Blades of the Mill

Artistic essay depicting the midpoint of a cancer treatment

with a commentary on life

Paintings and “Milestones of Robert’s Life,” poem, by Barb Schwarz Karst Written descriptions by Bob Schwarz, cancer survivor

© 2009 Schwarz Karst Studio

The artwork in this book is painted by Barb Schwarz Karst, P.O. Box 1273, Missoula, MT, 59806-1273.

The poem, Milestones of Robert’s Life, the artist statement, and the artist biography

are written by Barb Schwarz Karst.

The eighteen written descriptions which coincide with the paintings are written by Bob Schwarz.

Editor: Bob Schwarz

Front Cover: Two Blessings Born, Mixed Media on Wood Panel (18” x 12”) Barb Schwarz Karst

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS The words “thank you” fail to express how deeply grateful I am to some extremely special and important people in my life. Obviously, my catalysis for this painting series and story is my brother, Robert Schwarz, for whom, without the events of his life, this story would have never been told. Also, I want to thank him for his willingness to work with me, edit every piece of written work, write the descriptive statements, and tolerate the need for many hours of written feedback. I am eternally grateful to see this day come to fruition. My husband and best friend, Timothy Karst, deserves my deepest gratitude for sharing and creating with me the vision of this monumental project. His computer and photographical expertise were crucial during many of the preliminary and finalized steps. I am indebted to him for giving freely of his time to dedicate many laborious, technical hours. He has my dearest appreciation and respect. His support is always near and dear to my heart, as is he. JoAnn Driscoll, my sister and confidant, was a huge support to me during this creative process. Her patience and feedback floated me through many rough waters. Without her critical input and emotional support, I might still be second guessing myself. Her prayers opened doors for me and guided my artistic spirit. And last, but not least, I want to thank my brother, Daniel Schwarz, for sharing with me many deep and caring thoughts concerning the essence of great art. His strength and fortitude have always been an enormous inspiration to me.

Blades of the Mill is a series of eighteen mixed media paintings representing my brother Bob, four months into his eight-month treatment for cancer. Each of the eighteen paintings contains an image of Bob and a line of poetry that signifies a major turning point in his life. When combining all eighteen lines, reading them consecutively, left to right, they become stanzas in a poem pertaining to those life altering experiences. The exhibition became a collaborative effort between Bob and me when Bob agreed to be my muse, edit my poetry, and write the text for each painting which highlights each chapter: childhood, teaching, marriage, children, divorce, etc. This contemporary exhibition was designed to be an educational, inspirational, and uplifting testament to all those conquistadors who are called to fight a similar battle.

ARTIST STATEMENT

Hush for a moment…be quiet be still…

Quixote has conquered the blades of the mill “Mantle what. Say it again…Mantle Cell Lymphoma. I’ve never heard of it. What is it?” That is how most people reacted to my telling them about my brother’s recent stage four diagnosis of cancer. In the five years that followed, I have learned that cancer does not discriminate; it affects people as tiny as newborns and as old as seniors. Taking care of your body might lessen your chances of getting cancer, but it does not necessarily prevent cancer. My brother Bob never smoked, nor was he a drinker. He didn’t deserve to get cancer; no one does. According to the doctor, it was just a “chance splitting of a cell.” I sketched my brother, seventeen years my senior, a couple of times when I was a young art student, a pencil drawing from his college graduation photo and a loose image of him with his two kids at Yellowstone Park. At that time, he too, was young, healthy, and had the world by the tail. Little did I know that twenty-five years later, I would photograph, draw, and paint him when he was in a frightfully vulnerable state, “fighting for his life.” He too, like one of his favorite literary characters, Don Quixote, was confronting his dragon head on. I’ve been told I operate better when I’m under stress…that I feed off of it...it’s the fire that ignites my creativity and passion. I tested that theory four months into Bob’s eight-month treatment. Bob was sick with Methotrexate Pneumonia; my Mom fell and broke her hip and consequently had emergency surgery, and my forty-one year old husband had heart surgery. I was pretty much on automatic pilot and so was everyone else in the family. One afternoon, while Bob was resting at his home, I shot a roll of 35 mm film thinking I would eventually do something with the photos, perhaps for an inspirational show about healing. I knew then, and was totally confident, that Robert would be cured. I wanted this show to be about more than just cancer; I wanted people to know he is more than just a statistic or a case study; he is a human being with feelings, a full life filled with everything it is to be human: love, relatationships, self-worth, fears, mistakes, creative thoughts, etc. I wanted to share this amazing story of a good guy who, with the support of an amazing medical team and a loving God, was able to get the gift of a second lease on life. So five years after his first clean bill of health and with a little emotional separation from the entire fire and brimstone experience, I thought how marvelous to bring Bob into the creative process and have him be a direct part of this exhibit. He can speak more about the cancer, treatment, remission, and cure than I can; he is more direct. Originally, I completed a series of mixed media pieces that ranged in color (left to right) from yellow, yellow-orange, orange-yellow, orange, orange-red, all the way through the entire color wheel. As abstract paintings, they had a stunning contemporary look but said nothing to the viewer to convey a message of hope or the narrative of one’s life. I thought of transferring

