Fascination

Jack Deatherage

(1/2019) Many things have fascinated me these past 64 years. Mom's "year of bread" when I was in the first grade in Columbus Ohio. Her teaching me to plant flower seeds- using pinto beans to show me how the seeds might sprout and grow also happened that year.

Her "year of jellies" when we lived along Topper Road between this place and Fairfield, Last Brother only a few months old, and bushels of crab apples, Concord grapes, and gallons of raspberries, blackberries and persimmons filled her kitchen. The "tomato years" along the Taneytown Pike when Mom put up dozens of quarts of the fruits Dad grew each summer and I used to perfect a pasta sauce I've still not managed to reproduce forty some years later! The "year of reading" fell upon me after I survived the fifth grade.

Prior to that, I only read what I was forced to read in school. The "year of writing" exploded in my head during the eighth grade when we were required to write a story we made up.

Somewhere along the way the three sisters took up pencils and paper, began to draw and eventually to paint. With eight mouths to feed (five of them in their teenage years) and only Dad bringing money home, there was seldom cash for "art". The sisters pretty much had to look forward to Christmas for new paints, brushes and canvas.

My getting a job after high school, buying an old Royal typewriter and packs of paper instantly provided my sisters with constant paper to draw on. And draw they did, often at the dinner/poker/writing table in Middle Brother and my's bedroom.

I was amazed and envious, by and of, the sisters' ability to show me what they were seeing in their heads. They eventually told me they were frustrated to no end because they couldn't reproduce what they were envisioning! First Sister told me she envied my ability to express myself in written words! She was surprised at my frustration with being unable to record in print what was rampaging between my ears! All these years later I'm guessing our lack of education in the "art" subjects we were interested in led to the worst of our inabilities to express our visions clearly?

First Sister stuck with canvas and paints longer than the other two. When I had money I wasn't flinging away on my hobbies I'd commission a painting, usually a copy of some picture I'd found in a sword and sorcery art collection. She never made a profit from those efforts, insisting I pay only for paint, canvas, frame and shipping. (I once drove to Norfolk, VA to bring a painting home. She decided she didn't like it and sent me home without it! She redid much of the work and mailed it to me a coupla weeks later.)

"You ask for the most detailed subjects and they force me to get better!" Then she'd add, "Besides, you can't afford my asking prices."

Had I not been in love with fishing, hunting, motorcycles, books and beer in those years I'd have become First Sister's patron.

Simona, the Mad One (another "sister" I'd have willingly patronized had circumstances allowed), years later sat by our bow window and carefully applied paint to leather- creating Old World maps that were simply amazing- though she made frustrated faces while pointing out the flaws and grumbling her disgust over her lack of skill. Educated in an art school, she claimed she wasn't an artist!

I've had some small success with gardening and bread building (my longest lasting fascinations) though the gardens are an ongoing lesson in frustration. Bread building has its ups and downs as well, and I'm currently on the upward swing as the weather has cooled enough to heat the oven to 550 degrees weekly. It helps to have someone willing to eat the bread when we can't. Tattoo Journeyman Jamie has willingly taken up that task. Still, those successes barely scratch the fascination itch.

Recently gifting paper and colored pencils to some neighbor kids exploring their artistic abilities briefly calmed whatever drives the urge to patronize. The DW reminding me the household bills, food, car payments and house repairs take precedence over my need to give away money we don't have almost snapped me back to reality- I grumbled, "Details. Details." But she writes the checks so I acquiesce, eventually. Still the mind continues its twisting way toward aiding someone in advancing their artistic skills! But how to do that without spending money I don't have?

Ah-ha!

Journeyman Jamie came to Emmitsburg Tattoo Company full-time in December. As he's building his list of regular clients, Tattoo Don- Pillar of the Community, brought in Apprentice Rae. "She's got crazy art skills." Don has remarked more than once.

"Umm... doesn't an apprentice need a canvas to practice on?" Some idiot asks.

"Of course. They tattoo themselves first. Then, usually friends and family." He gives me a look that suggests he doesn't understand what I'm getting at.

"And the victim- urr canvas doesn't pay for the tattooing?" The idiot presses on.

"Of course not. You don't charge a "practice" volunteer for sitting in the chair and enduring a lesson."

I ponder that for a moment. "Okay."

"Okay what?"

"Okay. I'll be her canvas if she needs one."

We stare at each other for a bit, each wondering if they'd heard the idiot correctly.

"Thank you. But why?"

"What else I got to do all day?" I keep my serious face in place. "Besides, she's impressed you enough to take her on as an apprentice. How many others have you turned down before her?"

When Apprentice Rae is told I've offered my hide as canvass she cracks a grin that leaves me pondering idiocy in a whole 'nother light. I don't read females, being denser than the average male. Is she happy to have a volunteer because she truly wants to learn the craft, or is she envisioning me whining and blubbering as she sadistically marks me for life? Either way, I'll have to invest in a pack of adult diapers before sitting in the chair.

Probably the coolest thing about sacrificing my hide is my getting to watch and listen to the master directing the apprentice. From concept to design, from explanations of skin type (old goat in my case) to how the machine is held, to how the pins are angled and the stroke made, to what to do when the victim- urr client passes out- I find the process fascinating. (Some days I worry about this drive to patronize an artist.)

Being unable to decide what pictures I'd willingly carry in my skin for the rest of my life I'm going to leave that up to the tattooers, merely keeping the right of refusal. I might suggest a brief message across my forehead though: DO NOT RESUSCITATE

Oops. I've just been informed the DW is claiming the right of refusal as well. Women- always with the practical nonsense.