Letterfly Writes

September 1, 2022

Sandra

The Branding Iron Lodge had enough good old country themed personality to make any evening worthwhile. The rough sawn plank floor creaked as you walked across. A large stone fireplace in the central foyer rose thirty feet with a moose head hanging high, staring right at you. Old oak barrels served as end tables in the sitting area around the hearth. The entrance to the restaurant had a faux porch roof over the doorway flanked by pitchforks with lanterns hanging from them.

Inside at the bar, real western saddles served as bar stools. The outside walls of the dining area had picture windows that open out to the beautifully landscaped oak hammock outside. On Saturday night, an incredible seafood buffet (that the fish died for) was a popular attraction. So popular that on this night, like many others, I had to stand in line to wait for a seat.

While I stood in the crowded entrance behind two women and a gentleman, I overheard some good old country charm, sweeter than any tea, coming from one member of the trio. They were in an age group not usually involved with RVs. As I listened to the verbal allure that bubbled forth, the hostess in charge of seating made an assumption.

“Group of four?”

“Well no…,” the cute blonde with bouncy bobbed hair caught herself mid-sentence, and turned to me, “Would you like to join us?”

I melted.

Complimented, I discarded my plan to dine alone and jumped at the opportunity to be the missing component of two happy couples in the busy restaurant.

Soon we sat behind formal settings on a linen covered table with crystal-clear glasses and a vase of flowers. Our conversation moved through introductions, occupations and an apropos interruption: we all rose to go to the buffet. Back at our table we resumed our conversation between return trips for seafood.

I found out that my new friends lived in nearby Sebring. They were a scouting party in search of a great place for their singles group to have an outing. These three had been sent to find what River Ranch had to offer. As the resident artist, I was able to provide them a primer about this place. As I became more acquainted with the beaming personality of the woman who invited me to join them, I found growing admiration for Sandra.

Our sumptuous meal concluded with a delicate dessert. While I savored mine, I found my new friends were not in a hurry to leave. After dinner, I took them on a walk to share the visual sensation of the lush scenery outside. As we walked, I discovered Sandra was similarly attracted to me.

Our walk threaded through the quaint board sidewalks around the little village stores and back behind the main hotel. Since this was Saturday night, I guided them towards the saloon. As we got closer, we heard the crowd at the rodeo roar at some unseen occurrence.

We went up the steps and through the classic set of swinging doors and found the vast dance floor. One side had the long bar with mirrors behind the bottles and a central painting of a reclined nude. On the opposite side, the vast seating area was filled with round tables and rugged chairs. We found a table halfway up. The cowboy band blared out their versions of old and current country songs.

By this time, I had my place as a participating line dancer. After a minimum of observing and sitting, I took Sandra with me to the dance floor. The next thing I knew we were side by side moving, laughing and dancing to the Electric Slide.

Art was on the floor too. I introduced him to my new friends. By watching him, we were able to imitate the Boot Scoot Boogie and the Tush Push. A two-step song I recognized came on later and I took Sandra by the hand. We joined the parade of couples dancing around the floor. As we twirled, moved and stepped again, our mutual smiling convinced me we were growing fonder of each other by the minute. Later, the Cotton-Eyed Joe came on and we joined the stomping and kicking crowd with our vigorous rendition of that dance sequence.

Our evening was over all too soon. We had fun. I wanted to do it again and so did Sandra. We made a tentative promise. I walked my new friends back to their car and assured her I would call. After watching them drive away, I turned to walk home.

I walked back to my campsite with the vision of my new friend reeling in my mind. Before bed, I went to the hot tub to soak. Immersed in the warmth, I became thankful for the happenstance meeting. In the midst of the turbulence of my life that included positive change, I discovered hope. The advent of love had arrived. After a full evening of fun, regard and discovery, I nodded off with the vision of her radiant presence forefront in my mind.

One of my high-end coach customers left for a few weeks’ vacation and let me use his fancy Phase Two campsite while he was gone. There, I parked my horse trailer next to his large deck with patio furniture, party lights and a burning pit. This became the perfect place to share a weekend with my new friend.

Sandra was short, fit and active. Her little white dog came with her for our first weekend together. While I finished up after my busy day, Sandra made herself at home unwinding after her busy week. She interacted with many pleasant folks who walked past our site while she set the table for our evening together. Her personality was best described as bouncy. We had no trouble blending into a laughing couple as we took in the many options for our evening that exist here at the ranch.

Sandra became my regular guest. I admired her deliberate efforts with patio dining and our camping out experiences. Each time she came I found more to admire. She had the gift of being able to see the wonder around her. She bubbled with joy as she set our table, prepared the salad and served the sustenance prepared. I especially enjoyed seeing the bright reflection of candlelight in her eyes. Sometimes we simply enjoyed our meal together and other times she rose to fill the role of hostess as we entertained another couple.

Sandra had been encouraged by her boss with a housing development company to make a good impression by driving a Lincoln. Her role during sales and customer relations processes were to handle the myriad details with the steady stream of new homes being offered to the buyers who streamed into her Sebring office.

