Perspective: The Portrayal of Artist Esther Joy White

Perspective

The Portrayal of Artist Esther Joy White

A novel by

Marc E Hopkins

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Perspective: The Portrayal of Artist Ester Joy White

Copyright November 2011 by Marc E Hopkins

Revised edition July 2012 by Marc E Hopkins

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved

ISBN 978-1-4657-0413-9

In the world of writing, I spend so much time alone with my characters it is often too easy for me to forget that it is fiction.

Putting out a book is a process that cannot be accomplished without the support of the people that mean the world to me.

I dedicate Perspective to my children Garrett, Gabrielle and Gretchen and to the girl of my dreams: my girlfriend Heidi and her sons Blake and Max.

The following are people who do what they do best so I do not have to learn how. Michael Pokorny, John Crothers: Cover Illustrator, Lisa Green: Editor, and Brian Harrison

To author Dr. Michael Collins, while he is no longer working in a classroom he always has time to teach a person that they have more work to do. Thank you for all you do in order for me to succeed in the world of writing.

Talent is not a reason not to work hard.

Perspective

The Portrayal of Artist Esther Joy White

Chapter One

I am Esther Joy White and this is my story. I was born in August of nineteen sixty-three, in Jackson, Michigan. I have been told by my fourth birthday I had been in the care of the state more than I had been with my mother. A fact that I can only assume is true. When she could, my mother would pickup odd jobs as a waitress or cashiering. The truth is she spent more time selling pot and getting high than anything else that would have been considered productive. It was the sixties and for as much as her life choices altered mine, I hold no grievances. Now, as I look back at it, is sadness that I carry for not getting to a chance to know my mother?

Later in my life I learned my mother had been arrested after being in a fight over drugs with another woman. I never was told all of the details, but my mother was convicted of assault with the intent to do bodily harm. For this she received three years in a correctional institution. It was before she began serving her prison sentence that my grandmother came and took me in.

My grandparents lived on a farm about a mile down the road from a place called Glenwood that was five miles southeast of Decatur, Michigan. Train tracks run through the middle of Glenwood. Anytime day or night and any season of the year, you could hear the trains coming for miles. We lived close enough to the tracks that the floor would vibrate, as trains rushed by. At night, especially during the winter, from my bedroom window I would see the trains’ light coming from Dowagiac. I would sit and imagine who was on the train and where they were going. As the train got closer to the house, it looked as though the light was exploding out from the night that surrounded it.

Years later the image of the train’s light cutting open the night’s skies were still floating around in my head. At the time, I was on the road speaking to anyone that would listen raising Aids awareness. I sketched a series of illustrations that later became paintings. It was the images I remember while imagining of the interior of the trains, with all the characters and people that were riding by my house. A year after that, I did a series of paintings where the focus of the painting was split or torn apart by a beacon of light. I used more memories from childhood and from my time in rehab to create this series. There were mixed reviews. Some art critics considered it me only trying to, ‘Glorifying the darker side of life while capturing both the good and bad of who I was’.

The truth is in all the train paintings there is a right side and the wrong side of the tracks; this was missed by most that considered themselves art purists. If you stand in front of the paintings you cannot see the hidden images, but if you stand off the side to look at the painting you can see a shadow of a train behind the light. It is funny, sad, and very telling how long the memories of living near a train track can stay with a girl.

The house I grew up in sat a ways off the road nestled in the center of a twenty acre wooded area that was surrounded by what the two attempted to farm. It by no means resembled the thoughts that go through ‘ones mind’ when they think of a century home. It was an unpainted, three-story, dilapidated house that hadn’t seen (even in good days) more than an ounce of maintenance. Just standing outside of it would be enough to give most children nightmares or assure them it was haunted with the most terrifying and hideous of demons.

I know going back and forth to school on the bus as a young child I heard the horror stories about the house I lived in. Looking back, I wonder if how much I was afraid of the house was actually based on the stories I heard. Whether hearing the stories or not I will not contest the house on its own merit was creepy.

