The Art of My Life: The Perspective of Life Through the Eyes of an Artist

By Joe Pearce

Award winning fine artist Joe Pearce brings wisdom, humor, and creative perspective to the trials, tribulations, and party that is life. After growing up in the drug culture of the 70’s, Joe Pearce turned to a fundamentalist church for personal redemption. He felt called to become a traveling evangelist and musical artist, which is how he met his wife. Joe eventually transitioned away from that belief system to become part of corporate America. Joe was working a job in financial services, 20 years into marriage, when his wife developed severe schizophrenia. The Art of My Life explores Joe’s struggles with care taking for, and coping with, his wife’s illness. Joe tells a raw, blatantly honest narrative of his unique life experiences while weaving in themes of his and other's art with the hopes of helping people find their passion along their own unique paths.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gatekeeper Press
• Release date: Jan 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9781642377446

Book preview

Ohio

CHAPTER 1

ON JANUARY 7, 1958, I was born in Albuquerque, New Mexico. My dad, Joe E. Pearce Sr., sent a telegram to friends in Indianapolis that read: Joe Jr. made a screaming arrival at 2:22 p.m. MST today. 7 lbs. 3 oz. 21 inches. Please call friends and family. Mother and baby doing fine.

My dad had been a sergeant in the army in World War II. At one point in time, he was standing in line waiting for a bus that would transport his army unit and him to New York. From there, they were to fly to Europe. Their ultimate destination was Rees, Germany. As Dad stood in line, an officer walked up to him, tapped him on the shoulder, and said he was being transferred to the Air Corps. He reluctantly left his unit. His unit flew to Europe and traveled to Rees, Germany, where they were the first to meet the Germans at the Rhine River. Dad’s entire unit was massacred. He told that story a few times, always with tears in his eyes.

After Dad was released from the army, he moved to Albuquerque to live with his older brother. He attended the University of New Mexico on the G.I. Bill, graduating with a degree in electrical engineering.

My mom, Martha, was raised on a farm near Mt. Pleasant, Indiana. She moved to Indianapolis for a while with a friend, attended a business college, and received a certificate in secretarial sciences. She and her best friend got restless and decided to move somewhere else. They pretty much threw a dart at a map and the dart landed on Albuquerque. She moved to Albuquerque with her friend and landed a job as a secretary in the Criminal Investigations Division of the U.S. Army. Somewhere along the way, Mom and Dad were fixed up on a blind date, fell in love, and married.

After a few years of marriage, Mom and Dad decided to have children. My oldest sister, Linda, was born. They then tried to have children many times, but Mom suffered several miscarriages. Mom and Dad wanted Linda to have a sibling, so they decided to adopt my sister Paula. Nine months after they adopted Paula, my mom accidentally became pregnant with me. She was ordered on bed rest for the entire pregnancy. Then I was born, making that screaming arrival. My birth was somewhat of a miracle, given all the moving parts that led up to it.

For five weeks, I lived in Albuquerque; then my parents packed up my two sisters and me and moved us to Indianapolis, Indiana.

* * *

My earliest memory is crawling on the floor at our old red-brick house on 50 North Kenmore Road in Indianapolis, Indiana. While I crawled, my dad sat in a chair and giggled his famous Popeye giggle. I remember wearing a cowboy hat and a cowboy holster with two little plastic six-shooters resting in the holster. I remember being outfitted with cowboy boots and spurs.

I was the youngest of three and would spend the days with Mom when my two sisters were at school and my dad was at work. One day, Mom and I went to the grocery store. She picked up several items, including a gallon of milk. Milk back then came in glass bottles. On the way out of the store, Mom tripped on a threshold that was not secured well. She had a bag of groceries in each hand. She fell violently forward onto the concrete sidewalk. I heard her moan as she hit the ground. Groceries flew all over and the glass milk bottle shattered on the sidewalk. She cut her wrist badly. Go get help! she cried.

I ran as fast as I could into the store. Big adults ran out and almost knocked me down. When I ran back out of the store, I saw Mom sprawled on the sidewalk with milk in her hair and crimson blood streaming out of her wrist. A man ran up, quickly unbuttoned his shirt and removed it, removed his undershirt, and there, bare-chested, he tied his undershirt around her arm, making a tourniquet.

A mechanical horse stood a few feet away and I climbed on top of it, watching everyone help my mom. Blood flowed with milk and the milk suddenly looked like a strawberry milkshake.

Mom yelled, Where is Jody, my little boy? Someone told her I was fine, that I was on the horse. She said later that when she looked at me, I was as white as a sheet.

Mom was taken to Indianapolis Community Hospital by a man in a station wagon. I rode in the back. We went in. A nurse led Mom to the ER to get stitches. A hospital worker handed me crayons and a coloring book. I used the red crayon the most. Dad soon arrived, checked on me, and went back to check on Mom. Mom was stitched up and came home later. Her eyes would be black for a few weeks, but she healed well.

