Turner Watercolors

Water Color Artist: Michael J. Turner

Cane Shadows

By Michael J. Turner

Dedication

The words and images contained within this tome are a living example of the impact of family and faith upon one’s life. Through Dennis, Greg and Muriel, I owe my sense of intellect, humor and art. To my mother, Patricia Young Turner, I gained the courage to resist, good counsel and trust one’s heart, which afforded a child, now adult to live without the scars of institutionalization.

And, nothing would have purpose without Cynthia, whose constancy and love have provided, not only a family, but also a foundation on which all is built.

Foreword

Memories tend to filter experiences. Pain is buried in shadows, while happiness becomes an abstract moment linked to a generalized time, like a trip to the Boardwalk in Asbury Park or sculpting animal balloons for a handicapped child, who no longer has a name.

The filter that has shadowed my life is Cerebral Palsy. Since birth, memories are merged with orthopedic surgeries and awkward movements, steadied by braces, crutches or canes. Each surgery has molded, this God given clay into what it has finally become…

The process of discovering words and images is easy to grasp in this context. Books and pictures become an exciting world for a child with special needs or as I prefer a disabled person. Imagination is more than a friend. It becomes a tool of survival that erodes the mortar of walls, built to unknown heights. Walls built to isolate one from the unapologetic gaze of children and adults, who thank God, that, it is not their child focused under the unflinching glare.

Imagination tears down walls, turning fear and trepidation into the creative stuff from which life is lived. While striving to create, thoughts rise, like smoke from an aged briar pipe, reaching the heavens and freeing the soul.

Michael John Turner

October 18, 2005

Creative Philosophy

I have never understood, why artist include in their resume a Creative Philosophy. Being a self-taught artist, my initial concerns were learning those elements of design necessary to create a viable artistic work. By viable, one means a composition, which contains those principles, which indicate that as an artist, I have done my homework.

The piece, itself is not born out of a political or social philosophy. If anything, the work reflects, in varying degrees the filter of cerebral palsy, which has been a constant in my life. As a child, I made a conscious effort to focus on the immediate or specific details of my surroundings. This practice was a survival technique, insuring that my feet and or crutches were placed in the most stable manner in order to walk. Hence, the works that are created today focus on the specific. I generally, do not paint panoramic scenes.

Moreover, as I paint, the frog, the floral or bird, one is being representational, rather than, realistic. This may seem like a small point in the creative process. But by shying a way from photo-realism, I am free to impart an attitude in my subjects, that, realistically they would not have. The end result is a piece of art that is tight. The tightness stems from a desire to control my medium, watercolor.

Recently, a dilemma has presented itself. The English Major that has been buried for the better part of twenty-five years has suddenly crept into the right side of the brain. Fortunately, this intrusion occurs at the completion of the painting process. However, I am finding that many of the completed pieces of art, suggest not only a title, but poetry as well. This creates a secondary dilemma. Does the piece, stand on its’ own or is it shaped by poetic verse?

As an individual, who was schooled in literary analysis, I have always followed the notion espoused by T. S. Eliot in his essays on Literary Analysis. In short, once a work is written, it speaks to the reader, rather than, the author interpreting the work. If any interpretation occurs, it comes from within the reader. The reader’s personal association to the images, shapes the perception of the work. The same is true for visual art, if it is representational or realistic. The image speaks directly to the viewer’s memory, which will then interpret the piece accordingly.

The process is exciting. The poetry does contain personal views. The art, which is an attempt to commit the mind’s eye to the page through the manipulation of watercolor, reaches back through memory and merges with the art.

What follows within these pages is the blending of words with paint. Nothing more need be said. Ultimately, art speaks in a voice of its’ own.

Aspiring Eagle

Watercolor, 11 X 15"

October 2005

Have We Forgotten

"When in the course of human events…" The Declaration of Independence

Have we forgotten, that, America was founded on the ideals

Not of political parties, but the common resolve of people

To be free?

"We hold these truths to be self evident, that all men are

Created equal. That, they are endowed by their creator

With certain unalienable rights, among these are Life,

Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness."

Have we forgotten, that, those that marched to war,

Did so, not because of a political or religious belief?

The Nation’s treasure was spent to insure that,

Although we may disagree with what you say,

We will defend to the death your right to say it.

Have we forgotten, that,

Those who have died are not heroes in the Classical sense.

They are heroic as commoners, who aspired to be Eagles.

