No copyright infringement intended with the use of Eric's photograph.
I simply want all to see the man of wonder and grace with the magic
paintbrush.
** I don't know why this is showing the date of 9-7-11 as it's
2:10 am EST on 9-8-11~Eric's Birthday...
"Character cannot be developed in ease and quiet. Only through experience of trial and suffering can the soul be strengthened, ambition inspired, and success achieved." ~Helen Keller
Every September, [the first two weekends of the month, actually] The Shaker Festival came to Germantown, Maryland. My husband, Tom, and I made it a point to go faithfully each year and see the various crafters selling their wares. It was a fun-filled day, looking and looking and looking some more at every homemade thing that you could imagine. They are the best and most heartfelt gifts, in my opinion.
The Shaker Festival is where I first had Kettle Korn, It was made in a huge black iron vat, [it looked like several people could fit into it] and it was fired up with the sound of a blow-torch as you watched the gentleman in charge of the process, pour in the oil, the salt, sugar, popcorn and whatever other ingredients went in. Then, as the roaring sound of an angry fire beneath the large black vat spewed heat, the man stirred it furiously for a few moments with a wooden paddle. Magically, the corn transformed and rose in fluffiness until the kettle was full, then he’d lift a handle that would dump the bowl into another bowl just as large. The fresh, hot, kettle corn would then be bagged and sold to the anxiously awaiting crowd. The sweet, salty contrast was unlike anything we’d ever tasted before, and it was an annual treat that we thoroughly enjoyed and looked forward to. We bought two large bags - one to eat immediately and a spare to have for later. It was addicting stuff, and the extra flossing required was worth the trouble.
Craftsmen and women came from all over the country to display and sell their masterpieces, and there were many there, let me tell you. We met several vendors who we looked forward to seeing year-after-year, because we liked their product, but more importantly, we liked to just stop by and say hello~see how life had been treating them~tell them how life had been treating us. It also gave me a chance to look at all the things they’d made and brought that year to make me "ooh" and "ah". There were a handful of artisans who looked for us each year too. We went back the first year after we moved away from Maryland just because it was a hard habit to break - not visiting in that forest atmosphere with the booths set-up like a long, winding row of hidden treasures. The smell of the food court, and all the scents one would expect at a festival, wafted all around us, making our mouths water in anticipation of lunch, as we meandered along the various paths. It was a heady experience, and we always went away with a bag-ful of treasures to be enjoyed ourselves or gifted to loved ones.
One special person who I particularly looked forward to seeing each year was a local artist by the name of Eric Mohn. Eric was a lesson in grace, dignity and patience for me. By his example, I knew that the human spirit can survive anything if it wants to, and that out of tragedy can come a goodness so sweet that it makes the tragedy almost seem a blessing. Were it to have been otherwise, the goodness may never have found itself.
You may be thinking to yourself, WHAT are you talking about? It is this: Eric Mohn was an artist who was left a quadriplegic after a 1963 automobile accident. He was 18 at the time. It was the year I was born. I remember thinking, that first year when I’d stumbled upon his art and read the short biography on the back of the print I had purchased, how odd that year suddenly became in retrospect for me. The words of Dickens sprang to mind: "It was the best of times. It was the worst of times..." I was given life that year; Eric’s was forever altered. HE truly was a lemonade maker of the grandest kind, because I can NOT imagine any sweeter lemonade made than what Eric produced from the life-altering lot that life handed him the year I was born.
I believe it was the second time I met him, that I said something similar to the above-mentioned reference, directly to him.
"Your car accident happened the year I was born," there was a sad acknowledgment in my tone when I told him that. I don’t really know why I told him that? I just wanted him to know. I was trying to make a connection. I think I did it badly, but you’d have never known that from his response.
Thoughtfully, he replied in his quiet manner. "There were some good things that happened that year." I took it as a compliment. I didn’t know Eric as a personal friend, but what I knew of him, I liked very much. I also don’t know if he engaged all of his patrons the way he engaged me, and vice versa, but I certainly felt more comfortable speaking my mind to him in very forthright ways. It surprised even me how directly I spoke to him about his circumstance. Usually, I’m more subtle in comments and delicate in approach, but I found something very welcoming about Eric, and I found him fascinating. I didn’t wallflower conversation with him.
The next year, with a half-dozen of his small prints in hand again, I stopped to chat. He had just arrived at the festival for a few hours, and I was lucky to have caught him, so that I could share a moment with him. Aside from telling him what a hit his smaller reproductions were with my friends, I wanted to tell him how much I appreciated his talent. I’ll never forget the conversation. He seemed intrigued by what I told him – that I would have tried to do what I told him:
"I don’t know how you do what you do!" I told him, then qualified. "I got a paintbrush the other day at Michael’s, because I was making something for our company picnic, and I decided to put it in my mouth and see how your method works."