* * *

When I was five years old, I went to kindergarten at School 77 in Indianapolis, also called Anna Pearl Hamilton. I loved kindergarten. My teacher, Mrs. Donahue, was a very kind older woman. My favorite activity in kindergarten was finger painting. I remember dipping my fingers in the thick, wet paint and smearing it on a large piece of paper. The paints smelled both sweet and sour.

One day in kindergarten, we learned how to duck and cover in case the United States was attacked by a nuclear bomb due to the fear of the Cuban Missile Crisis. We went to a back room, sat on the floor, and placed our hands behind our heads. Then we tucked our heads between our knees. We practiced this regularly.

Duck and cover! Mrs. Donahue would announce. We would spring into action.

We had no school buses when I attended Anna Pearl Hamilton. My sisters and I usually walked to school together. I went to kindergarten the first half of the day and walked home by myself at lunchtime because my sisters stayed at school all day. On a clear, cool November day, I walked home from kindergarten with my friends Mark and Kerry. Mom usually greeted me with lunch when I arrived, but this time she sat in front of the TV crying. I remember tears cascading down her cheeks. A somber newscaster spoke in a hushed tone. President Kennedy had been shot and killed. A few days later, I watched the funeral with Mom. I watched Caroline and John Jr. I felt sorry for them. My heart went out to Jackie. Those were sad days.

* * *

I grew up around art. My dad was very artistic and creative. I remember one time that we sat in our TV room in the old red-brick house. He picked up a pencil and a piece of paper.

I’m going to draw you a cowboy, Jody, he said. When he started the drawing, I was impatient. I could not see how his lines and shadows would become a cowboy. In a few minutes, the cowboy appeared. The whole process was intriguing to me.

Dad had a friend and business colleague named Leonard. Leonard was so artistic that he was nicknamed Leonardo. Leonardo could pick up an old, chewed, No. 2 pencil and draw anything freehand. I remember watching Leonardo intently whenever he did anything artistic. He would say, Look, Joey, if you put the pencil on the paper, draw a line, draw some curves, and put in some shading, this will happen. . . .

Once, when Mom and Dad were going to go out, they hired a babysitter. Their friends and my godparents, Gladys and Ivan, came over to go out with them. Gladys and Ivan brought my sisters and me paint-by-numbers sets. I was about five years old and vividly remember the smell and texture of the paints, and specifically the warm gray tone of one of the colors.

* * *

I continued to attend School 77 in first and second grade. The summer after second grade, Mom and Dad decided to drive us all the way to Los Angeles. We packed up Dad’s station wagon and journeyed out west. We stopped at the Grand Canyon, the Petrified Forest, and Las Vegas along the way. Finally, we arrived in Los Angeles where their best friends, Barbara and Grady, lived.

While we were in Los Angeles, Dad, Grady, and I went deep-sea fishing. After we boarded a big, smelly fishing boat, the boat chugged out to a spot in the ocean, rested, and then we began to place minnows on hooks and cast our lines into the sea. I was lined up with all the other people fishing along the side of the boat. Suddenly, I felt a hard tug at my line. A creature bit my hook and began to swim away rapidly. My reel began to make a high-squealing, spinning sound. I grabbed the handle and tried my best to wind the line in, to pull the fish out of the water. Finally, after great effort, I lifted the fish out of the water.

My dad yelled, It’s a tuna! I’m sure in his mind he wanted me to experience the entire thrill because he just kept watching me, not helping me. The fish was just too heavy for my seven-year-old arms, though. Suddenly, a drunk woman came to my aid. She was so drunk she could barely walk, let alone reel in a tuna. She grabbed my line and slapped the fish against the side of the big boat. The jolt knocked the tuna off the hook. The tuna was probably happy about that. It quickly swam to freedom. Later, the woman vomited violently off the side of the boat, polluting the ocean.

The next year, Grady and Barbara moved from Los Angeles to Albuquerque, their original home. Our family visited them again. Grady drove a bakery truck in Albuquerque. My dad and I rode along with him on his route one day. Grady gave me a delicious sugar-glazed cookie. I happily ate it.

While we were on his route, I had to urinate. I told my dad and he told Grady. Grady stopped at a new construction house. We walked to the back of it and Dad told me to do my thing there. I started to pee. A snake suddenly began to squirm and crawl after I accidentally peed on it. The snake didn’t appreciate my urine and it hissed.

I screamed, Dad, a snake!

Dad said, It’s a rattlesnake!

He and Grady picked up two-by-fours and beat the rattlesnake to death. They then cut off the rattle and gave it to me as a souvenir. That snake had a really bad day.

After the vacation in Los Angeles ended, we drove back to Indianapolis. When we returned, we learned that our house—which my parents had put up for sale—had been sold. My parents quickly found a new house that we leased. I went to a new school.

* * *

Third grade was challenging. My family moved from the old red-brick house to a rental house on the far east side of Indianapolis where I went to Heather Hills Elementary School.

