"Meep-moop" means I love you

Blogging about my client’s sister last entry got me thinking about family.  There are different kinds of family and sometimes friends can be the family you choose for yourself.





My first memory of Vicki is from junior high, before it was called middle school.  To me, “junior high” sounds cooler than middle school, which sounds like middle aged kids having middle aged kid crises.  Vicki and I toppled into puberty around the same time.  Some of the pushy, strangely confident girls in our gym class made us stand back to back in the locker room so they could compare our boobs.  I was horrified.  Vicki thought it was funny.  And so began the dearest friendship of my life with my sister friend, my confidante, my person.  Her boobs were bigger than mine then, and they still are.  She continues to take everything in stride, while I still seize up with worry. 
 


I don’t remember when our friendship eased away from being fellow uneasy in-betweeners on the periphery of more popular girls and into full fledged best friendship.  Looking back, I don’t think that either of us felt entirely accepted, although we both treaded social water with the feathered alpha dogs as best we could.  We threw each other a neon 1980’s life preserver and clung to each other during good times and bad for the next thirty plus years. 


The 80’s were an awesome and yet dangerous time to become teenagers.  Our parents weren’t all that concerned about what we were doing or where we were, as long as we didn’t get caught.  There were no cell phones to check in, no internet to point out the hazards.  I rode my bike seven hot summer miles down a busy highway to Vicki's house. I’d flop, exhausted and sweating, on her couch where her spazzy dog would jump up and pee on me.  I'd borrow a clean shirt, and we'd walk to Taco Bell, where we would pollute ourselves silly.


Remembering some of our teen shenanigans makes me shudder and consider installing LoJacks on both of my children.  We wandered and experimented and made stunningly risky choices, usually followed by long, tears-streaming, belly laughs.  I think we only saw Rocky Horror Picture Show at midnight once, but we successfully used it as a late night excuse for all sorts of other secrets.

 
My only real date to a high school dance was thanks to one of many visits to Columbia, Missouri, where Vicki spent summers with her dad.  We’d cruise up and down “the loop”, gaping out car windows at cute boys, pretending not to be interested when they shouted suggestive come-ons at us.  We were 17 years old and lucky not to be dragged into an empty lot somewhere.  We met a slew of boys and it was all sort of innocent, but sort of not.  My Missouri souvenir boyfriend had a southern accent, a full beard and I dated him through prom until college, when I promptly dumped him.



Vicki visited me at U of I while she was taking her twisty, winding path through growing up.  Her father was in the Navy and she moved constantly as a child; a habit she's kept.  As we became young adults, Vicki was so utterly gorgeous that it was sometimes annoying to be her friend.  We’d be out at bars and guys would smile at me sheepishly after Vicki shot them down.  “Okay.  Well… how about you, then?” they’d ask me dejectedly, trying not to be too obvious about lowering the bar.  Vicki earned a degree in social work, modeled awhile, got a degree in nursing.  She had tumultuous crazy relationships with the guys who adored her and/or wanted to kill her.  She could wreak havoc when she wanted to, driving her mother and boyfriends nuts on cue.  There was just no stopping her when she made up her mind.

U of I and Mizzou. 
I'm sure the floral print and haircut weren't helping my odds. 

At my wedding reception, there is a fabulous scene captured on video when Vicki’s date of the moment was incorrectly doing the electric slide.  He was faced the wrong way and it looks like he’s having a dance off against the entire floor of people.  He was the last of Vic’s guys to be out of step, as she was about to find her husband, Steve and hang up her naughty hat.  I recently teased Steve, for the hundredth time, about how very quiet and shy he was when Joe and I first met him.  Steve patiently explained that I was so damn hyper and loud, nobody could get a word in edgewise.  Plus, I think we freaked him out. Touché.