colored photos on the painted panels but decided it was too straight forward. I wanted paintings, not photographs. After hours in Photoshop, converting, enhancing, and composing, I arrived at eighteen images I “thought” would be the final step to my series of work. I transferred the neutral photos onto the first nine panels with high hopes they would look perfect. However, the results didn’t convey the message I had envisioned. The images were stark, a bit macabre-interesting but not the direction to which I was trying to lead my viewers. With each painful artistic step, I was struggling and couldn’t help but think how my laborious process paralleled, yet paled, to Bob’s daily fight with Mantle Cell Lymphoma. How apropos! After much gut wrenching frustration and indecision, as if someone whispered the solution into my ear, I relaxed; and the answer revealed itself to me in the most unlikely of circumstances. It was serendipitous that I had just completed a series of ten sketches at a Jackie Greene concert in May of 2009. They were vital, vibrant gestures of the musician playing guitar, his fingers rhythmically picking, fingering, and strumming his beloved musical friend. After the realization set in that I would have to start over on my brother’s paintings to make “them right,” I spent a brief time wallowing in my own private “pity-party meltdown.” Gathering strength, I then stripped the wooden panels down and started over, this time with the intention of sketching instead of using the photos. Currently, the newly revised paintings are now more limited, yet lively in color, gradating from yellows, oranges, pinks, reds, and reversed again. They convey Bob’s favorite colors and remind one of healthy flesh. The nervous graphite line drawing against the warm paint is alive and feels more like a living, breathing human. The somewhat ambiguous sketch is more open to personal interpretation and could qualify as anyone’s brother, son, father, or grandfather who has battled cancer. The warm painting’s vivacious spirit attracts us; as human beings, can relate to the image much more sympathetically than if it were simply a “frozen photographic picture of Bob, whom we might not personally know.” However, whether voyeuristically or not, the extreme “close up” compositions force you to look deep into Bob’s face and see the story of his life. Wrinkles aren’t necessarily bad. They are notches in our armor, diligently displaying each battle we have encountered along our way. They are forever etched into the surface of our skin, telling those who encounter us, “Yes I have cried from sadness, but I have cried from laughter more.” We understand each subtle facial expression, have seen it many times with our own loved ones, and have also witnessed these expressions staring back at us in the mirror. We are all connected to the same human experiences. We feel Bob’s frustration, his fears, and his melancholy; but we also relate to his unbelievable strength, hopefulness, and resolve. Whether we are children who are “old souls” or old souls who are “young at heart,” we all have a divine purpose. This art show evolved into an experience I could not have foreseen. It has been an education, a way of making sense of all that has happened; and hopefully, it will pass on some advice to anyone who may encounter similar circumstances. Perhaps, like Don Quixote’s companion, Sancho Panza, I watched in awe as Bob courageously prepared for battle each and every day during his eight-month treatment. I tried to memorize his strategies so that I might use them for my own unforeseen and not yet determined battles. Barb Schwarz Karst barb@schwarzkarststudio.com http://www.schwarzkarststudio.com

Birth AND SO IT BEGINS My arrival into this “crapshoot” called life took place, I am told (my personal memory’s not too clear here), on May twenty-first, nineteen hundred and forty-one, a Wednesday. I weighed eight pounds, seven ounces, one of the two lightweights of my poor Mother’s four brats. West Point, Nebraska, and St. Joseph’s Hospital (twenty-five miles from my hometown of Wisner) served as my point of embarkation; and a cigar smoking old G.P., Dr. Anderson, slapped my butt into existence. To my Mom, Palma Molacek - Schwarz, and my Dad, LeRoy (how he hated that name – therefore, Bud) Schwarz, I must have been, being their first child, a delight for a little while at least.