I had not learned the multiplication tables in second grade at School 77, but the third-grade class at Heather Hills Elementary School had already learned them. I was completely lost. My mom bought flash cards. We spent practically all night, every night, going over the flash cards. My mom’s pure determination allowed me to begin to get caught up. That summer, I went to summer school at another school a few miles away to continue to bridge the gap. My mom drove me to school and picked me up every day. The best part for me was that we had milk and cookies during recess. Of secondary importance to me at the time was getting caught up with all the other school kids.

* * *

I was at recess one day when I saw several boys wearing Cub Scout uniforms. I heard them talking about a meeting they were having after school at a boy named Curt’s house. He lived about six houses down from our rental. It sounded interesting so I walked up to Curt and asked him if I could come to the meeting. He shrugged at the question and ran off. I was hurt. When I hopped off the school bus after school, I hung my head, opened our front door, and started to sob.

What’s wrong, Joe? my mom asked.

Boys are going to a Cub Scout meeting down the street and I’m not allowed to go, I cried.

Whose house? Mom asked.

Curt’s, down the street! I said. She grabbed me by the hand and marched me out the door and down the street to Curt’s house. She knocked on the door. Curt’s mom came to the door.

Hi, I’m Martha Pearce and this is my son Joe. He’s really interested in becoming a Cub Scout. Can he come to your meeting? she asked.

Well, absolutely! Emily Ann, Curt’s mom, said. Thus, I became a Cub Scout. Spoiler alert: I also became best friends with Curt.

* * *

The fall of 1967, I entered fourth grade at Heather Hills. My teacher, Miss Coons, was everything: young, smart, sweet, and pretty. My dad would say, Boy, oh boy, Joe. You sure have a cute teacher. When he said that, Mom just shook her head.

Miss Coons was not only cute, but she was also compassionate. Mom took me for an eye appointment one morning because I was having a hard time seeing the chalkboard. The eye doctor dilated and examined my eyes and gave me a prescription for glasses. I went to school late that day due to the eye exam. We had a test when I got there but I couldn’t read it because my eyes were dilated.

Miss Coons said, Don’t worry about it, Joe, you can take it tomorrow; rest your eyes a while. When I wore my new glasses to school, I was embarrassed. She reassured me, All the smart people wear glasses, Joe.

Miss Coons found ways to recognize every student in her class. She gave Student of the Week awards and went out of her way to find things to recognize us for. I received an award one Friday titled: Student of the Week. Hard Worker Award. I felt grand.

When I walked in my front door, I yelled to my mom, I was the student of the week! My mom came, grabbed hold of my hands, and waltzed us around the living room. She hung the award on the refrigerator.

Ever since then, I have wondered why teachers, leaders, bosses, and others in authority don’t realize the dynamically strong value of recognition. I read once that people work harder for recognition than for money. Miss Coons found a way to recognize everyone in her class. She was a great teacher.

Another fourth-grade teacher of mine was our art teacher. I loved her class. I don’t remember her name—or what I learned specifically—but when I think back on that class and that teacher, my mind sees beautiful, abstract images of splendid color.

Mom and Dad found a brand-new house that year. We moved from the rental house near Curt to a house about a mile away on Lema Circle near 21st Street and Mitthoeffer Road on the far east side of Indianapolis. This became home.

Soon after we moved to Lema Circle, Mom and Dad bought a mural. The mural came in wallpaper form. Dad pasted it to the living room wall. The mural pictured leaves and flowers growing up a wide lattice. The mural had been discounted because it was missing the end of the left side of it. So, Dad enlisted the help of my sister Linda, who was artistic, to finish the mural with paints that he purchased. They knelt down and painted leaves, flowers, and the last part of the lattice.

Eagerly, I asked, Can I help? The answer was no. I was not qualified to help paint a mural.

* * *

On a muggy June day, I walked down the Lema Circle circular driveway to look around. I had no friends in that new neighborhood and was lonely, looking for something to do. Down the street, I saw a boy riding a bicycle and somehow pulling a lawnmower at the same time. He saw me and slowly peddled in my direction. He made it to my driveway, huffing and puffing.

I’m John. I mow lawns, he said.

I’m Joe; we don’t need our lawn mowed, I answered.

That’s okay. Do you want to be friends? he asked.

Sure, I replied. John Roeser and I are still friends to this day.

John was a year and a half older than me, taller than me at that time, and stronger than me. He was thin, had brown hair, and a refined-looking face. He became a big brother to me.

* * *

That April, I attended a school roller-skating party. After the party ended, I walked out the front door of the roller rink to my dad’s car and hopped in. The radio was on; a newscaster was speaking in a grave tone like the one who announced John F. Kennedy’s death. Martin Luther King Jr. had been shot and killed, he said. That June, Robert Kennedy, JFK’s brother, was shot and killed too. The sixties were very turbulent years: assassinations, the fight for civil rights, the war in Vietnam, peace protests, four students shot and killed at Kent State by the National Guard, and more.

