Chapter Three

Crayons and a coffee can . . .

It was a warm Spring afternoon. My brother and I had been out playing behind our building. He was the sheriff and I was the outlaw. We had cap guns and handcuffs. I captured the sheriff and handcuffed him to a laundry line pole. He was stuck in the mud. I took his handcuffs. He was crying that he was getting dirty and could not undo the handcuffs. I climbed up the cinder block retaining wall and said
“It’s easy, watch me do it from up here.” I snapped one handcuff on and leaned out over the clothesline and snapped the other. Then I slipped. I was hanging from the clothesline and he was trapped in mud.

This was not a good place to be.

He was crying and I was ciphering how to extradite my little 3 year old butt from the situation. Stumped. Apparently, my brother’s wailing reached someone that went and got my sister. She came around the corner, took in the sight and ran over to get me down. I had to finagle sitting on her shoulders while she reached up and released one of the handcuffs. She then went over and released my brother, who immediately hightailed it for home. I followed my sister.

My mother already had my brother in the bathtub when we got inside. She paused and handed me some newsprint and my coffee can full of crayons. I was marched into the bathroom and placed on the toilet seat. I had a couple crayons and the newsprint in my hand. She set the coffee can on the floor next to the the toilet.

She began scrubbing mud off my brother. I began to doodle and color. I needed a blue crayon that was not in my hand. I spied it in the coffee can. I leaned to get it. Almost, and then I was falling. My leg hit the can at the joint where my kneecap would have been. Sliced through my leg, ligaments and whatever else was in there. Blood was everywhere.

My sister raced next door and got our neighbor. He was a yellow cab driver and was home. He rushed over and used his belt to create a tourniquet for my leg. He then scooped me up in his arms and ran out to his cab. He rushed me and my mother to Children’s Hospital on 13th Street.

I don’t remember much beyond the blood and him carrying me out. The staff at Children’s Hospital re-attached my leg which was hanging by some connective tissue. My leg was then put in a cast, bent at the knee and after a day in the hospital, I was sent home.

I could not walk (probably a blessing in disguise for the family). I was taken around in a blue stroller that felt way to small and confining. My sister would push me up to the swing set, lift me to a swing and I would sit and watch the world go by on Porter Street. I have never purchased a Maxwell House can of coffee, ever. I still have a fear of open cans. Oh, and I still find a place for blue in my work.

Chapter Two

Plein air is borne, well maybe a spark.

My brother had just begun walking. My guess is that I was 3 and he was a little tag-a-long 15 month old. It was a summer morning. My mother walked us around back to play. She went inside to rest and spend time with my sister. Quickly bored, I led my brother on a journey around the back of the building. I spied an open door to the workmans storage room. Of course, that became my destination. We went into the room and there were shelves full on assorted “stuff” and a workbench. Under the work bench, I saw a few cans of paint and a few large brushes soaking in solvent.

Eureka!!!! Now we had something to do. I had my brother lug a can full of paint and I grabbed the largest brush I could hold. Off we went to paint.

Even at 3, I had figured out it was better to work hidden than out in the open. The buildings had some crawl spaces beneath them. We crawled in, supplies in hand. Opened the can of paint and discovered it was a lovely cadmium orange color. I dipped that big old brush in the can and began to apply a nice even coat to the inside of the basement windows. One after another became an opaque orange square as we moved along.

I think it was between buildings two and three that we encountered a perplexed resident. We must have been a sight. Two little guys in white (now stained orange here and there) t-shirts, blue shorts and worn out black U.S. Keds looking for all the world to see like lost waifs. Apparently, the neighbor became a rat and summoned the maintenance man.

He was not perplexed. He was damn angry. He fumed and fussed and threatened. He stomped his feet and snatched the paintbrush from my hand and the near empty paint bucket from my brother. We could have run, but flight or fight skills had not been acquired yet. So we just stood there absorbing the chastisement.

He then marched us back home to face the familial music. My mother, Old German beer in hand, greeted us on the front steps. She told the maintenance man she would handle it and sent him on his way. It was 1949 and during the day, white women ruled the world.

Don’t recall the punishment. I do remember the absolute joy of applying pigment and changing the way light came through those windows. At 3, I had the pigment passion.

Chapter One

He’s Gone Again . . .

It took me awhile to figure out how I might reach the door knob. There was one of those chain latches my parents had installed about another foot or so above the door handle. What to do? I soon spied a chair and I was gone again.

Wanderlust is not learned behavior. It is born in your spirit. As soon as I mastered walking upright, I began to wander the neighborhood. I was just about two. On more than one occasion, I imagine my mother napping with my newborn brother. My poor sister charged with keeping an eye on me. She wasn’t much more that six. At some point, she let her attention waver for a few minutes. I was later told that my mother came out from her bedroom and asked my sister, “Where is your brother?!?”. She replied, “he’s gone again.”

So it went for as long as we lived on Porter Street in Cleveland Park, DC. I was the little boy with a rope around his waist that was tied to a pole out front. I just wanted to go, go, go. I recall my father brought home one of those fire engine cars with pedals to make it go. He would sit on the front steps sipping his cocktail while I drove up and down the sidewalk. It was great fun.

On the day in question, the last day I had that fire engine, I was outfront pedaling under the watchful eye of my father and sister. He went inside to refresh his drink and I began pedaling hell bent on a new journey. I was going downhill towards Rock Creek Park. You would be amazed at how far one can travel in the time it takes to refresh your drink.

My father came back out, looked up and down the block, turned to my sister and asked, “Where is your brother?”. “He’s gone again.” “God damn it, I told you to watch him!” “I did, he went that way” and she pointed down the hill towards Rock Creek Park.

Me? I was down the hill and around the curve, pedaling my little butt off. Amazingly, I made it to the entrance of the zoo. I turned in and was greeted by one of Metropolitain PD’s finest. He pushed my little fire engine to the side and loaded me into the back of a police cruiser. He pulled out and turned towards Porter Street. I was being taken back home.

Homecoming not so sweet. I was put back in a harness attached to a leash and “walked” into our building, up the stairs and back into our apartment. The fire engine was never recovered. Not too worry. I still had my two feet and a heart filled with wanderlust. It wouldn’t be long before my sister would once again announce “he’s gone again.”