Never Wrong

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Eddie screamed “are you completely out of your mind?”

Plenty of appropriate expletives were included in the loud dialog as Eddie defended his precious water supply from the invader. Jerry just stood there, oblivious of anything being wrong.

“You keep your hands off my stuff or I will kick your ass” he continued.

Spaghetti Eddie has one of the most sophisticated portable food concession operations in the country. He brings good Italian food to Leesburg Bike Fest and other venues nationwide. His operation is all about having everything he needs everywhere he goes. The several unit fleet includes kitchen and serving trailer, freezer and stock semi, and living quarters with office trailer. In spite of all this equipment, everywhere he goes he is dependant on hooking into the local infrastructure to have an ample supply of electricity to provide power to this efficient operation, and water for food preparation and cleanliness. Just like twin umbilical cords, they are his life lines.

Jerry had helped himself to Eddie’s water hose, unhooking it without permission to perform some incidental task, rather than find an unoccupied bib, and the interruption in the flow threatened Eddie’s ability to thrive. He became understandably upset with Jerry’s self centered behavior and complete disregard for others.

I imagine that if my mother had been on life support and Jerry came along and unhooked one of the wires, I would have become just as animated as Eddie.

I heard this story after I had invited Jerry and his wife Bobbie, to park their motor home at my house last winter. Little did I know at that time that as the result of having this couple on my place that I was about to experience a series of bizarre events that would make a lesser man cringe in disbelief and run to suck on the nearest gas pipe.

It all began around the patio furniture one evening with Jerry telling me about an aggressive plan. He was having a website built to inform the world about his “Cycle Care” product line but the computer in his coach didn’t work. Could he and his wife go and use the computer in my office? They expected the revisions would be done by the end of next week, and it would be nice to monitor what the web builder was doing. I said “sure.” At the end of next week the webmaster still wasn’t done, I had a weekend engagement so while I was away Jerry and Bobbie developed a pattern of entering my domicile and using my office at anytime of the day or night whether I was home or not and this behavior continued well past when the web building project was complete.

I got home one day and found that the lights had been left on in my office. As a little kid I endured an occasional lecture about the cost of electricity from my father who would stress the importance of turning off the lights when done.

“Hey Jerry,” I mentioned casually in passing one afternoon “ when I got home the other day I found the lights had been left on in my office, You are welcome to use the office but when you are done , please remember to turn off the lights.”

Forgetting to turn the lights off is not a serious crime and anyone in touch with the fact that as humans we make mistakes would cheerfully admit that it is possible that one of them forgot. Not with Jerry. Rather than receive the courteous reply that would have come from anyone else on the planet that was truly grateful for the privilege of using my house, I received a surprise.

“David,” Jerry began “we have already gone over this; and as I pointed out to you before, I have absolutely never ever left the lights on in your house.”

This disregard for simple courtesy was the first indication of some sort of physiological twist that exists with my guest. Stunned by his behavior I would slowly come to realize this man suffers from the delusion that he is “never wrong.”

I mentor men on a spiritual path. A complete lack of respect for the truth typically keeps us separate from those around us and blind to our own disruptive behavior. Jerry serves very nicely as an example to these men I work with. An example of what not to do. As the weeks stretched out to months I would become all too familiar with the pattern and obsession with being in control and the delusion of never being wrong.

Several times when I arrived home from an excursion to Lazydays to give the informative seminar “Rolling Art,…Why a Mural?” or meet with a couple seeking airbrushed artwork for their RV or from a weekend pinstriping at a Harley store, I would go into the house and find that the office light had been left on. When I would see my guests later, I would attempt to casually mention this in an effort to encourage the desired result. This only served to open up a tirade of denial as they swore up and down that they had never left the lights on. To punctuate this, the next time Jerry was in my house he took a piece of masking tape off my workbench and applied it over the light switch with the wording scribbled in Sharpie “There, I turned the lights off”

Bobbie and Jerry wore a path down from the door of their motor home in the backyard to the back door of my house as they conducted more and more of their business in my office.

One weekend I was away at the Harley Store in Naples and returned home Sunday afternoon in my van. I parked out in front of my home and walked around to the back of the garage to go inside. I found the door to my home standing wide open. I went inside and found the lights on in my office. I attended to several tasks that took a few minutes and as I went out into the backyard, I met Bobbie coming up the sidewalk with a folder in her hand, evidence that relieved me of any mystery. As we chatted a few moments, I found out that Jerry was in Orlando for the day and figured that she was doing something in my office when she realized that she needed something from the coach, leaving the door open and the light on, no big deal. I don’t know why I didn’t just talk to her about it then, perhaps the conversation would have been productive. Instead, a day or so later, I brought up the incident in front of them both, Jerry had no way of knowing what I had experienced when I got home that afternoon but right before my very eyes he prompted her to take his cue and they both became adamant and animated, swearing up and down that they had not only not been in the house that particular afternoon but had not been in the house for several days and as the duet monolog became even more creative they even promoted the idea that prowlers from the neighborhood had come and left my door open.

A complete disregard for the truth keeps us separate. Accepting that part of the human condition is the fact that we make mistakes at an alarming rate is the beginning of humility.

The inability to be wrong is probably a learned response to the reactionary behavior of their parents. We adopt our personality and formulate our method of operating through life as a child. The problem with delusional thinking is that it separates us from humanity, one incident at a time and if this method of operation is never checked, our lives continue to be run by a five year old. People like Jerry require a never-ending supply of new people in their lives to provide them with the ability to maintain the delusion that they are right. As these people are injured one-at-a-time by blind behavior, they, one-at-a-time, realize the futility of expecting or ever receiving fair treatment or the truth, so they give up and leave. If I remain focused on their unloving dysfunctional behavior I remain as separate from the sunshine of the spirit as they are. Knowing this I wonder what allowed me to let this couple remain on my place for so long? In hindsight I now realize how appropriate an invitation to leave would have been, and would have saved me a lot of heartache.

Bobbie and Jerry wanted to trade motor homes so I put them in contact with my dear friend Lee at Lazydays who found them an old but impressive forty five foot coach. The first trip they made with this coach was to my house where they parked it in the site I had created for my RV and plugged into my 50 amp service. Something went wrong with the dinosaur era inverter and the coach filled with white electric smoke. The resulting surge burned the wire an inch and a half back from the connection inside the 50 amp receptacle box leaving my electrical service wrecked. Was there any surprise when Jerry concocted a story about what happened that relieved himself in his eyes as to any responsibility for burning up my electric service? No matter what happens Jerry is never wrong. Or at least according to him. Thank goodness Bike Week in Daytona arrived to suck them and all their stuff off of my property for good.

The electric repair was made a couple weeks later by a licensed electrician friend of mine who visits in his motor home. The procedure was an exhausting sequence that cost time. The dirt that the “never wrong” duo tracked into my house has been swept up, the repairs for the wreckage have been made and paid for and eventually when the septic tank gets pumped, the last traces of their presence on my property will be gone.

My number one priority is to be a blessing to others everywhere I go and that, in turn fills my heart with joy, peace, enthusiasm and zeal for the life I live.

At my first motorcycle rally I saw Jerry from a distance. Jerry now has a shiny forty five foot tandem axel motor home and a fancy stacker trailer to pull behind, no doubt to plough a swath of destruction with in the lives of others.

He was alone with all that shiny grandeur and I felt sorry for him. Like the rich man that worships wealth, power, enterprise and fancy toys will never know the kingdom of heaven, he has created his own reality and must be a lonely man. Greed leads to an insatiable appetite for more.

It is a shame that takers are attracted to givers. I guess the reason for this typical fusion is because we fit together so well. The selfish behavior of my guests left me stunned, resentful and no longer standing in the sunshine of the spirit. Hey, wait a minute, I am a servant. I was involved in the act of serving. Forgiveness will restore me and is the first order of the new day.