Sandra was raised in the south and had the thick accent that sometimes added an extra syllable in the middle of a word. Grits became Gur-ree-yuts. When she lifted her little dog up to her face for some affection, the sequence of sweet, silly rhetoric, altered by both her country drawl and an increase of an entire octave became almost unintelligible, although the love between them was clear. The little dog responded with relentless wiggling and licking. I relished the emotion that filled me. I had found a companion, an oasis in a desert of creativity and completion with this similarly minded woman.

We began seeing one another regularly and included other activities beyond the ranch in our routine. Occasionally I made the drive to her home. She lived in a tidy block house in a subdivision near Sebring filled with row after row of similar structures. I found the stepping stone pathway that led to the front door. After I rang the bell, the door opened and Sandra flew into my arms and kissed me. The little dog yipped and ran in circles while she tugged on my hand to follow her into the kitchen. The interior of her tidy home sported tangible evidence of her bouncy personality with flamboyant posters, inspirational pictures and mementos of special trips peppered throughout the comfortable interior.

I settled in the adjoining dining room where we would chat as she handled the final preparations. The little dog jumped in my lap.

As she busied herself, I heard about her day at the office. She explained some of the procedures she accomplished and added anecdotes of interesting occurrences. Then she asked me about my day, how my friends she had met were doing and about the latest murals underway at the ranch.

Our lives appeared to be going in the direction of committed permanence. When the winter season was over, my attention resumed the direction that took me away. Back in Sarasota I continued horsemanship aspirations with Dorita. Sandra came to visit, observe and enjoy these ambitions. When the time came for me to move north and begin my route of motorhome rallies, our regular coupling experienced the first interruption.

We stayed in touch. She began to help her brother launch his small business using her skills as an entrepreneur. I savored the image of her in my mind as I motored between projects along my route of regular stops, new rally destinations and requests to travel to individual homes to accomplish custom works of art on motorhomes.

After my long season, my route concluded back in Sarasota and we were reunited at the horse farm of my mentor once again. With the holidays coming we had yet another time to cement our regard and combine traditional functions that included church.

While I watched Sandra in the midst of my circus friends, my observations became tainted. My show business colleagues shared their observation of her being different. This began to erode my regard. I began to think in terms of qualities useful on this rigorous path I had chosen. I soon became obsessed with what was missing instead of appreciating the abundance of what existed.

When the winter season at River Ranch resumed, Sandra and I resumed our rhythm of being a couple. We became as inseparable as our routines would permit.

The winter season became another productive time of creation but as the end loomed, my mind began to think in terms of how my itinerate lifestyle would take me away. I wanted more for her. I suppose I made my love for her wrong and began to see myself as a threat to her contemporary inclinations. Deluded, I let these bizarre thoughts influence my perception of the future. Without the ability to see how we could merge; I became cold towards my loving companion.

I took the selfish stance of seeing only how our exchange was imperfect. My mentality took another delusional twist. I began to think in terms of how others saw us. I began to fear what others thought. As this process infected my perception, this wonderful woman became bewildered at the distance she received. As an invisible force drew me back into my role on the road, I began to only think in terms of uncomplicating things.

Although wildly successful as a professional, I had a social reluctance unknown to me at that time. Adolescent disturbances had imprinted my personality as a child. My vison was tainted. I only saw imperfection with connection with others.

I remembered a memoire I read in school about a showgirl on the Ringling Bros Circus years ago. She found romance with one of the other performers. Their romance ended when the route of the circus ended. Now the premise ‘I love you but the season is over’ seemed rational. I did not possess the ability to see that our union was more special than my vocation or see that Sandra had the staying power with my unusual situation.

My twisted perception may have included wanting the best for her while I made my plans to hit the road again. The avalanche of distance left my loving companion confused. I was about to do something that became perhaps the biggest regret of my life. At the end of the winter season, she confronted me about my mysterious behavior. My response only dropped her farther into an abysmal depth. Cold and unfeeling, blind to my warped mentality, I turned to this wonderful woman and said, “you’d best let go.”

August 18, 2022

The Last Time I Saw Him

I received a phone call from a custom builder called Cabriolet near Elkhart who wanted an airbrushed scene on one of their RV haulers. When I went to their shop near Constantine, Michigan I found a small company that assembled luxury sleeper compartments on a series of new truck cab and chassis.

After meeting with the boss, I was shown the unit to paint. The partially completed truck was to receive a mural of an eagle across the back. After putting my van in the proximity of the project I tapped into their compressed air. I got to work.

Midafternoon, the crew wound down. One by one they clocked out and went home. I still worked. The boss wanted to go home too. He requested that I turn off the lights and lock the door behind me when I was done. Then I was alone in the shop. I thought this was odd. I finished my project, closed up behind me and went on my way.

Cabriolet began to call me twice a year to create more custom artwork on the units they built for fifth-wheel RVers. They had plenty of room for my rig in their parking lot so this became a regular stop. Cabriolet even had a rally I was invited to. When I attended this get together, I met other couples who wanted my artistic product on their fancy units.