Michael John Turner

October 11, 2005

How Long?

Watercolor, 16X14"

2003

How Long, Oh Lord

"When they saw the star, they rejoiced with exceeding joy."

Star light, star bright

First star, I see…

Hung with utmost care-

Hand blown in Germany, I think.

Now, that same star

Hangs in the perpetual evergreen of memory.

"And lo-

A star appeared in the east

Proclaiming that the spirit

Had become flesh-

And in accordance with the law

On the eighth day

The child was circumcised."

I find no guilt in this man…

And with the washing of hands

One soul had been purged.

But, how many spirit starved eyes

Staring transfixed in horror

Watched as feet stumbled toward extinction?

How many hearts wrung out in anguish,

How many souls were to be saved…

Star light, Star bright

First star, I see…

Hung with utmost care…

The light shone clear

That all men would be renewed-

Yet in the final triumph

A thief turned to you…

Even before it had begun, it was finished.

Countless stars have traversed the heavens-

Millions that once shined

Are illuminated only through the ever fresh memory

That will dim and fade in the abyss.

"Christ, is that the cross I am yet to bear

That God died in DACHAU?

I am like you, suspended, motionless

Nailed by an eternity of love…"

-Michael J. Turner

Frog on Leaf

Watercolor, 16X14"

January 2000

Angels

Watercolor, 16X14"

September 2004

Cardinal Pair

Watercolor, 16X14"

September 2005

Birds have always been a passion. As a subject they allow one to focus on their attitude. Perhaps, I rely on the Oriental notion of Zen. There is no attempt to place every feather correctly. The ultimate goal is to suggest the species with little distraction from the background.

Coy Koi

Watercolor, 16X14"

August 2003

Koi are a subject that can really cause one to be lost in time. I chose variations of wet on wet and dry brush technique. The background is broken up with sponge applications and random introduction of pure color while the paper was wet.

Country Church

Watercolor, 16X14"

2001

This was one of my first attempts at doing a landscape. Moreover, this piece was not based on any reference material. I simply took a mental image and conveyed it to paper.

Serenity

Watercolor, 16X14

2004

Lighthouse 1

Watercolor, 16X14

2005

Creation

Watercolor, 18X16"

Spring 2003

Creation harkens back to my college experience. The Deity as a female is a direct link to my fascination with the writings of William Blake, Songs of Innocence and New Jerusalem. His color plates were and are an artistic and spiritual inspiration.

Blake’s poetry as well as the Screwtape Letters inspired my poem, How Long, Oh Lord.

Sparkles the Clown

Watercolor, 16X14"

October 2005

Sparkles the Clown is a self-portrait of my alter ego. I have been clowning since I was seventeen. Magic and clowning was a way, that, my disability could take to the stage without notice. It was also a way that hospitalized children could be entertained and parents might realize, that, disability is not the end. My name was given to me by a four year old girl, who looked at my glitter covered nose and explained, "It Sparkles!’ She died, later that night of cancer.

As a children’s entertainer, I am often upstaged. At a party in Rumson, I was about to sculpt a white Snoopy for the Birthday Girl. She suddenly explained, "Look, balloons just like in Daddy’s wallet," The mother from across the room, re-mouthed the words silently to the father, adding, "See me in the kitchen, NOW!" I was paid by the maid, never seeing the parents again.

The First Shadows Cast

My earliest memories of childhood are of 305 Monmouth Road. It was a sprawling farmhouse, nestled between to tracks of farmland, owned by Mr. Sherman. From all outward appearances, he was an old crotchety man, who kept to himself and his land. But, to a five year old, encased in leather and steel, he was an angel, appareled in coveralls and flannel.

The field behind our house was often used to alternately grow corn and asparagus. As I played, with my army men and Plastic Ville buildings, stolen from my older brother’s train set, I would spy, Mr. Sherman gathering white asparagus. I would crawl to a gap in the monstrous hedges, behind the pear tree that grew with abandon over the septic tank. Once, he was within range, I would call out in my strongest hello. With no reply, the wheelbarrow would creep closer as this ancient man would cut his white crop of spears, sheltered from the June sun under mounds of earth.

Hands encrusted with earth would scoop me up and place me in wheelbarrow, lined with layers of burlap to cushion steel against steel. Even in his seventies, he would treat me like a feather. After his newly acquired cargo was safely secured, he would acknowledge my greeting with, "Want to go for a ride?’ As we moved up and down the furrows, he would speak about each asparagus spear and why it was ready for harvest or remain in its’ protective blanket of earth for a few more days. Mr. Sherman spoke to me, not as a child, but an equal.