Family WHAT MY PARENTS HATH WROUGHT My Dad, a hard working butcher of German decent, treated me, in my early life, as his hopes and dreams for an athletic offspring. He would, however, be sorely disappointed. Although I dearly loved sports and tried my damndest, I could never quite deliver; that would come fourteen years later with the birth of my little brother, Dan (Tiger) or seventeen years later with this series artist, the family’s baby, Barbara (Barbs), but could have been years sooner if my sister, JoAnn (Jodie to me; she hates it) - four years my junior - had been allowed to play sports in the 50’s. My Mom, a truly unique mother, worked as a beautician. Her mother died of complications from her birth, and she had a younger group of half-brothers and a half-sister. Her whole life, she felt like an outsider. Therefore, she taught, like no other, the importance of family ties. This woman, with “only” (her word, not my siblings nor mine) an eighth-grade education, would shame Dr. Phil, Dear Abby, etc. with her ability to keep a family united. To this day, my brother, sisters, and I are extremely tight, with no, or a very minimum, of sibling rivalry. We just plain get along. Without their help and cheerleading through my cancer treatment, I would have never survived. My sisters were my primary caregivers at home. One camped out with me at the hospital; the other came from 350 miles away, a number of times, to help out. One had a big shoulder that I could literally cry upon, and the other absolutely, never for a moment, doubted that I would recover with only a 20% chance of survival. My brother, well he just kept me laughing with stories about his kids. Family-wise, I’m tremendously grateful and fortunate; they married well, too. The entire clan, (offspring included), of which I am now proud to be the patriarch, might be equaled somewhere in the time-space continuum but not surpassed.

School SCHOOLS OF EDUCATION AND HARD KNOCKS In a small-town school in Wisner, Nebraska, I began my learning outside of the home. Formal schooling was easy for me, as my Mother (remember, she was needlessly embarrassed about her eighth-grade education) made sure her kids were ready for the first grade. However, street education was available even in a small town - forget only the ghetto. Being the skinniest kid ever and somewhat intelligent, I was an easy target for the classes richest, but not too bright, kid and his control over the school bully. My greatest mystery most days was not if I’d get beaten up, but when. The bully died at an early age, and even though I am extremely lucky to be here, I still would have, “… postponed all other recreations to attend his funeral” (MarkTwain) had I known that he had passed. For everyone like him there is always a Mike, Tom, Pete, Pat or Lonnie, true friends, to make life enjoyable. The teachers in elementary school were true taskmasters. Miss Killion (look at the name), Miss DeWitz (Mt. Marion), Miss Gross (again, the name), and her even tougher spinster sister tortured me into a fine basic education. After my sophomore year, I moved to Billings, Montana; and Vince, Kap, Myron, Ron, Don, Frank, and so many others at Billings Central made the transition easy. Our teachers, for the most part nuns, continued a fine demanding education. It was, however, my high school history teacher, Mr. Ritter (“Tex”) who started my love for political history. In college, at what will always be Eastern Montana College to me, I met some of the most intelligent minds and talented professors I’ve ever known: Aaron Small, Mike Harkins, Fred Van Valkenburg, Emile Ponich, and the never-pleased Anne Arnold, all who prepared me to teach and coach for thirty-three years. I received my Masters in one year at Montana State University. That year, well, kind of a blur.

Jobs “TOTE DAT BARGE! LIF’ DAT BALE!” (Kern and Hammerstein II) When I turned eleven, I asked my Dad to raise my allowance from 25 cents a week to 50 cents. For the prior amount, I mowed three lots, shoveled snow, emptied the chamber pot (our first indoor bathroom wasn’t installed until I was twelve), and did dishes - not necessarily in that order. Instead, my father found me my first job. Before school, I went to the four grocery stores in town, hauled in large boxes of bread delivered from the neighboring “metropolis” of Norfolk, NE, and stacked the loaves, freshest on the bottom of course. After school, I’d check off a bread list for the next morning’s delivery. For this I made, in that day and age, an astounding $10 a week. And I could get my little sister, JoAnn, to check the bread for me at nights for a quarter, sometimes. She always tells people that her only mistreatment from me was to make her chase fly balls and never give her a chance to bat. She was too young back then to know about labor laws. From that early job until I retired from teaching at age fifty-eight, I only lacked work once for about six months. I worked my way through my last two years of high school and the first year out as an apprentice meat cutter. Finding out how hard that job was, I opted for college. During those years, I worked as a shoe salesman with Rip’s Shoes and a busboy at the Golden Belle. Then I met one of the finest people I ever knew, John Connelly, the owner of Connelly’s Saddlery; and I worked for him for four years. Without him, I would have never had the chance to finish school. After college, I went into basic training for the USAR for six months. I came home on a late Saturday night and started my first teaching job in Roberts, MT on Monday. The next thirty-three years, except for one year off to get my Master’s degree, teaching and coaching is what I did, mostly at Billings Senior High. Now I know that there are some of you reading this who say, “I sure would like to have a job where I only have to work nine months out of the year.” Get your degree and go. In the thirty-three years I taught, I had a summer job every year and almost always found something over Christmas vacation. I worked at King’s Sporting Goods, Lake Hills Golf Course, teaching Summer School, curb and gutter for Quality Concrete (toughest job ever), bartending, the Red Lodge pea fields, etc. Teaching and coaching kept me going. It’s not a lucrative field, but there are many rewards. I’ll always be proud that I taught.