I stayed in touch with my parents throughout all these adventures. My dad was excited with how my career was evolving. He lived vicariously through me. During one of our conversations I learned about a challenge he was going through. My dad had been misdiagnosed a few years before. Now the cancer they didn’t catch had spread throughout his colon. Surgery revealed it was too late.

He chose to live his final days at home. A hospital bed was set up in the living room and caretakers arrived each day to keep him comfortable.

While I worked on another RV project, I received a phone call from hospice. “You’d better come now to see your dad.”

I finished the work that was pressing and drove to the Ozarks. I arrived at my parents’ home. It was bittersweet. My mother was glad to see me. I saw my dad in constant pain and that scared me. I couldn’t sit still and simply be with him. I made myself busy around the place.

An area outside where the rooflines of two garages met had been a problem designing a rainwater drainage receptor. I got busy. After situating a steel tub underground, I arranged large cut blocks of stone into functional positions to finish off the area. When I did report this progress in the house, my dad appreciated that I had solved this challenge. He wanted to see what I had done. With John’s help, my dad made it out of his bed and slowly walked outside of the house and over to see the accomplishment for himself. He was proud of me yet suffering from the internal pain of the cancer that ravished his body.

While I spent time with mother, father and my brother, I received another phone call. I had a request to design some stunning mural work for a Cabriolet owner from Louisiana. He wanted to feature paintings of his Boston bulldogs and several icons from the Cajun state on the truck he was having built. After receiving that phone call, I grabbed a sketch book and began to design the arrangement of all the items he wanted in his painting. I found safety in my work knowing dad was proud of me also.

While I experienced an emotional tug of war at the brink of losing my dad, a market for my work was opening up for me. Finally, I had to go. Duty called. Filled with sorrow and grief for my father I loved, I headed down the driveway to make the return trip to the Midwest to resume custom painting. That was the last time I saw my dad. I was grateful that our relationship had progressed from the frustrating foundation during childhood and into the healing portion that recovery had provided and we had become best friends. I found the love that I was created to reflect.

Between painting gigs, I used every bit of my spare time to compliment the mural making process. I needed reference for these projects. In an effort to be ready with the right stuff, I subscribed to several magazines filled with pictures of wildlife and nature pictures, Indian scenes, horses, scenic landscapes and an illustrator’s chronicle. While sitting in a restaurant between towns, I gleaned resource pictures from magazines.

While I waited for my meal, I flipped through the pages of these magazines. When I found a stunning picture, I ripped the page out of the magazine and placed it in a pile to file away later. My filing system was a box of folders with various categories – birds – animals – fish – Indians etc. subcategories included – eagles – song birds – horses – elephants – mountain ranges – wolves – skyscapes – oceans – etc.

Many times, a commissioned project required up to three different reference pictures. One for the sky, another for a mountain range and of course reference for the central focus of the mural, most times an eagle.

Although my life was solitary, inclusion in the many lives touched along the way made exposure to richness of people quite satisfactory. Add to that, I enjoyed my horseman friends in both Michigan and Florida, the AA fellowship I found at each town, the friends at regular stops at RV plants, rallies and of course River Ranch.

Those familiar faces and friendly folks along the way became my family. I had found my calling on the road and responded to the huge demand by Ma & Pa USA. With it came satisfaction while I made my customers happy. Word got around. My life was full. Things were about to change.

I was in Decatur, Indiana with two motorhome mural projects underway when I received a phone call. My father had passed away. I was immediately filled with a sadness that brought tears to my eyes. I shifted into high gear and completed the two eagle images in record time. I then arranged to leave the rig in Indiana and drove to Arkansas post haste.

Upon arrival in Sulphur Springs I embraced my mother. She was glad to see me. My brother lived in the guest apartment and had been there throughout the long illness. He was there and held my father’s hand as he passed away.

My sister and her husband arrived with their two boys. Little Michael and David adored me.

As a tyke little David made an observation, “You’re the most fun uncle I have.”

From that day on I became known as funcle Dave.

We were all there in that sad situation. The boys shifted from sit in the car mode on their long trip to grandfather’s house when they realized the severity of this situation. When they realized that their grandfather had died, they too were at the verge of tears. Their dad, stoic and stern, confronted his boys.

“Don’t cry,” he commanded as he shook them.

Both boys left his proximity and came to my side. They were sad. We held hands and cried. Their grandfather, a well-spring of fun in their lives was gone.

My father’s funeral service was lightly attended. By this time the Shiloh community had dwindled to about a dozen. Mother created the musical portion of the service and my brother emceed. His background with Toastmasters came in handy. He handled the agenda and spoke fluently his knowledge of our father.

John mentioned his contribution in the Army Air Corps during WWII and his career in the ministry. His testimony flowed to become one of great honor and a loving testament to this fine man. When John moved into the accomplishments of our father’s recent life, he started to weep as his talk continued. In spite of my brother being a source of frustration in my life, it was clear that John loved his father.

I too had a seething blend of confused emotions as I reviewed my history with dad. He was my hero but was also a source of frustration. He was perfectionistic and difficult to please as a child. I felt lost. I became a rebellious teen and launched myself in to the creation of a solution.

