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Letter to Ted

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Letter to Ted

Postby johnwalkeasy » Thu Mar 08, 2007 11:58 pm

Gordon High School. Crowded lunch room. 1963.
The girl with her back to me truns around for a quick glance at me then back to facing the other girls at the table. A couple of them hold thier hand over thier mouth to hide a little laugh. They will look, whisper and try to pretend they don't notice me.
The black headed girl looks at me in a differnt way. I can see her looking me over as I walk closer to thier table on my right. I think she might like something about poor boys. Maybe the boots, old blue jeans, black t shirt, long side bruns excite her a little. I,m the toughest boy she'll ever see. Not what she is use to. Her crowd is the pretty girls and pretty boys with the pretty cars. Like the wimps that sit at the end of the table. They would never look at me. Unless they wanted my boots in thier face. I might go over and talk to her. Give her a trill. But no, I need to go. Got to get ready for the drag race tonite. In 3 months I,ll be 16 and I will get out of this joke city. Leave these pretty jerks to thier pretty lives. She looks right into my eyes as I get closer. She has a small smile. Soon we will find a way to get together.
The doors to the left. I can see out of the corner of my eye. A figure. I,m almost pass the doors. She looks into my eyes. She looks to my left. The smile leaves her face. She looks at me, then to my left. She starts to rise. Look Out Jack. I can hear the metal chairs falling. My head hits a table as I go down. Sand in my eyes. blood running down my face. I,m up, then down. Now up. My mind comming back. Raising my fist to fight. Can,t stand. I go down. He hit jack with a brick. My mind is comming back. I can stand. The one who hit me ran and jump into a waiting car. I,ll find out who it is. All these wimps here could not care less. I hate them all. I,ll go now, wont be back. They will be glad to be rid of me.

The Old
bridge 1973.
Jimmy said Billy looked good. But he was sure he had no hands and arms. The uniform looked empty in the arm part and the white gloves looked like they had no hands in them. The bottom part of the coffin was closed. So don't know if he had any legs or not. He was lucky Jimmy saids. Walter went crazy. Got him locked up somewhere. Most of the boys never came back from Vietnam. Jimmy saids Rich boys go to collage, play football. Poor boys go to Vietnam, kill everybody. They cheer the touch downs, called them heros, They say we are pot smokers and murderers. They are right.

1983. Diving to work.
Some jerk in front of me making a left hand trun. Have to wait for the cars. To many cars, to many people. Walk in the back door at the shop. Another Monday morning. I can see down to the office. The door is open. Can see the two jerks with thier ties on. The're trying to inpress the girl as always. She hates them. Maybe I,ll walk in, bump thier heads together. Let them fall on the floor, poor my coffee on the back of thier head. And say good morning. They've been to collage. Maybe it would have been a good idea if they had learn somthing while they were there. Like maybe how to change a tire. But not to worry. A girl might come along and show them how. They shut up when ever I go in there. Wimps. I hate them both. Would'nt care if they both dropped over where they stand.
I like the girl, shes nice to me. Always walks out into the shop.
Brings me coffee, coke, ask sometimes if I need anything while she is out. Her and Ted are the only two people here at work I care about. She is a beautiful young girl. And Ted is a beautiful young boy.
I see Joe standing at his layout table. Looks like he is waiting for me.
Joe Showed me alot about metal work. Now I am better than him. Better than all of them. He can,t stand it. Eat your heart out Joe. I,m the best thier is, was or will be.
I hope he dont have anything to say. Just dont bother to tell me, cause I don,t give a dam. Can,t see Ted. I guess he,ll be late today. I,m gon have to set that young boy strait.