Teaching SHOULDN’T HAVE TO BACK INTO HEAVEN Wow, what does one say in a short paragraph or two about one’s life’s profession, especially teaching? As I said, I taught in secondary education for thirty-three years and coached various sports for twenty-two of them. Let’s get coaching, with which the public is too highly concerned, out of the way. I enjoyed coaching basketball at Robert, MT. The kids, greatly motivated, as basketball is as important as breathing in rural Montana, gave me everything I asked. Some of those players became future brothers-in law, and we still stay in contact. My players were all important in the shaping of my future and probably showed me more than I could give them. I also had the great pleasure of coaching two of the premier distance runners of the era, Ken DeVries and Glenn Beall. I continued in basketball at Huntley Project and Lincoln Junior High. Track and cross-country became my areas at Billings Senior. Kids, really men ahead of their time, Dennis Iverson, Craig Schlichting, Colin Hanley, etc., stir some good memories. Playing for state championships, even winning one, was just a bonus compared to working with those young gentlemen. As I matured, so did my realization that the classroom, teaching English, was the most important job I had. The responsibility was great, and I had my share of success, but also some failures. For example, I had two students claim something I had said or done in class had them forgo suicide plans. I patted myself on the back until I remembered that a couple of my kids, over the years, had committed suicide. Did I have anything to do with that? I wanted my students to love learning, questioning, reading between the lines. I taught the poetry of Paul Simon, Kris Kristofferson, the Beatles, and e.e. cummings more than the traditionals. However, Shakespeare, Poe, Homer, and others never took a back seat. The first group of poets peaked interest, and it surprised the students how easy of a transition it was to the second group. I loved watching young minds grasp a new idea. Therefore, I couldn’t keep politics and religion out of my classes; and because of this, I received a number of “SEE ME” notes from my principals. Until parents and governing bodies became too involved in education and made teachers waste valuable time defending their actions and filling out paperwork, teaching was a joy because of the kids. Now-a-days, teaching has had much of that joy taken away. I have always said, “Teaching is the only profession governed by people who know nothing about it.” Well in this time, 2009, one could include banking. Teaching, however, as a whole package, left me with few major regrets and many wonderful memories. I “danced”; for thirty-three years I “danced.”

Marriage “STUPID IS AS STUPID DOES” (Forrest Gump) Hormones raging at age twenty-six, I married one of my brightest students after she graduated. I saw her throughout her senior year, believe it or not, with the blessing of her parents (her father was nineteen years older than her mother); and the school board said, “Date her in Billings, and don’t get her pregnant” (my team was winning a lot of basketball games). Now days, that couldn’t happen; it would cause a scandal, but the 60’s was a different time. We had ten (not bad out of fifteen) happy years together and two great, but not completely trouble free, kids. Rob and Tiff were the best things to come out of my union to Sandra on July 1, 1967.

Rob “BOY” (puppy dog tails) Robert Geoffrey, our firstborn, made his debut on July 19, 1971, in Cody, WY. His mother and I had been working at the Olive-Glen Golf Course late one evening, cooking some burgers for the owner and his family. Rob decided to show up early the next morning. He’s, after assorted life trials and errors, turned out to be a wonderful father to Annalise Mary and the future (as I write this) Rylee Grace, as well as a fine husband to my wonderful daughter-in-law, with a fetching “Philly” accent, Katrina. They live way too far from me, back east, but I get out there as much as possible and talk to my granddaughter on the phone and through the computer. Because they live there, however, I have gotten to visit many places I’ve always wanted to see: D.C., Broadway, Yankee Stadium, Cooperstown, Gettysburg, etc. Still, I’d give that all up if they were closer. Rob’s a kind of gentle giant whose patience has grown steadily with age. He’s 6’5” tall and weighs about 220. He possesses a singing voice most people would envy, sort of Andrea Bocelli-like, which he uses for only family weddings and funerals. Unfortunately, he gets way too nervous to perform in public. He is now a successful department head for a lobbyist company in Washington, D.C. He’s given me my share of worries growing up, but the finished product is something of whom I am extremely proud.