 

Alec and Maxie

Vicki is my son Joey’s godmother.  I’m not religious, so for me, it was a chance to show Vicki again, in every way and in a new way, that she is my family.  Her son Alec and my son Max are less than a year apart.  They are hilarious and unusual and they remind me of Vicki and me.  They aren’t vanilla mainstream kids and in miserable middle school, that can be hard.  They’re full of imagination and laughter and they love each other, which is unexpected and delicious.  Vicki’s daughter is beautiful like her mother and means business; she wants her own way in very much the same way Vicki did when I first met her.  We agreed just today that justice will probably be served when Olivia is a teenager.



We’ve lived seven minutes door to door when our babies were little.  We’ve lived a plane ride away for years; we’ve had long, long drives between us for other stretches.  Some years we’ve only needed to drive 45 minutes or an hour, and visits seemed as hard to schedule as the plane rides when we were sprinting around with work and kids.  When Vicki’s dad was dying, she was a million miles away, in shocking pain she couldn’t share, even though we lived close.  As of three months ago, we’re back to being only 15 minutes apart after four years of rare visits between Arizona and Illinois. 


The distance was different this time, because we really needed each other and it was just so far.  When we had visits, they were more precious than ever because we knew the next one would be a long time coming.  We were needy and hurting, at times, and we’d put all our friendship eggs tenderly into each others’ baskets.  It’s hard to lean on someone new when your lifelong friend suddenly can’t hop in her car to hold your hand the way she used to hold your hair when you made all those forever ago bad choices.


So now my person is back, and it’s funny.  I don’t even need to be talking to her or see her; life feels different knowing that I can.  I am so insanely lucky to have my husband, my kids, my parents nearby.  But now I have my neon life preserver back within reach and I feel grounded and safer and more like one of the cool kids, even though it’s just in our own weird little world.


Olivia recently asked Vicki if she and Aunt Wendy ever had fights.  All these years and we really haven’t, probably partly because I am terrified of arguments.  Plus, we are both usually too awesome and entertaining to irritate each other.   When I was working full time and Vicki was a stay at home mom with baby Alec, I would try and listen to her on the phone while I was working on the computer.  I’d half listen to her while click-clacking away and then give her my full attention when I had something to say.  It was the closest thing we had to a real fight.  She was pissed that I was half-assing my part of our bargain.  She gave me the silent treatment for a little while, maybe to let me know how it felt not to feel heard.  Now, Vicki is the one who is crazy busy with work and her active family, trying to fit in chats with me between endless discussions about cancer with the frightened patients who need her help.  We’re still growing up together and learning how to balance it all. 


My husband Joe imitates Vicki’s soft, rather nasal voice,  by saying, “Meep, moop.”  Sometimes when he calls me on the phone from work, he says “Meep, moop,” in greeting, which I take to mean that someone I love is on the line.



I talked Vicki into hosting our high school Bunko group last week.  She’s only been back home for a few fast months, but in some ways, it feels like she never left.  I sat in her bathroom while she was getting ready for Bunko, just like we did in junior high, in high school, during college visits, on our wedding days, for grown up girls’ nights out, before our high school reunions.  Talking and laughing and looking forward to sharing time together.  And yet that ordinary moment that we’d had a thousand times before, was suddenly a kind of miracle.  And I’m just so grateful.  Love you, Vic.

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Finding Noah




No good photos of your kids together? 
I'll clean them up and make them look like they like each other.

 

When I first heard from Jennifer, I didn’t think I was going to be able to help her.  When drawing a pencil portrait, I often combine different elements of the same person from different photographs (good hair day from one, a smile from another). 



I'd combined separate photos lots of times. But Jennifer wanted me to create a whole new person from pictures of other people. It sounded hard. I prefer not hard, because I am lazy that way. 


Considering how picky some clients can be about a drawing of an existing person, how was I going to match Jennifer’s expectations for someone I couldn’t see?



About fourteen years earlier, Jennifer had been expecting her first child, a little boy.  Over the moon with excitement, she went in for an ultrasound.  As she began telling me her story, Jennifer asked me if I had kids.  “You know how there is sometimes a hesitation by the ultrasound technician that can be a little scary?” 