Like paying it forward, forgiveness leads to gratitude, and gratitude is how I demonstrate to others the relationship I have with my heavenly father. I remain grateful to have a home to share with others and for the resources to repair and clean up the mess and the damage left behind by the thoughtless. My regard for others provides the source of the joy that fills my heart. A valuable lesson for me is to distinguish that it is not that people are good or bad; but to embrace that we are all a blend of good and bad. I possess the same ability to justify wrecking other people’s lives if I convince myself that I have to be right all the time. Slowly a mental delusion such as this fueled by resentment could very easily infiltrate my mind and become a stronghold.

I choose to forgive. I was blindsided by seductive manipulation. I am grateful that I have a wonderful home to share with others. I am grateful for grace and that this chapter is over.

As my attitude becomes, once more, elevated above the cares of the world and I am restored to happiness and joy, the feeling shows up in my work, a labor of love, and the next thing I have is a deeper connection taking place with the people I meet, the birds in the sky are singing a sweeter song and true friends are calling to invite me to visit them in their home to break bread and celebrate thanksgiving.

Nelson Driver Bikes Blues & Bar B Que

Bikes, Blues & Bar B Que
Re; Nelson Driver

Better Business Bureau,

July 25,2010

Dear BBB,

Thank you for your help with receiving the security deposit that is several years overdue as was promised by the motorcycle event; Bikes, Blues & Bar B Que facilitator, Nelson Driver. Please let me give you some background so that my position as a participant in this dispute is clear.

Watching hand painted designs come to life on a motorcycle, is a form of entertainment that is appreciated at biker events that include value added services for the patrons to enjoy. I am an artist and Letterfly Pinstriping and Mural Art Design Services has built a reputation built on integrity, high quality and uncanny design sense in the motorcycle industry with the primary focus of being a true blessing to everyone on the planet. True to my focus, I have prepared this informative response to your query.

The Pinstriping service that I take to events such as Bikes, Blues & Bar B Que does not generate any trash. Everything that is transported into the venue is loaded again and travels to the next location with the exception of the miniscule amount of paint that becomes the one-of-a-kind artwork that has been hand-applied to the motorcycles that participating patrons have commissioned. I sell no inventory. I have no cups, wrappers or wire ties in any of my belongings. Occasionally a drop of paint falls to the ground but since I move a rubber floor to work on in my workspace, that occasional paint drop would also move with me to the next town.

Each day during BB&B, I personally picked up the beer cups and trash that had blown into my display and placed them in the trash receptacles like I do at all the events I attend. Upon completion of the event, during load out, one last review of my area provided an additional opportunity to pick up beer containers and trash that I did not generate or consume but had traveled into my space.



What I have found during several decades of being a servant to the motorcycle culture in venues all across the country is that there are a variety of attitudes coming from the persons that promote and manage these events and these attitudes typically reside somewhere between two extremes.

1) The Wholesome Extreme; these promoters recognize prosperity comes with providing a mutually beneficial retail environment and an interesting variety of wholesome products, services and entertainment available to the patrons. Regard for others permeates throughout all the interactions with these groups, integrity is a big part of their method of operation. Please allow me to add that a universally functional spiritual dynamic also shares this premise.

2) The Greedy Extreme; a selfish need for power drives the behavior of these bullies that have a distortion of integrity and ethics that began to erode long ago, probably when they got away with stealing a nickel piece of candy. Dysfunction spreads from these individuals like an epidemic through management, coordinators, suppliers, vendors, hospitality industries and restaurateurs, and trickles down into the trenches where one-on-one grumbling takes place. Unchecked and driven by this greed, gouging becomes a notorious part of the function. This progresses through the growth portions of the event and fees increase to the breaking point when decline begins.

Interestingly, the “Big Three” of the biker events are all drying up due to greed. They became to only game in town and accumulated the power to crush all adversaries. As overhead at these events rose, the little people dropped out due to crippling costs and only large corporations could assume the vacant positions. The event then had a different face. The evolution into a cold, money driven enterprise lacks regard for the community, who resist, or empathy for the patron, who gives up, until it reaches the breaking point and enters into decline.

I am sharing all this information in an effort to enlighten Nelson Driver and other interested persons, as to where the litmus paper test of intention will eventually go. Nazi Germany began by suppressing the retarded and the queer, and from there…

I realize that I am truly powerless over the behavior and the perception of the treatment that accompanies a simple act of faith that Mr. Driver was going to actually do what he said he was going to do. I can only influence to behavior of Letterfly as I conduct my business in an honorable fashion. Letterfly operates with integrity and I respectfully continue to request the same from Nelson Driver as $200 remains due as was contractually promised.

As I wait patiently for completion of this transaction after many repeated personal attempts with Nelson Driver, and embrace the opportunity for clarity that this mediation with the Better Business Bureau is providing, I would like to conclude this reply with an enlightening fact; and that is, that there is nothing, I repeat, NOTHING manly about beating up an artist.

Sincerely,

Dave “Letterfly” Knoderer

The Joy of Painting

Tales of a Traveling Artist

Hey, how many of you remember the TV show called “The Joy of Painting” with Bob Ross? During the half hour presentation this amazing artist would paint a beautiful picture right before your very eyes. His demonstration was accompanied with ongoing patter about special techniques and the brushes used and these helpful explanations inspired me during my early efforts. One result of finding out all the “how to” and living this wonderful life as an artist is having ideas that may also qualify as entertaining for the masses. Here is an idea I came up with for a similar TV show. Enjoy this pitch for some interesting entertainment and pass it on because it needs to reach the right person to become a reality. Thank you in advance for your help with this. See you down the road,
Sincerely
Dave “Letterfly” Knoderer

The Joy of Painting

Consider seeing a delicate hand painted effect come to life right before your eyes that produces stunning fluted marble columns that support an arbor filled with flowering vines that imitate an airborne garden where angels would play, on what was once a plain dining room wall, or a commissioned mural on the exterior of a building that advertises a motorcycle dealership that becomes a community landmark, or travel with the artist across the border to visit a collection of Hot Rods in Canada that all receive old school pinstriping, airbrushed live fire effects, hand lettering, gold leaf gilding and even a humorous moose fish logo, or drop in on the excitement and clamor of a motorcycle event where the artist is creating intricate pinstripe designs right before the eyes of the leather clad and tattooed masses. The story about the traveling artist is interesting but not new.
Artisans need an endless stream of new customers and have utilized travel to find and serve large client bases for centuries. Even before the populace was literate, traveling artists thrived as their image making gifts served to provide a link in communications in the form of visual painted “sign” works, promoting greater understanding in those communities wherever they went. “Snapper” was the slang term for a sign painter who, with a minimum of inventory (a string and a piece of chalk to snap some lines) could thrive on the road lettering signs.
Today the lifestyle of the traveling artist is greatly facilitated by the cell phone, recreation vehicle and computer and the finished art projects are often superior than in yesteryear, thanks to modern durable paints and accurate precision spray equipment.
Traditional brush painting as a manner of accomplishing visual delights in this day and age has waned due to the computer taking the labor out of the graphics industry despite opportunities that abound for creating novel artwork by hand while entertaining as an artist at numerous opportunities across this country.
Letterfly, the pinstripe and mural design artist embraced travel well over thirty years ago, fresh out of high school, when he joined the circus. The knowledge of how to travel, accumulated at that time, came in handy a decade later when, in his role as an airbrush artist creating murals on motor homes, he began to serve clients that also lived an itinerate lifestyle. Letterfly, also known as Dave Knoderer, has a traveling painting studio efficiently loaded in a beloved VW van that travels behind his RV living quarters. With a penchant for adventure, you will often find him heading toward an unknown destination, always pursuing ideal weather.
As an apprentice to the sign painting trade over thirty years ago, (a trade that has all but disappeared today) old world techniques for pinstriping, hand lettering, pictorials, gilding and fine décor were learned as a teenager. Using this knowledge, the artist has developed the ability to create an endless diversity of designs in any size. Massive projects such as a mural on an outside of a building are just as familiar and comfortable to Letterfly as an intricate design on a motorcycle. Brushes made with special components in a variety of styles perform specific functions. Yardsticks, tapes, a sock filled with charcoal, pencils; snap lines and other common materials make up the low-tech arsenal of the old school artisan. Part of a potentially interesting show could include “tech time” when the disclosure of knowledge of time-honored techniques takes place for the sake of today’s young people. As well as tips for a sound foundation as an artist, developing good, basic pencil drawing skills.
In addition to being an artist, with a background in entertainment, Letterfly is also an educator that regularly presents an enlightening seminar entitled “Rolling Art,…Why a Mural?” where enthusiastic young artists and those curious about commissioning hand painted artwork are educated about various aspects of this interesting genre. The hour long presentation is the perfect forum for anyone interested in any aspect of custom paint and special consideration is given to introduce guests to what to expect as the result of having some hand painted artwork of their own. Letterfly will also give a Cherette for a community that wants to explore the possibilities of murals to perk up their small town and host an airbrush or handpainting demonstration to interested artists guilds to benefit curious artisans.
The artist regularly writes an ongoing series of written vignettes that depict being immersed in this lifestyle. The ongoing adventures of his life on the road are called “Tales of a Traveling Airbrush.” These stories help to keep friends and clients on the artists email address list informed to his whereabouts.
Perhaps a program that features live creation of hand painted, custom imagery combined with interesting “how to” dialog blended with rigors of being on location and a background of RV lifestyle and travel across this country will make interesting viewing. To learn more please visit the websites; LetterflyPinstriping.com and Letterfly.com, and contact me at Dave@letterfly.com
Thank you for sharing this wonderful idea with others.
Sincerely, Dave "Letterfly" Knoderercell 813 505 5539