A red paisley handkerchief mopped across his brow would signal the end of our journey. But, not before he would look at the land and give glimpses of his past and devotion to the earth. This celebration of life was toasted with the clink of two bottles of Coke, drawn from the deepest coverall pockets. I would be returned to the niche in the hedge, hoping that tomorrow would bring a repeat of today.

My father got off work between five and five thirty. This meant that all siblings must be accounted for and ready for dinner as soon as he entered his domain. For me the approaching dinner hour was preceded with two hours of standing. The fourteen-pound braces, locked at the knees with a hollowed cube of steel that slipped over the straightened limb joint. Sometimes, this process had to be facilitated by liberal applications of three- in- one oil to rinse soil from the grinding joints.

So, there I stood like a wooden soldier. I still can feel the insistent ache that began at my knees and silently worked its way up to my thighs. I gazed, transfixed at the television. Beads of sweat would number every muscle spasm that could and would topple me to the floor. The fall would be in slow motion. As the floor rushed up to meet me, arms and hands were positioned like shock absorbers at my chest to break the fall. Rolling to a seated position, legs straight out in front, I twist myself unto my hands, pushing upright with my arms and inching my hands up my rigid legs to regain a balanced standing position. Time was passed with electronic images of Our Miss Francis’ Ding Dong School, Pinky Lee and Kookala, Fran and Ollie. Dad would enter. Without a glance, the question was uttered, "Where’s Dinner?"

Shadows Lengthen

Third Grade was a bittersweet year. Although, we still remained in the quiet seashore borough, we had moved from the adventurous farmhouse to a ranch on Community Drive. The move was caused by a faltering financial condition brought about by my father’s alcoholism. I believe, this to be the case because of an innocent exposure on my part. Miss Primavera, my third grade teacher had wanted to contact my mother. With the answering of the phone, Miss P. was greeted with. "Hello, this is Hilda, the Turner’s maid. Mrs. Turner is not home at the moment." When asked, when we had gotten a maid by Miss P., I replied, I did not know we had one; so much for trying to dodge bill collectors.

It was during this time that I had my first corrective surgery. The heel cord procedure was done at MMC to lengthen my heel cords. This would allow my feet to lie flat upon the ground, rather then, walking on my toes.

My mother settled my stomach after surgery by drizzling warm, sweet coffee in a Dixie cup with the point snipped off. I have been addicted to coffee to this day. My sister or Sis was in constant attendance. She brought a ball of clay to my bedside and told me to squeeze it, whenever the pain got bad. She would also, use her Betty Crocker Cooking Set to make Hershey’s chocolate milk, served at tea parties in the kitchen on Monmouth Road. After tea, dessert was penny candy from Conover’s. The afternoon was concluded with a wagon ride to the Lake to sail my Mattel Fireboat or feed ducks, which scurried for bread placed on the tops of my shoes, overhanging the water. In latter years, she would guide me to my passion for art. My father came to the hospital, once. As he stooped to kiss me, I turned my head and said, "You’re drunk." Somewhere, he was led to believe that vodka and gin did not linger on the breath. He stormed from my bedside, firing a withering glance at my mother. I am sure there was another fight.

He left in June of that year. There was no outburst. Just an exit line, which has become a legacy within the family, "I am going for a pack of cigarettes." He died in his eighties with no further contact with his family. I was ten, that June.

Light Amongst the Shadows

Dickens’s opened his Tale of Two Cities with "it was the best of times. It was the worst of times.” That sums up my high school experience. My freshmen year, started with the usual benchmark of orthopedic surgery. I had to forgo eighth grade, along with graduation for surgery at Shriner’s Hospital in Philadelphia. It was a golden opportunity. After the initial consultations, the Doctors assured my mother that I would eventually walk without braces.

The only drawback to this Holy Grail was remaining in the hospital for an unspecified period of time. I came in under the wire. Seventeen was the cutoff age for treatment. I was the oldest teenager on the Boy’s Ward.