After going it alone with my ambitions my dad realized I was having fun and joined me to have the time of his life. Our experience changed. My dad became an ally and provided a hand when I needed one. With sobriety came a new way to connect and we became close friends. Now at the brink of a huge market for my skills, I had news to share with my dad but he was gone.

The service ended. Family members then received condolences from the community. These were all of dad’s friends. A pause occurred.

My sister Paula confided something to me.

“While listening to all those things about him,” she began, “I started to feel sad.”

“So, the whole time I kept telling myself over and over: I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not cry.”

Paula missed knowing a wonderful man. She had a history of fighting with him that never graduated to a level of connection. Whatever it was that she wouldn’t let go of interfered with her ability to enjoy the father who loved her.

This was not a surprise. My sister shut her feelings off long ago. Then she married Chris who had to be in control at all times. He brought a new form of discord to the family. I felt sorry for her. In my grief, I saw clearly how her contempt for her father and the relentless production of belligerence short-circuited her flow of health.

During my life, I fought conformity but I learned from the pain of my belligerence. In sobriety, at my bottom, I opened myself up to receive God’s grace and love. I learned in AA long ago that part of finding my true self required allowing myself to feel my feelings and not make them wrong. We were made to feel these God given emotions. There was a reason we have them.

In this situation, the death of a parent, a deep sense of loss was normal and a desirable part of emotional health. I learned it was okay to feel. I wept the loss of my true love. Here among community friends and my nephews I cried freely while Chris and Paula maintained their rigid emotional flat line.

Now I reviewed the series of life lessons – both good and bad – that resulted in my dad becoming my friend. At one time, while I confided to him about an obstacle that wouldn’t let me get past the frustration of childhood and the recognition of the value of coming to peace with the dad of my childhood, he responded with “I had to go through that same thing with my dad.”

The episodes we grow through occur for our greatest good. Obstacles provide growth. I look back and see frustration was part of what it took for me to grow into the man God intended. As I stay out of the obsession with what I didn’t get, I appreciate more of what I have.

August 3, 2022

The Rhythm of the Road

Going up and down the highway remained constant in my life. Starting as part of a circus troupe, I learned to make one-day-stands. I learned travel skills as a teen. These skills gave me an advantage when I discovered this huge market for my artwork. Even though I was still going up and down the road providing artistic services for an audience of RV folks, in comparison to my initial experience, I was quite solitary.

While chasing high-end paintwork on motorhomes traversing the country, when I saw a circus performer’s rig on the highway, I waved. I was happy to see them. A few miles later, I became lonely. I missed the regular rhythm of traveling with the troupe and the connection that grew between the personnel while the season was underway.

I developed an efficient manner of completing several projects in a limited time span at a rally. I also made notes about the proximity of spill-over work requested by RVers in other areas. Like dominos falling over, all my efforts produced results. The completed murals on the backs of motorhomes crisscrossed the country and attracted comments wherever they went. Proud owners tossed my name around. The people entering coach ownership asked about the murals. Word in the RV industry spread. Letterfly became a buzz word between RV folks who sought to add a personal touch to their motorhome. I received a steady stream of requests that required travel. Travel to create more works of wonder.

I had regular stops to accomplish these works such as the Fleetwood plant and the Bird’s Nest in Georgia. The time between was filled with rallies and travel to client’s homes to accomplish the work. During the years that passed between being a sign man in Jackson and the big opportunity on the horizon, I was on the road for nine solid years. The only lengthy respite was my three-month engagement at River Ranch each winter. The remaining months were an endless routine of up and down, the routine learned on the circus as a teen – go to the new town, set up and create. When the job was complete, load out and repeat.

August 3, 2022

The Rat Pack

Each morning amidst the transparent stemware and linen napkins in the Branding Iron dining room, residents gather for breakfast and conversation. The picture windows reveal flowers and bushes amidst trees with their intimate canopy. Sounds of laughter interrupt the usual breakfast clinking and casual conversation due to the entertainment going on. No, it wasn’t something Sammy Davis said or the demeanor of Dean Martin in this place that stimulated the joviality, rather an acrobatic squirrel who willingly risked death by climbing on a crafted wooden arm that, with his additional weight, revolved rendering the furry passenger upside down. The squirrel was willing to endure that humiliation due to the cob of corn affixed to the arm he climbed. Once he assumed this inverted position he remained for a meal.

Frank Sinatra and Peter Lawford weren’t here either. The infamous rat pack I refer to was made up of the fearsome foursome of bachelors who resided at this luxury Dude Ranch of an RV Resort out in the middle of the Florida wilderness known as River Ranch, a popular destination and winter home for camping couples.

This rat pack was perhaps even more diverse and talented than the original. We were made up of the quartet of marketing mastermind and musician Robert Maxwell Case, Retired IBM executive manager and all-around nice guy Art Burch, steel fabrication and engineering genius Gene Malick and myself, Dave “Letterfly” Knoderer the mural painting and performing horse guy. During the nine winters I spent at River Ranch, from 1986-1995, this group remained intact and inseparable.

