Posts by TerryWalstrom

49

My 71st Birthday Confessional

by TerryWalstrom in

jw
friends

i was born january 15, 1947in mt.

carmel hospital, detroit, michigan.. within six months of my birth, my mother would bundle her baby boy into a blanket and board an american airlines propeller-driven plane--in effect, leaving my father behind--to return to her hometown, ft. worth, texas.. my dad had an excellent job working for cadillac as an inspector.

it was a union job.

TerryWalstrom

Don Magno (still an artist today, Terry Walstrom (a writer) Arvant Benjamin (lost touch with him.)
This production facility had artists from Germany, Thailand, the Philipines, Mexico, etc.
We were a ragtag bunch.
My horizons were expanding like crazy. From a JW Pioneer to a fledgling painter in an art factory.

49

My 71st Birthday Confessional

by TerryWalstrom in

jw
friends

i was born january 15, 1947in mt.

carmel hospital, detroit, michigan.. within six months of my birth, my mother would bundle her baby boy into a blanket and board an american airlines propeller-driven plane--in effect, leaving my father behind--to return to her hometown, ft. worth, texas.. my dad had an excellent job working for cadillac as an inspector.

it was a union job.

TerryWalstrom

mgmelkat7 hours ago7 hours ago

Did you ever become the artist you wanted? Would love to see what you created!
_____

My first actual job as an "artist" was in a large company called TRIANGLE ART. It was, more or less, a factory of sorts. I was hired as one of a group of 10 artists whose job was to reproduce multiple copies of wall paintings. These paintings were designed by two fellows who went on to become my best friends.
Guess what?
I had never painted anything before in my life!
(Unless you count fingerpainting in the first-grade elementary school.)

My chief talent in art stemmed from an uncanny natural ability to draw hyper-realistic portraits of human faces.
I could say a lot about this, but I won't bore you.
My drawings seemed to impress people. To this day, I cannot understand why this is so.
I digress...
Imagine you are a Dentist hired to perform an appendectomy and you'll understand my situation.
My one natural gift was "non-transferable" to painting! Yet, on the strength of my interview and "chemistry" with the two head designers--I was hired.
I did a Google search and found an image which pretty much nails what we were asked to do.
The idea was this.
A landscape, for instance, was created by the lead designers and approved
by the salesmen as something they thought they could sell.

These designers then "broke it down" into stages, creating
intermediate canvases even a moron (like me) could copy.

Was it really Art?
Ha ha ha ha ha. Don't be silly.
These WERE paintings and the art was eventually framed and sold.
People DID buy them
But was it Art?
Ha ha ha ha.

A "Certificate of Authenticity" was created verifying some wholly invented

nonsense about the non-existing Artist. "Anton Chichikov, master painter
from Ukraine, escaped the iron curtain of Communism during Premiere
Khrushev's regime and fled to France where he adapted his vision of

beautiful blah-blah-blah into this remarkable piece of blah-blah..."

Within about a month, I approached the owner of the company with some ideas
for how to improve working conditions and pay for the artists.
I proposed an INCENTIVE SYSTEM.

The owner, Richard Friedman, a Hungarian Jewish fellow who wore his shirt
open exposing the plethora of white hair on his chest and his bright gold chain,
approved the idea and promoted me to the foreman position.
This unexpected outcome meant I no longer had to paint schlock!

Why am I telling you this?
I am a writer now--why wouldn't I turn it into part of my life story? :)

From that promotion forward, (are you ready for it?) I never really had to
create any original art of my own for the rest of my art career!
In fact, the lead designer R.S. Riddick was about to launch his own etching
business and he stole me as his own employee.
My whole life changed!
I moved from Cucamonga, California (at the foot of Mt. Baldy) to Redondo Beach
in South Bay.

I was trained to mix colored ink, apply the ink to etching plates, prepare the
rag paper in a bath of water, and to soak and dry it--then, lay the plates on
a thick blanket surface in a large motorized roller press and--PRESTO!
Pulling back the blanket, and peeling off the paper, the freshly minted etching

appeared. After it dried, we often hand-painted watercolor areas, or added

a poem I would write. Finally, Art galleries all over the U.S. ordered these

original, limited edition etchings from our traveling sales force.