I have never been in prison. But, Shriner’s has to be a close second. Because of the types of surgery, a sterile environment was the foundation of all hospital policies. This meant that upon admission, one was stripped and bathed. Not the greatest experience for a teenage male. After the decontamination, one was clothed in a sun diaper and gown. For the uninitiated, a sun diaper is a loincloth that ties at each hip. Wearing this attire, one was wheeled into the isolation cubicle for seventy-two hours. Upon completion of the three-day period, one was released to the ward, if and only if no germs had reared their ugly head.

The ward housed twenty- five boys on the teenage side and an additional twenty- five pediatric children across the hall. The girl’s wing was configured in the same fashion, located down a long corridor at the opposite end of the facility. The sexes were allowed to mix, during school which was held in an auditorium located half way between the to wards on the left.

A typical day, started at six thirty a.m. with the clanging of urinals and the query, "Who needs a bedpan?’ Breakfast varied between oatmeal, cold cereal, eggs, and hot chocolate or cold milk depending on the season. In keeping with sound nutritional practice, every meal also consisted of an ample portion of Jell-o. This was not the off the shelf variety. It was either red or green and fortified with extra gelatin. The fortification of this substance, its abundant supply and cubed shape lead to many varied applications. The red and green cubes coupled to a ruled sheet of paper made an admirable checker set. The cubes lent themselves to multi-storied dwellings of varied hues. Did I mention, that, this bone fortifying concoction didn’t melt? Needless to say, after eighteen months, there is never room for Jell-o.

Lunch and Dinner were uneventful. Lunch was served, during school and provided an opportunity to be normal. Dinner was back on the ward. The food was in endless supply. Thankfully, it did not taste like hospital fare.

Dinner was also the time for schemes. Remember, this was a controlled environment. Marking off a calendar did not bring any one closer to home. Regardless of the male vibrato, homesickness was the companion of sleep. In an effort to ward off loneliness, certain patients would plan the Great Escape.

Chuck was a wheelchair user from Colts Neck, New Jersey. Although three years younger than I, we were bonded by geographic locale. He suffered from homesickness, like all of us. After all, visiting hours were every other week for two hours, letters and books broke the isolation to an extent. But, because of the germ free phobia nothing could be allowed in the facility without autoclaving. Hence, the thought of getting out was a real consideration.

Being in a wheelchair did not hamper the plan. If anything the chair provided an element of stealth. In the summer, the French doors at the end of the ward remained open. They opened out onto a portico with a thirty- foot ramp, connected to a sidewalk, leading right to Raymond Blvd, a four- lane highway.

The only catch was timing. There was no problem with going out on the portico with another person. The glitch would be the traffic lights. Fortunately, every person learning crutch techniques knew how to recover from a fall and duration of a traffic light cycle to the second.

Tommy Stubbs would be the pusher. He was small and quick. I remember his name because a birth defect resulted in his being born with stubs for arms. The irony of his last name has never left me. In any event, he and Chuck positioned themselves at the farthest point from the ramp. The execution was perfect. Chuck was down the ramp, gaining speed with every foot. Never touching his wheels, he reached the sidewalk cut just as the light changed to red. He glided across four lanes in front of disbelieving drivers.

The ward was locked down for two hours. Shortly, thereafter, Chuck was wheeled in, no worse for wear. Somehow, he flagged a taxi and made it to the Delaware River Bridge before the Pennsylvania State Police returned him to Shriner’s Hospital.

It was the off week for visitors, so I was surprised when a nurse wheeled me to the anteroom for a visitor on Friday afternoon. There stood, my brother Dennis. He had taken a weekend pass from Fort Devon to visit me. I still remember, his standing in his class A uniform and thinking that the scars from a car accident earlier in the year were still visible across his forehead. I don’t recall any of the conversation. But, I still feel the warmth of his thoughtfulness. Upon his leaving, a Nurse’s Aide brought me two books, still warm from the autoclave. They were Apollo to the Moon and the Portable Poe. The latter has been replaced because I wore the covers off the book. Thirty-three years have passed and those books still sit on my shelf.

Leaving Shriner’s after eighteen months and starting high school was not difficult. I was an average student, who excelled at Public Speaking. Debating gave me the opportunity to focus on ideas, rather than the placement of Canadian crutches.

The Debate Team was tied with Rumson Fair Haven in National Forensic League standings. A win at their school would not only be great for morale, but, insure first place for the Long Branch Team. I loved using strategy on the opposing team. As an affirmative debater, I always argued for the topic. During cross- questioning, my answers were extemporaneous which would unnerve the Negative Team. What’s more, when it was my turn to question their presentation, I would stand, very slowly and turn with great deliberation to state, "I have no questions." This was not done by anyone else to my knowledge. But, the whole routine was planned to convey that their case was so weak, that I did not need to probe their position. Of course, standing in silence allowed the sand placed in the joints of my braces to groan across the sound system. The stunt did not change the outcome. But, the pure theatrics was great.