American Thunder on the Speed Channel

Commanding the midst of the rumbling chaos was a parade of loud, diverse two wheeled conveyances made of dusty chrome and shiny paint, driven by the participants of a low brow fashion show. This curious sight was being admired by the seemingly parched and sun burnt crowd that comes to Myrtle Beach Bike week every year. Behind silver mirrored lenses that match the color of her hair, a pair of sharp jade eyes surveys this scene and is suddenly piqued at the sight of a camera man, seemingly out of place among the leather clad pedestrians. Susan was on it in a flash.
“Where are you from?” she asked figuring he was covering the event for the local news.
“American Thunder” was his response.
“Where’s Michelle?” Susan inquired, immediately recognizing the opportunity.
“Over there” was the response as he pointed toward the tall television icon wearing a florescent pink cowboy hat.
Susan raced over and said “Michelle, I have an artist I’d like you to meet”
“It’s not up to me,” Michelle responded “Jay calls all the shots” as she pointed in the right direction to facilitate the interception of the director of the show.
When Susan addressed Jay, he said “Great, I’m looking for a story”
I did not know any of this while it was taking place. My world at that time was very small. Not unlike the feeling enjoyed by many at Christmas time, I was consumed with the brand new Mack “series ten” pinstriping brush I had just selected from my stash. Each brush has a unique configuration of long squirrel hair and as a result, each arrangement has its own personality. After the inspection, I carefully trimmed the stray hair tips with a razor blade to make it “my style” and was ready for the next step in my new relationship with this small ungainly brush. To get familiar with how this brush worked, I dipped it up to the hilt in paint, palletted the loaded brush across the square of cardboard held between the top knuckles of my left hand to launch a manageable state and prepared to become familiar with how this new brush worked as I made the thin lines and the graceful u-turns and sharp points that, when complete, made a flame design that these windblown throngs desire.
I knew that Susan was watching point. She enjoyed the bikes and initiating rapport with the curious bikers that wandered over to look at the artwork on display and see the pinstriping taking place on the bikes that were parked in the booth. Hers is an interesting life of being a surgeons assistant with sourjournes to Montana to drive herds of horses and catlle over the mountains and help Letterfly at the big events. I remained in my little world of paint viscosity and hues of color and with the delicate hand of a surgeon, manipulated the unstable, loaded with liquid, unique paint brush, attempting to make pleasing delicate lines and images of all kinds.
After the flame job, I resumed working on the portraits of an Indian chief that had been started earlier on either side of another motorcycle tank. The next thing I knew, the pinstriping booth was swarming with cameras, a stunning television personality and the director of the Speed TV Show called “American Thunder” was suggesting vantage points for his crew to assume. Soon the haven for old school traditional motorcycle art is a studio for an interview to take place along with some interesting footage about this particular facet of the motorcycle culture.
Soon Michelle is sitting on a little stool next to me as I add intricate brush strokes to the beaded bonnet of the Indian warrior. Her questions began and I provided enlightening rapport about the specialty I bring to the biker industry. Each inquiry was a prompt for me to hopefully entertain the audience with an interesting fact about this particular genre of art that I am passionate about. I suppose that having given the seminar “Rolling Art,… Why a Mural?” for motor home folks, motorcycle riders and artists guilds across the country had prepared me for this moment.
When the shooting was over and the fans inundated Michelle with requests for autographs and photos, the crew continued to get interesting candid shots of Susan and myself as we continued with our projects to add interest and background to their story.
I signed the usual release and they invited me to watch in another month for the upcoming episode that will include “Letterfly” on the show. You are invited too.
I have gratitude for the spontaneous hunch and the quick thinking on the part of my side kick and friend, Susan. Now my distinct little creative sanctuary that is part of a bigger, equally interesting world will be shared with viewing multitudes on “American Thunder” scheduled to be on the air July 8th.