Tiff “TEELAWEE” (sugar and spice) Tiffany Joy, the baby of the family, arrived around noon on August 25, 1975, in Billings, MT. “Teelawee” is the way she first pronounced her name. She had to leave with her mom at age eight, and I didn’t get full custody of her until she chose to come live with me at age fourteen. Raising a daughter alone, during her high school years, was truly an unexpected experience for me. I had always believed that her mother would be around to help, but she was 600 miles away. So, I had the pleasure of giving advice to a young woman based on what I observed of high school girls while teaching. Most of the time, Tiff was pleasant enough to be around, but like most teenaged girls, boys seemed to cause much anxiety. Having been a dating “nerd’ in high school and college, I wasn’t a lot of help, sometimes; but we muddled through. After graduating from NDSU in Fargo, she met and married a great guy, a bit older than she and one with a ready-made grandchild for me, Tom and his terrific six year old, Logan Thomas. Tom’s a fine husband, father, and son-in-law, who has a knack for erecting beautiful home projects. His politics, however… He thinks mine are pretty strange, also. Four years later, Tiff, Tom, and Logan welcomed Gavin Reed, the first baby born in Fargo on Mother’s Day in 2005. He ended up with a spot on the TV news for that entry. Tiff, a 5’10” blonde who has been asked to model for department stores, spends her time in the world of sales where she is quite competitive and successful; but she is most happy at home in her family life. She’s an extraordinary mom and step-mom. She’s even a more extraordinary daughter. She makes sure to keep my grandsons close to me, even though they are 600 miles away; and that is no easy task. We are and always will be, my son, daughter, and I, as close as a parent and his kids can be.

Divorce THE DEATH THAT TAKES A LONG TIME Divorce, after fifteen years of marriage, is difficult, sort of like going through the grieving process of a family member’s death. At the time, it was traumatic. Not only did the woman I loved leave me, but some moronic judge decided to give her the children; although, they wanted to live with me. That was the hardest part. At age fourteen, they came to live with me, however; and maybe that involuntary separation made us appreciate each other more and make us all as close as we are today. My daughter, grown, once asked me, “Dad, what do you think would have happened if you and mom had stayed married?” I replied, “Your mother would probably be dead, and your father would probably be in jail.” ☺ She then thought things worked out for the best, and they did. I have met some fine women in my life who I would have never known, like my close friend Ruby. The grieving took a while, but as the bard said, “All’s well that ends well.”

Cancer THIS CAN’T BE RIGHT “The doctor said it might be lymphoma,” I told his nurse after he had left the room and my temperature had gone from normal happy being to the sweat of a man facing a firing squad in seconds. “So,” she casually said. “So!” I said, “People die from this.” “Not in the last twenty years,” she answered. When the doctor came back and confirmed her statement, I wasn’t totally reassured; but I was somewhat calmer. I stopped sweating. Cancer wasn’t prevalent in my family’s history - heart problems, strokes, diabetes, yes; but most of my relatives who didn’t drink or smoke heavily lived to ripe old ages. I had a half-uncle and a grandmother who had cancer. My grandma, who had a stomach tumor removed in the 1950’s, was never told by her relatives that it was malignant; and she lived to be ninety-eight, never dying from cancer. Other than that, nothing. My Mom really feared cancer, but she died of complications from diabetes and a broken hip. I had never smoked nor had I been a heavy drinker (pretty much a lightweight), so why me? My doctor later explained completely - “Who knows?” he said, “Just a chance splitting of a cell.” During the weekend, I nervously awaited the appointment with my oncologist, Dr. Brock Wittenberger (whom I later named “Doc Brock the Rock”; there are greater strengths than physical).