Making the taunting worse were the children that knew my grandfather dug graves for the two townships. He called himself a sexton; it was for his amusement only. Grandpa took the job to make extra money after Park Estates, (a mobile home plant in Decatur) closed. He was only about three years from retirement when the plant closed. He never did quite get past how men his age were overlooked as candidates for other jobs now being given to a younger less experienced generation.

None of the reasons he was a gravedigger made it any easier riding with him in his truck, hopper hoe in tow, going to a cemetery, while he did what he had to. I spent most of my time sunk in my seat or watching the road to see if I knew anyone driving by that might torment me later.

During the winter, the house was cold, and almost as windy inside as it was outside. As the wind howled, the curtains which at one time, I’m sure were all white; now a mere piece of cloth barely more than paper thin and stained yellow from time and neglect would float out into the room like an un-hemmed skirt and then suddenly be sucked against the window. The only two warm spots I ever found were in front of the fireplace or in front of the woodstove.

I cannot recall a wall where the plaster was not embellished by thousands of spider web fractures. In some areas chunks of the plaster were missing; exposing the lath, allowing you to see remnants of rodent remains and tunnels in the blown paper insulation.

We did have a cast iron bathtub and gravity toilet on the second floor of the house. I was leery of the tub when I was little as the floor around the tub was sunken from the weight. The bathroom sat directly above the kitchen. If I was downstairs when my grandmother was in the tub, I could see the stained ceiling bow if she moved suddenly.

I remember my first day of Kindergarten. I was nervous about the whole ordeal the night before. I don’t think I spoke a word the entire day. Grandmother was waiting by the mailbox as the bus pulled up to drop me off. I remember falling into her arms and thinking about what a relief it was to have Kindergarten over.

We were walking to the house when I expressed to Grandma that I was happy that it was over. She asked me what I was referring too.

Kindergarten

She laughed and said, Esther this has only been the first day. And laughed a little more…

I didn’t know what to say. I look back and laugh now. I know I was embarrassed that I thought that Kindergarten was only a one-day adventure. Once I was over the shock of knowing I was going back I soon learned the first real thing about me. I loved school. At least the part where I had access to learn all I could about every topic. Compared to what I knew, I looked at the teachers like they were geniuses just waiting to help me become as smart as they were.

My grandmother was a short, grey haired, heavyset, hardworking, religious woman who as she put it, grew up so poor they didn’t have a word for wealthy. Poverty it seems followed my grandmother her entire life at least monetarily. She expressed for as hard as her life was she had so many things in her life that made her feel rich, she didn’t need money. She married a Michigan dirt farmer and left Kentucky behind when she was sixteen. They had one child, my mother. A ‘wild hair’ was the way my grandfather described her; ‘Revolting about everything and raising Cain since she was in diapers.’

I know God is what gave grandma the strength to endure the life she had and still be as positive as she could. We went to church every Saturday, good weather or bad, no excuses. She taught me from day one that the only shame a person should feel is if they did not live in the light of Christ. A lesson that I took with me; although I am sure did not fully come to understand, until much later.

I don’t remember much else about living in Jackson. Over the course of my life I would see a picture flash in my mind, like a snapshot of a place, or a space. The memories are from the viewpoint of a child, so I have always assumed they are from my time there. As the years have gone by, they have become fewer and farther between.

I do recall a few things about my mother from what little time I was with her. Mostly that she yelled a lot. The images I have of her in my mind most likely came from photos of her that my grandmother kept around the house; so what I really do visualize and what I think I’ve tried to convince myself I remember may be entirely different. I know grandma explained to me very early on that after my mom had been released from prison she had decided to stay in Jackson. I was too young to understand why; I know I was hurt that she didn’t come and get me or at the very least, see me. I know I always felt like she didn’t want me and that is why she never came back. I can safely say I never did get over that feeling.

I remember with certainty my mother’s last call to my grandmother.

The phone rang; it was well after midnight. It woke both Grandma and me. She answered the phone and shoed me back to bed all in the same second. I walked back up and sat on the top of the stairs, not saying a word; I just watched and listened. I could only make out some of the conversation.

