the job. She could not drive. She lived on SSI and Food Stamps in public housing. She knew the lay of the land and she had a heart for the people.
Within a month of her asking, we were able to start serving on two sites. She added a drop off spot for boxed meals for homeless teens who wanted to stay faceless, later that year. Nancy would call me on Thursday morning all nervous that she was out of peanut butter. I would ask her what day it was. She would tell me it was Thursday. I would remind her that she didn’t need to make PB&Js for another 6 days, so not to worry. She gradually learned to wait longer before she would call me, if she was out of something, until she learned to trust that things would be supplied when they were needed by the community of faith. Then one Thursday morning, I received a call from Nancy. She told me how she had used the last of her peanut butter for the sandwiches for the children the night before. She was worried about it, so she asked the team to pray for more peanut butter, before they went out to serve. When she got home to her apartment, she could not enter until she cleared the 3′ x 4′ front step of all the containers of peanut butter that had been left there for her! She said, “Oh me of little faith!” We have no idea where it all came from. We just refer to that as “The Minor Peanut Butter Miracle.”
About a week after Nancy and the team celebrated completing a year of service, Nancy Karpinski died of an apparent heart attack on Sept. 4, 1993. She was just 50 years old. Her legacy lives on. Her right hand man for that year, Kork Moyer, now leads an outreach and shelter ministry in Pottstown. I don’t think that would have happened were it not for the importunity of this unlikely organizer.
It is good to see her smiling face and kind eyes again.
Painting is 11″x14″ acrylic on stretched canvas, with painted sides so no expensive framing is required.
St. Marie of Paris said, “Each person is the very icon of God incarnate in the world. The way to God lies through the love of people.” So Gary Heidnik was an “icon of God”. Hmmm? Most religious people like to sort their saints and sinners much more discreetly than that. I guess that’s why almost all the religious people hated Jesus. He accepted everyone, no exceptions.
I had an encounter with Gary Heidnik. It must have been in 1988. I was Mennonite Chaplain for Philadelphia Prisons. I was waiting for an inmate to be released from the City Hall Court, so I could take him to visit his mom, then up to the aftercare program that I oversaw in the suburbs. My back was turned, but I felt a darkness of evil. I turned around to see Gary Heidnik, the serial killer, shuffling in shackles, being escorted by two guards from the courtroom into the caged holding area. The hair on my neck stood on end. And all I thought was, “God is gracious. He is still giving him breath. What is there possibly left that God loves and hopes to redeem? Yet here he was, the living, breathing evidence that God ‘is not willing that any should perish, but that all should come to repentance.’” I learned then, that even Gary Heidnik ‘was the very icon of God in the world.’
Now, I am no longer a believer in God per se, because I have seen and experienced too much evil done by people claiming to act in his name. I do, however, believe in the sanctity and dignity of life. People are not inherently evil. Every one of us was conceived and born with hope and potential to somehow add something wonderful, beautiful and unique to the human experience! So many of us get beat down by poverty, malnutrition, war, prejudice, or, in Gary’s case, severely mentally ill parents. We get broken.
Gary’s dad was a cruel man and Gary was a bed wetter. (chicken and egg?) Gary’s dad would force him to hang his wet sheets out the window for all in the neighborhood to see. He was good at academics. He was quiet and never made eye contact with fellow students; always looking down. He tested near genius on his IQ. He dropped out of the military academy he went to for high school and joined the Army at age 17. In the Army, he trained as a medic and earned his GED. He was stationed at 46th Army Surgical Hospital in Landstuhl, West Germany. In August 1962, Heidnik reported in sick, complaining of severe headaches, dizziness, blurred vision, and nausea. He was diagnosed with gastroenteritis, and it was noted that he also displayed symptoms of mental illness, for which he was prescribed trifluoperazine. In October 1962, he was transferred to a military hospital in Philadelphia, where he was diagnosed with schizoid personality disorder and honorably discharged.
He enrolled in a nursing program at U. Penn., only to drop out after one semester. He worked as a psychiatric nurse at a VA hospital, but was fired for poor attendance and rude behavior. From August 1962 until his arrest in March 1987, Heidnik spent time in and out of psychiatric hospitals, and attempted suicide at least 13 times. In 1970, his alcoholic mother Ellen, committed suicide. His brother Terry also spent time in psychiatric institutions and attempted suicide multiple times. Gary was a brilliant investor. He started with $1500 and turned it into over $1million. When he was arrested, they found his dilapidated rowhouse wallpapered with bearer-bonds. While in state prison, he helped turn several correctional officers into millionaires with the advice he gave them, as well.