* * *

My fifth-grade teacher was a heavy smoker with a raspy voice. One day in March she said, Anyone who writes an accurate report on what makes March windy will receive an ‘A’ in science. I currently had a C, so I had to do the report. So, I went home—with my pad and paper in hand—where I found my dad in his easy chair in the den, sat down on the bricks in front of the fireplace, and asked, Dad, what makes March so windy? He told me about warm air hitting cold air, on and on. I wrote it down.

I took it to class the next day and showed my teacher. She said, Where did you get this information?

I said, We have some encyclopedias and home.

She said, You get an ‘A’! I was thrilled. My friend Curt didn’t do a report. He was smart enough that he didn’t need to be given an A. He already had earned one.

* * *

With the help of John and the neighborhood kids, I built a tree house that summer on the big strong oak tree that grew in my backyard. We picked up scraps of wood and nails from construction projects around the neighborhood. One of us would climb up a big branch that hovered parallel to the ground. Then the others would pass the pieces of wood up to the person in the tree. From there, we banged away. I’m surprised the big oak tree survived. We had fun in the tree house. As leaves rustled in the wind, we sat on the plywood platform and talked about sports, girls, and life in general.

* * *

A creek flowed near our neighborhood. John, a few other boys, and I hiked to the creek often. We carried our fishing poles with us. We fished, were bitten by mosquitoes, got sunburned, caught a few little bluegills, caught a catfish or two, and enjoyed being boys.

Every once in a while, my family and I would go to drive-in movies. The theater we attended was on Shadeland Avenue in Indianapolis. Right there at the theater was Al Green’s, a restaurant and snack shop. During intermission, we left our car and walked to Al Green’s to eat a candy bar, hot dog, popcorn, or something else.

* * *

Sometime that July, I went to Boy Scout summer camp. A neighbor drove their son and me to the camp. My mom had packed my dad’s old army duffle bag with everything imaginable: Vienna sausages, crackers, nuts, and anything else you would need to get you through a week of camp. Just before we left my mom said, Now, be sure to write to me.

I rode in the back seat of the neighbor’s car and heard her bark commands to her son the entire way. Her voice and the ride gave me a bad headache.

Upon arriving at our campground, we all met under a shelter. The Scout leader divided us up into groups of ten. The ten then selected a leader of each group. I was selected for some reason.

One of the members of my group was a kid we called Huber. Huber was twice as tall and twice as wide as everyone else. I would be his boss.

One day, Huber and another Scout didn’t see eye-to-eye about something. I saw Huber push the other Scout down. The other Scout struggled back to his feet and Huber pushed him down again. And again.

HUBER! I shouted.

He turned my direction. What? he said.

I ran over to the scene. Stop pushing him down! I yelled into his chest.

He stopped.

I got sick during camp. Maybe I was eating too many Vienna sausages. Perhaps I was really homesick and it came out in the form of physical sickness. In any case, I developed diarrhea. The only bathrooms we had were old-fashioned latrines. They were basically outhouses. They stunk to high heaven, reeking of aged urine and feces. That was where I had to run to relieve myself. It was disgusting.

I told the Scout leader I was sick. He felt my head. Oh, you do have a fever, he said. That night, he walked me to a bunkhouse. You’ll sleep here tonight, he said.

He found a thermometer somewhere. He took my temperature. One hundred point three, he said. Not really high. He gave me a couple of aspirin.

Some big burly guy in a Boy Scout shirt and scarf and shorts two sizes too small came in with a pillow and army blanket. He gave them to the Scout leader who gave them to me. I lay on the bunk. I put my head on the pillow. It smelled musty. The blanket was scratchy. The leader turned out the light and said he’d see me in the morning.

I slept fitfully that night. I heard creaks and other noises. I was sure the big burly guy in the tight shorts would come back to rape and kill me. He didn’t.

The leader came back the next day, woke me up, and felt my head.

He said, Oh good, your fever broke! Back to camp!

I had no idea how the process of writing letters worked. What would I write them on? Where would I get an envelope? Where was a mailbox? Since I felt like I had been a pain in the neck already, I didn’t ask the Scout leader and I didn’t write to my mom.

One day, the leader announced, Okay, troop, today we’re going skinny-dipping and then we’ll sleep under the stars!

Skinny-dipping? Why in the name of all things good would you make boys take all their clothes off and swim around with each other? What good lesson in life would you learn from that? Oh, I can conquer the world because I swam naked with thirty other boys!

We went down to a pond that day, took our uniforms off, and swam naked with each other. Then we dried off and set up mini tents. They were only big enough to cover one’s head.

We then lay on the earth in our sleeping bags and tried to go to sleep. One boy screamed out, A bug! A bug! It’s in my ear!

I said, Shine a flashlight in the ear and the bug will come out. I learned that from my dad when a bug flew in my ear once.

Misery and I were best friends that night. I then remembered something our Weekday Religious Education teacher told us once: The Bible says, ‘Ask and you shall receive.’ If you ask God for something that you really need, God will provide it.