The morning get-togethers were intensely stimulating. Each personality brought passion for an individual obsession, the range of which at the table made the scope of conversation especially diverse. Robert the computer programmer had a variety of projects underway at all times. His background was with Kodak in Rochester in marketing and management.

Robert was helpful with my early marketing attempts. He explained in detail how the consumer responded to advertising and how associations are formed in regard to quality in an industry. His expertise in this field influenced me as I began to establish the name Letterfly in the RV industry. I was a good student.

Robert would edit, suggest improvements and even typeset my early ads. The strategies learned were effective as Letterfly became known as number one among the mural artists in the RV community.

Gene, recently retired, was here to relax and fly his Navion trainer. He had completed a successful career putting up prefabricated steel buildings and later, towers for the emerging communications field. He told colorful tales about his ability to get a tower erected over a weekend using clever but not so kosher erection methods to elude officials with regulations and bureaucracy.

He was valuable to his customers with this ability to get in and get out. That characteristic carried over into these early morning yak sessions. After an hour, he was ready to get up from the table and go.

Now he likes to fly his antique aircraft – the same plane used to teach young pilots and actually used as spotter planes in Korea. Gene savored the thrill of freedom that came with altitude from an era and a craft that many heroes flew to victory, insuring ours.

Art Burch was here too, very popular with the residents as instructor of line dancing at the weekly exercise sessions. Over breakfast, my sidekick and I went over the mural projects both planned and underway.

There we were, the four horsemen of the apocalypse, the quartet of bachelors at the dude ranch. All for one and one for all. This rat pack brought an air of mystery, a note of color and a splash of intrigue. All the elements combined to elevate each one of us higher than, as individuals, we could accomplish alone.

July 8, 2022

Robert Maxwell Case

Sitting behind a music stand with lights on it to illuminate his smiling face, Robert Maxwell Case made his living singing songs reminiscent of the old west while playing his guitar. He sat on a stool in the corner of the dining room at the dude ranch. He sang and strummed old popular favorites to provide atmosphere during the dinner hour at the Branding Iron Restaurant. His plaid long sleeved western shirt always had the collar buttoned but no tie. Among the tunes popular with diners were ballads, at which he was especially good.

Robert’s demeanor can best be described as being like the playful otter. Whoever he was with at the time had his complete attention. Love was obvious, reflected in his eyes and apparent in his smile. Long stylish hair and beard were identifying marks.

A brilliant man with a marketing degree, during his spare time he was immersed in creating a computer program for keeping track of entertainers, theatre show times and events in Branson, Missouri, where he worked during the summer months. Also, in the works was a program he marketed to Microsoft to randomly place dots in various concentrations to create half tones, previously done with screens which produced a gray with the use of regularly placed dots. This entertaining personality had an impact on my life as the years went by and our friendship grew.

June 30, 2022

Back to River Ranch

My head swam with gratitude for the vast knowledge and influence received through Dorita during my time in Sarasota. New Year’s Day I was back at River Ranch ready to assume the rigors of my role as resident artist. Once landed at the luxury dude ranch, I became busy. I entered into my productive routine. I had found a wonderful place to thrive. The wonders didn’t stop.

Among the amenities at River Ranch were the lodge and accompanying hotel, marina with another restaurant and the skeet and trap shooting range. A little village area had a post office and little shops that included ceramic painting activities, a beautician and a good old country store where you could get hand scooped ice cream. Throughout the property were five swimming pools with hot tubs, a golf course and perhaps what was the unanimous favorite feature of all: The Phase Two camping area.

Roads meandered back and forth in this special part of the campground beneath old growth oak forest made even more picturesque with landscaping. The coach owners planted tropical greenery and large leafy vines that climbed the tree trunks. Party decks of every description and configuration surrounded the RV sites to make the forty-foot luxury motorhomes – just making their way onto the RV scene – seem almost surreal in a Swiss Family Robinson sort of way.

The owners of these massive and fancy machines enjoyed the festive energy of this place and it showed as they enthusiastically walked their dogs through paradise and waved at one another. This was where I worked.

Each day was filled with enterprise but by Saturday night I wanted to see what was going on at the saloon. I mustered up some courage and went down to the end of the boardwalk and pushed open the saloon doors and went inside. After scoping out the situation I found a seat and sat down.

There I sat. My back against the wall in a beat-up, spindle-back chair at one of the many worn pedestal tables. I investigated this strange new world. Loud country music and smoke filled the air along with laughter. This opportunity existed for the sexes to mingle. I just sat there wishing… wishing I was up there on the dance floor having fun, line dancing with the rest of them. I had arrived to expand my horizons by investigating the saloon. All I could do was sit.

A few days later, on a typical afternoon in the campgrounds, I met Art.

While working on the stepladder I heard a voice behind me, “you’re wasting your time.”

I looked down and immediately recognized him as the dapper dressed retired gentlemen who enjoyed line dancing at the saloon on Saturday nights. Art had observed, along with everyone else, my process of applying masking tape and paper onto the back of a motorhome. In the midst of all this beauty he had watched me clean and sand many surfaces prior to the application of paint.