Gary’s criminal record is well-known. He murdered two women and raped six. He dismembered and froze a couple of their bodies in order to hide them. While on death row, he attempted suicide again by saving up his Thorazine and taking an overdose. The State of Pennsylvania spent multiple tens of thousands of dollars to nurse him back to health, then tested him to make sure he was competent enough to be executed, then murdered him by lethal injection on July 6, 1999. As of this writing in 2016, he is the last person to be officially executed by the state in PA.
When it came time for his execution, two of his victims, including his former wife, filed for a stay. The state ruled that they had no standing. I find it telling, that they still could see something in Gary that was worthy of their love, “an icon of God incarnate in the world.” After all: God love is.
Painting is 11″x14″ acrylic on canvas. Price: $100 plus postage
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I never learned Pops’ name. Everyone just called him Pops. He was happier than any man had a right to be who was living homeless in the parks or under the bridges. I wondered if he was simple-minded, truly spiritually disciplined, or was just born happy. Scientists tell us that people’s happiness centers in their brains develop differently in the womb. At any rate, he took the lessons his mama taught him seriously! If he couldn’t say something nice, he wouldn’t say anything at all. He wasn’t homeless for being lazy. He was always busy. He had a big shopping cart. He used it to collect recyclables to turn in for cash.
He would go around to the renovation and demolition sites and ask for any of the metal they would part with. Many times the union men would have him go in and do some of the particularly dirty work, up in the vents, etc., in exchange for some of the metal and all the wire. They usually didn’t get much, if anything for the wire, unless it was stripped. Pops would recycle all the aluminum, steel, copper and tin. He would keep the wire. He also snagged cords from the blinds on these jobs. Pops would then painstakingly strip the used, copper, electrical wire. He would then wind it into crosses. He used the salvaged cord from the blinds to tie necklaces for them. He always wore one and had several more on his person. He was in the habit of giving these cross necklaces away. He would say, “Just trust Jesus” or “Jesus loves you” and offer you a cross. If you told him he had already given you one, no matter, please accept another.
Over the years, Pops offered me four crosses. I passed three of them onto others. Pops eventually did succumb to the dementia that comes with Alzheimer’s. He spent his last year or so living on the street in a large crate with a loving community of four other men living in adjacent shipping crates under a parking ramp bridge. These men looked after him with sensitivity and love rarely seen in nursing homes with all the amenities. They knew just how to deal with him when he was present and when he ‘went off’. It was tragic, yet also beautiful, to witness. Pops was reaping loving care in the roughest of circumstances from the most unlikely caregivers after sowing a lifetime of simple love and cheer.
I have to say, though, to witness this in the USA in 2002, and to have no way to intervene to get him to a properly heated space with proper treatment, because we as a people lack the compassion to muster the political will to provide universal, easy to access healthcare as a basic human right, was heartbreaking.
Cross Pops made for me
When I was chrismated in 1999 in the Orthodox Church, my godfather, Alex Smerkanich, gave me a very nice, shiny, real gold cross, on a gold chain. I lost it, one dark, winter night, while serving the homeless at 18th and Vine. So I had Pops cross blessed on the holy table at St. Philip’s and I started wearing that instead; in memory of Pops and for all my homeless brothers and sisters. When I started to tear out the wiring to rewire our house, I saved the old wire. I strip it and I make crosses like Pops did and give them away, for people to remember Pops and his simplicity; to remember all my homeless brothers and sisters; to work to end homelessness; to work for universal healthcare. It’s pro-life!
I painted Pops from memory. I made him younger than I ever saw him to reflect his childlike faith and unsinkable optimism. Yet I included his white hair and long white beard to reflect what a gift of wisdom this was. I made a small cross out of salvaged doorbell wire and fastened it to the canvas on the necklace.
Painting is 11″x14″ acrylic on stretched canvas. Price: $100 plus postage
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The other day a friend dropped by and saw my paintings and heard their stories for the first time. He asked me when I was going to paint a portrait of Myron Starinshak. He said Myron was one of the most annoying people he knew, but on Holy Saturday, to not hear his voice singing the litany in front of the tomb, brought tears to his eyes. This is the 4th Great (Holy) Week since Myron’s passing.
I used to stand next to Myron in the choir. He used to ride shotgun with me, faithfully, to serve the homeless in Philadelphia. He also accompanied me on three trips to Pittsburgh to icon festivals to help man the table when I had “Come and See” Icons, Books & Art. I know more about Myron than I should possibly write.