I knew what she meant.  I had some greenhorn hack of a nurse’s aide during an early appointment when I was expecting Max.  We'd heard a heartbeat immediately with Joey, but this time the nurse couldn’t find one.  As she fumbled around, she kept glancing furtively at me with what seemed like fear or pity.  By the time she gave up and called a doctor into the room, I was sick with terror.  The doctor found Max’s mischievous little whooshy heartbeat quickly and I burst into relieved tears.  The nurse’s aide gave me a sheepish smile while I fantasized about giving her hair a good yank.

 

Nobody came to Jennifer’s rescue.  She left the appointment with an ice cold suspicion that something was wrong.  Her doctor called her at work a day or two later with devastating news. Her baby boy had anencephaly – an absence of brain.  The baby had a brain stem that allowed him to grow inside of her, but once he was born, he wouldn’t survive.  

 

 

Let’s pause for a moment and collectively consider the stupidity and insensitivity of that nimrod doctor calling someone at work with that kind of news.  Don’t doctors go to school for like 20 years?  How about a pre-med class in not being a dick??
 

 

 Somebody missed this class.
 

There would be serious health risks for Jennifer in continuing the pregnancy.  She and her husband were stunned, devoutly religious and devastated.  They sought the help of their pastor who sadly advised them that in their case, terminating the pregnancy was a necessary, terrible thing they needed to do for Jennifer's safety.  The same pastor baptized their son, at 22 weeks.

 

They had planned to name the baby Zachary, but Jennifer saw in a baby book that Noah meant “at rest.”  So they named him Noah and he was alive in their hearts.

 

Thankfully, Jennifer had three more healthy pregnancies… three beautiful, vibrant children. 

 

“Noah’s loss has always been something that we talked about openly with the kids,” Jennifer told me.  “My children are very spiritual and they have always understood why Noah is still important to us.  It’s okay to say his name and to remember that we had another baby.”  Noah came into the world, and left it, on December 1^st. Every year, Jennifer has a little birthday party with a cake in his memory.




On a scrapbooking web site, she ran across an artist’s rendering using photos of a baby’s siblings. Jennifer thought it was one of the most heart breaking and sweet things that she had ever seen. 

 

This wasn’t the first time I’d worked with a grieving parent.  Jennifer knows that most people can’t understand how she feels.  She had always suffered painful, mixed feelings about the Polaroid picture that had been taken of Noah.  As scary, blurry and broken a picture as it was, Jennifer couldn’t bear to throw it away.   At least it proved he was real.

 

“In my head,” Jennifer said, “he’s whole, he’s complete." 

 

Jennifer googled me about her idea and we exchanged tentative emails.  I told her I would try to digitally combine aspects of Noah's siblings to come up with a layout she could approve.  It was a little nerve-wracking for both of us.  I love to connect with my clients and there was a sad divide between us as I approached the project from a technical perspective and she held her breath, wondering how close I would come to the flesh and blood Noah of her dreams.  Trying to ease the tension, I gushed with Jennifer about how delicious babies are.  She told me, “My favorite baby stage is around 9 months when they are sitting up on their own and cruising around.  My other children were all big juicy babies, chubby and happy.

 

 

 

 

“That’s how I picture Noah.  I just don’t want to think of him like in that photograph, anymore.” 

 

I'd never faced such a heavy responsibility, as an artist.  To create an image of Noah, of hope, of what should have been.  I put him in overalls, because I’d loved them so much on my chubby baby boys. 

 

I drew Noah’s name stitched on the front of his little boy’s overalls and remembered the soft, sweet, heft of my own babies in my arms, wishing I had those hectic, glorious days back.  It was my turn to hold my breath as I emailed a scan of the portrait off to Jennifer.  She admitted, she was afraid to open it at first.

To both of our relief, Jennifer loved the portrait and was particularly thrilled with Noah’s overalls; her little boys had worn them, too.  She said that Noah’s portrait reminded her of a police sketch artist's age progression to find a missing child, and when the child is found, the sketch miraculously matches. 