So, that night, I prayed my heart out, Dear God, please have my mom and dad visit me. I miss them so much. Please.

We packed up our mini tents the next day and went back to our regular camp. The day proceeded and I thought, Well, so much for prayer.

A little later, I saw two people walking towards our camp. From a distance, it looked like a man and woman and they were carrying a big box between them. They continued to stride down the path, and, the closer they came, the more I realized it was Mom and Dad. I jumped up from a circle we were in and ran to them. They put down the box and hugged me. The box was a case of Coca-Cola.

Dad picked the case back up and took it to the Scout leader. Here, I thought the boys would enjoy a Coke, he said. The Scout leader flashed him a wry smile.

My mom asked, Why haven’t you written to me? I was worried to pieces about you! I told her I didn’t know the process and that I was sorry.

The Scout leader said, Well, we had a scare. Joe was really sick one day. But he got over it. My mom hugged me with concern.

Camp ended two days later, and I was thrilled that it was over.

Mom and Dad picked me up from camp. I told them I was glad that the woman neighbor who badgered her son was not driving me home. On the way home, we stopped at McDonald’s, a relatively new restaurant at the time. I ordered a hamburger with extra onions and a chocolate milkshake.

After returning from camp, I spent the rest of the summer like the first part of the summer: enjoying the tree house, fishing, and lighting firecrackers.

* * *

Sixth grade was great. My desk was next to Curt’s, and for the first time in my life, I had a male teacher. His name was Mr. Frosch. Mr. Frosch was funny, smart, caring, and encouraging. He sported a mustache that looked like Teddy Roosevelt’s. His hair was curly. He was a little chunky.

I became a doodler in sixth grade. I would draw patterns that looked like snakes or worm bodies. The lines went over and under each other, around and around. Then I would color in the gaps in the background. Curt said I drew like Picasso.

Mr. Frosch said, Well, Picasso is a little different, but, wow, those are interesting.

Curt said, I still think he draws like Picasso.

Mr. Frosch said, Okay, let’s look to see. He retrieved an encyclopedia and showed us pictures of Picasso’s works.

There, he said to Curt.

Yeah, I still think he draws like Picasso, Curt replied. Mr. Frosch smiled, shook his head, and sent us to lunch.

* * *

I was on the basketball team in sixth grade. Curt was our center and I was a forward. Basketball practice was every day after school. On my birthday, I went to school and to practice. The coach was angry at us for losing against Eastridge Elementary School. He made us run wind sprints for what seemed to be hours. I was exhausted, hungry, and saddled with a pounding headache.

After practice, we stood at the front door of the school awaiting our rides. It was a frigid, snowy, wintery night. There I stood and stood and stood. My dad was the last parent to arrive. I was none too happy and voiced my complaint. He said he had to run some errands and was sorry it took so long.

When we arrived home, I walked in the front door, hung up my coat, and smelled dinner. I noticed the house was sparkling clean. I walked down the hall to the kitchenette expecting to see dinner. I smelled it. Where was it?

My mom said, Will you go to the basement and get me a jug of water from the old refrigerator down there? Dinner will be ready soon. I reluctantly went to get the water.

When I got to the basement, the entire basketball team jumped out of hiding, yelling, Happy Birthday! Curt was the first one out. He slapped me on the back. Everyone followed behind. I was shocked and happy.

Mom cooked her classic homemade spaghetti and meatballs. She brought down big bowls of spaghetti, big bowls of meatballs and sauce, baked garlic toast, and salad. The hungry basketball team ate heartily. You could only hear forks hitting the plates. We then ate delicious, moist chocolate cake. It was decorated with a basketball.

My present that year was a new gold-colored five-speed bicycle. It came with a banana seat and raised handlebars. I loved that bike.

* * *

During my time at Heather Hills, I started playing the trumpet. My dad encouraged me to play because he had played horns when he was young. Playing the trumpet became my musical art early in my life. I enjoyed it, was pretty good at it, played for many years, and still blow into it occasionally.

* * *

In May of that year, we went to the Indianapolis 500 time trials. This was an annual trip for us. Mom would fry chicken the night before and pack lunches for all of us. Linda, Paula, and I would eat chicken and drink soda pop. Mom and Dad would eat chicken and drink beer.

Speedway, Indiana, was not far from our house in terms of mileage, but, due to the many people who converged on the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, traffic jams were part of the whole trip. We all knew that the trip would take a while. I brought a pad of paper and a pencil with me the day of the time trials. I decided to draw trees with snow on them. I made the snow the lightest part of the drawing, the sky a little darker, and the trees the darkest.

Paula said the snow wasn’t white enough. Linda said the drawing was pretty good. Mom said the drawing was nice.

Dad agreed with Paula about the snow. The problem is the paper is manila. When you get home, get a piece of white chalk and color the snow in.

We enjoyed the time trials as usual and returned home. I colored the snow with white chalk and Mom hung my drawing on the refrigerator.