As a Jehovah's Witness who had only worked horrible jobs cleaning toilets, building mobile

homes, and painting houses--I was in heaven working in an actual Atelier
in the incredible paradise of California.

From that position as Master Inker and Pressman, I became the de facto C.E.O.

of R.N.R. Graphics, when the Artist himself moved on.
I hired more artists to replace him and changed the direction of the company.

From there, I went to work as an Art Consultant and salesperson in Beverly Hills at
Billy Hork Galleries.
Most of my stories involving Hollywood celebrities began about that time.

From then onward, I learned Custom Framing techniques and hired on at
Creative Galleries about a mile from MGM Studios.
What a fantastic experience!
I made friends with set decorators for TV and movies

and consulted on Art installations for all corporate hangings.

The moral of this tale?
I NEVER REALLY USED my artistic gift per se.
Amazing and ironic? I think so.

The only piece of original art I own which I created, is my very first drawing
from 1965 when I discovered (and was discovered) my portrait talent.
From that first High School era drawing, I did contract work in Fort Worth.
I charged whatever I thought I could get--which wasn't much.
My longing to use this one tiny talent just about ate me up until I moved
away from the drudgery of janitorial labor and Jehovah's Witness bondage.

I took this iPhone shot of that one piece. It is hanging on my wall.
It is Peter O'Toole as Lawrence of Arabia

For "Good Luck" I have used this drawing on the cover of both of my books

Product Details

49

My 71st Birthday Confessional

by TerryWalstrom in

jw
friends

i was born january 15, 1947in mt.

carmel hospital, detroit, michigan.. within six months of my birth, my mother would bundle her baby boy into a blanket and board an american airlines propeller-driven plane--in effect, leaving my father behind--to return to her hometown, ft. worth, texas.. my dad had an excellent job working for cadillac as an inspector.

it was a union job.

TerryWalstrom

LoisLane:

Terry, Have you recently posted which jail and prison(s) you were sent to?

Has anyone made a collection of all the names of the young brothers sent to prison because of WT? If so, I am not aware of it.
_____

At one time I had in my possession the names of all the Brothers from prison, their (then) home addresses. Time has a way of losing those things. I may still have it "some"place.

Some of my best buddies from that time died young. One, Danny Roy Bene, killed in an auto crash, and Sammy Salami died of a sudden heart attack.
I'd love to contact Joe Pruitt or Ron Clayton. Never could find them.
I did hunt down and speak on the phone with Tollie Padget.
Midway through our conversation, I realized he was STILL IN the ORG.
I excused myself and sent him an email explaining my situation and giving him the choice of initiating the contact. That was a couple of years ago. So far...nothing.

Many of the Brothers were sent from El Reno in Oklahoma into Texas.
I spent 10 days in the Tarrant County Jail before I was transferred to Seagoville Federal Correctional Institutions in Dallas.

______________

Seagoville was intended for Enemy Aliens originally!
http://www.thc.texas.gov/preserve/projects-and-programs/military-history/texas-world-war-ii/world-war-ii-japanese-american-4

Seagoville alien enemy detention station

49

My 71st Birthday Confessional

by TerryWalstrom in

jw
friends

i was born january 15, 1947in mt.

carmel hospital, detroit, michigan.. within six months of my birth, my mother would bundle her baby boy into a blanket and board an american airlines propeller-driven plane--in effect, leaving my father behind--to return to her hometown, ft. worth, texas.. my dad had an excellent job working for cadillac as an inspector.

it was a union job.

TerryWalstrom

LoisLane looking for Superman

Can you PM me with a safe email address with your username from here?
________

Anyone can email me at this address:
[email protected]

_____

If you had met me, you'd remember. I'm six feet four inches tall and don't have a serious bone in my body.

49

My 71st Birthday Confessional

by TerryWalstrom in

jw
friends

i was born january 15, 1947in mt.

carmel hospital, detroit, michigan.. within six months of my birth, my mother would bundle her baby boy into a blanket and board an american airlines propeller-driven plane--in effect, leaving my father behind--to return to her hometown, ft. worth, texas.. my dad had an excellent job working for cadillac as an inspector.

it was a union job.