This man with an impish smile climbed up and took the tape and paper out of my hands. He proceeded to continue with what I had been doing.

He added with a smile, “from now on, I’ll be doing this.”

That was my introduction to Art Burch. Art was a retired manager from IBM in Endicott, New York. Art had a heart as big as a dump truck and recognized an opportunity to assist the mural making process and free me up to concentrate on the creative aspects of my service to the RV community.

Later, during a visit at breakfast, our mutual friend Gene told me a story about Art. When Gene’s family moved to a new town in New York, he went to his first day of class in the fifth grade. Gene was scared at this new school. When he found his room assignment, class was already underway. He approached the teacher with his piece of paper and she read it.

Without looking up she said, “go find a seat.”

Gene looked around and saw Art with his trademark grin waving at him. He pointed to the empty seat next to him. Gene was immediately relieved and glad to have found a friend. That was Art’s style: to look out for the other guy.

Having Art as an ally added to the effectiveness of Letterfly, now a team. Art was retired and liked the idea of what I was doing: traveling, seeking adventure and creating murals on motorhomes. Art helped me all that winter. Then he chose to spend an entire year on tour with me. Once the winter season was over at River Ranch, we headed north.

We formed a convoy. My truck with ladders pulled my gooseneck horse trailer with living area and the VW bus filled with painting gear. Art drove his jade green ‘62 Chrysler Newport that pulled his travel trailer. We soon found our rhythm of getting to the next project or rally. We found a series of artistic opportunities from Michigan and Indiana, Virginia to Louisiana, then over to Fort Valley, Georgia and back again to River Ranch during that year.

While he did the prep work, I interviewed my customers and composed a sketch of my idea for their mural. When the entire painting process was complete and the clear coat intact, Art handled the masking paper removal. He also loaded the ladders, plank, hoses and rolled up the electric cords. Then we headed out again.

Art had a gift. He was a natural as a manager of people at IBM. He was sensitive and able to zero right in on what was going on with a person. Rather than to barrage them with advice, he provided a simple word of wisdom they could translate into a solution. On several occasions while we traveled, life had me perplexed.

He would inquire, “what’s up, Bud?”

In response to a complicated explanation of the dilemma I was experiencing, he’d say something simple like, “get used to it.”

The concept he offered propelled me past the mire and into a mode of acceptance that brought about peace.

Ironic was that these tidbits of wisdom came from a man whose life was a complete mess. He had love for everyone, a perpetual smile and an ear for a stranger but seemed to be lost in regard to his own healthy needs. I have many fond memories of Art enjoying the others at pool side, teaching a group to do the Boot Scoot or watching the live entertainment at the Saloon. Art added to the fun of those in his company in his own special way.

During lulls in the rhythm on the road, he began to teach me the foot pattern for the line dance known as the ‘Electric Slide’. At first, I was very confident. Surely, having mastered rhythm in my previous vocation as a drummer and the coordination developed as a horseman gave me an advantage. But the movement did not have the regular cadence inherent in most song structures. I wondered if my good-hearted dance mentor was presenting something wrong. As my internal struggle continued, my kind-hearted teacher repeated his demonstration. I wondered, why can’t I get this thing?

I had to break through the contempt that kept me separate from what Art freely provided. The obstacle was arrogance and the assumption that this new skill would come as easily as all the other skills I possess. I would learn; this is different.

When I assumed an attitude of humility, I became able to imitate the simple foot pattern and the irregular cadence that made up this popular dance step. As we continued our travels, I occasionally practiced the dance pattern. Several months went by before I took the acid test.

In the fall of the year our trek took us through Georgia. Art met a woman in a restaurant who told him about a place with music and dancing. Later we met his friend Polly at a local country bar. When the right tune came on the jukebox and the other line dancers rose to assume their places on the floor, my trio was among them.

Surrounded by the other dancers, I was on the spot. I felt a panic that seemed to grip the back of my throat. Frozen with fear, I went completely brain-dead. While the other dancers around me effortlessly maneuvered around the floor, I just stood there. After what seemed to be an eternity, the song ended. Back at our table my friends surrounded me and offered encouragement. I internally assessed the situation and remembered what had kept me separate.

Later that evening the song came on again. The dancers assumed their positions as did I. This time I flawlessly initiated the pattern and continued to repeat it along with everyone else until the song was over. Triumphant about successfully overcoming part of myself, I left with a new feeling.

A higher sense of confidence through humility is another valuable lesson learned on the road of life. Not only do I belong but also with perseverance, things that seem impossible can be accomplished.

June 20, 2022

A Fascinating Woman

Dorita’s farm became an oasis spring and fall for several years as the increase in mural work among the RVers provided me with abundance. The idea of developing entertaining acts with my horse and mule remained a constant dream. I valued the opportunity to work with her. I also connected with the AA community in Sarasota and began to attend services at the Unity Church.

During the day, while at her home in Sarasota, I busied myself with rehearsals and lessons to become a better horseman. In the evening, Dorita and I would share strong coffee and talk about many aspects of classic horsemanship. These discussions rocketed my understanding and appreciation of this fascinating art form. While becoming her friend, I also found out many interesting things about her personally.