She was telling the person on the phone to stay calm and it would be all right. My grandmother’s face looked as if she was going to cry. I heard her say it’s all right and she would stay on the phone until it’s over.

I remember thinking, What! What’s over? I could not go to sleep now. I tried as hard as I could to hear and harder to see if I could tell whom she was talking to. I fell asleep before it ended.

The next morning grandma told me I wasn’t going to school. She waited until after we had eaten and told me why.

It was more of a matter of fact the way she explained it. She said my mother had been stabbed and had called and talked to her until she passed. I remember thinking Did she ask for me? Did she want to talk to me? Why didn’t you let me speak with her? but I never asked. Then she told me to go and get my chores done and that was that.

I know I cried while feeding the chickens that morning. A little because I had lost my mother, but the truth is I didn’t know who she was. More so I cried because I hoped that my mom would come back and we could be a family. I was mourning, wanting a normal family more than anything. I loved my grandparents. But I also knew what other children had. They had everything. I had at the time, what seemed like nothing. I wanted things. I wanted new dresses and new shoes. I wanted a mom.

We drove to Jackson that day. They needed to identify the body and make arrangements. We didn’t talk much on the ride up. My grandfather said to my grandmother on the ride home it had looked more like she had been gutted. She never replied.

The funeral was several days later. Outside of a few family members, there weren’t many people I recognized. There weren’t many people too recognize. I didn’t know it, but my father was in attendance. I would not know that for another year.

My father showed up once, about a year and a half after my mothers’ funeral. It was in the middle of July and I was walking down the gravel road maybe a half-mile from the house. On each side of the road there were ditches that allowed water to run off from the fields. During the summer, the weeds grew higher than the crops. The reason I loved walking the road were the butterflies. They were attracted to the flowers that the weeds produced. The butterflies came in droves, thousands of them every color and kind a girl could imagine. Once in a while I would sneak sugar and put it in my hand. The butterflies would land all over me to get a chance to have some. Off in the distance I heard a rumbling sound; it slowed as it neared the corner. It was a motorcycle coming down our road. I watched as a small trail of dust blew up from behind it and across the field as it made its way towards me.

He stopped the bike about ten feet in front of me and shut it off. The man on the bike asked, Is Elli home?

Elli was my grandmother. I nodded my head.

Want to ride up to the house?

I looked up and down the road; then I looked at the bike. It was the shiniest thing I had ever seen. It was a Harley chopper, black, red, and chrome. The gas tank had an intricate design of Chinese dragons on both sides. Inside the painted dragons were smaller pictures of skulls. While I thought the skulls were disgusting and the dragons scared me; I was entranced with the designs and details of every line and curve of the bike. The dragons had colors behind the colors that came through and changed as I moved around it which in turn highlighted the outline of the skulls. I just stood and stared at the bike.

Little lady, do you want a ride or not?

I looked up and at him seriously for the first time. He had sunglasses on and his arms and face were a dark tan. He had tattoos even on his neck and hands. His jeans were both faded and ripped from wear. He had a ponytail that came out the back half of his helmet. I remember the tee shirt he had on had a large tongue on the front of it. I couldn’t imagine why he would want to see my grandmother.

He told me to climb onto the bitch seat. His language shocked me; my grandparents did not tolerate profanity. Nonetheless I could not resist his offer. I climbed on; he started the bike and revved the engine a couple times before popping it into gear. The rumbling shook my whole body. He told me to wrap my arms around his waist and hold on. The heat from the black leather vest burned into my chest, melting me into his back; the front of my body began to sweat. The vibration was exhilarating. It was the first time I felt that kind of tingle in my body. I felt my face flush as my body absorbed the heat from his body. My entire body felt as if little charges of electricity were running through it. As he took off, I was nervous and thrilled. He crept the rest of the way to my grandmothers, but it was exciting. I watched the birds and butterflies stir from their hiding places as the bike vibrated past.

Truthfully I am not sure to this day whether I fell in love with the bike or the man on the bike, or if I just loved the idea that something this colorful had broken up the monotony of solitude and boredom that comes with living in the middle of nowhere.