TerryWalstrom

I "preesh" all the well-wishes.
If it weren't for Ex-Dubs in the world, I'd actually have zero acquaintances or friends who could begin to understand that wack, weird and warped journey.

Much thanks!

49

My 71st Birthday Confessional

by TerryWalstrom in

jw
friends

i was born january 15, 1947in mt.

carmel hospital, detroit, michigan.. within six months of my birth, my mother would bundle her baby boy into a blanket and board an american airlines propeller-driven plane--in effect, leaving my father behind--to return to her hometown, ft. worth, texas.. my dad had an excellent job working for cadillac as an inspector.

it was a union job.

TerryWalstrom

JaniceA4 hours ago4 hours ago

Happy birthday, Terry. Are you the guy that told us the Starbucks that you hang out in?

_______

I recently moved, JaniceA!

I left behind that dadblamed Crow, Edgar!
I'm trying to grow accustomed to the local Starbucks. I don't know anybody there since I left all my chess buddies behind too.

49

My 71st Birthday Confessional

by TerryWalstrom in

jw
friends

i was born january 15, 1947in mt.

carmel hospital, detroit, michigan.. within six months of my birth, my mother would bundle her baby boy into a blanket and board an american airlines propeller-driven plane--in effect, leaving my father behind--to return to her hometown, ft. worth, texas.. my dad had an excellent job working for cadillac as an inspector.

it was a union job.

TerryWalstrom

I've promised myself I'll finally release my entire JW memoirs this year after working on it almost four years.
My working title is:
A FUNNY THING HAPPENED TO ME
ON MY WAY TO ARMAGEDDON

49

My 71st Birthday Confessional

by TerryWalstrom in

jw
friends

i was born january 15, 1947in mt.

carmel hospital, detroit, michigan.. within six months of my birth, my mother would bundle her baby boy into a blanket and board an american airlines propeller-driven plane--in effect, leaving my father behind--to return to her hometown, ft. worth, texas.. my dad had an excellent job working for cadillac as an inspector.

it was a union job.

TerryWalstrom

When I see old JW's from my era, they invariably look like the toothpaste tube; squeezed and rolled. Used. Used up.
None of them appears healthy.

Maybe it's just my perception. Dunno.

My point?
I feel like--with all my ups and downs--I've done much better in life (actually living) than the 'faithful' Dubs. I can look back with incredible memories of a life well-lived and I have a great many stories to tell.

I always want to say to my generation from my old Kingdom Hall:

"Hey--did Armageddon ever arrive?"

Old Dubs don't seem to be much more than ghosts of Xmas past.
It requires an extraordinary talent for cognitive dissonance.
So, bottom line, I can't complain.
I jumped ship and never looked back.
Smartest thing a soul can do.

49

My 71st Birthday Confessional

by TerryWalstrom in

jw
friends

i was born january 15, 1947in mt.

carmel hospital, detroit, michigan.. within six months of my birth, my mother would bundle her baby boy into a blanket and board an american airlines propeller-driven plane--in effect, leaving my father behind--to return to her hometown, ft. worth, texas.. my dad had an excellent job working for cadillac as an inspector.

it was a union job.

TerryWalstrom

I was born January 15, 1947
in Mt. Carmel Hospital, Detroit, Michigan.

Within six months of my birth, my mother would bundle her baby boy into a blanket and board an American Airlines propeller-driven plane--in effect, leaving my father behind--to return to her hometown, Ft. Worth, Texas.

My Dad had an excellent job working for Cadillac as an inspector. It was a Union job. It paid well. But his wife (my mom) refused to continue living in his house because his alcoholic mother lived there. Dad left his secure employment and flew to Ft.Worth to reunite.

Mom and Dad moved in with my maternal grandparents.
Those grandparents pretty much reared me.
Dad got a job making 1/15th his previous working wage.
He had to walk five miles to get to work as an auto reupholsterer.
Mom worked in a Donut shop, in a Carnival, as a waitress.