 

 

 

It choked me up that I’d come anywhere close to the private image in her heart.  I thought about my easy pregnancies, how I happily announced to anyone and everyone that I was expecting about ten minutes after I knew for sure. I never worried for a second. How would I have coped with something like this? Was Jennifer able to enjoy her subsequent pregnancies? Did the fear ever give her rest? I wanted so much to ease her pain, if only a little.  Looking back, I wish the sketch was better, that she'd found me after I'd had more practice being a full time artist.

 

 

Jennifer surprised her family with Noah’s portrait on what would have been his 14th birthday.  They were all delighted.  It hangs in their kitchen.  Jennifer’s son, Joshua, called him “No No,” and he asks where Noah is when he looks at the portrait.  “I tell him that Noah is in heaven,” Jennifer says with confidence.

 

Although the portrait hangs in a prominent place, Jennifer hasn’t really shared it with anyone outside of her family.  “It was a long time ago,” Jennifer tells me, “and people think you’re supposed to be over it.  If you haven’t experienced it, you just don’t know how it feels.  It doesn’t go away.” 

 

There have been other special stories, like Gideon – a baby who was given little or no chance of survival but fought like a warrior, the meaning of his name.  One woman worked with my husband and wanted a baby more than life itself, trying and trying, only to have her only surviving baby gone in a flash of hospital white.  She told me not to rush on her lost baby’s portrait; she had waited a long time and could wait as long as it took.  When I called with the finished portrait months later, there was a baby’s cry in the background; an adopted answered prayer that brought a lump of happiness to my throat. 

Most of the lost babies I've drawn took a few precious breaths before they left their broken hearted families. Some of the photographs have been wrenching to see. Some parents have asked for wings or a halo. Some just wanted no more tubes or machines. 

 

 

 

They all want what Jennifer wanted… a picture of a healthy baby. The dream child, a portrait from within their hearts, from the way things were supposed to be.

 

Wendy Zumpano
www.pencilportraitcards.com
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The Irish carnival ride at Apartment 21

As a kid, I loved to cut crap out of colored construction paper and write short stories with naughty words in them.  My father thought advertising would be a perfect blend of my glitter-gluing and story-telling powers. I had no other ideas, so advertising it was.

My mom and dad met on a blind fraternity/sorority date at the University of Illinois in Champaign/Urbana.  There was never much of a question of where I’d attend college. Just to pretend I had a choice, I also applied to University of Missouri, because I was dating a guy from Missouri named Brad Wentzel.  Wendy Wentzel?  I went to U of I.

The torture of sorority “rush” occurs when freshmen are herded around from sorority house to house so that mean girls can mentally weigh you and approximate the value of your clothing while singing.  This process turns out well for some people.  For me, it was a repeat of my humiliating cheerleading tryouts.  Other than my mother’s bookish alma mater, only one sorority invited me to join.  I happily pledged before realizing that the perky blonde girls who’d rushed me were not typical of the rest of the serious, studious, devout JEWISH girls in the house.  I wasn’t serious or devout about anything and despite the fact that I looked the part, I didn’t feel like I belonged. 

So I was stuck in the dorms with horrible roommates in the only all girls dorm on campus.  If it weren’t for my glorious neighbor, Kari, my freshman year with an obese townie roommate would have been a complete loss.  My sophomore year was spent fake-crying, which is a story for another day.  I lived with a Swedish girl and a Japanese girl in a triple room.  Both chattered on the phone incessantly in their respective languages with occasional angry whispers while glaring at my messy side of the room.  The Japanese one made her boring, white boyfriend tell me to be neater and quieter.  I told the Japanese one’s boyfriend several things, loudly, while looking directly at my roommate, who looked at her feet. 

"She's a crybaby and a total pig."

Hey ABBA, you don’t have to whisper.  I don’t speak Swedish.