He lived in a rooming house in Lansdale, PA, and managed it for the owner for several years. When the owner wanted to sell it, it took four large dumpster loads to clear out most of the stuff Myron had squirreled away in every possible nook and cranny of that place to make it presentable to buyers. Myron wanted me to find homes for two, large, plaster, baroque gilded framed prints that had been in the narthex of of his Carpatho-Russian Orthodox Church as a child. The prints were not icons. They were sentimental, western guardian angel paintings. The frames were huge and gaudy. I had no place to store them. He just could not bear to see them go into the landfill. I agreed to find a home for them. I knew just the people who would like them. I gave them to a couple of good Haitian friends who dearly love each other and they have their pictures framed in these and hanging in their living room.
A couple of years later, Myron asked where those pictures were. I told him I gave them away. He was livid. He said, “Those pictures were in my family for over forty years!” I asked him, “Where were they displayed?” He said, “They were never displayed. They were too big. They were in my mother’s attic until she passed. then I took them.” I said, “They have not been in your family for 40 years! Your family has been hiding them for 40 years! Finally someone is getting some use out of them and enjoying them.” He simmered down.
Myron had a knack for saying the most inappropriate things. He didn’t have a filter. He had strong convictions, but they weren’t always educated with sound teaching. At the same time, he had compassion and humility and service that just would not quit! He did 100 little jobs around the church that no one but he and Fr. Boniface knew all of, to make the place cleaner and run a little more smoothly.
Myron and I had some great road trips. We had some great times serving on the street. Alex the Albanian asked when Myron stopped coming, “Where is that little man? Why is he not here?” When he died, he said, “I will pray for Myron.”
Painting is acrylic on 11″x14″ canvas.
Price: $100 plus Postage
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Kenneth Cobbs challenged me and instructed me like few other persons in my life in such a brief time. I can count on one hand the people who have had this kind of impact in this short a time, and they all seem to totally, irretrievably disappear. At least Kenny left me with a couple of books of his poetry, including one poem about me. It is not particularly complimentary toward me. I was alarmed when I read it. Kenny and I discussed it. He stuck to his guns and defended it. This was how he felt. It cut me to the quick. I was grateful for the critique and thanked him for his honesty. I asked his forgiveness, for that was not how I wanted to come off or how I intended our ministry to be perceived. At the time, I published it in The King’s Jubilee newsletter as a confessional, with an appeal to help, please, let’s all do better.
Kenny had given me two booklets of his poetry that he had typed up. He managed to photocopy several copies and staple and fold them. He would sell them for $5 each to raise a little cash. I made some copies for him. I told him I would retype and reset the booklets in nicer fonts, with full color covers. I did this. He never showed up to retrieve them or the money for the copies that I sold for him. I never saw him again. I contacted the nuns who he said he was visiting that week. they had not heard from him. I left my phone number. I have searched for him every couple of years, since, to no avail. That was in 1998. I keep hoping that he chose to disappear and become a Buddhist monk somewhere. He was an intense person, wise beyond his years, yet I fear the world was too rough for him. He had been part of the MOVE family and had not recovered from the terrorism inflicted by the city, and the lies and machinations to frame Mumia Abu Jamal for killing a cop; after Mumia dared to report sympathetically about MOVE.
Kenny took me down a peg. I was glad for it. He did it with honesty, in the spirit of true brotherhood and love. I have gone back again and again to our conversations and his critiques to see how I measure up “according to the Kenny scale.” If he knew, he would laugh so loud!
I painted this from emotional memory. My counselor and I talked about this painting. This is the first time I have obscured a part of a face. I think this is because both of us were blocked in some major ways. He was dealing with PTSD from Mayor Goode’s bombing of West Phila. I was a recovering fundamentalist; had been abused by clergy, yet still playing the clergy game. Kenny’s right eyebrow is raised. This was done subconsciously on my part, but it makes perfect sense. Whenever I think of Kenny, I think of our conversations and his piercing, unflinching criticism. It is rare that I can find someone who can give as good as he gets. “Faithful are the wounds of a friend, but the kisses of an enemy are deceitful.” (Prov. 27:6) I measure my progress on stepping down from my “god complex” and getting over being a “white knight” on the “Kenny Scale”. This is the raised eyebrow and slightly more open right eye. The background color of orange and shirt as bright red were chosen because of the MOVE fire on Mother’s Day, 1985. My missing front tooth is from that night, as well. But that’s another story.