Dorita Konyot was a small woman. She was physically fit her entire life with long beautiful dark hair that was unusual for a person her age. Horn-rimmed glasses accentuated the high cheeks on her almond shaped head and a large elderly nose suggested, along with her accent, European origins. While we visited with each other, she typically sat across from the table. Cigarette smoke rose lazily into loops and shapes that eventually coalesced into the haze that stained the interior of her home.

Among the stories shared were anecdotes about her friend the author of the Black Stallion. Several eight by ten photographs of her friend Walter Farley astride a silver dapple Andalusian hung on the wall over the coach. While I listened intently, I found out more about this fascinating woman.

Dorita was born on a traveling circus caravan May 18, 1922 in Talouse, France, into a family of renowned equestrians. Her Scandinavian and Hungarian lineage blended with the flavors of all the countries that made up her playground as a child. Her father was a stern and capable trainer of horses and an outstanding rider of the highest level.

At a young age, riding instruction began with the ever-watchful eye of her mother, Manya and her father Arthur, trainers and presenters of High School horses and other kinds of horse acts.

She and her brother along with mom and dad soon made the foursome astride handsome Lusitano dancing horses that entertained European audiences from the bullrings in Portugal to the major permanent and traveling circuses across Europe. Related to a larger family with connections in all aspects of show business, her relatives had even built a large successful show before the Great War (WWI) occurred and all the equipment was confiscated for the sake of the war effort.

Her story was interrupted by the sharp bark of her canine companion. Raven, a sleek and

tiny miniature pinscher wanted attention too. His animated loops around the room and back to her side provided comic relief while we sipped our strong coffee. With Raven back in her lap, she continued her story.

Talent scouts found the Konyot family shortly before WWII and her family quartet with the command of centuries old Haute E’cole horsemanship skills came to America. In 1941, they began performing for Ringling Bros Barnum & Bailey Circus. Those audiences had occasion to witness the finest dancing horses in the world.

Incidentally, Dorita as a teenager was photographed on a rearing horse and that picture found its way into the book I found at the library when I was a kid in school, just developing my fascination with the circus. The picture showed a brilliant smile at ease under a large Cossack hat astride a large horse that stood up as straight as a candlestick on its rear legs.

The family also toured with Orrin Davenports Shrine Circus and the Clyde Beatty Circus among other shows. Years later a special moment occurred when Dorita received a standing ovation at Madison Square Garden for her performance with Bouncing Bomba her American Saddlebred High School horse.

One winter in Chicago at an exclusive riding stable, the Konyots stabled their horses during the winter break. A horseman with a background in the cavalry and a reputation for brassy showmanship befriended and became a student of the Konyots. Chuck Grant took the principles of classic horsemanship learned from them to add to his repertoire. He went on to become, as he coined himself, the grandfather of American dressage.

A school teacher who had never sat on a horse was in attendance at a circus performance in Detroit. So, moved was she by the equine choreography presented by the Konyots, that she selected to make a major career change. Vi Hopkins not only began to learn classic horsemanship and pursue a lengthy career as a riding instructor but went on to begin the unification of dressage instruction in this country when she initiated the USDF Instructors Clinic at her farm in Michigan.

Dorita’s emerging talent clearly was with the training of horses and horse people. When the Disney movie The Miracle of the White Stallions brought public awareness of Austrian Lipizzan horses to the forefront, Dorita trained a group of riders to present the Quadrille, or precision routine involving eight horses and eight riders for a traveling show that took advantage of the existing frenzy. Many of these riders went on to become stars in tier own right.

Gaylord Maynard performed the hilarious routine that her father used across Europe with his almost human equine partner Chief Bearpaw. Although the comedy routine contrasts with everything classic about this equine art form, Gaylord was another testimony of the influence and talent that Dorita brought to this country.

Literally all of my riding instructors and horse trainers had been influenced by this talented family. The Konyots are credited for bringing to America the equine art form known as Dressage. Virtually everyone associated with performing horses in this country today has been influenced by Dorita and her family. Her niece is a regular contender on the US Dressage Olympic team. In my quest to become a classic performing horseman I had been on a trail that led to Dorita.

She spent the final years of her life-giving lessons in the dressage community in addition to helping circus performers who strive to improve their horsemanship skills.

June 1, 2022

A Dramatic Shift

At the end of my time around the Blue birds, I loaded the livestock and made my way to Sarasota where my new horsemanship mentor lived. Lessons with Dorita Konyot before and after the winter season as the resident artist at River Ranch became a regular pattern over the next few years.

Performing opportunities with the circus were dwindling while the demand for hand painted murals on motor homes increased. This did not dampen my enthusiasm for this performing art form. I remain passionate about learning all I can. I had plenty of time to rehearse and take lessons during the fallow time after the Blue Bird rally and before Christmas.

My primary means of income shifted as I capitalized on this niche. With many RVs across the country, I had found a place to thrive. Knowing how to travel to take advantage of this huge market, due to my circus background, placed me in a position of advantage over the others who attempted to break into this itinerate market. I had the means with which to pursue my passion – classic horsemanship.