I should digress and tell how fortunate I am to be here today. I had been doctoring with Dr. Wittenberger, of the Billings Clinic, for a number of years due to a high platelet count I had inherited from my father (some kind of …thrombosis). Waiting at my dentists one day, I felt a strange lump on my neck. I asked the dentist about it; he told me it was probably nothing, but the next time I saw a doctor I should have him take a look. It just so happened, could only be by the grace of God, that I had my six-month appointment with Dr. Wittenberger that very afternoon. That was the first of two direct and many indirect interventions by God. The following Tuesday I saw Dr. Wittenberger, ready to do what needed to be done with lymphoma. Shock number two waited. The good Dr. said he hated to inform me that what I had was not common lymphoma but a rare form called Mantle Cell Lymphoma, something only discovered about fifteen years previously. “Wow, what percent chance of survival do I have, Doc?” “I don’t like to give percentages,” he answered. “I want to know,” I insisted, the sweats creeping up on me again. “About 20%,” he finally gave in. That’ll take you back a little, 20%. He provided me with two methods of attack, in my left hand the traditional, and in my right hand a new study, a lot rougher but showing some promise. “If you were me, which one would you choose?” “I can’t answer that for you,” he replied. “Come on, Doc, give me a break.” He pointed to the one in the right hand; I heeded his advice; and to date, that has seemed to have made all of the difference. From then on, it was an all out battle, but my army was so much stronger than the cancer. I had Dr. Wittenberger and his associates, Research Nurse, at the time, Kathy Wilkinson, the terrific nursing staff at Deaconess, outstanding family support, and a pretty great intervention by God.

Let me explain that last one. The following Sunday, I was a bit upset with my Savior, in the “why me” mode, and I decided “To heck with it; why go to church?” However, by Sunday evening, I realized that God might be my only chance; and I attended the 7:00 p.m. mass at St. Pats, a church I rarely frequent. Feeling dismal, I seated myself in the back, by an older gentleman. A younger gentleman, about thirty-three (that’s important), moved in beside me. A little irritated (I like to sit on the end) I grudgingly let him in. As traditionally done at all Catholic Masses, when it came time to join hands for the Our Father, I grasped the old man’s hand with no effect; but when the younger man took my hand, something amazing went through me like a bolt of electricity; and I knew right then that everything would turn out okay. I went to communion; he did not, and when I got back to the pew, he was gone. I have never seen him again. What I truly believe is that when I speak of him, I should be capitalizing the word “Him.” I won’t bore you too much with the procedure because it was way beyond me. All I know is that I had to spend three-and-one half days in the hospital for each treatment, no infusion center for me, except the day before I went in; and I always had a room near the nurses’ station and a pretty immediate answer when I pushed any button. They treated me like royalty. I had some nausea (can’t smell hospital food to this day), but mostly, I just felt tired. There were eight treatments, one every three weeks. The newest drug in the “cocktail” of drugs was Rituxan (Rituximab), one used a lot today. Needless to say, it has worked so far, five-and-one half years.

Sports THROW ME THE BALL Although I was always a mediocre or less athlete, I loved to play and coach sports. They gave me the ammunition I needed to go through the cancer ordeal. When I graduated from high school, I was 6’1,” weighed 141 pounds, and had played four years of football, receiving a “mercy” letter when I was a senior. One of my nurse’s father was a classmate and friend of mine who, years ago, nicknamed me “Splinter Butt.” I sat the “pines” a lot. The best game I ever played, broadcast on the radio, was the one where I had to give my dry jersey to a starting defensive back; and he proceeded to have one of his best games, which, since he had my number, I got credit for over the air. When I got home, my Dad (he stayed home because of the weather) was beaming with pride. I told him the truth, and the beaming eyes turned to ones of disappointment. However, I did learn a lot of patience and humility, which gave me the idea that I could overcome odds. I also played high school basketball and coached it after I started teaching. My basketball players taught me dedication. The ones I coached in Roberts would work in the fields until sundown, then drive into town, surround an outdoor playground court with their cars, turn their lights on, and play ball. In the winter, they did anything in the gym I asked of them. My cross-country and track kids taught me true courage. Because these sports are not as popular as basketball and football in this state, few people realize what it takes to be a state champion cross-country team, or individual, or what it takes to run extra stairs after practice to be the state long-jump winner. Those kids had “guts.” They chose to put themselves through this. With the cancer, I did not have a choice about what to do, so if I should die of cancer, I won’t ever have in my obituary “after a courageous battle with cancer” because courage, these kids taught me (some of them later in Viet Nam), is a choice!