But, pride goeth before a fall. After achieving State Champion status, we were invited back to Rumson Fair Haven for a demonstration of debate procedures. This should have been a walk in the park, except for the influx of raging hormones. The Rumson girls were all stacked blue-eyed blonde beauties. I was set. After all, I knew my material, had my strategy and was dressed to kill. I don’t remember anything about that day, other than; the negative speaker was tan, blonde and beautiful. And so, my opening rebuttal statement went straight to the point. "Let us consider the breast"… I think the only reason we won was because I remained totally composed amongst all the laughter.

Triple Orthodesis

The summer prior to my senior year was pivotal. For whatever the reason, it was determined that surgery was needed to correct my walking on the inside of my ankles. In July, the procedure was done. My ankles and instep were fused by breaking several bones in both feet. Demerol, followed by Darvon upon release from the hospital, controlled the pain. The pain went on throughout the year. It never occurred to Mom or I to request home instruction, nor was it offered. The school enforced the one hundred and eighty day rule. I would have to repeat my final year. Things went from bad to worse as a failed relationship broke my sense of self.

Ultimately, Lynn was a growing experience that made me aware of my strengths. Journeys to Patterson State College made me a part of a growing social group, the Viet Nam veteran. I was often confused for a wounded solider. It was better than being handicapped.

Once, while taking the bus from Newark out to Patterson, I lumbered onto the bus for the hour ride to the college. This was not my first trip. The driver had gotten to know me from earlier excursions and gave me a seat of safety behind his seat. During one of the multiple stops, a middle aged women got on board. As she passed my seat, she stared intensely at my Canadian crutches and half leg braces protruding from under my pants. Before long, her voice rang out across the bus. "Is it contagious?" I tried my hardest not to acknowledge the question. The driver glanced in the rearview mirror and raised his eyebrows. A couple of miles slipped by and again a voice rang across the aisle. "Excuse me, you didn’t answer me. Is it contagious?" Well, enough is enough. In my best Gomer Pyle voice, I answered, "Gosh Lady, the doctor said penicillin would cure it." The driver almost lost control of the bus.

Graduation came and went without fanfare. I didn’t realize until my son’s, Sean’s Graduation, that no one attended mine in 1969. Mom was working the evening shift. Sis was married. Denny was working and going to college part time. Greg was working at the Spa and dating Patty. After the ceremony, I went to Curt Aussicker’s and had a beer.

The Summer and Fall of ‘71

The summer of ’71 was a time to put things in their proper place. Vocational Rehabilitation would continue to underwrite Monmouth. I had dropped out, after Lynn and I had parted ways in 1969. I suppose, I had spent the better part of the year, just feeling sorry for myself.

The new semester would be a fresh start. The English courses rekindled my love of language. The History of England and Philosophy courses provided a forum for discussion that brought all my speaking skills to the forefront. My faltering self-esteem was being restored. For the first time, I was welcomed into the midst for my ideas and personality.

The Vets were seated by the windows to the right of the student center cafeteria and through the clouds of smoke; cards would be slapped on the table with abandon. Pinochle was the game of choice for this diverse group. They welcomed me, like a mackerel to a shark convention. In truth, my cerebral palsy was respected by a group of men, who had given limbs and sight in service to their country.

It was during these distractions, that, Conan Brunner entered my life. He gave the impression of an oak tree. His voice was booming and laughter, infectious. Like me, a blazing briar accented his speech. We became Pinochle partners always trying to outbid the other’s hand. In time, we became quite accomplished at the game. This was no doubt based upon skill and the unspoken signals of smoke, rising from pipes, signaling the demise of the seventh Calvary seated to our right and left. My card playing cooled somewhat, when Dr. Pine, my History of England Professor returned a paper with the following comment: "Mr. Turner, This would have been an A+, but I think you were holding a Double Run."

During this time, Denny would have dinner with Mom and I on Tuesday and Thursday nights, before attending classes. He would read my papers, challenge my positions and encourage my pursuits. My earliest memories are of a brother, who unlike my father, never belittled. He would logically present his observations concerning behavior, college studies and the like, suggesting a course grounded in growth, not destruction.