I finished sixth grade and I was sorry to see it go.

* * *

The summer after sixth grade, the summer of sixty-nine, I found my first girlfriend. Her name was Gina. Gina was the younger sister of Desiree, a friend of Paula’s. Gina and Desiree belonged to the same swim club that we belonged to. Gina and I met there and instantly felt chemistry. Gina’s face was smooth, complemented by a perfectly sculpted nose. She was Italian and her skin was beautifully tan. She wore a cool necklace made from rubber beads. My heart skipped every time I saw her.

Gina and I went to the Miramar Swim Club often that summer. We swam, ate in the snack shop, and sunbathed. One day, we were the only ones in the pool because the weather was cool. I bounced her up and down. Her lips were smiling and blue. I sneaked a peek down her top. She giggled.

Gina and I went to a Catholic church festival together called the Holy Spirit Festival. We rode rides, ate cotton candy, and played games. I won a tossing game and gave her a teddy bear. Afterward, we snuck behind the church to kiss.

We also went to the movies, watched TV, and talked on the phone regularly that summer. Life was fun and simple.

Summer ended. Seventh grade and junior high stood on the horizon.

CHAPTER 2

HEATHER HILLS ELEMENTARY School was small. The building consisted of kindergarten through sixth grade, a gym, a cafeteria, and offices. Creston Junior High School was large. A newer building, Creston contained two stories of classrooms, two science rooms, a gym, a theater, a football field, administrative offices, a nursing office, and more. When I walked into Creston, I felt like I was walking into a foreign country.

Creston was organized in caste system fashion, based, I am guessing, on IQ test scores. Seventh grade consisted of an A-1 through A-4 caste and a B-1 through B-4 caste, on down to D. Curt, being one of the smartest kids, ended up in A-1. I was planted in A-4. I complained to my mom that I wasn’t in Curt’s class. Mom called the school. I had a meeting with a plump woman with a smoker’s voice who was the guidance counselor. I made my case. I lost. I was angry. I stayed in A-4.

I felt it was a good thing that Curt and I were in band together. Still, we grew apart as he made new friends. John and I grew apart too. He had his own eighth-grade cliques. Gina and I grew apart. She ate lunch with her girlfriends and essentially ignored me. I tried to sit next to her at her lunch table once and she asked, What are you doing?

I’m eating lunch with you.

No, Sharon is sitting there. Go eat somewhere else! I went to another table to eat by myself.

Feeling lonely and isolated, I reached out to my neighbors across the street, Lonny and Lenny.

Lonny and Lenny were brothers in a big family. Their dad was a lieutenant colonel in the army and was stationed at Fort Benjamin Harrison in Indianapolis. Lenny was a year older than Lonny and me, but Lenny had been held back one year, so he attended seventh grade with Lonny and me. Lonny was in the A-caste and Lenny was in the C-caste.

Because Lonny and Lenny were popular, they were good to know. We had been friends in the neighborhood already.

* * *

Thanksgiving arrived. My mom invited my favorite uncle and his family to eat. Mom baked a turkey in a plastic bag, as she was wont to do. She cooked stuffing, mashed potatoes, and green beans. She served cranberry sauce that came in a can. She would open the can, plop the cranberry sauce out, and then slice it. A relish tray was always on the Thanksgiving table. Black olives were always part of the relish tray. She served salad and rolls. She baked homemade pecan pie and pumpkin pie for dessert. There were times she baked lemon meringue pie with homemade meringue, banana cream pie with homemade meringue, coconut cream with the meringue, apple, or cherry pie, all with her homemade crust.

My Uncle Pick sat next to me that day. They called him Pick, which was short for Pickle, because once, when he was a kid, he formed a dramatically sour look on his face after he ate a pickle. Since then, he was Pickle or Pick.

We began to pass the dishes. I asked for the butter. Pick passed the stick of butter, but instead of stopping at my hand, he pushed the butter into my thumb. Pickle, are you still pulling that trick? my mom asked with laughter in her voice. I laughed hard. Everyone at the table laughed with us.

The story of Uncle Pick ended tragically. He owned an upholstery shop in a small town in Indiana. The town had economic troubles, so he had to close down. He turned to heavy drinking. He also suffered extreme pain in his legs. He decided to put himself out of pain by shooting himself. Interestingly, a cousin of mine did the same thing. Another cousin died of an overdose of prescription pills. The speculation was that it was an intentional act.

I talked to a friend the other day whose neighbor had just killed himself. She said this: You know, people kill themselves to put themselves out of pain. What they don’t realize is it just redistributes pain to everyone who is close to them. I agree.

* * *

Thanksgiving ended and seventh grade continued. I started adjusting better. My seventh-grade science teacher liked me for one reason: he taught my sister Linda once and she aced the class, so he liked her. Another reason was that I dissected a worm perfectly.

I was absent the day he returned the worms to students with their grades for the dissection. I came in the next day.

Joe, go back to the back room and find your worm, he said.