Films A SMALL POPCORN, PLEASE I’d be lying if I said that movies and plays hadn’t influenced my life. I love the film media. I’ll even take in a “chick-flick” with Ruby. I enjoy all genres (yes, even musicals), and I’m so happy to have grandkids so I have a reason to go to the Ice Age movies and other animated films. I’m a movie nut. However, drama and action movies are my favorites. Hanks, Washington, Pacino, Eastwood, Hoffman, Newman, and the unparalleled Nicholson are actors I rarely miss. The end of One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest brings tears to my eyes every time, and Eastwood giving his final orders to a whole town in Unforgiven always makes me think, “Atta boy, Clint; you tell ‘em.” (If I weren’t afraid of horses, I’d been a cowboy). When Newman slams the door on any possibility of redemption in Hud, one cannot help feel sorry for what he will miss in life. Then there are the women of film: Taylor, Fonda, Neal, Loren, Berry, and Theron. They can make one feel pain, love, lust, and sympathy in depths one doesn’t realize exist. When Berry knows her son is dead in Monster’s Ball, any parent shivers. Theron evokes fear in any man in Monster, and Fonda, falling in love with the paralyzed Jon Voight, is as poignant as feelings get in Coming Home. Movies and plays can teach - way back to the Greeks. Euripides, Sophocles, and Aeschylus are still emulated today. Shakespeare gave us masterpieces in tragedy, comedy, and history. One can learn every human strength and foible from them. Our lives would be much better if we paid more attention to all of the arts.

Politics SORRY MONTANA, I’M A LIBERAL I’ve always been a “bleeding heart,” and I make no apologies for it. For example, I cannot understand how many of us can be so concerned with life in the womb, then support the death of eighteen year olds in unnecessary wars? How can we spend billions on “things” and not support good schools for everyone? How can we scream about illegal immigration and buy our “things” from the people who hire them? How can we “Love thy neighbor” and hate certain segments of our society? “Hate the sin, but love the sinner” is no excuse. One cannot separate the two. Now, before I alienate everyone (if I haven’t already), I’m going to jump off my soap-box.

Foods “BURP” I’m one of those lucky people who can eat anything and go to the gym a couple times a week and not gain weight. Some people hate us. As I have stated, my parents were not wealthy; second helpings and ice cream weren’t always available. So when my local priest, Father Rose, took me under his wing and let me serve two morning masses on Sunday and had his housekeeper feed me breakfast in between, I got to sample the “good life” in cuisine. The fact that my Mom, my step-grandmother, and both my sisters are great cooks didn’t hurt, either. The next generation is learning a little from them, but home cooking will never be the same after the invention of the microwave and fast foods. Swiss steak, potato dumplings and gravy will probably never be experienced by my unfortunate grandkids. Homemade ice cream will also be a rare treat for them; although, my son keeps threatening to get an ice cream maker. These days I contend with store bought ice cream and chocolate syrup, fast food, microwavable meals, and some raw fruit and vegetables. However, my girlfriend, sisters, daughter, daughter-in-law, son-in-law, and son treat me to a home cooked meal every so often. They spoil me. Then there are special restaurants that come along every once in awhile, Café Italia in Billings, for example. I’m so thankful I’m around to enjoy it. But hamburgers and salads still make up most of what I eat. Dr. Wittenberger’s going to give me hell if he reads this.

Literature “THE MAN WHO DOESN’T READ GOOD BOOKS HAS NO ADVANTAGE OVER THE MAN WHO CAN’T READ THEM.” (Mark Twain) I didn’t always like to read, you know beyond comic books and Playboy, but when I went to college and decided to become an English teacher, it became a necessity. Thank goodness I had college professors who made literature live, from the Greeks to Steinbeck. While I taught, I read mostly the literature I used in class or something that I might use for my students, very little for myself, as I was busy coaching and, later on, being a single parent. Now that the kids are grown, raising their own families, and I’m retired, playing golf and reading are my main pastimes (unless my little sister, the artist of this exhibition, puts me to work writing). Someone once said (this is my paraphrase) “Inside every large book is a smaller book trying to get out.” My brother, for example, loves the Russians: Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, etc. Now, I recently waded through The Brothers Karamazov. Don’t get me wrong. Dostoyevsky is a great writer. The novel has amazing life lessons in it, tremendous despair and pathos. However, I have found that pathos and despair in Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck; and it’s hundreds of pages shorter. A recent article in the New Yorker, which I peruse mainly for the jokes, stated that there are no North American writers left worthy of a Nobel Prize with perhaps the exception of Philip Roth. I just can’t completely agree with that. If one searches Border’s long enough, one can find some interesting works by Americans or expatriates living in the United States. Afghanistan born Khaled Hosseini, who penned Kite Runner and Carlos Ruiz Zafron, who divides time between Barcelona and Los Angeles, come to mind. Great reading is still out there. However, the majority of Americans prefer Terminator movies to Benjamin Button and Britney Spears to Celine Dion. Therefore, it’s to be expected that they also choose easy reads like the Harry Potter series to more in depth present day writers. It’s a true shame and maybe our greatest danger that we are becoming a nation of people who may soon live in a cultural wasteland.