Acrylic painting on 11″x14″ stretched canvas.
Price: $130 plus Postage
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This is a portrait of Alex Bejleri or “Alex the Albanian”, my dear friend. We have known him since I started to serve on the streets of Philadelphia in 1988. He appeared to be crazy. With what I later learned of what he had been through, he had every reason to be. Most of the other street people would have nothing to do with him. They tagged him with the moniker “Russian” by which he is still known to this day. He seemed to have a hollow leg, as they say. He would sometimes eat 8 cups of soup, then ask for leftovers. He always loved our food. He would keep track of our volunteers; who kept coming; who dropped out; and asked why.
We helped him learn English so he could get his citizenship. He walked over 5 miles in the snow to visit me in the hospital when I was ill. He would call me when I couldn’t make it to the street; even after he no longer needed our service, but he loved my soup. He prays for me and for my family daily. He still believes what they told him on Radio Free Europe, even though he has spent most of the last 28 years in Philadelphia, living on the street. I guess, if you go to jail for something, then escape, give up your homeland, your family ties, move half a world away; it’s hard to come to terms with the idea that the reality that it was based on was an illusion. You see. He was a ‘political prisoner’ in Albania for listening to American propaganda radio broadcasts. I had to find him a shortwave radio so he could try to tune them in here. I kept trying to explain that America lied to him and they were not allowed to do that here. It was too much for him. Of course, now, they have changed the law. The CIA is now allowed to lie to us “legally” by broadcasting propaganda within the US. I guess Alex should try firing up the shortwave again. Of course, now he doesn’t need to. He can just turn on NBC or CNN, etc.
My health has taken a turn for the worse and I am sidelined until I can get an aortic valve replacement in June. Alex took the train and bus up to ‘get his mail’ the other day. (They failed to forward several pieces of his mail. He used our address so he could open a checking account, etc.) I showed him this painting and my self-portrait. He did not seem too impressed. He looks better now than in this painting; sophisticated, business-like. I look more like he did. He confirmed that my health is bad and he committed to praying for my heart every day in the Basilica of SS. Peter & Paul in center city Phila. I thanked him. He went to dart out the door. I stopped him to give him a hug. He said what he always says when he calls me on the phone, even when he leaves a message, “I love you my brother!” And I love Alex.
My life is so much richer for knowing him.
Painting is acrylic on 11″x14″ canvas.
Price: $120 plus postage
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I shared Oscar’s story more than 20 years ago in a TKJ newsletter shortly after he had died. Oscar was in his early 50s. It was 1992. I was 37. We were serving on the sidewalk on the City Hall side of JFK Plaza at that time, more commonly called the Love Park because of the world-famous LOVE art in front of the fountain there. We would see Oscar on occasion. Every time he came, he made it a point to seek me out afterward to say how thankful he was for what we did. He would say how special that I am for doing this. I always deflected by saying something like, “I’m just doing what Jesus compels me to do. I wouldn’t be happy if I didn’t do it. It is Jesus who loves you.” He would reply, “I don’t believe in any of that god stuff. I just know that you are really special and I am truly grateful. Thank you!”
At times, we would talk about history or philosophy or the arts. He was well-educated. He had had a good paying job at one point. I don’t know if I ever learned how he ended up on the street. He had used cocaine and had suffered a couple of heart attacks as a result. He is among the most civilized people I have ever known, with a twinkle in the eye and a Bohemian side.
Hurricane Andrew hit Homestead, FL, in August of 1992. Church groups were sending clothing and supplies down to the more than 100,000 families whose homes had been destroyed. Word got out that people were having a hard time surviving because it was a slow process to get any cash to buy necessities. So people started tucking cash into the pockets of clothing to short-circuit that process, and get money into people’s hands quickly. Several bags of men’s clothing did not fit onto a truck bound for Homestead, so they got re-directed to The King’s Jubilee. They told me about the potential money in the pockets. Between working full-time, leading a Bible study at Graterford prison that afternoon while Bethann made the soup, coordinating with the Pottstown and South Carolina serving sites, somehow searching pockets got missed.