He nodded his head, slightly forward. "Oh, yeah?" he asked, curious. "How did you make out?"
I shook my head and repeated. "I don’t know how you do what you do! I made a line with the brush that did not look anything remotely like a line."
"It takes patience," he said.
"I’ve always considered myself a patient person," I replied.
"It takes a lot of concentration too," he added.
"I’m a writer," I said, not trying to be disagreeable but knowing that wasn’t the secret to his incredible accomplishment. His paintings were amazing without the added knowledge that he painted them with a brush between his teeth. I added to my comment. "Concentration is a requisite trait for a writer."
He made a face. The only way I can describe the message that he conveyed to me in that facial expression is to tell you that it was as if he had moved his shoulders in a pleasant shrug not knowing what else to say.
"It takes time to get the hang of," he said as his final offering on the subject.
"I’m sure it does," I agreed, recalling the discomfort I’d felt in my face and neck as I tried to balance the brush between my teeth, let alone my fruitless attempt to create anything. I remembered the crick in my neck that came after intense moments of trying to make that line resemble anything close to a straight line. It was horrible! The fatigue my head felt in just those couple of moments of rigidly moving it back and forth suddenly came back to me.
I offered him my thoughts, "You’re a gift – plain and simple, Eric! Ironically, your gift flows from a mouth that doesn’t speak its art but paints it. I appreciate that, and I think your work is beautiful, – your strokes masterful. Your art makes me think of grace."
Then, he said something to me that made me glad I’d spoken my mind. He told me that it was his birthday, and that my kind words were a wonderful present. He thanked me for them.
It was Sunday, September 8th – a gorgeous, breezy, pre-autumn day.
"Well," I said, cheerfully. "Happy Birthday and thank you for your gift," I replied, waving my bag of prints in front of him for good measure. "I’ll see you next year!"
"Thank you," he said. "I’ll be here."
We went the following year, and I stopped by Eric’s booth again to pick out a few more of my favorite prints to give to friends as gifts. True to form, Eric was there, sitting in his wheelchair off to the side of his booth to allow others free access of the tent that housed his treasures. I went and purchased those first, then stopped to chat with Eric.
He smiled as I approached. "What did you get today?" he asked, curiously because my bag was larger.
"I treated myself today," I told him. "I got Shortest Way Home. My husband and I love covered bridges," I continued my explanation. "We hope to go to Iowa someday to see the covered bridges of Madison County."
There was a sparkle in his eyes when he spoke of his work. "Well, that was a good choice you made," he said, then offered something else for me to consider. "There’s no need to go so far. The bridge in that painting is in Lancaster County. They have lots of covered bridges there."
He was speaking of Pennsylvania. He’d told me something I did not know. He also told me that he really liked covered bridges too.
I remember the intake of breath. "My husband and I went to Lancaster County on our honeymoon," I said. "We went through all the Amish shops and antique stores in Bird-in-Hand and Intercourse," I told him. "But, I didn’t see covered bridges."
"Well," he said to my husband and I. "You’ll have to go back to see them. Go on-line and do a search and it should pull them up for you."
I told him we would, then as we turned to leave, I looked back at him and said. "Happy Birthday tomorrow."
He was genuinely surprised. I could tell it.
"We spoke last year on your birthday," I reminded.
"I wouldn’t expect you to remember that though," he noted.
"You’re unforgettable, Eric!"
Tom added. "She remembers EVERYTHING!"
Tom’s comment humored him. I don’t think he knew how to respond to mine.
I held my bag up for one, parting comment. "Thank you for painting this and telling me where to find it."
"You’re welcome."
We saw Eric a couple of more times before we moved in 2006. Even that year, we drove back up to Maryland for the festival. I mainly wanted to see Eric and purchase a few more prints. I was disappointed to learn that he wasn’t feeling well and would not be by that day. I never saw him again.
I was shocked and saddened in 2009 to learn of his passing. I was on-line searching for one of his prints to get as a gift for a friend and came across his obituary along with a guest book, which I promptly signed, after I had a good cry. It was May 24th, when I learned of his death. I remember Tom coming into the room and asking what was wrong.
"Wow," he replied, after I told him the news.
Yeah. It was one of those empty moments when you don’t really know what to say, because the unexpected, sad surprise of something leaves your brain numb, with only the ability to offer a "Wow" sentiment that conveyed in its tone the unexpected surprise you felt at just having been told something regretful.