Using Dorita’s place in Sarasota as headquarters for my act rehearsals and riding lessons was handy. At the beginning circus performing was my priority and breaks between seasons were filled with painting projects. Now there wasn’t much circus work. I still sought to make progress with my acts. A new pattern revealed itself as my sign and mural painting business took center stage.

May 18, 2022

Motorhome Mania

I found a place to thrive with mural painting opportunities at motor home rallies. The timing was right. This was the beginning of the motorhome buying craze. Many retired folks sold their homes to become full-timers. I discovered these rigs were clumped up at a rally somewhere almost every week. Through my new friends at Fleetwood, I found out about more of these gatherings. The new American Eagle motorhomes had arrived on the scene and because the transom was blank, just about every owner wanted a painting of an eagle across the back.

Fleetwood rallies were held in convenient locations across the Midwest. I could always stop in Decatur and get a project or two. By September, I had plans to head south with the livestock but not to Florida. In October, I headed for Fort Valley, Georgia because the Blue Bird Wanderlodge Rally was next. Prior to the big rally, every campsite at the Bird’s Nest was full. I got busy. I painted special custom inscriptions and images of all kinds for these people. When the time came for the big rally, everyone moved over to the Georgia National Fairgrounds at nearby Perry.

This huge complex had been built with an infrastructure to provide hundreds of motorhomes with 50-amp electric service. There was also a huge coliseum for formal dinners and special presentations. I stayed busy outdoors the whole time. I had found a place to thrive as a lettering man, mural artist and gold leaf gilder.

During the four-day event, I satisfied as many requests as I could. I also mentioned to these people I would be at River Ranch for the winter season. I paid attention to where my customers were from. With a little advance planning, I could visit those who lived in the Midwest next spring when I returned north. A little at a time I used the mentality of a circus man. From the requests received, I put together a logical sequence that became my upcoming route.

After the rally, I returned to the Bird’s Nest and stayed busy for a couple more weeks. As the pace changed, I had time to get plugged into my AA community and become immersed in the rich regional qualities.

During this time, I hung out with Robert and even attended the church of his family. At church I met his dad Buddy who I usually sat with.

The company Chaplin also attended this church and regularly invited me to join him and his wife for Sunday dinner. At their home I was introduced to peach pickles, pickled okra and scuppernong. Fort Valley became a regular stop for the month of October for many years. Each year I became more familiar with its vast treasures. Fort Valley and the Luce family left a positive imprint on my heart.

April 27, 2022

Anne Murray

The fairgrounds were arranged with venue sections available for the carnival, merchants and independent concessionaires. I had reserved my spot. Efficiency reigned. The Jackson County Fair provided the perfect place for me to shine. The Letterfly T-shirt booth I built was essentially a 1964 VW bus that served as a storage and transportation situation. The parked bus became an anchor for the superstructure attached to the roof rack that placed a twelve-foot display overhead of the passersby. Corner supports flanked the counter top area where my salesgirl was surrounded by display shirts that hung overhead. Inventory shirts were in the counter boxes.

The upgrades to my booth elevated the appearance and efficiency of the custom T-shirt painting operation. Once the fair was under way, my helper handled the customers, took orders, found the right shirt and placed them in the pipeline.

I became an airbrushing machine. I’d hand the finished shirt to the customer and grab the next one. I’d slip the shirt over the platen made for this purpose and review the order blank to acquaint myself with the request. Then, while people watched, I began the process. I started with a loose layout airbrushed in a pastel color. I’d switch to black once I had a handle on the design to establish the linework. Then the shapes received fill-in colors, highlights and a quick outline. A name took three minutes. Then the process repeated with the next shirt.

In the midst of all this industry, a couple who looked out of place at a fair appeared at my booth. They wore formal attire with sparkling appointments, radiated opulence and patiently waited.

Once they got my attention, I heard him say, “we heard about you in San Diego.”

He revealed they had attended a motorhome rally where one of my murals on a motorhome was prominent.

The man continued, “we’re not leaving Michigan without an eagle on the back of our motorhome.”

This started our conversation.

I found out about a humorous occurrence that just happened. In order to find me, they drove their brand-new motorhome up to the entrance to the fairgrounds. The gate guard thought they were the grandstand entertainer Anne Murray. He directed them right into the infield and up to the back of the grandstand stage and parked them there. Once settled in their coach, they took a walk around the fairgrounds to find me.

I arranged to have them go to the campground behind the Beach Bar. I would do the work once this and my next fair were over.

The Beach Bar remains special to me. My career started there. Once tear-down at the fair was complete, I headed towards Clarklake where my customers were parked and waiting.

While I devoted time to their project – a scene of a majestic eagle flying over Captiva Island where they lived – I found out more to admire about them. They had the only garbage service and incinerator on the island. They described their life on that remote paradise off-shore San Diego. Now equipped with an RV, they planned to explore and see the many sights in the good old USA.

I was able to share with them the names of fascinating destinations I had found. I love to travel. Because of this love, I was at the brink of a huge opportunity.