What's Up Magazines

Editor's Father's Day Reflections

Portrait of Nadja Maril age 17 by Herman Maril (1908-1986) American Artist Herman Maril is represented in more than 50 major art museum permanent collections, including the Metropolitan Museum of Art, National Academy of Design, Corcoran Gallery of Art, and Philips Collection. A major traveling exhibit of his work to commemorate his 100th birthday will include several Maryland museums in its schedule.

My father used to take me to work with him once a year. He took my brother, who was 4 years older, one day a year as well. On this one day I'd wake with him at 5 in the morning, when the sky was still dark, put on the clothes I'd laid out the night before, and sit by the window in the living room waiting for the taxi driver to arrive. My father would be drinking a cup of coffee and eating a package of crackers, orange colored to signify they were flavored with cheese, and spread with peanut butter within, expectantly looking out the window for his taxi to arrive. He'd offer me peanut butter crackers, and I'd refuse. “It's too early in the morning to eat,” I'd explain.

More of those packages could be found inside his desk at the University of Maryland , College Park , where he taught painting and drawing twice a week. A full professor and the head of the studio department for many years, my father arranged his class schedule so that he only needed to make the trip from Baltimore to College Park twice a week, but he fielded phone calls regarding administrative matters on other weekdays. His “at home” days were for time in his studio to sketch and paint.

He didn't drive, although he retained his driver's license for identification. That's why we were waiting for the taxi. Years earlier, before I could remember, he'd forgotten to put on the emergency brake, while I was still sitting in the car, and the maroon Studebaker sedan, my parents' first car, started rolling backwards down a hill. He jumped in and stopped the car, but it was a sign that my dad was not the sort of person who paid attention to the mechanics of driving. He liked to look at scenery, people, colors, shapes. Turning the wheel over to my mother exclusively allowed him to free his mind for other things.

Frank, the taxi driver, picked my dad up every morning that he needed to make the trip to College Park . He'd drive him to the bus station in downtown Baltimore . My dad was one of his regular customers and in the morning there'd be banter between the two I could barely follow. Frank's Baltimore accent was thick and I was too fascinated studying the pattern of criss-cross marks on the back of his neck to listen closely and decipher the words. The wrinkles signified to me that Frank was old. How did those marks get so deep? I'd ponder. A scrawny man, he wore a baseball cap. His nose was shaped like a beak. My dad seemed to enjoy talking to Frank, but then he enjoyed talking to just about everyone.

Unlike my mother, who was somewhat aloof with people she didn't know, my father would engage in conversation with just about everyone he encountered. I admired this trait, because I was always afraid to talk to anyone I'd just met, fearing I'd say the wrong thing. I longed to feel comfortable enough to speak to strangers.

The bus ride to College Park was a blur. Sometimes I dozed off while my father looked out at the scenery, perhaps studying future scenes to sketch and paint.

The walk up the hill to the building that housed the art department, in one of many red brick buildings, was a long one. I struggled to keep up with my father's confident steps. I was excited. Which students would I meet? What would those college students, almost adults, be talking about and what would their pictures look like?

I remember once spending part of the day in someone else's class, that of a printmaking teacher. I created an entire etching on a copper plate, from start to finish: sketching my idea; doing the engraving with a stylus; coating it with something brown and sticky; and placing the plate in an acid bath and, finally, inking the plate and placing it, with a piece of thick paper, under a roll that pressed the paper against the plate, creating a print.

Back in my father's room, the studio in which he taught, one of his students neglected to bring paper for sketching. When directed to sketch me sitting perched on a desk, the student had to use a roll of brown paper towel from above the sink.

“No money for art supplies?” my father chided.

I peeked at the various sketches. The only ones I remember were the ones done in blue pen on the brown paper toweling. Despite the lack of materials, those sketches looked the best.

“Is he one of your best students?” I asked.

My father tried not to show any preference for particular students, believing everyone had potential. He enjoyed the interaction of looking at their work and discussing with them what they thought they saw. He'd ask them questions and they'd have to rethink how they put their perceptions down on paper, analyzing ways to make their work better. I sensed their respect and their enjoyment of the class, once they entered his room, and it made me feel proud.

I liked the smell of my father's studio better than the room of the printmaker, which smelled of ink and acid. My father's room smelled of oil paints, canvas, and turpentine.

Adjacent to his teaching studio was a small office with a beat-up oak desk. He'd retreat there to smoke his cigarettes. When the surgeon general started cautioning of the dangers of smoking, he changed from Kents to Larks for their lower nicotine levels, but he couldn't give them up. “Daddy, smoking is bad for you,” I'd tell him and he'd answer, “Don't worry I don't inhale.”

There were a few small pleasures important to my father's enjoyment of life; one was smoking and the other was a good cup of coffee. The coffee needed to be real perked coffee, not instant, full-bodied and hot. Find a place that served a good cup of coffee and he was highly appreciative.

Food was something my father enjoyed, but the food did not need to be fancy. Often he took sandwiches, which he washed down with coffee, with him to the University. In later years, during our family dinner, he'd tell us about lunches he enjoyed with his colleagues, at a Chinese restaurant near the school. He'd extol the virtues of lots of vegetables and rice with very little meat, before stir-fried cooking and Asian diets were popular in this country. He'd describe the sauces in great detail and I would salivate thinking about the exotic food he was describing. Perhaps that's why, to this day, I enjoy cooking variations of stir-fried Asian dishes.

In my desk drawer I, too, have a few packages of peanut butter crackers stashed—not the ones with the bright orange crackers, I prefer the ones that are golden brown. They certainly take the edge off my hunger when I want to continue working rather than take a break from my writing. And often I wash them down with a cup of coffee. The habits of our parents are hard to break.

—Nadja Maril

 Dear Editor:

When I received my April What's Up? Annapolis , I was so pleased to see so much emphasis on the global warming and recycling issues.  

I want to get my idea to you and let you know what I am doing in my neighborhood. I am really trying to motivate people in every neighborhood to join in the idea. 

 I am creating Global Baskets.  I have made fifteen of them so far.  The first one was presented to Mayor Moyer and she was very pleased and impressed.

 These baskets are to be used in the kitchen for daily recyclable items.  I then fill them with twelve items concerning global warming and energy conservation.  They are quite novel.  They contain things such as compact fluorescent light bulbs, tire gauges, shade grown coffee, thermal underwear, biodegradable cold water laundry soap, kilowatt meter, a seeding tree, and so on.  Each basket costs about $40.00 to make depending on items contained in them.  There is lots of literature on discovering one's own global footprint and what you can do to alter this.  I even have a resource that will install solar panels on one's home for free!  I sincerely believe the Earth is truly sick. 

As a nurse practitioner, I am quite used to educating the public on lifestyle changes and personal responsibility.  I hope my work will encourage other people to do something similar to save our environment.

Susan Hartsfield MSN NP

Editor's note: Ms. Hartfield has been creating and donating her baskets to be raffled off as a way to raise money for a variety of local events affiliated with environmental awareness. If you'd like to find out more she can be contacted at susanhartsfieldGM@msn.com