 

Across the hall was a room full of alcoholic Catholic girls who appeared to be reenacting an ongoing sequel to Porky’s.  They were FUN and I wanted in.  I barged into their party landscape as often as they’d allow.  When the year was ending and I’d finally stopped crying, they didn’t want to include me in their search for apartments.  Helpfully, they avoided telling me until the last minute. 

“I’m sorry, Wendy,” said the nicest, most sober one, “But you are such a drag.”

To make matters worse, I had a campus job at the University of Illinois Foundation calling alumni for donations.  Perhaps you heard from me between 1986 and 1990?  If you've never randomly called people to ask them for money, it is exactly like you'd think it would be.  I called for four hours a night, four nights a week.  It was one of the higher paying jobs on campus because it was miserable.  Here is how most of my conversations went:

Ring ring

Alumni: Hello?

Me:  Hi, This is Wendy from the University of Illinois Foundation calling to….

Alumni: Click!  …Dial tone.

Me:  What’s that?  You want to donate $100,000 because you think I sound professional and super hot?  Okay!

My manager:  Way to go!

It was godawful.  They must have it much easier now with caller ID because nobody probably answers.  I know I don't!  All those hours of getting hung up on or cussed out really helped me later in business, but not personally, because I still can’t stand rejection.  Somehow I was promoted to supervisor and I got to listen in on everyone else’s donation calls.  This was excellent, as I am very nosy and super critical. 

One of the student callers I was supervising had red hair and a deep, south side Chicago voice, not unlike our biker friend Diane.  Colette seemed tough and I was scared of her.  I was scared of everyone then, especially south side redheads.  I’m a born complainer as you know, and I was whining to another caller about how nobody wanted to live with me.  I was doomed to live in the dorms as a junior.  I cannot think of a single thing that could have been more embarrassing at the time, and there were plenty of other embarrassing things that I was doing to choose from.   

Overhearing, Colette interrupted, “Hey, did you say you needed a place to live?”

I was about to fall in love with my very first portrait subjects.

Colette and her two friends were desperately seeking a fourth for their magnificent apartment.  They picked me up from my dorm in a big old dad type car to check it out.  Kimi had a disturbing pony tail coming out of the side of her head and her sister, Karen, was wearing a tie died shirt and mini skirt get up.  She had the skirt knotted on one side, about mid hip.  They were an Irish Catholic carnival ride and I hopped in because I had no other options.  I have a wealthy aunt who enjoys making me tell the story of what I wore to sorority rush at family gatherings.  She finds it hilarious and doesn’t seem to notice my shame spiral when I recount it.  I had NO business questioning anyone’s fashion sense.  But those three were a mess.  As it turned out, who cared?  That apartment was to die for. 

Apartment 21 was on the top floor at 1006 S. 3rd Street.  It had a long, shared balcony that faced south.  This meant all day sun.  To a college girl with large thighs, this private tanning bonanza alone was worth weird roommates.  It was a tri-level apartment with exposed brick walls and a kitchen that overlooked the living room.  Plus we could throw stuff on the roof of the sorority next door. It was fabulous.

I decided that I liked these three Orland Park girls and the bizarre assortment of men who came with them… brothers and friends and roommates of brothers.  The guys had briefly formed a freshman band called Leprosy, later christening their rented campus home, “Leper House.”  A few of them helped the girls move into Apt 21.  They talked weird, they looked weird, and they wouldn’t leave.  Most of them were named Tom.  I was concerned. 

Then they all became some of the greatest loves of my life.  

Colette wasn’t tough after all.  She’s a softy.  When she was happy, we were all happy.  When she was down, we were all bummed.  She became a barometer for whether we were having a great time or not.  I once tried to hit on her future husband, but he immediately threw up, which I like to think was just bad timing on my part.  In any case, it worked out just fine for Colette and their future three children.  Colette sends birthday, anniversary and holiday cards, on time, to every human being she knows, even my husband.  I just got a Mother’s Day card from her in the mail.  She’s insane.