I walked back there, but my worm was nowhere to be found.

My worm isn’t back there, I said.

Did you put your name on it?

Maybe not.

He showed me a worm and said, Is this your worm?

Yes, that’s it.

Oh, I used it as an example of a perfect dissection, he returned.

He formed a group called Mission Ecology. He asked the class to vote for a president. A boy named Mike raised his hand. I nominate Joe Pearce, he said. The teacher was quick to call for a vote. All in favor? I was elected.

I believed in the mission of Mission Ecology: to clean up waste and make the earth a prettier place. The problem was that we would go on outings on Saturdays to clean up trashy areas. That involved getting up at 7:00 in the morning those Saturdays. We were required to volunteer to do four cleanups. At one point, I had only volunteered for one.

Oh, Joe, don’t you think if you are president of Mission Ecology that you should be volunteering much more than you are? my teacher asked. There’s something called ‘leadership by example.’

Well, that squashed my presidency. Sleeping past 7:00 on a Saturday held higher importance to me than being president of Mission Ecology.

My main accomplishment with Mission Ecology was that I designed the poster. I drew a peace sign that rested on top of the world. The science teacher loved it.

My seventh-grade English teacher liked me too. She was a very pretty lady. Her looks and her brain motivated me to read The Red Badge of Courage. I also actually took the time to try to understand diagramming sentences.

I tried out for the basketball team in seventh grade. I thought that would be another way to make friends with Curt again. I didn’t make the team because, even though I was a pretty good shooter at home, when I stepped out onto the big wood-floored basketball court to try out, I had stage fright, or court fright, if you will, and played poorly.

I was part of the symphonic band. I played well enough to be fourth chair first trumpet.

Seventh grade came and went. Summer arrived.

* * *

My dad was a small business owner. He owned Pearce Lighting Manufacturing and Design Company. I always thought it should have been called Pearce Lighting Design and Manufacturing Company because one designs something first and then manufactures it.

Dad drafted lighting fixture plans and then built the fixtures. He would build big Gothic church light fixtures, massive chandeliers, white plastic fixtures with brass louvers in the bottom, indirect fixtures, and whatever else he needed to build to make a living. The indirect fixtures consisted of wide pieces of wood (typically twelve inches high by six feet wide) that were fastened to the front of fluorescent light fixtures. The light would shine from behind the wood and light up the rooms indirectly, hence the word indirect.

That summer, he had a big indirect lighting fixture job for a nursing home. I was drafted to help him.

My job was to varnish the front of the boards and paint the backs white. I also had to stain the sides of the boards. This required hours of hard work.

Dad was very artistic, but when something was over his head art-wise, he called in his friend Leonard, a.k.a. Leonardo, to work. Leonardo came to assist with a project that summer. Leonardo was working on a drawing when he called to me, Joey, come here, I want to show you something. I was more than glad to put down my paintbrush, so I left the hot assembly room that was in the back of Dad’s building and went to the air-conditioned office. There sat Leonardo at the drafting table.

You see, Joey, I am drawing a light fixture for your dad. He took out a separate piece of paper.

Now, Joey, if your eyes are on a level above the fixture, you will draw a sphere on top of it. A sphere is kind of like a football shape. He drew a perfect sphere with his pencil.

Then you bring a line down on the left, a line down the right. He freehandedly drew two perfectly straight congruent lines.

Then the bottom curves out just a little because you don’t actually see the bottom if your eye level is above the fixture. He finished the bottom.

Now, if your eye level happens to be under the fixture, you draw the sphere under the fixture, then the lines go up. Then you draw the top, which curves out a little.

I watched intently. My dad said, Leonardo, you draw freehand better than I draw with a straightedge and compass.

Leonardo twitched his mustache as usual, shaded here and there, and the lesson ended. He went back to the more complicated drawing, still drawing freehand, and I went back to painting boards.

I was reading a magazine while sitting in the dentist’s waiting room early that summer. I saw an ad for a bodybuilding course by Joe Weider. With the money I was earning from painting boards, I purchased the course. When it arrived, I realized I needed weights. I talked to my dad. He said he would buy me a set. We went to K-Mart one day and bought a barbell, two dumbbells, and a hundred pounds of weights.

I followed the workout plan to a T. After working out, I would make a protein shake that also called for a raw egg or two and honey. Paula said, That’s plain gross when she saw me crack the eggs into the shake.

I gained forty pounds of muscle that summer. Since then, I have lifted weights off and on my entire life.

I entered eighth grade in the twelfth year of my life. My curriculum included math, English, band, industrial arts, which was a drafting class, and an art class.

In band, I met a boy whose dad played the trumpet on the Johnny Carson Show. The boy and I became friends because we both played the trumpet and sat next to each other. The boy and his dad inspired me to be better. I found a trumpet teacher named Craig and took private lessons. The trumpet I played was a very basic, cheap trumpet since my parents didn’t know if I would stick to it. Craig talked me into getting a better one.