I’M GLAD I CALLED

“What’cha doing?” I asked innocently in an effort to start the phone conversation.
“Oh, David,” My mother replied, “I’ve been having the most wonderful time.”
She went on to explain that during a recent visit, my sister had bagged up a bunch of clutter from the attic but before the bags were carted off to the dumpster, my mother wanted to have a look inside. If her enthusiasm was any clue, the discovery she made was significant. Next came the announcement that she had found all the sheet music from when she was in the quartet “The Melodears” in Chicago back in the mid-forties, before she met my dad. Walking on air, she was leafing through the cherished musical scores, reliving memories of her youth and singing those wonderful songs.
“What timing,” I thought as I listened to her happy story. She went on to tell me that she had also found a music professor at a university that was interested in having the antique sheet music for their collection.
“That,” she said, “is much better than having all this wonderful music landing in a dumpster.”
The pleasant surprise of finding my mother so elated heightens my gratitude. I am very fortunate to have such a sweet, joy filled mother, looking for the beauty that surrounds her everyday. My interest piqued, after a moment I asked when her love for music began and about some of the memorable achievements along the way. Perusing the thought, she then giggled and began to tell me a story.
The first official announcement of her career intentions occurred during the height of the great depression in her homeroom class. The teacher went around the room asking each student what he or she wanted to do with their life. When her turn came she said “I want to sing” and the whole class burst out laughing.
Starting with voice lessons, soon she was in both chorus at school and choir at church and sang occasional solos. Soon with her long time friend Amy, she was part of a duet.
After High School she attended the Sherwood Music School where she had received a scholarship. At the first FM radio station in Chicago she was the program director with an emphasis on selecting peppy, vocal free music for her program “Music for War Workers” from a library of 78rpm records and even larger commercial discs.
While at the radio station she sang in a trio at church. Encouraged by one of her friends, an audition downtown secured a position for a rigorous season with the Municipal Opera of St Louis, where the company performed a new operetta every week.
After that, a tour with the Chicago Popular Opera Company took her on the road all over the country and to Denver where the company fizzled out.
Back in Chicago, an audition with an agent started a tour of state fairs and school assembly programs with the “Charm Quartet,” a trio of vocalists with a piano.
Becoming independent, the group became the “Melodears’ and at a church mortgage burning celebration she met the student intern assistant to the pastor who ended up also being invited to the choir party later on, but he would need a ride, so since my mom had a car, the girls went to pick him up and the rest is history.
As the wife of a pastor, my mother also became the choir director of the church. During thirteen years with the Civic opera in Springfield, Ohio, she sang the lead roles in two operas: ”Samantha Southwick” and “Old Maid and the Thief” and supporting roles in all the others. One of my favorite memories is that of waking as a child to the sweet melody that slowly drifted upstairs and into my waking consciousness every morning. Mom would arise early to practice her scales at the piano each morning. This early imprint must surely have something to do with my continual enthusiasm for the morning and the attitude of expectancy for all that the new day brings.
She taught piano as head of the junior piano department at Wittenberg University for eleven years and later when we moved to Bloomington Indiana she taught piano and voice as well as when we lived in Arlington Heights, Illinois.
When my folks built their retirement home in the Ozarks of Arkansas, piano playing and singing continued. She remembers her voice teacher back in Chicago telling her “if you take care of yourself, you will still be singing at sixty five” At sixty six she started her role as the paid soloist at the Christian Science church and continued in that role for twenty years. She is still singing, as a testimony of the joy in her heart, at eighty-six.
My mother provided a tremendous amount of encouragement for me. She still does. When I was a child it was my mother that noticed I had a gift. I never had coloring books; she bought blank sketch books, and signed me up for drawing and painting workshops. Busy with creative projects, realizing that I was gifted never occurred to me. When the other kids in the neighborhood would ask if I would paint a “thus and such” for them, I’d say “yeah,” but the whole time I was painting for them, I’d be thinking, “Why don’t they just do it themselves?”
My mother’s example makes me think back and be grateful for the sequence of events that molded my career. As a teen, I apprenticed the sign painting trade, a trade that is extinct today, but it gave me the wet blend brush painting techniques, lettering and layout skills that are part of what sets Letterfly apart from the rest today. The years as a carnival painter gave me a unique outlet to paint large entertaining scenic displays, fanciful enticing designs and food art of all types and, perhaps most valuable of all, effective marketing savvy at the grass roots level.
My goal of becoming the best sign painter in Jackson, Michigan was realized with the last three jobs being gold leaf signage on window glass coinciding with the computer beginning to take over that trade twenty years ago.
Fortunately, having a hand with an airbrush qualified me to excel in another genre; the fad of painting murals on motor homes had just begun. I moved into my RV full time and chased motor homes all over the country for nine years, completing a large body of work and accumulating the reputation that attracted the attention of the largest RV dealership in the country, which was in the midst of creating the “Disney World” of RV destinations. Having an artist in residence was part of their vision.
The endless stream of motor home customers lead to other opportunities. One had a Harley-Davidson dealership in Iowa. I was asked to travel and create mega murals inside and outside of their store. That started a series of motorcycle dealership mural painting projects across the country. While at these state of the art retail motorcycle dealerships, the art of hand painted pinstriping, a skill I had been trained in as a youth, was rekindled and started an endless stream of old school bike designs, flames and brush painted images of all kinds.
As the years go by and I grow artistically, spiritually and emotionally, my motive changes. At one time I was ego driven to be the greatest I could be. Now I realize that true satisfaction is the byproduct of being of service to others. My passion for painting is evidenced by the amount of completed work that continues to this day. With each passing year, the old time pinstripers and airbrush artists diminish, leaving a market to an elite few artisans that thrive creating art in the centuries old tradition to an audience that has been heightened to appreciate its uniqueness by the reality motorcycle TV shows. Like my mothers career unfolding one decade at a time, a sequence of events continues to unfold into mine.
Noticing my mother’s relentless singing, optimism and efforts to inspire others around her provides me with clarity. My goal is to be a true blessing to others and to have fun, while interacting with them and sharing the gift I have received from a heavenly source and strive to create memories for other people to cherish and enjoy. As I pause this day to appreciate the beauty I am surrounded with and the wonderful people I am of service to, the peace increases the level of joy in my heart and I feel like singing a happy tune, just like my mother.
I am glad I called.

Let's Pause

“We’re not going to do any warranty work on that!” he barked from behind the counter where he had retreated. I stood stunned, facing the sterile formica cubicle, truly at the mercy of this animated clerk. Something did not make sense to me. I had negotiated for the rear leaf springs to get re-arched and I had paid for the work yet the work had not been done correctly. Now in an effort to get what I had negotiated for, and for what they had agreed to do, I was being met with defiant apathy.

My thinking was immediately short-circuited. This aggressive and uncaring demeanor did not match the flavor of the customer relations I had experienced when I first came to Tampa Spring with the problem on my truck. The first person I dealt with was professional and courteous. I had brought the truck in and had the rear springs re-arched last spring when I was immersed in the usual scramble to get a plethora of last minute projects done before I hit the road to go north.

Believing the truck was done, I paid the fee and picked it up and went home. That was where, as I looked at it, something appeared to be wrong. One side was higher than the other but it was time to go. I expected the same courteous behavior from Tampa Spring at some point in the future when I had time to resolve the issue. Perhaps this was my first mistake: having an expectation.

After my busy summer tour I returned to Florida. On an errand that took me past the part of town where the spring shop was, I had occasion to stop in and talk with a pleasant man behind the counter.

“No problem” he assured me “bring it in and we’ll look at it.”

I left the shop elated to have the ability to get the truck sitting crooked resolved. During the long drives of the summer the mud flap that hangs down across the entire rear of the truck had ground off at the same angle that the truck leaned. I would love to get this problem, caused by the oversight of one workman, fixed.

Yet, here I was standing in the foyer with an apathetic and animated clerk defying me to get resolution and my brain went immediately into panic mode. A visual image popped into my mind that went back to the horror during my childhood when, on my way to school, helpless, I watched as bullies relentlessly picked on my older brother who was physically retarded. Such terror at that age rendered my tongue immobile and I was unable to speak. During a few isolated times in adulthood, displays of cruelty would cause a repeat of this inability to communicate.

“My God….not again,” I thought.

There really is no reason for this man to be unfeeling toward me. I am the customer and I have a problem for which his company has the fix.

Not knowing what to do I attempted to mention what the other man had told me a few weeks prior. He dug in with both an increase in his decibel level and a skewed gesture on his face as he repeated needlessly that “they will not warranty any of their work.”

I stood there in disbelief and added this confusion to the problem of the yet un-repaired truck. With his disclosure and demeanor not matching any of the positive indications I had received from the other employees, it was pointless to continue with this clerk.

I asked to see the manager. This man left and apparently after disclosing his version of the dynamic of the situation to his boss, an unfeeling manager showed up and jumped on me with both feet.

Those of you that know and appreciate me, are familiar with a calm, fun loving, creative individual that has the best interest of my patron, not only uppermost in my mind, but the momentum of this quality is what fuels my reputation as an artist. But confront me with belligerence and a deaf ear to a legitimate concern and I can turn into the customer from hell. And that’s what I did. The next thing I knew, my mind had flashed into a white hot rage and all the accumulated anger from unresolved, unfair and frustrating situations that had occurred during my rigorous lifetime surfaced and spewed out all over.

As I left the scene and drove away, I felt that I had been screwed and surely the owner of the company would want to know about it. Perhaps if I had cooled off and called on him another day, my demeanor would have been effective. But I did not pause. I was so convinced of my rights in this situation that I called and found an uncaring audience with the owner, who had been informed of the exchange. His apathy, no doubt, the result of the blend of my reception on the phone and the reputation I had accumulated in his foyer. Its all about timing.

Now that the exchange is in the past and no hope of resolution exists and the thoughts of retaliation and homicide have settled down, the legal avenue of resolution through the Better Business Bureau has been utilized, exhausted and the result is now terminally documented as “unsatisfied” the condition of the truck remains the same and I ponder in disbelief how the attitude of the workmen and businessman of this country has eroded. If it were possible to get this fixed in China, I would try to get it there, but…

What is the truth?