When I was grappling with a particular problem, he presented me with a copy of John Stuart Mills essay on Liberty. That may have been the conscious moment, that I selected my brother as a mentor. I would follow his example concerning intellect and the logical approach to problem solving. He had illuminated the shadows making the path easier to tread.

Light Pierces All

You can imagine my surprise as Conan glanced up from his cards and said, "Hi Cindi." They went to Howell together, she had transferred from Delaware to Monmouth.

The game was getting heated. Conan got me a cup of coffee and placed it on an adjacent table. I slid over and found Cindi across from me. The next afternoon, coffee again filled the time between classes. Cindi glided into the chair. We exchanged, hellos and bantered about courses. Suddenly, she shattered the conversation with "Are you looking at me?" "Well, yeah." Her retort was direct. "Are you sure?" The first wall was going to be broken.

Talk about an awkward moment. You are going to be open about cerebral palsy and this girl is going out the door. Denny’s credo popped into my head, "Direct and Logical." I explained the cause for cerebral palsy. I then, addressed my lazy eye. From my perspective the eye wasn’t lazy at all. From childhood, my left eye scanned the ground while my right looked ahead. The perfect solution for one using crutches or canes. The left eye insured sound placement and the right eye gave the all clear to proceed. Cindi took my hand, said, "Okay, I have a class."

We became constant companions. I have never forgotten or admired more, her directness and honesty. Later, she confided, that during that conversation, she decided to be my wife. We were unofficially engaged on St. Patrick’s Day of 1972. Marriage was planned for September of 1973.

If romance is the rose, then perspective in-laws have to be the thorns. Thanksgiving was to be with Cindi’s parents. She picked me up at 1:30 in the afternoon. I was glad the ride from Long Branch to Howell took forty-five minutes. It was time I could use to decompress.

Her hair was down; oversized glasses framed her blue eyes. That is all I saw and all I needed to see. I was wearing my powder blue silk, Joe Martin sports jacket, black slacks, and white shirt with red paisley tie. She commented that powder blue was her father’s favorite color. That might be a good omen.

The Thanksgiving meal had all the fixings. Many items were family favorites, like creamed onions. I steered the safe course of turkey, stuffing, green-bean casserole and an ample portion of mashed potatoes. The potato portion would be a topic of conversation in later years. The conversation to this point had been polite, but cautious like two boxers feeling each other out in a championship fight. I did not expect the near knockout blow administered by Cindi’s knife wielding, turkey- carving father. In a purely conversational tone, he uttered, "It occurs to me that I’d rather be dead than handicapped." Those words transported me back to the bus winding to Patterson. Again, I could see the bus driver raise his eyebrows. My palms began to sweat, as I prayed my legs would not lurch in spasm. I just looked into his eyes.

The ride back to Long Branch passed quickly with questions and answers. Why was I blindsided? Cindi explained, that her father was to say the least cool on the prospect of our marriage. He had multiple concerns, not excluding my ability to father a child. My response to fatherhood was, so, you go home pregnant and… We both laughed. Cindi added, "I don’t think so!" I later learned, that Cindi’s father offered her an airline ticket to anywhere, if she would not marry me. We were married on September 7, 1973.

The wedding and reception were perfect. The church was filled to capacity. Maybe seventy people. Family and friends as well as Cindi’s former Sunday school students wished us well. Two ministers officiated. Talk about, Bless be the tie that binds. Denny and his future wife, unbeknown to Cindi and I were Best Man and Maid of Honor.

The reception was routine, except for Cindi’s Grandfather’s increasing anger over tampering with the wedding car. He had visions of Limburger cheese being placed on the engine block. I still don’t know who calmed the old gent down. Cindi and I both watched with wonder, as people would leave the dining area and return several minutes later. As it turns out, all the guests were inflating balloons and placing them in the car. Before leaving for our wedding trip, Cindi opened the doors and popped just enough balloons to squeeze into the front seat. As we journeyed up Route Nine, horns would blare. The balloons obscured the Just Married sign in the rear window. With the heater set on high, the windows were rolled down as we swung around the Freehold Circle, leaving a profusion of balloons in our wake.

Mr. and Mrs. Michael Turner were greeted by a security guard as we entered the Penn Hills resort. He carried the bags, while lighting our path with a flashlight, up an incline to the Honeymoon Villa. The incline was coated with a heavy frost that allowed my leather soled dress shoes to slide down the hill with every step. Without a pause, Cindi placed the toes of her loafers under my heels until we were safely inside the villa.