Sadly, I said. "I guess God needed a painter for something!" thinking of Eric there in paradise making it more beautiful than it already was. "He got the best one I know!" I added. If anyone could add to the beauty of heaven, it was Eric. He worked in watercolors. I told him once that Monet, whose work I love, had nothing on him! He appeared touched by the compliment.
Eric would have been 66 today. I remember him on this day because, as I said, he was unforgettable! And, when something is unforgettable, it should be shared-remembered-celebrated. I cherish the times that I met him, and the bits of conversation that we exchanged.
Also, since becoming disabled a few years back and facing my own daily challenges, I think of him often. I especially think of him this time of year, when Tom and I fondly recall those two weekends every September when the Shaker Festival came to town in Germantown, Maryland. I think of him now because it’s his birthday, and he was such a gift to all who knew him. I think of the example Eric was with regard to grace, perseverance, patience and goodness. When I have bad days physically, and I do have them regularly now, a periodic thought of Eric passes, and I think to myself: You’ve got NOTHING to complain about, girl! I try to muster some of his example as my own. It’s a tall order, and I’m a short gal, but I try. It’s one thing I know Eric would appreciate "just trying"... You’ll never know if you can until you attempt it. Good food for thought!
In remembering him, I’ve come to the conclusion that through his painting, he was not physically disenfranchised in any way, shape or form. He was complete and whole just as he was when he reached heaven – the way he was in 1963 before his car accident, – the year in which I was born; the year his life changed completely. It was the only comforting thought I had in learning of his passing: that he was released from a body which, early on, had confined him to a sedentary life. He was finally free to soar. I imagined him as a magical paintbrush gracefully moving over the canvass of a brilliant sky, painting bluebirds that carried ribbons of good vibrations trailing in its wake. It was a lovely image. I wish I could paint it for him, but, unfortunately, we all know I’m not much of a painter. But, Eric Mohn was. Lord, that man could paint!
One did not look at Eric’s artwork and think first, "Wow! This was created by a man who paints with a brush in between his teeth!" No. You look at Eric’s art, and you feel, before your brain has time to formulate the actual thought: "My God! This man is a masterful artist!"
After you learn about his physical circumstance, then you realize what a wonder he was! I wish I could have shared that thought with him one final time - especially now, given my own circumstance. I’d ask him if he had a piece of advice for me, because I appreciate, so much more, what his daily struggles must have been. For some reason, I can hear the echo of his voice say, "just do the best you can with what you’ve got, and be glad that you can still do the things you can!" I’m pretty sure he lived that line to its fullest. He always had a positive thing to say. I don’t know how he did it? Then, I smile to myself, because I can hear his words: it takes patience* it takes concentration* it takes time to get the hang of it. Yes, indeed. Indeed it does. However, in meeting him, you would never have suspected that he was anything other than the gracious, gentle, grateful man who had his own stories to tell through his painting, and he did not let anything detract from his doing it. He was a kind soul. He was a masterful artist! That last thought stands alone. It removes any context of disability and puts him on an even playing field with other incredible artists. Yet, I will always maintain that the playing field was never even with Eric Mohn around, because he was quite, simply extraordinary!
I encourage everyone who reads this to take a moment and look through the attached link that houses a gallery of Eric’s work. Currently, there is a Labor Day Special running through September 9th at the following site, http://www.ericmohn.com/store.php?crn=52&start=1 where you can purchase two of Eric’s prints for the price of one. That’s a gift, my Friends, that keeps on giving! Keep one for yourself and give one to a special someone to continue spreading his good vibrations around. In case you’re wondering, yes. I will be getting myself something. After all, it is that time of year! Some traditions should be maintained. And, birthdays should always be remembered and celebrated!
In my mind’s eye I can see him in that forest, sitting in his wheelchair beside the tent that housed his treasures. This is the conversation I envision:
"What did you get this time?"
"Roddy Bridge," I’d tell him, then add. "You know I have a thing for covered bridges..."
"That one’s in Thurmont, [Maryland]" he'd tell. "But, there are a lot of them up in Lancaster County," he’d say.
"Yes," I’d smile at the reminder. "I’ll get there. I promise, Eric, and I’ll make sure to tell you all about it!"
"Well, I hope you enjoy your choice!" he’d reply in his gentle manner.
"I will, Eric!" I’d say. "Thank you! Thank you for the peaceful, easy feelings your art always inspires within me...and Happy Birthday, my Friend, Best Wishes Always..."
In fond remembrance of Eric George Mohn
September 8, 1945 - November 25, 2008
* If I could play a birthday song for Eric today, I'd choose something else that reminds me of grace. This one's for him:
http://youtu.be/-LXl4y6D-QI [Clair de Lune/Debussy]
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