My parents were great at stoking our interests. I told them about the recommendation to buy a new trumpet. They talked to Craig. He worked in a music store too; he said he could get a discount on a trumpet. I think Joe is good enough to invest in the best trumpet out there, a Bach Stradivarius, he told them. My parents truly sacrificed to buy one for me.

I felt important in band. I met and talked with the trumpet player from the Johnny Carson Show. He gave me some tips. I practiced hard and moved up to second chair first trumpet. The first chair first trumpeter was a prodigy. It was impossible to beat him.

Industrial arts was the drafting class I mentioned. A man with foul breath was our teacher. He would pass out flat plans that we were required to make 3-D drawings of. We were required to use straightedges that would slide up and down on the drafting table. We also used compasses and other drafting tools. The teacher would come up to us, lower his head, inspect our drawings, and talk into our noses. His breath smelled of tobacco and tooth decay. I would almost gag.

The teacher was not pleased with my drafting habits. I freehanded a lot of things, hearkening back to learning from Leonardo. I could draw the 3-D drawing, but he required it to be completed with all the correct tools. I earned a C in the class. My dad had some choice names for the teacher.

Eighth-grade art came right after math class. It was a good time to relax and turn the brain off. I think the teacher of the class was more interested in the girls in the class than seriously teaching art. I’ll give him this though: he taught us the grid method of drawing, and I’m glad I learned it. The grid method is this: One draws a grid on a picture that is the reference picture for a drawing. On a piece of paper, one draws another grid, most times bigger, sometimes smaller than the other grid. Then, when working on the drawing, one goes square by square, drawing the shape or pattern that is in the square of the grid that is on the reference picture.

With a pencil, I drew the head of a lion using the grid method. The teacher liked it and held it up for the class to see.

There was a cheerleader in our class with whom I was greatly infatuated. Her name was Julie. Julie was a perky brunette and was very nicely filled out, especially for an eighth grader. I would go to basketball games, not to watch Curt, but to watch her.

One night at home, I picked up the seventh-grade yearbook. I turned the pages to where Julie was located. I drew a little grid on her picture.

I picked up a piece of paper much bigger than Julie’s yearbook picture; I gridded it. As I drew the shapes of Julie’s face into different boxes on the gridded paper, she started coming to life. It was amazing. I felt a deep inner satisfaction. Her face became complete.

Then I got a Playboy magazine that Lenny or Lonny gave me (they somehow had a source for everything). I cut the head off Barbie Benson’s body, and I gridded the body. That became my reference for the drawing that had Julie’s face on it. I drew the body under Julie’s face. After I finished, Julie’s head was on top of Barbie Benson’s body. I hid the picture in my trumpet case because it could be locked. I didn’t want my mom to find it. When I looked at the picture, I was aroused.

Another project in art class was creating a bust out of clay. I created mine, and it was okay, but a girl in the class did one that was perfect. Hers was the example the teacher used as the best bust. One day after class she handed it to me. You’re really artistic, she said. I want you to have it. I was speechless. Here, go ahead, take it.

I took it home. My dad thought I sculpted it.

Man alive, Joe, you did that? He never waited for an answer and carried it around showing it off, saying, Boy, oh boy, look at what Josephus (another nickname) did. I could not very easily deny it after all the fuss, so I lived with the lie.

I started talking to that girl a lot. We became friends. I drew a picture of flowers for her. When she looked at it, her eyes opened wide, her eyebrows rose, and her eyes welled up with tears. I told her I was sorry I made her cry.

Don’t be silly. I cried because I love it! she said. She kissed me on the cheek. I felt inner satisfaction because of the appreciation for the drawing. Well, the kiss was equally satisfying.

The problem with playing the trumpet and being in the band was that I would never be able to take another art class in junior high or high school. That would be my last one.

Eighth grade ended. Summer arrived. Adventures were on the horizon!

* * *

Lonny, Lenny, and I ran around together that summer. When I was not painting boards or wiring light fixtures at Pearce Lighting, I was with them. I was especially with Lenny.

Lenny and I were not good for each other. I think everyone has had a friend or two who brings out the wild side of them. Lenny and I did that to each other. Often that summer, we slept in Lenny’s dad’s trailer, in my tent in my backyard, or in my basement. One night, Lenny, who, again, was the source for everything, arrived at the tent with a six-pack of Colt 45. We drank the six-pack and walked around the neighborhood in the middle of the night egging houses and basically being terrors.

One night, we decided to sleep in my basement, which was a little more comfortable than a tent. Suddenly Lenny had an idea. He had been talking to Sharon, who was best friends with Gina, my old summer girlfriend. Sharon said Gina was staying all night at Sharon’s house. Lenny picked up my phone and called Sharon.

What time do your parents go to bed? he asked and I answered.

Okay, so whenever Joe’s parents go to bed, Joe and I are going to come over there. Yes, yes, we are. No, really, we are coming over there. He hung up.

Hey, man, they live like two miles from here, I