The villa was typical honeymoon, replete with the round bed and heart shaped tub for two. Cindi went to change. I immediately went to plan A. I taped the marriage certificate and an 8X10, black and white photo of my mother on the headboard. The final touch was nephew Stephen’s teddy bear, squarely on my pillow. Cindi exited the bathroom, glanced at the bed, issuing her familiar phrase, "I don’t think so…"

Her head, hit the pillow and with a kiss, she was fast asleep. I was non-pulsed. With a quick flick of the remote, I found the 1932 version of Dracula, staring Bela Lugosi. I watched the film, sipping champagne and comforted with the knowledge that we had the rest of our lives together.

Shadows Fade with Humor

Cindi and I returned to our little house on Route 9. We had classes on Monday morning. I did not want lengthen the honeymoon for fear of cutting a Shakespeare seminar. After doing what newly married people do, Cindi and I sat down for our first meal of spaghetti, wearing our robes. The apparel was significant for two reasons. As Cindi approached the table with my serving, it slid off the plate onto my lap. She froze, urging me in a voice lower than a scream to "Stand up!" Although, it was hot, I was not burned. In between the laughter, I managed, "I can’t." No sooner was the table cleared and we were thinking of going back to bed, when a knock came from the back door. It was Denny and Cathy. Denny had a sheepish smile on his face and asked, "Are we interrupting anything?"

During the months that followed, Cindi and I settled into a routine of college and married life. Through our friends, Bill and Jane Jones, I earned my driver’s license. The four of us carried on my earlier preoccupation with Pinochle on a regular basis. It was Jane and Bill’s relationship, which raised eyebrows on our wedding day, when Cindi exclaimed to her mother, that Jane married her husband. Actually, they remarried, having been divorced.

Driving really freed up my routine. Now, I could drop Cindi off for classes and go for coffee before my 10:50 class. Coffee in the seventies meant Falvo’s Luncheonette, a precursor to Seven Eleven. The whole family frequented Falvo’s. It had been my haunt during high school. Mom stopped by for Camels and coffee. Greg would meet me there whenever he wasn’t on the road.

One spring day, I parked the car in the rear lot and entered through the back door of Falvo’s. The place erupted in laughter. My first thought was my fly was down, until I spied Greg at the counter. His blue eyes were twinkling as a coffee cup shielded his laughter. I didn’t know what was up. But, I was sure he was at the center of it all. Greg offered to buy coffee, another clue, I was the cause of the laughter. Greg finally related the following: May was an elderly neighbor of Mom’s, who had come into Falvo’s for breakfast. Upon seeing Greg, she asked, "How is Michael doing?" Greg replied, "Fine."

A brief period passed and May inquired, "How do they do it?" That’s all Greg needed. Addressing May with a voice that could be heard by all, Greg said, "Well, you know Cindi is a big girl and my brother’s kind of small. So, he gets on top and Cindi spins him like a 45 record." I walked in at that moment.

I couldn’t hold anything against Greg. I have lost count of the number of coffee spills caused by a spastic lurch as he tapped my shoulder or simply said hello, unexpectedly. Over the years, coffee and conversation became our bond. If Denny taught me logic, Greg certainly gave me laughter, a very rare and special quality. Besides, I still owe Greg for throwing up in his Chevy Nova.

You Can’t Have Light Without Shadows

I was working my way up the Civil Service ladder. Prior to Operation Desert Shield, I had shifted from Supply Services to the Directorate of Material Management as what was then an Inventory Item Manager. With the impending confrontation with Iraq over their incursion into Kuwait, I was temporarily assigned as the Directorate’s Administrative Officer. The capacity required a great deal of movement. It is only a guess, but eight miles of walking or more seems to be a fair assessment. I never used my disability as an excuse. As President of the Handicapped Advisory Committee, I had championed the position of reasonable accommodation, not favored treatment. It was with great reluctance that I approached my Section Chief and asked for a return to my prior job capacity that was basically a desk job. He refused.

A month or so later, brought the diagnosis of acute patella tendonitis in both knees. After the extraction of several cc’s of fluid, leg splint and cast, I was placed on disability and separation from Federal Service. The orthopedist made it clear, work was no longer an option.