The work that took place was done erroneously. I asked for resolution, the attitude of the clerk stirred the emotion of fear up in me and I responded to belligerence with belligerence. Now my behavior has cost me any hope of resolving this issue that never was mine.

What is the lesson here? What could I have done differently? In other instances since this unfortunate episode, I have, when confronted with a problem or unbearable situation, stopped to pause. If I pause I have hope. Will I ever be exposed to unfair, cruel relational dynamics during the remainder of my life? You bet! I had better have a plan.

If in the beginning of my confrontation with the unfriendly clerk I had stopped to pause, the result would perhaps have been different. The terror of the moment could have passed harmlessly into the past, hopefully buried along with the unresolved images in my mind of the behavior of bullies in my childhood. I could have left the premises and returned another day to find a courteous employee that had an empathetic ear, and a genuine plan for resolution that would not only be good for me, his customer, but for the company that he works for, that provides income to support many, many families.

Perhaps the end result of this event will be for me to become able to pause and even teach others to pause and stop for a few moments prior to entering into a confrontation that costs both parties dearly and transforms customers into heartless adversaries. Is anybody immune to becoming the customer from hell when our buttons get pushed? I suppose not. My sincere desire is now for a new button...the pause button. The gift of being able to pause has the ability to promote harmony and, perhaps create a never before considered alternative procedure. During the cool down period of the pause, perhaps inspiration for a win/win alternative would pop into mind. My wish for you today is to receive the gift of being able to pause, as needed.

Ten Years of Service

The white canvas pinstriping tent was barely up as I was getting ready for the York Factory Open House at Laugerman’s Harley-Davidson when I was approached by a biker. He was drawn by the winged horse with the airbrushed flames on the VW van I was unloading. He was curious about getting some decorative paint for his Harley. Busy with the assembly process, I assured him the rest of my display would be ready soon and then I could assist him with developing a personal design that would serve to make his bike stand out from the rest. He paused, put his hand on his chin and thought for a moment and then asked, “Hey, aren’t you the guy at Lazydays?”
I was taken back and amazed for a moment and then I recalled that last year, here in York, Pennsylvania, three of the HOG members in attendance reminded me that I had put a mural on their motor home years ago.
Next month, during November, is the tenth anniversary of the symbiotic relationship of Letterfly as the artist in residence at Lazydays. The artist’s background as an entertainer, combined with technical airbrush skills, pinstriping, lettering, graphic design, and pictorial brush painting abilities and the creator of custom paint schemes on virtually every vehicular substrate in existence brings the perfect combination of creativity and rapport to the delight of the visitors and guests. The 150 acre motor home and RV dealership is a destination for RV’ers to get everything for the coach; and, having an artist on site was just part of their vision. “ArtPark” is the prettiest place on the property, where the artist has his studio. Guests bring their motor homes, motorcycles and tow cars and camp out while the artist creates airbrushed wildlife scenes, patriotic motifs, pinline designs, graphic stripe schemes and custom painted images of all kinds.
Dog portraits are a favorite among the guests at Rally Park. Many times the visitors gather around the familiar yellow VW microbus, parked adjacent to an RV, and watch the artist hand painting a portrait of FiFi or Fido on the entry door.
The seminar “Rolling Art,…Why a Mural?” began as an extra value added service to enlighten and entertain the guests that may be considering custom art to enhance the appearance of their coach and has grown to noteworthy status. The lively and informative discussion has also been given to interested audiences at art guilds and HOG member gatherings nationwide.
The artist started in 1974 as a sign and pictorial artist in Michigan and his career shifted to motor home murals exclusively twenty years ago. The annual tour of Harley-Davidson stores, special projects in other states, rallies and events began as the result of a Lazydays customer who owns a H-D store in Iowa. The tour makes available to many clients, projects other than the motor home murals the artist is famous for. Now, wherever the artist is nationwide, our guests can commission additional painted works such as large murals in their homes in addition to the regular services of Letterfly.
With the summer tour over, the artist will once again be available to serve the variety of requests from the service oriented Lazydays sales staff, paint and repair personnel and the many guests and visitors that enjoy visiting the serene and joy filled atmosphere with Americas foremost airbrush muralist at “ArtPark.” The time is now to celebrate with us, Letterfly at Lazydays 10 years.
For questions, please have the switchboard connect you or call the artist on his cell phone at 813 505 5539 or email Letterfly@aol.com
Thank you and I look forward to the next decade as we join to serve the most wonderful clients on earth, our customers, Ma and Pa USA
Sincerely,
Dave “Letterfly” Knoderer

The Love Knot

The party is over. It is finally quiet. I am painting an image of a spider with a meticulous web design on either side of a bike and will make the helmet match before my day is through. The band had played all day. Now they packed up amplifiers and loaded their instruments in a cargo trailer. By dusk they will be headed down the highway. Patriot Harley-Davidson is now closed and a few of the employees gather up the last of the cups, cans, chairs and orange traffic cones to put them away. One by one the remaining motorcycles roar to life and depart leaving Letterfly to finish this pinstripe design in peace.
The ability to get “dialed in” to the zone where the creative decisions take place in the midst of innumerable watching eyes, blaring rock and roll and the spontaneous roar of countless V-twin engines has developed over the years of service to this clan. Sometimes the endless stream of questions that must be tolerated start with a dichotomy; “I don’t mean to interrupt but…”
Each party takes on a life of its own. I had arrived in Fairfax, Virginia the night before, parked the RV nearby and set up my pinstriping booth on the Patriot Harley-Davidson parking lot to get ready to decorate motorcycles. Starting at sunrise with a breakfast from a nearby restaurant I was charged for the day ahead. Back at the venue, the first of the volunteers arrived. We all have our duties. I notice these peripheral activities as I get the first bike wheeled into place, start the cleaning process and find out the customers desire.
Like a great living being that starts with the crew making early morning preparations, this party has a personality that begins to emerge. Jousting takes place over donuts and coffee prior to playfully going about the traffic organization and parking tasks that wait. One of the guys had been looking forward to this event to get flames pinstriped on his Dyna and put his bike in line at my tent.
As the crowd begins to arrive, anticipation builds while they watch the band begin to set up. With the musicians tuning the sound system, this party not only gets a voice but excitement starts to crescendo. Soon the bikers clump up into groups to discern the themed accessories on yet another bike as they devour ribs and popcorn. When the band does begin to play some Lynyrd, I’m on my third bike. Immersed in an attention demanding layer of heart-pounding decibels of my favorite tunes, I force myself to refrain from tapping my foot as I pull the fine lines that make up an old school pinstripe design on a maroon chopper. My smile is in unison with all the leather-clad fans as the pace of the party quickens to the sound and the beat of the music.
The apogee of the party lasts all afternoon. The sunny weather cooperates with a cool breeze that combines to provide a hint of the upcoming autumn color shift - a welcome relief from the long hot summer. Returning to this place twice a year means renewing old acquaintances and making new friends. There is a lot to like here. The employees in the store are up beat, baby! The spirit of customer service is everywhere. Easily my favorite part of all the rallies I attend is the people. I have access to an endless stream of fascinating individuals and I learn about episodes that changed lives, an interesting mixture of events that brought people together or to this area to live, and their backgrounds, interests, personalities and dedication to their vocation, family and sport.
I bump into a gentleman who had me paint a mermaid and anchor icon on his new custom bike last year. He had plenty of tales to tell about the two month trip he took to Seattle via Arizona and the fun he had all along the way. Another story came from a man that brought his bike for me to decorate. As I painted the paratrooper and helicopter wings on the rear fender, I found out that, not only was he a Colonel, but he was inside the Pentagon when it got hit. Another had recently visited the wounded at Bethesda Naval Hospital and remarked on many of the soldier’s admirable attitudes.
During the interludes between musical sets and creating unique ornamentation on bikes, I found out about a guy who is a retired Navy Seal, an underwater demolition specialist. Many veterans have life altering, sometimes near death experiences that change their attitudes and appreciate an empathetic ear. Another admirable hero was a veteran and a preacher who, when he heard of the 9-11 attack, hurried to Ground Zero to minister to the victims. Tow truck drivers, dentists, all branches of the military, one-percenters and police all have their favorite stories and among them all, one stands out the most.
I was busy painting an unusual color blend through the motif on either side of a motorcycle tank to the specifications of my camo-clad customer.
I asked the soldier “what is the story behind this design?”
He was happy to tell me the story.
With his wife, they found an ancient Celtic figure known as the “love knot,” an endless loop that interweaves and loops among itself. I was replicating this meaningful design as he continued his story. The color shift I was blending through the motif introduced their two birth stone colors; amethyst and ruby. Although no longer newly weds, he had been overseas in Iraq fighting and his wife bought the bike, in the interim, as a surprise. Home on leave, he was understandably overjoyed with her gesture and marking the bike with their personal logo and symbol of dedication to each other including their personal colors served to christen and seal the union that now, with the bike, was made up of three.
I am indeed honored to facilitate this gesture of love and commitment. Often since then, I pause to pray for this man and others back in action overseas and all who have fought in the past. Veterans, I salute you. Thank you for the freedom we all enjoy. Welcome home and thanks for letting me serve you for a change.

