I keep a framed black and white photo of my Dad at age 10 in my studio. Taken in 1949, it shows a boy who is full of dreams about playing pro baseball. A boy from a farm town 10 miles north of Texas, who listened to Hank Williams and wore heavily starched jeans with pointy cowboy boots. He was the son of a man who served in the Marines in the early ‘20’s—a hard working man who could fix anything. This man left the farm town with his family and moved to Wichita to work in the aircraft plants. My dad started school in those starched jeans and cowboy boots here in Wichita and got laughed at for the way he dressed. Kids quickly found out he could fight. He joined the Marines at 17 while still at East High and blew a chance to play college baseball. He married my Mom at 19. He was 20 when I was born.
My dad never expected much of me other than absolutely insisting that I work my tail off at whatever I was doing, literally fight if I had to, and stay out of serious trouble. I always had the feeling he felt I would never be as tough as he was. When I joined the Marines, he gave a laugh and told me I probably wouldn’t make it. He cried at my bootcamp graduation.
He was exceedingly proud that I made art and that I sold paintings. He encouraged me to attack this pursuit. It was one of the brightest spots between the two of us. He woke to art and began buying works from different artists. We spoke often of art. He commissioned me for a group of paintings and then died at age 52 before I could complete them.
I have his drive in me and his photo in my studio.