Karen loved to laugh, especially at our expense.  Although she is Kimi’s older sister, she's happy letting Kimi call the shots.  Karen and I danced and sang while standing unsteadily on the arms of our living room chairs.  We ate food so fattening, I am still digesting it today.  I once walked with Karen to class, joyous to have some one-on-one time with her. I wondered aloud why we didn’t always walk together, until Karen helpfully pointed out I didn’t even have a class in that direction.  Or on that day. 

After a year together, Karen graduated first, a full year before Kimi and me, followed by Colette a semester later.  When Karen came back from the real world for college visits, we decorated and rejoiced.  She was furious we were having fun without her. 

Kimi and I attempted to replace Karen and then Colette with creepy roommates who don’t deserve much comment.   One slept constantly and hung out with a slew of flamboyant gay men at night until she forgot to go to class so many times that she got kicked out of school. Another one had an enormous, loud bird.  Enough said. 

For two years, Kimi and I lived together in that magic place between being a kid and a grown up.  She deserves her own story for having such a complicated, unexpected life.  She mothered me and managed me, harshly reprimanding me for driving her big dad car, partly because I didn’t ask, but mostly because I was drunk.  I babied her when her heart was broken and told her to stop bossing everyone around.  I knew she’d be a magnificent manager one day, which she was.

Before marriage, kids or jobs, we were stressed out and having the time of our lives.  It would be years before I’d be diagnosed with ADD, and I panicked over my consistently late projects. They still tease me about my American Express group project which I viewed as a slightly worse challenge than the AIDS epidemic.

I took one elective art class that taught me to use a grid when drawing a subject.  That would turn out to be the most lucrative half hour I spent during my four years at U of I, as I use the grid system for every single portrait I draw in my current life as a full time pencil portrait artist.  Nothing else really stuck.   

When Karen graduated, I decided to draw the whole Leper House group as her graduation present.  I thought it was a brilliant idea because I had no money and it provided a lengthy excuse to procrastinate in studying for finals. 

My first portrait.  Yikes.  At least Frewbud's not in it.

Kimi supervised my progress, peeking over my shoulder regularly to tell me to make her thinner until her legs looked like Q-tips.  I drew myself sitting in the lower left corner with my misshapen hand awkwardly positioned on my knee.  If you look closely, it appears that I’ve been punched in the face, twice.  This portrait is not good.  You can at least recognize Karen, because she has a graduation hat on.  I had a long way to go before anyone would commission me to draw a portrait.  But Karen loved her gift and I was encouraged.  Drawing thirteen people as my first real portrait attempt was pretty ambitious.

As graduation for Kimi and me approached, I couldn’t keep drawing pictures.  I had to find a job.  I had stellar grades and lots of work experience with my dad so I applied for credit cards left and right, knowing they’d be paid off in no time when I chose a great job from my many offers.

Ha.

Rejection letters lined our Apartment 21 entryway from good companies who wanted nothing to do with us.  Most of them were for me, from Chicago ad agencies.  Advertising seemed like a great idea except that you couldn’t get an actual job in advertising without experience or a master’s.  I was horrified.  While my brother and I had been piling up tuition, rent, book and bar bills, my father’s business was struggling. I have no clue how my parents were able to put both of us through college when things were so tight.  I graduated in the top 1% of my class with an $1,800 student loan to repay.  I had no idea what a gift I was given.  When I think of the looming college expense for my boys, I want to turn to a life of crime and/or open several bottles of wine that I pour into one glass.

Karen, Kimi and Colette each have three children and they all have at least one daughter.  They still live on the south side of Chicago with their families.  I’m over an hour away, in the far north suburbs, near Wisconsin with my boys… no little girl for me.  Over twenty years later, we meet halfway and eat pizza and drink beer like we’re still one step away from the real world.  We laugh so loud and tell such obscene stories that everyone gives us dirty looks and one time we were even asked to leave. Every year there’s a Leper House Christmas party. Sometimes we have a slumber party at Kimi’s. 