Little Dogs

There is nothing better than a little dog. They are good for your soul and promote smiling. I like to get to know the dogs I paint. I am always pleased whether they come running with their tail wagging or if they have a Napoleon complex and have to yap a lot. The goal for Letterfly the artist is always the same; capture their personality with paint. Nuance makes them individual and is essential to include in their portrait. The more I see the more I can include in the painting.
These portraits serve a variety of functions whether I am putting the canine likeness on an RV entry door, a motorcycle sidecar, an auto, truck or a canvas destined to become an heirloom. The image cements the connection we have with the animals we love. Some people honor a pet that has passed on and the image becomes a work of art with immense contemplative and sentimental value. An image that suggests the wind blowing through their fur communicates to the world something fun about this member of the family. Whatever the motivation for the work of art, the task easily qualifies as a labor of love. I just wish I were half as good a guy as the many dogs I have met think I am.

Three Butterflies

Each morning at a motorcycle rally starts with a simple routine of putting out the photo books and literature for the customers and making sure my paints and brushes stand ready. Knoxville is not only home of beautiful scenic roads to tour on two-wheels, but also, this time of year, the national HOG rally is going on and Letterfly is right in the middle of everything, set up in the Knoxville Harley-Davidson parking lot.
One morning, when the opening procedure was complete and the first bike waited for some pinstripes and skulls, standing in my booth, I paused to appreciate the overall picture. I saw three butterflies traveling through the venue, mostly interacting with each other, flying a tight formation that, if tracked, the paths would have resembled woven loops, and the zigzags of a roller coaster. These three were enjoying each other. They flew right up to me and one of them landed on my hand and the other two continued flying the concentric erratic circles around their companion while she took a break.
Startled at first, I was quickly complimented to be included in the group.
“Hi you guys,” I thought as I studied the facial features and the big eyes on my little companion. Most interesting was the coiled up mouth probe she used to get the nectar from a flower. The beautiful wings had a colorful autumn colored pattern that, thanks to the opportunity for close inspection, had a dusty, pixely texture caused by the small overlapping bits of color that made up the delicate wings.
After a few moments it became apparent that my little friends liked it here and intended to stay for a while. I had one on my hand and two fluttering around but I had work to do. Reluctantly I raised my hand up to a convenient edge of a display panel to provide an alternative perch for my little friend and she took the hint but, rested and ready, resumed her flight with her escorts and as I watched, their path went over into the trees and foliage that edged the parking lot.
What a wonderful experience I thought, as I searched for some significant meaning for the episode.
As the bike rally progressed, I reunited with numerous friends from Iowa, Pennsylvania, Indiana, Georgia and other states as I created original designs and artworks on an endless stream of bikes.
Mid afternoon the next day, as I maneuvered back to the paint kit in the center of the booth, I startled a butterfly that had returned to hang around. I wondered if it could have been the same one. Now that I was aware of her presence I froze to give her space and after a moment she settled back on my kit. I telepathically addressed her and she seemed to perk up her head and acknowledge me. As I went back to creating beauty on gracefully formed painted and chromed steel, she continued her visit and stayed quite a while.
I am very fortunate to have found a path to peace. I am so grateful for the little things that occur, and for the ability to notice them. In the immediate moment I am easily able to remain immersed in the beauty around me. I credit some of the magnificent works of art for my customers as one benefit of being on this path and they, like the butterfly, in turn, take these works and their Letterfly experience to the four corners of the earth.
Pause to look around this day and perhaps you too will find and enjoy the beauty that is all around us.

Black Hills Classic

After a successful month in Montana the time was ripe to set up in South Dakota for the granddaddy of all bike rallies at Sturgis. The farewell drive from Billings took me past the Custer Battlefield, across the dusty prairie to the southeast corner of Montana where I crossed into the Black Hills. Through one of my motor home customers I had a contact, the sheriff at Keystone. With his help I had options. Kyle knew the businessmen that may have space for an artist during the rally. Kyle was on duty when I arrived in Keystone so I got a motorcycle escort to the RV Park. True to show business, when I arrived, the situation I had been anticipating had changed. Not to panic. I had arranged to rendezvous with one of my Lazydays customers to paint two eagles on their motor home. I was a week early. I had a project to work on for a few days so I got busy.
I first made the necessary parking arrangements for our RV’s and got settled before sunset. The next morning started with my walking twenty paces from the trailer to gaze up and see Mt Rushmore in the distance. A feeling of being in a special place arose within me. While I walked, the gravel sparkled in the morning light due to the mica and quartz content of the aggregate; proof of the magic. Mark and Kat arrived the following day with their big rig and once they were parked, work began. Starting with getting the area to receive the mural clean, I then masked and sanded the surface.
While I was standing on the work plank stretched between two ladders airbrushing the images, a lady saw me and yelled “Letterfly “ then ran up and gave me a hug. Startled at first, I found her face to be familiar. Her story clarified things. Laura and her husband had commissioned a mural for their motor home eight years ago. They had toured the nation and found a piece of property near here. During the summer she runs the Borglum Rushmore Museum here in Keystone and her husband takes Olde Time Wild West photos of the tourists. Each winter they find a different southerly destination. We had a great reunion and I was invited to visit the museum.
As the work progressed on Mark and Kat’s rig, the plot unfolded in regard to my participation at the upcoming bike event. The venue had been turned over to a third party who had never heard of Letterfly and the advance preparations that had been made. A state tax and a city license were needed prior to any consideration. Rather than flip-out, I just quietly trusted the celestial process and kept painting.
My favorite part of this job is getting to know the interesting and fascinating people I meet. Especially Mark and Kat. During the meals we shared and the errands they helped me with I was enlightened with stories that prompted many pictures in my mind that found me with them on many of the adventures and coincidences that lead them down the path they enjoy this very day.
Their rig is a Beaver Patriot that Mark completely designed, inside and out, including the exterior graphic paint job. Design is Marks middle name as he enjoyed a career as an architect among other creative pursuits. He personally designed the large tag-along trailer to carry two cars, a motorcycle, kayak and many other toys. The graphics on the trailer match the coach (naturally). I am complimented to be the artist he sought to add artwork to this already impressive canvas.
The fierce eagle heads that coordinate with his graphic stripes took shape and once complete, they received clear coat and the following day the area was “knocked-down” with fine grit sandpaper and buffed to resemble the glass like finish on the rest of the unit.
The owner of half of Keystone, who I had been interacting with, stopped by with some good news. He had a place at the end of the downtown boardwalk strip big enough for my booth. I could set up there the next day.
Mark and Kat left the following day for the Big Rig RV Park north of Sturgis and I moved into my rally location to get ready. As I set up on my little gravel hill I stopped to admire the view I had of the whole town. I overlooked the main street, two blocks long, and could see the highway beyond that came down the steep grade that lead to this valley community. Through Kyle I found out many interesting aspects of life in Keystone. All states have a mascot bird. Many communities have an interesting regional icon that they are proud of and flaunt. Keystone is proud of their community fragrance. The official smell of the town is “burning brakes” as many drivers, not familiar with how to drive a four-mile, six percent grade, continually heat them up and often roar through the main drag of town honking and waving, unable to stop, adding fresh aroma.
As soon as the Letterfly display of precision pinstripe designs and examples of artwork for motorcycles was set up, business began. Bikers had arrived early to take in the sights and many were out and about touring these picturesque roads. It was a few days until the rally officially started but I was already painting.
In the midst of the Black Hills Motorcycle Classic my world is rather small. The bikers enjoy riding to see the sights in a hundred mile radius and I enjoy walking. The RV is parked a hundred feet away from the display of pinstriping under the tent that doubles as a portable painting studio. Motorcycles with various amounts of art are parked every which way as I kneel to paint intricate designs on a rear fender or hover over the tank to make a mirror image design that is reminiscent of the days of hot rods and early rock and roll. Groups of bikers roar into the tourist town and take a break from the sixty-mile trip from Sturgis. They are on their way to ride past Mt Rushmore a few miles from here, but before they do, the time is right to stretch their legs and consume a beverage or two.
A few at a time, they park their bikes, walk past me and a few stop to look at what is going on. These are my customers, leather clad bikers from all four corners of the earth, all here to enjoy the spectacular scenery and interesting roads to ride.
I adopted a comfortable routine all within walking distance. Breakfast and coffee at one of the local restaurants, return and open the booth by nine, usually with a few bikes waiting for me to begin to stripe flames, create feathers, portraits of buffalo, eagles and an endless stream of insignias, statements, inscriptions and announcements.
When I did get a chance in my busy day to look up at the scenery from my booth, I would scan the town. From the elevated location at the southern end of the strip I could see it all. Keystone is a small village in rugged country, lined by rock formations that make up a craggy rim that lines a narrow valley that is at the base of the mountains with, not only Mt Rushmore, but farther west, the mammoth Crazy horse project.
Boardwalk tourist shops, neon signs, restaurants, gunfights, an old steam train and several hundred motel rooms are all compactly arranged between the terra cotta rock that rises straight up with jack pine trees grasping hold wherever they can. I am certainly blessed with the ability to live a fascinating life and see these interesting sights and use my talent wherever I go. I am grateful for this experience and look forward to meeting new and old friends in the Black Hills again next year.