According to Mom's story, Dad lasted in Cowtown about six weeks and threw in the towel and moved back to Detroit. He got his old job back and sent her money to return when she got her head straight.
According to him (I met him 25 years later), she spent the money on new clothes and told him to send more cash for plane tickets. She spent that too and he was done with her (and, consequently: me.)

None of the above is at all interesting to you but it fascinates me. I guess this is because I got off to a lousy start in life without a father in a world where DIVORCE was shameful.
For the first 21 years of my life, I felt inferior to my peers who had both a Mom and a Dad.

I was extremely shy and backward socially in elementary school but I made perfect grades. That was my compensating principle: You are better than I am--but I am smarter than you.

I was the school spelling champ. I could memorize anything.
I increased my vocabulary to the point nobody could understand a word I spoke or wrote.
Congratulations Terry, for stupid over-compensation.

My best friend, Johnny, induced me gradually to become absorbed into a seemingly friendly and righteous religious organization (cult) of Jehovah's Witnesses. For me at that time--it seemed like self-betterment.

I learned (was indoctrinated) to go door to door talking to strangers about how Armageddon was coming. I was schooled in public speaking and how to prepare and deliver sermons.
I was privately counseled to refuse induction into the Armed Forces and got myself sentenced to 6 years in Federal Prison. I 'served' time from 67 to 69 and was paroled.

I married my best friend's sister.
We created three incredible babies and I worked as a janitor, a mobile home builder, and a bricklayer for four years. Simultaneously, I was a full-time (one hundred hours per month) minister of Jehovah's Witnesses.

I lost my F-ing mind!

Talk about s*itholes? My LIFE was one.
I moved my entire family away from Texas (and I hoped the influence of the JW's) to California. I determined to become an artist.

Life changed dramatically. I was reborn as a human being.
My wife was still a devout Witness. Our marriage fell entirely apart.
I could no longer even pretend.

You can't win for losing, it seems.
Either my life has been a stinking failure or it was some kind of raggedy-ass drama of survival with PTSD. (I had been assaulted in prison.)

I either did the best I could with what I had--or I'm simply the remains of a brainwashed cult victim who could never quite regain sanity.

Tomorrow, I turn 71.
What in the world, I ask you, do I have to celebrate other than surviving?
I have exactly what I deserve and nothing more.

My children and grandchildren are the real miracles in my life.
I have nothing to complain about worth the telling.
I'm still healthy and have most of my hair. I'm not yet fat.
I lost 2 of my best friends to death last year.
I cannot acquire or maintain any significant other in my life because I'm pretty much impossible to deal with.

Why am I writing this?
Beats me, other than to bring myself up to date in personal inventory.
Turning 71 means you stop and take stock.

I appreciate all my Ex-JW friends who stop to read what I write and post. You help me more than you know simply by BEING THERE as a sense of 'family of friends' for me to talk to and 'share' thoughts with.

I guess if I didn't have stories left to tell or people to listen, I could pack it in and join Elon Musk in a colony on Mars.

Thank you, folks, for listening.That's my birthday confessional

:)

2

Another Hollywood Memory

by TerryWalstrom in

jw
friends

billy hork galleries, circa 1980, beverly hills, ca.the grandfather and his grandson poised outside the gallery window catching my eye-- i recognize paul henreid as the older gentleman in the beret, ascot, and dark glasses.instinctively i smile broadly.the grandson is possibly 10 years old.

he's dignified and moves with a rather impressive, posture--he enters the gallery speaking to me with a sort of etonion diction.

"my grandfather wishes to inquire about the object d'art in your window display.

TerryWalstrom

I spent the day thinking about my impressions and I mostly have decided that it must be very difficult to be a mere human being once you've attained legendary celebrity status. Having to use the loo is all too human.
That triggered a memory of something I read about the invasion of the Aztec kingdom by Cortez and his army. The Aztecs were, at first, convinced these were gods...that is--until they caught sight of the soldiers urinating and defecating. At that point, the awe vanished and it was determined they could be attacked and killed.

I digress, however...

Henreid was rather taciturn and it was impossible to get a reading on his intent. I think your pretext hypothesis makes a great deal of sense. Nothing more was said about art. In fact, the grandfather and grandson, as I seem to recall, left unceremoniously without any motions toward shopping :)