Every time I'm with those wonderful, hilarious girls, it’s a carnival ride back to Apt 21, where we remind each other along the way of every last embarrassing thing we’ve ever done.  If I drew their portraits now, I don’t know how I could ever capture how very much they mean to me.  But I'd still draw a side-pony on Kimi.

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wendy@pencilportraitcards.com

Dead dogs and funeral homes

I’ve drawn more than my share of dead dogs.  Of course they aren't dead in the photographs, but memorial pet portraits have been a regular request, even before I started my business.  There are a lot of doggy mamas and doggy daddies out there who love animals much more than people.  I'll bet you know someone who prefers pets to people, dressing them like royalty and feeding them fancier food than some kids eat.  I sort of get it... people can be weird and rude.  Animals love you and forgive you and don’t keep score.  And dogs in particular nearly crap themselves with joy when you walk in the door.  I've drawn cats, horses, birds... but dogs are the most popular.  When those furry joyful faces disappear from life, people grieve deeply.

During my initial panicked joblessness, my mind raced constantly about how I could find a regular source of drawing income.  My last day of corporate life was 2/28/2005... my father's birthday of all days, considering I owed my career to him.  It was after Christmas, there was no obvious event coming up other than Mother's Day.  Birthdays? Anniversaries?  What happens regularly that would motivate somebody to pay me for a pencil portrait?

It made sense to apply the dead dog theory to people… some of us actually love people even more than our pets.  We have parents and grandparents and God forbid, spouses and children who leave our lives and we need to grieve and remember in our own special ways.  What if I started doing memorial portraits for funeral homes?  I can finish an 8x10” drawing of one person in about an hour and a half.  Maybe I could scan the image and print it on on prayer cards or thank you notes, too. 

When I get a new idea like this, I go mildly insane with excitement.  I think this is part of my unfortunate case of ADD.  I can’t sleep, I have racing thoughts, escalating the idea to worldwide fame status.  By 2 am, I’ve built my idea up to be the single most magnificent thought of my life.  I remember this happening for the first time when I was about 12.  I had the idea to try and get a job at Al's Country Store in nearby Gages Lake.  I could ride my bike there, I would have money for new 45 records or Love's Baby Soft or some sweet roller ball lip gloss.  I laid awake all night spending my money, wondering if I'd wear an apron.  After my brief whiff of sleep, I woke up thinking, "Why in the hell would I want to work in a store?  I'm a kid." 

Not getting a job.

But this memorial portrait idea... it was going to be BIG.  Who would I invite to my talk show appearances after my business booms thanks to my genius?  I woke up still gung-ho and ready to take the funeral biz by storm.  To use as an example, I framed a portrait of a client’s grandfather - with permission as he wasn't actually dead and I was afraid his family would see it at a funeral home and worry.  I trotted the pretend-dead grandpa around to funeral homes, full of naive enthusiasm.  I made up some sample prayer cards, using my horrible ex-boyfriend's name, which made me giggle.  Sometimes I crack myself up.  Not that death is funny.  Neither is rejection.

I got a lukewarm reception in several places I visited.  One woman even rolled her eyes when she thought I wasn't looking.  Was I going about it in the wrong way?  What do I know about the funeral business?  I was convinced this was a sure fire idea, but I didn't know that most funeral homes are part of big Wal-Mart like conglomerates and decisions aren't made at the local level. 

But my optimism knows no limits when I get good and torked up.  If I buy a lottery ticket, I give some serious and sober thought to how I should share the money with my family and whether I can get away with not sharing it with the mean ones.  I’m stunned when things don’t go my way.  What the??  I couldn’t figure out why these funeral people weren’t getting it.

Until I jumped out of the bushes and hit a little funeral jackpot.

I’d passed the Salata Funeral Home hundreds of times.  After getting the bum’s rush elsewhere, I dropped by Salata’s, accidentally parking in the neighboring business’s driveway.  I could see through the bushes that it looked like the Salata owners were walking to their cars.  Determined, I crammed myself through the bushes, waving my portrait and book, shouting hello, making them jump back in surprise.