Montana Bound

The pace was grueling. A long incline stretched for as far as the eye could see and proved to be another relentless uphill facet of an unbearable trek. A fierce and steady head wind caused the heavy seed heads of the endless grasslands to move in undulations that mimicked the ocean on a rough day. No better torture could have been concocted by the most fiendish of enemies than the slow pace of traveling uphill across the length of South Dakota. I sat in my one ton Dodge diesel pulling the fifth wheel living quarters with, hooked on behind, the essential VW microbus. I had left an event in New England to visit the comfort and familiarity of the Midwest, where I grew up, and then head into unknown territory. At the beginning of the trip, surprisingly, I found Iowa to be quite beautiful, but this day the travel had become difficult. Fear set in. What was I doing? I must be out of my mind. The plan was to head for Montana to attend a couple of important motorcycle rallies but being so far from home, too many things could go wrong. I could be… sunk, history, stranded, and worse yet, alone. I did not know what to do. I did not want the horror of my fixation to continue. The mental noise of the obsession merged with the laborious sound of the truck. I was ready to give up. Surrender. So I prayed. Without closing my eyes I asked to be blessed with the ability to let go and be restored to peace. As I went up another grade at 25 miles per hour I waited.
The phone rang. A friend from Sarasota had been touring Montana as a performer with an old fashioned tented circus and the show was set up in Sturgis, South Dakota and there were two shows tonight.
Cheeko asked, “Are you headed this way?”
I spoke into the phone “I’m 200 miles away”
My interest was piqued. I had a reason to live. I had hope. The obsession was gone.
The remainder of the trip improved, the wind softened even though the hills were growing. As I entered the Black Hills, indications were everywhere for the upcoming granddaddy of all bike rallies and that was still a month away. I found the fleet arrows as I entered the outskirts of Sturgis and they led me to the old fairgrounds/rodeo grounds that for today would be the circus grounds. I went around the last curve of the small town streets and there, nestled on a flat space in front of the grandstand, alongside the rodeo arena, stood the striped big top with various circus transport vehicles and RV caravans scattered about. My friend was already in wardrobe and makeup, ready for the show and he greeted me as I pulled on the lot. I drove my long ensemble behind the midway near the picket line for the ponies. I became immediately connected. A flood of countless experiences returned from the time, right out of high school, that I was a musician, performer and an artist with a tented circus long ago.
Colorful sign work on a big red semi flanked the entrance marquee and stood across from the sideshow. Peppy music prompted me to tap my feet as I soaked up the sights. The Culpepper & Merriweather Circus would be starting soon. Cheeko went backstage to get ready. I had better find a seat. I meandered into the crowded tent and found a seat in front of the single ring.
I could not believe my eyes. The first act started in a big cage with four tigers. A tall safari-outfitted trainer guided his charges through sit-ups, jumps through hoops, lay downs and a hind leg walk. These nimble and playful striped felines pleased both the audience and me. While the cage was dismantled, peanuts were distributed. After those tasks were complete, a graceful and beautiful young lady on the high trapeze stole my heart. Cheeko and his funny breakaway bicycle act were next. The show continued with a princess and her birds, then juggling, a balancing Rolla bola act, unicycles and a high wire thriller. The second half started with magic, continued with a girl and her hula-hoops, culminating with the highflying aerial stars.
Stunned, I waited in my seat as the crowd filed out and watched as the workers began preparations for the next show. I recognized the procedures and could appreciate the economy of motion that was the result of completing these tasks every day. I wandered behind the big top to study the rolling stock and appreciate how the poles and seats and rigging were efficiently loaded on various trailers. Pets and props outside of each living trailer provided a unique homey atmosphere and served to validate that this traveling assemblage was indeed home for many families.
The best part of the evening was spent in the accumulating darkness while the dismantling of the circus was going on. A few of the old timers with the show and a local cowboy, stood with Cheeko and me, and the conversation meandered from name dropping horse trainers, trick riders and cowboy greats to recalling performing in different parts of the country, and the rigors of doing so, and the intolerable situations of those days were laughed at. Names such as Bill Bushbaum, Rex Rossi, Bob Grubb, Roberto De Vos Concellos and Dorita Konyot were honored with anecdotes.
The welded and rusty rodeo arena fence became prominent in the moonlight as the big top came to the ground. Overhead, Venus was the first star to appear as the sky faded from its sunset colors. Silhouettes of the loaded equipment and various trucks and trailers were all that was left of the circus for this night. The crew had completed their task in record time. The no longer needed generator was turned off and the few remaining work lights dimmed in unison to the incoming silence. Darkness rose from the rugged surrounding territory and the almost full moon seemed to race Venus across the sky.
The nocturnal conversation moved right along as we discussed the role of the baggage horse on the old railroad circus, the Showman’s Rest Cemetery in Hugo, Oklahoma and effective zebra training techniques. Our local friend shared some interesting regional history with us. On this same fairgrounds, years ago, the Jack Pine Gypsies, a motorcycle club, started the motorcycle rally that has grown over the decades into the largest biker gathering of them all.
There, in the darkness I paused to appreciate what I had just learned and then experienced a sense of wonder, admiration and peace. What were the odds of this mixture - an old time circus – standing on this revered biker location - at this exact moment? I got the message. All is okay, and that God is not only watching over me but this interesting sequence is part of a perfect plan for me.
At dawn the next morning, I joined the procession off the lot that threaded its way through the streets of the sleeping town. Yet, as the rest of the show headed east for Minnesota, I turned and continued my trip west.
Soon I was in Wyoming and the terrain kept changing. Angular rock formations and stone escarpments occasionally penetrated the hilly and grassy Wyoming prairie. I had plenty of miles to cover today so I better settle in and enjoy the sights.
The grades aren’t any more graceful, the wind any less relentless but this day, I am whistling. I have vigor. Good thing. Sections of the road in front of me are steeper as I enter Montana and the experience, like the terrain, is sure to have no resemblance to any part of my past, yet I go with a new found expectancy on this adventure. I am grateful.
Finally over the Pryor Mountain range, civilization seems to be somewhere up ahead. Oilrigs, industrial depots and housing sprout up along the route. I stop at Billings for fuel and to review the map for rest of the trip to Bozeman. One hundred and fifty miles, I should be at my destination by dark.
Peace prevailed as the highway ran west, parallel to the meanderings of the Yellowstone river with its grand quiet water surrounded by majestic cottonwood trees, rushing white water and great bottom land areas of agriculture that spread all the way up to the feet of the far off mountains that surrounded us.