2007, Dear Ted,
A young guy showed up at work today. I,st day on the job. Like all of them, he reminds me of you. A young 20 year old, know it all startass I,ll say. I guess maybe like you they make him think he's a dummy. Maybe a young wife and baby like you had. They all look and talk like you. I know now you could see though me back in 83. You knew I enjoyed teaching you things. I would never had treated you like you were a fool. You know you meant the world to me. I can,t remember to much about that old 65 pick up you got from Joe. Guess it was broke down all the time. And I would give you rides to your mothers house. She happen to live just a block from the house I was renting in Forest Park. You would always want to tell me about your wife and some of the bad things that was going on with you and her. I never did really know what to say. Was sure you and her would get things worked out. As I look back on that time. I know now I loved you like a son.
I have met a lot of young guys over the years. And Like you they seem to always come to me for help. Some of them could not evan read a rule. Can't remember if you could or not. They would work with me and I would teach them the trade. And now most of them are better than I ever was on my best day. They all were just like you.
I think it was a Friday when we last seen eachother back in 83. I went in that Monday, did'nt see you. Joe was standing at his layout table waiting to talk to me. I guess you know now. That monday morning, I thought you would be standing at the stop sign waiting for me. You always did that when you would stay at your mothers house. I was glad you was not there that morning. I really did,nt want to hear about your wife or nothing. You would sometimes talk me nuts. Was glad I did',t have to put up with you that morning. Could drive to work in peace. Joe stop me before I could get by him. When I think about that weeked I think about that Saturday night. I was down in the basement.
Maybe as I was sawing some metal while you were at your mothers house looking under beds or in draws. Maybe I was welding when you found the shotgun. Maybe I was filing while you loaded the shells. Maybe I sit and had a smoke when you put the barrel in you mouth and pulled the triger. Maybe I walked upstairs and cut off the lights as you lay in a lake of blood with half your head gone.
Joe told me that morning. It,s kinda hard to remember. She ask me was I alright. I could never find a wide open space where I could cuss God outloud. The guys stayed away from me the day I broke down in the shop and cryed. My young boys stayed close to me at home. My wife knew thier was somthing worng. I could never tell her. I never knew hopelessness. I thought the rage would never go away. When it did, so went the hate and anger I had for this world. I could see the sorrow and love in people. The good in people. That monday morning my world changed.
Maybe one day. I,ll drive up the old street. You will be standing there waiting for me. We,ll go somewhere and have a cup of coffee. And you can tell me if the streets are really gold where you live. I,ll bet Billy is there. Soon this young guy at work will come up to me and ask for help. They always do. And I hope I will be able to somehow help him. As I was unable to help you.
To me the only thing that really means anything is the young people. I love them all. They are the furture of this world.
Last edited by johnwalkeasy on Sat May 29, 2010 12:36 am, edited 37 times in total.
Perfection is what drives an artist.
The inability to achieve perfection is what creates a work of art.
John A. Barandon
http://steelbronze.vpweb.com
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Postby ehoeveler » Fri Mar 09, 2007 3:46 am

Very moving. ehoeveler
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Postby Erika Takacs » Fri Mar 09, 2007 7:57 am

Thank you, John.
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Postby johnwalkeasy » Thu May 31, 2007 7:23 pm

Portrait of Ted. 26" X 34" Oil on birch 2007.
Attachments
Picture 789.jpg
Picture 789.jpg (65.6 KiB)
Perfection is what drives an artist.
The inability to achieve perfection is what creates a work of art.
John A. Barandon
http://steelbronze.vpweb.com
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Postby ehoeveler » Fri Jun 01, 2007 3:34 am

Hard Core. Have you contacted Barbara Archers' yet?
B
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Postby johnwalkeasy » Sun Aug 05, 2007 2:33 pm

Portriat of John and Ted. Oil on aluminum 27x36, 2007.
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Picture 121.jpg
Picture 121.jpg (119.24 KiB)
Perfection is what drives an artist.
The inability to achieve perfection is what creates a work of art.
John A. Barandon
http://steelbronze.vpweb.com
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Postby johnwalkeasy » Sat Mar 08, 2008 7:07 pm

Some people in life will
brake your heart. Some will send a
freight train through your soul. Portrait of Ted. 18" x 20" Oil on alumimun, 2008.
Attachments
Anthony 014.jpg
Anthony 014.jpg (96.55 KiB)
Perfection is what drives an artist.
The inability to achieve perfection is what creates a work of art.
John A. Barandon
http://steelbronze.vpweb.com
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Postby krysta11 » Sun Mar 09, 2008 3:26 am

Very sad, moving story. :cry: I also love all young people and believe like you , that future is in their hands. Big bow ,Johnwalkeasy, to you.
Thank you.
Art must be an ORDER from Heaven
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Postby johnwalkeasy » Sat Sep 12, 2009 5:28 pm

In all these years. I could never
ing myseft to go to Teds grave. Don,t evan know where he is at. But I can see his face. And will feel a monent of that hopelessness with every young person I meet. There have been times in all these years. That I found myseft angry with Ted. There have been times that I thought I could have save Ted. I have two great fears in life. One is when I leave home. One is when I come home.
Perfection is what drives an artist.
The inability to achieve perfection is what creates a work of art.
John A. Barandon
http://steelbronze.vpweb.com
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Postby johnwalkeasy » Wed May 26, 2010 7:26 pm

Went back and made paragraphs so the story made more sence. Did'nt know how to do that at the time I worte it.
Perfection is what drives an artist.
The inability to achieve perfection is what creates a work of art.
John A. Barandon
http://steelbronze.vpweb.com
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Postby johnwalkeasy » Wed Dec 29, 2010 7:48 pm

I,ve
ought this story up the page in hopes that Dave may find it and read it.
Perfection is what drives an artist.
The inability to achieve perfection is what creates a work of art.
John A. Barandon
http://steelbronze.vpweb.com
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Re: Letter to Ted

Postby johnwalkeasy » Mon Feb 20, 2017 9:47 pm

I think of Ted almost everyday.
Perfection is what drives an artist.
The inability to achieve perfection is what creates a work of art.
John A. Barandon
http://steelbronze.vpweb.com
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johnwalkeasy
 
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