John and Loretta Salata were kind people and they liked the idea.  Larry Stanczak, a prominent North Chicago businessman, had just passed away and they wanted to do something special for him anyway.  They ordered a portrait package and I had my first happy, regular customer.  For a while, life was great for me in the funeral world.  If it was your time, I hoped your family called Salata.

For almost a year, I drew a portrait for every family they served, including prayer cards and thank you notes.  They surprised each family with the portrait hanging above the guest book at the service.  Some weeks there were three or four memorial portrait packages.  My fledgling artist bottom line needed every penny and I was grateful and pretty tickled with myself.  It felt good to be helping families honor their loved ones.  To this day, memorial portraits are the most meaningful portraits that I draw. Sometimes the photos weren’t very clear, but I did my best.  At one point the funeral director refused to believe that I was drawing the portraits by hand.  “It doesn’t matter to me,” he said, “but I’m sure you’re doing it with a computer.”  I had to go out to my car to get a half-finished portrait to prove that I was really drawing them.  He probably couldn't draw a stick figure.

All good things must come to an end. The director began giving me some push back on my price. The owners' son decided that the portraits should be a paid option for the families, not a surprise, not a gift.  John had felt that by doing it every time for every family, it would set them apart.  I thought it was a lovely idea and damn, it was good work while it lasted. 

I reached out to a few other funeral homes and at one point, I was working with five or six at a time.  If they had all ordered at once, I might have been in trouble.  Other business came from the funeral homes too, I did a retirement portrait for one, an engagement portrait for another, wedding invitations for yet another.  But the portrait packages dwindled.  A grieving family has enough decisions to make.  I loved the idea of giving a portrait to every family, and not just because it helped me pay my bills.  Everyone seemed so happy about it.  I’d get letters from the families, thanking me.  Years later at art shows, I’d get asked, “Did you used to draw portraits for Salata?”  It did make the impression that John had hoped for.  If they'd stuck with it, I think it would have blended beautifully with the important work they do, easing families through such difficult times.

I actually interviewed with a funeral home during one of my fits of exasperation in my corporate life.  I was running on my treadmill, reading an article about big life changes in Men’s Health magazine.  One man had been in the corporate grind and changed careers to the funeral business.  He said something like, “Now my work is meaningful and I never take a single day for granted.”  Wow.  It spoke to me.  I wanted to do something meaningful too, and there are always plenty of customers in that business.  It’s not a field for everyone, but I am a tail-wagging codependent and love to care for people. I pictured myself holding the hands of the grieving a la Mother Teresa.  It turned out that the job entailed selling cemetery plots to my friends and family.  Screw that. Drawing memorial portraits fulfilled my altruistic yet capitalist urge without cold calling my friends to talk about how they will die someday and that I should benefit.

A couple months after I started drawing for Salata, I exhibited my work at my hometown summer festival.  I heard a family talking as they approached my display, “I wonder if this is the artist who drew Grandpa?” one of them wondered aloud.  It was the wife and family of Larry Stanzcak, my first memorial portrait for Salata. 

His grandson, Chris Finkel, turned out to be one of my high school classmates.  We’d gone to college together too.  We hugged and laughed at the coincidence. 

Chris’s grandmother pulled out a laminated prayer card with my portrait of her husband on it.  “I carry it everywhere,” she said, touching my arm.

I was sad to hear, years later, that John Salata Sr., whose health had been failing, passed away. He was such a warm person, happy to see you and glad to talk your ear off.  I would have been honored to draw his portrait if someone had thought to call me.  In their grief, perhaps they didn’t think of it.  I think John had been my true champion. 

Five years later, one last portrait order came from Salata and I had a final falling out with the funeral director.  The economy had taken such a toll on all of us, we just couldn’t agree on what was fair, couldn't agree on who was at fault about a subsequent mistake on the prayer cards.  (It wasn't me.  Just saying.) I hoped that last grieving family was happy with the portrait of that last precious face, that father, husband, grandfather.  I’ll always be grateful that I ambushed the Salata’s when I needed them the most.

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