The pace along the Yellowstone river valley was refreshing. The engine had found a sweet spot to purr out a long song. The higher altitudes of the grass-covered mountains were filled with jack pine and spruce trees. The lower lush areas surrounding the rushing river have a few tall, sturdy ash tree hammocks sharing the bottomland with the mighty cottonwood. Clumps of aspen populated hilly areas both high and low. The vast stretches of prairie grass were interrupted with light dusty blue puffs of foliage growing among the tall grass that undulated in the breeze. The trek next to the river was beautiful, flat and effortless yet I could see huge mountains looming in the distance ahead.
A hundred miles of this healthy pace helped me forget the fear of the previous day. As I enjoyed this river valley, occasionally in the distance I caught glimpses of peaks with snow on them beyond the ranges that flanked this valley. As my trek continued, a mountain range seemed to grow across my path. I began to hope that the road would go around the presence that loomed larger with every mile.
A railroad track appeared alongside the highway. Surely the train had found a level place for its roadbed. An occasional hill would hide the meandering tracks that had found a path to incline. The highway started to ascend. Signs that said, “chain up area ahead” were the only indication of the severity of the upcoming mountain pass. As the climb began, I had to grab a gear, and… then another. A long line of railroad cars full of coal were going up the tracks along side the highway and three engines were pushing at a pace even slower than mine.
I could not see where the incline was going at times, but around each curve of the mountain appendage I would once again meet the train that occasionally went over or under my roadbed. The climb took on another degree of incline and I had to shift all the way down to the granny gear. Fear returned. I had heard of instances where the power of the vehicle had become bested by the load on a steep incline. I wanted to turn around and go home but as I glanced over the corrugated metal guard rails on either side of the road and at the ever so slowly passing scenery, I found no place to do so. I wanted my mommy. I wanted anything but to get stranded on this mountainside that was twenty miles from my destination. As I reviewed my limited options, an epiphany was forced upon me. I had no choice. The only option was to keep sitting in the drivers seat with my foot firmly planted on the accelerator pedal and continue to go forward albeit slowly. Perhaps a life turned over to a higher power is like that. My responsibility remains simple; go forward.
At the crest of the Bridger mountain range, I pulled over where another sign announced the chain removal area and took a breather. The engine wasn’t hot. All seemed well.
The remaining few miles into Bozeman and on to neighboring Belgrade was effortless. I arrived at Yellowstone Harley-Davidson at dusk, found a place to park and caught a glimpse of Venus racing the near full moon across the sky as I readied for bed. The next morning was set-up day for the state HOG rally. In the AM, I assembled my booth in front of the Harley-Davidson store and as soon as that task was complete, customers arrived, saw my display, brought me their bikes and the striping began.
The next four days were filled with meeting folks from the four corners of this country and half of Canada that enjoyed converging on this spectacular destination as the epitome for a place to ride. A wide variety of bikes were decorated, touring bikes received the graceful lines that accent their curves and bobbers and custom bikes received old school lines that gave them an attitude.
The vigor around the store was refreshing. The partners at this dealership had created a destination. High-energy dedication to customer service, fun, cooperation and lots of personal integrity from the staff prevailed, just like at Lazydays back home. The rally was a huge success and the folks at Yellowstone want Letterfly back again next year.
Parting is such sweet sorrow. With the rally over, the time had arrived to return to Billings and prepare for Wing Ding; the national gathering of Honda Gold Wing touring bikes. As I drove the trip back along the Yellowstone river valley I adopted the strategy to have a horsepower boost kit installed on my Cummings engine during the rally. Arriving at the MetraPark fairgrounds I found the RV sites full of motor homes and trailers all waiting for the event to begin. After parking my rig, I sought out my situation in the convention center building.
Setting up my display of various examples of pinstripe designs for touring bikes alongside eight other top shelf motorcycle artists from all four corners of the country, has become an almost sacred annual event. The camaraderie amongst like-minded and talented artists is unlike any other fellowship. We all relate on a creative level and communicate about the nuance of various techniques used to achieve our painted goals. We easily relate as we talk about the feeling and responsiveness of certain brushes and a variety of tricks to achieve certain effects. Tips and techniques galore are shared and with the embrace of each artist’s style, a door is opened. During the busy event, an unspoken appreciation is radiated as we look up from our projects and gaze of the works of art that are being spontaneously created around us during the four days of painting as many bikes as we can. During the few breathers between projects, I would internally reflect on the privilege it is to be part of this stable of artists; all top notch.
In the evening we shared stories of how the innocent and necessary initial questions from potential clients are sometimes anecdotal and other times flotsam. The reality we share is that creating hand painted art is a way of life. My role as an artist expands during this event in another way. Instead of just being of service to my customer; Ma and Pa USA, my service extends to my colleagues with a brush.
Wing Ding was a success. Seventeen thousand bikes were in attendance from all over North America. No better place existed to reside during the unusual hundred degree heat than inside of the air-conditioned convention center creating beautiful designs for nice people.
While in Billings, as a result of meeting some local businessmen, I have extended my stay in Montana with several high profile projects. Beetle’s Body shop is restoring two 1934 Knucklehead Harleys and authentic retro pinstriping is just part of the tedious procedure to complete these museum masterpieces. City Towing is not happy with the way computer generated vinyl prints look on their fleet of wreckers and are elated that Letterfly has the ability to extend his stay in Billings and tackle airbrushing a custom flags and flames paint job on three trucks in his fleet. Dave Albrecht has the goal of winning the “tow truck of the year” award.
Now the RV is parked next to a big shop building on the outskirts of town, next to a babbling brook that meanders under cottonwood trees, scrub ash, Russian olive trees, cattails and tall prairie grass. This will be home for a while, providing an ample situation for creativity to continue. The horsepower boost kit has transformed the Dodge Ram, the weather has leveled off at the mid seventies and I can enjoy a less frenzied pace of work and enjoy evenings of quiet leisure and renewed connections all over the country via e-mail and calls from friends back home.
Why do I fear? The birds that live in the wild do not worry about where their next morsel will come from and when they go forward, without a worry, they fly! Fear must be an illusion. All I have to do is review my interesting career and I find evidence of an endless stream of opportunities to excel, wherever I am. The sequence of events in my life, learning how to travel, accumulating painting skills, becoming a highly regarded artist, the lessons of life continue all along the way, and merge to prepare me for the next echelon. As I look back, I wonder who am I to judge the long trip, as being something to fear. Wouldn’t the projection of joy qualify as a healthy upgrade? I am truly blessed. Montana has proven to be yet another place where I may live, create, grow, serve, love, laugh and prosper. I like it here in “Big Sky” country. I’m glad I came.