When we gave away the clothing that night, it was a free for all, like always. There was one garment no one seemed to want. It was a corduroy sport coat with suede elbow patches. Oscar grabbed it and put it on. It fit. It was warm. He said, “I’m not proud. It’s warm. It’s clean.” The others laughed and called him “professor”. Who knows? Perhaps, that’s what he had been. He disappeared for a couple of weeks. When he came back, he told me what happened. Later that night, he checked the pockets of the sport coat and found a $50 bill. He told me that he wished he could say he did something productive or constructive with it. Alas, he said, he had a good meal at a fancy restaurant and went on a week-long bender. He said, “I’m sorry. But it’s been a long time since I had such a good time and could forget about all of this. Thank you. Can you forgive me?”
I told him there was nothing to forgive. He found the money. It was his to do with what he wanted. If he got some relief, well, who am I to judge? (I am weeping as I type this.) His eyes welled up and he thanked me again with a hug. The next time he thanked me for serving all the guys on the street. He said, “I thank God for you, Cranford.” My eyes welled up with tears.
I don’t know if he had found faith, or if he was just being gracious and kind to please me. It was the last time I saw Oscar. He died of a heart attack at 53. I attempted to paint this from 23-year-old memories. It is a poor likeness. The beret and the neck scarf are there. The beard, long, full hair, and brown eyes are there. I tried to convey both his thoughtfulness and the mischief, with the intent stare, the tilt of the head, and the slight smile.
The painting is 20″x 16″ acrylic on stretched canvas.
Price: $100 plus postage.
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Or, in my case, for the first time. I spent most of my time as a child with adults, or at least older children. I would help my older sister with her homework. My brother took me to college when I was 13, got me drunk; and I still held my own in theological discussions with the divinity graduate students into the wee hours of the morning. I still remember the discussion nearly 50 years later! I was born old! This was not the case for Nebraska.
Even though Nebraska had had a pretty hard knock life so far, he remained childlike, cheerful, confident; just a downright happy guy and a joy to be around! We hosted Nebraska (yes, that is his real, first name) for a weekend in our home, while he was staying at Liberty House prison aftercare program in Schwenksville, PA, in 1986. I was Mennonite Chaplain and Volunteer Director with Liberty Ministries at the time and had helped reorganize the aftercare program there, after it had closed in Phila. Nebraska was one of the early residents. He was just 20, and had already been in prison. He had been raised in the foster care system. Who knows if he actually committed a crime? He was a dark skinned, black youth. He was irrepressibly cheerful. That is enough to get one locked up in any number of towns and neighborhoods in Pennsylvania.
We had a great time with Nebraska. The one memory that sticks out is our trip to Ikea. We all went to Ikea together, all seven of us: Bethann and I, our four daughters and Nebraska. Now Bethann and I were about 30. The girls were 9 and under. In the store, we got a little spread out, but we could see each other. One or another of the girls would exclaim, “Mommy, come see!” or “Daddy, come see!” when they saw something they liked. Then Nebraska exclaimed, “Mommy! Mommy! Come see!” loud enough for the whole floor to hear, and they all watched Bethann answer. We have been tickled by that scene every time we have recalled it, in the 30 years since!
We don’t know what happened to Nebraska after that weekend. I was so busy overseeing over 500 volunteers in eight different jails and prisons and starting several tutoring and other programs. We never saw him again in prison or in aftercare, or on the street, so I’m taking that as a good sign. But I don’t know.
This I do know. Nebraska was not a throwaway. He was not a ‘taker’. He was, and hopefully still is, a beautiful human being, and our brother someplace.
This painting is acrylic on an 11″x14″ stretched canvas.
Price: $90 plus shipping.
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“Other People’s Children” is a totally different approach to pro-life. It looks at adults whom the world has thrown away and sees the absolute beauty and value the world missed. The term “pro-life” has been hijacked by the anti-abortion mob, who are anything but. I celebrate my friends, true loved ones, whom the so-called “pro-life” crowd cast aside as ‘takers’ because of their disabilities, gender, color or economic standing. I am painting their portraits to go along with their stories. Some are from my weak memory. I have very few photos.
I tried to capture the essence of Rosalie, a woman I met in the Women’s Detention Facility in 1985. We became lifelong friends. She was irrepressible. She attached herself to me immediately. We were both about 30, just a month apart in age, worlds apart in backgrounds. She died of leukemia on the street in 2008, when we were about 53. This is just a poor cartoon representing her. It really looks nothing like her aside from the freckles, frizzy red hair and big smile, but does capture some of the emotional impact of her coming toward me for the first time in the House of Corrections, more than 30 years ago now.
I miss her.
The painting is 16″x12″ acrylic on canvas. It stands quite well on its own: a provocative conversation starter.
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