Eight hours of open time, quickly transcends from a vacation to requiring placement in a mattress- lined room. Dabbling with watercolors not only filled the time, but, reconnected Muriel and I through art. She had encouraged me in high school as I attempted to work with oils. I gave it up after a time because I believed my elementary art teacher, Mrs. Sheryl, who felt I had no talent. Now, I had focus. My early sketches were guided by Sis and refined by a childhood neighbor, Clara Gee Stamaty, a woman of note in cartooning and commercial art.

Eventually as my portfolio and proficiency increased, I juried for the Monmouth Festival of the Arts. Mom, Sis, Cindi and I were having coffee and tea in a room converted into a Petite Café. On the wall to my right hung my first large piece, a 22X30" rendering of three Red eyed Tree Frogs, titled, "Hanging With Dad." To my amazement, a red dot was being affixed to the lower right hand corner of the piece, indicating a sale. Mom’s health was beginning to fail. But, shining through her frailty was an unmistakable pride. She had witnessed my first sale.

Watercolors not only became a passion, but a therapy. Cindi was constantly offering encouragement and I relied on her honesty with each succeeding piece. Art therapy became a reality when Cindi was diagnosed with breast cancer. I can’t swear that painting kept me calm. But, it certainly calmed my Irish soul, confronting surgeons who wanted to wait. Cindi’s calm and courage were both amazing and inspiring. Waiting was not an option. The lump was growing. The doctor was upset, that she had come back prior to her next appointment. His anger evaporated when he touched her breast. Surgery was scheduled for the next day.

Having a mother for a nurse armed me with all the appropriate questions as the doctor entered the waiting room from the operating theater. Was it cancer? Had it spread? Was this the primary legion? Did you get it all?

As he approached me, I recognized that familiar facial cast, that the uninitiated assume when addressing the handicapped. Yes, it was cancer. I don’t know if it has spread. I don’t know if this was the primary lesion. I am not sure if we got it all. I will inform your wife, when she comes out of recovery. The timber of my voice surprised even me. "Doctor, your lack of information is appalling! I am handicapped, not retarded! Give me information." His answer was unemotional, ‘I have none." I was standing now in order to prevent waves of spasms from overtaking my legs. As I started to the recovery room, I told the Doctor, that informing my wife of cancer was my responsibility.

Cindi was groggy. Her eyes though half closed were clear. I had not stepped more than a foot inside the door when she exclaimed, "Your as white as a ghost, what’s wrong?" As I kissed her with our lips just parted, I said, "It’s cancer."

The follow up consultation with the Doctor was an exercise in convoluted medical hyperbole. He would not address any of Cindi’s concerns relating to treatment or prognosis. As Cindi pressed for a mortality percentage, he countered with you could get hit by a bus stepping off the curb. The session ended with my canes being placed across his desk, as I demanded all records pertaining to the case. Cindi wanted a second opinion.

There were a number of nights and weeks spent before an easel half-heartedly painting, while fervently in prayer. The Doctors at the University of Pennsylvania verified that contrary to initial reports clean margins had been achieved and the cancer had not spread. Cindi is a thirteen- year cancer survivor.

Painting skills and relationships deepen over the years. The intermingling of the two makes art all the more passionate. Ironically, the majority of people who view and buy my work don’t know I have cerebral palsy. I can only grab a pencil and layout a preliminary sketch as colors fill my mind waiting to be set on paper. Each day is a journey from the shadows into the light.

Treetop Quartet

Watercolor, 22X30"

1998

Dart Frog

Watercolor, 13X16"

2005

Goose and Berries

Watercolor, 12X16"

1992

Coast Guard 1

Watercolor, 22X30"

1991

Orange Gross Beck

Watercolor, 14X16’

1995

Rana Oratoris

Watercolor, 14X16

2005

Canadian Geese

Watercolor, 16X12

1992

Lighthouse II

Watercolor, 14X16"

2005

Kobe Maiden

Watercolor, 16X14"

2005

Grecian Urn

Watercolor, 16X14"

2004

Grecian Urn was a continued attempt to grasp the mechanics of figure drawing. Reminiscent of classical themes, it was a reflection of my reading of John Keats’ Hypernion.

Night Into Day

Watercolor, 6X14"

2005

Night Into Day was another excursion into the Blake mentality. It makes perfect sense, that the god figure be female. From the Christian viewpoint, the notion of rebirth, compassion, forgiveness and unconditional love reside in the female form. Blake never expressed this notion.

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