Two things happened that day. One, it was the first day I looked at a man as someone you could love in a way I had not felt before. Secondly, I definitely knew I loved art. How much seeing the bike and his tattoos changed the way I looked at the world can never be measured accurately.

We rode up the drive as slowly as we had the road. The trees shaded the drive and I could feel the coolness of the shade on my skin. We got to the house and he turned off the bike. My grandfather was on the porch. He stood up from his chair and said, Esther go get your grandmother.

I hopped off the bike and flew into the house. I found grandma in her room sewing something and told her grandpa wanted her on the porch and that she had to come and see who was here.

We walked outside together. Grandpa was by the bike talking to the man. They both stopped talking when I burst through the door. Grandma stayed on the porch; then finally asked, What are you doing here?

Before he could answer my grandfather turned and said, He came to visit. There ain’t no law against that.

Her reply was less cordial than her first question. Grandfather began to explain my grandmother to the man and she stopped him. Don’t you go explaining me to him! If I wanted him to know something, I’d tell him myself! With that grandma went back in the house.

Grandpa and the man went up on the porch, sat, and began talking. I stayed by the bike, after awhile I went into the house and got out some paper and the colored pencils and crayons I’d gotten for my birthday the year before.

The first thing I drew was a side view of the gas tank. I had no idea how to draw, it just started happening. I would look the details on the bike and let my hand work the pencil on the paper. I tried to capture the multiple depths of color and reflections in the sheen. After I filled in the colors, I used a red crayon to draw the body of the dragon over the top of what I had created. I drew several pictures of the bike while sitting in the yard that day.

Grandma came out on the porch just before dinnertime and asked me to help with the table. She ignored both men completely. When she was ready, grandma told me to get the men off the porch and to go find my uncle.

The uncle she referred to was her younger brother, he had moved back up here several months before my dad came. He lived in a shell of a trailer behind the out buildings on the property. I hated him. I hated the way he looked at me. I hated going to look for him and I hated when I had to go out to his trailer. He was a nasty human being who lived in squalor. He had no job, no friends; no one even knew he was here. He was supposed to live here to help my grandparents run the farm. The only work I ever saw him do was build a whiskey still in what was suppose to be the bedroom of the trailer.

I went outside to get the men and find my uncle. He was already on the porch. Filthy, I could smell him before I went out the door. I told them dinner was ready. They all came in to eat. We had fried potatoes, boiled ham, a salad from garden vegetables, and sweet corn.

Before we ate my grandmother did ask me to lead us in prayer. After that the men mostly made small talk. Towards the end of dinner my grandmother asked the man point blank what he had come here for.

His reply was simple, To see my girl.

She was quiet. Everyone at the table looked at me to see my reaction. There was no reason to have a reaction. I had not made the connection that he was my father.

That’s a fine how do ya’ do. Ain’t been around since the funeral and now you’re here for a visit. My grandmother was not shy about expressing herself, but she didn’t reply her rebuttal directly at him it was more at me.

He has a right to see her. My grandfather calmly said.

Ignoring my grandfather she asked, How long you think you’re going to stay here?

I’m not staying here; I got a room at the motel out on M-51.

You know that’s not what I mean.

This trip…? A few days, I’m not here looking for trouble.

My grandmother grunted Humph under her breath, then snapped back with, Seems to me you’ve had plenty enough of that already.

Elli! Enough! It’s not his fault. It has never been his fault. He’s been kind enough to let you blame him for a lot over the years, but her dying had nothing to do with him. My grandfather paused, You need to start blaming the right people or stop blaming anyone. My grandfather stared at my uncle while he spoke, and then finally back at my grandmother.

Grandma didn’t serve dessert that night. She got up red in the face and went to her room. My uncle left as soon as my grandmother did. My dad and grandfather and I cleaned up from dinner. We went outside and did chores. I showed my dad the chickens, rabbits, and the garden. I remember looking around once and awhile to see where grandma was. I couldn’t understand at the time why she didn’t like my father. My dad and I walked down the gravel road. We walked slowly talking about nothing as I showed him the butterflies hiding in the weeds. We watched the sunset as