Friends CAN’T GET THROUGH THIS WORLD ALONE Over a lifetime, one really has very little for which to live but for family and that second great support group, friends. I’ve been fortunate. My friends aren’t legion, but many are, still close. For example, I graduated from high school in Montana; but my first ten years of school were, as I stated before, in Wisner, Nebraska. This summer, 2009, I decided to go back for their 50th class reunion. I’d been fortunate enough to have been given some extra years in life by Doc Brock the Rock and his staff, so I figured some wise use of it would be to see some old friends whom I had not seen in fifty-two years. I had been in touch with some of them through email for the last five years or so, and they believed it would be a good idea for me to come back. Seeing Mike, Tom, Pete, Rita, Norm, Jim, and others, again, made me realize what John Knowles said in A Separate Peace, “The more things change, the more they stay the same,” was quite true. Older faces, that’s all. Still the same fine people. During my high school years at Billings Central, I made life-long friends with Vince, Kap (now deceased), Ron, Don, Bill, Myron, Frank, Tom, Katie, and many others. All my Central classmates were easily some of the most accepting, unpretentious kids possible; and they made my transition to a new school quite a breeze. I see many of them to this day, and on July 24, 2009, we will have our 50th year class reunion. College brought about some new pals, but I really didn’t have time for a lot of socializing; nevertheless, Joe and Bob became important to my teaching years. While teaching, the friends I made are too numerous to mention. When I first went to Billings Senior, they were a very close knit family. People like Carroll, Jim, Ole, Bill, and others of the “Old Guard” made me fit right in. They wouldn’t have it any other way. We were “Broncs.” One of my closest friends, Tom, came to Senior a few years after I; and we went through some tough personal times together. I couldn’t have made it through without him.

Now, of course, I’m old; and my friends Frank, Ruth, John, Mike, Cheryl, and Linda are too; although, most of them are ten or more years younger (Mike doesn’t look it☺). I like to give him a jab once in awhile. I know I’ve missed so many people: Linda II, Jim, Bob, Mike II, Lynn, etc. Forgive me. Today, I still like to meet new people. My kids always tell me, “Dad, you’ll talk with any complete stranger.” I know; the world is too full of hatred and hostility to ignore anyone, young, old, or in between.

Greatest Things “RAINDROPS ON ROSES AND WHISKERS ON KITTENS” (Rodgers and Hammerstein) My favorite things, huh? Top of the hill would be grandkids. Whoever said “Grandkids are the reward for raising children” had great wisdom. Mine were just here over the Fourth of July. Surely, chaos surrounds them; and I went to bed beat each night, but what a wonderful, special way to sleep peacefully. I never could understand how my Mom and Dad could treat my kids so much better than they treated my siblings and me. Now, I can. Thanks “Gavster,” “Anna Banana,” and “Logey” for being grandpa’s greatest joys. I’m certainly praying hard that I can be around for the arrival of Rylee in September. Thank you Tiff and Tom and Katrina and Rob - best gifts, ever. Of course my kids, Mom and Dad, siblings, and friends come next. I’ve been really lucky to be able to always stay close to these remarkable people.

“To All the Girls I’ve Loved Before” (Willie Nelson). The women in my life have given great love, and some have caused even greater pain. However, even in the ones who have caused that pain, I can still “cherry-pick” things to love. After cancer, I kind of felt that I was through with pursuing the “fairer” sex; but then Ruby came along. She gives me someone with whom to talk, attend functions, and to hold when either one of us are sad. She’s a much appreciated late addition to my life.

Other then that, I take up my time on the board of a Men’s Golf League at Peter Yegen G.C., and I administer the GED test at the county jail. I also volunteer with Riverstone Health, since they were a great help (back when they were Big Sky Hospice) to my family when my Mother passed away. Hospice is truly a worthy organization.

I love movies, as I said before, and all music except rap, jazz, and bluegrass. Golf, of course, is A Good Walk Spoiled (John Feinstein); but what better way for one to atone for one’s sins while still alive?

Otherwise, I like to travel, but mainly to see the grandkids or go to Missoula to see this fine artist (my little sister) and her husband or golf with my brother at some famous course like Torrey Pines or PGA West’s Stadium Course. Starting this fall, I’ve been asked to serve on my Parrish Council; and since I owe my second lease on life to the Man upstairs, I figured that I’d better say yes. Life is good as it should be in one’s November.

Recovery and Remission ME, TODAY: THANKS TO THE WOMEN AND MEN AT DEACONESS Without the staff at the Billings Clinic Cancer Center and quite a little supernatural help, I wouldn’t be here, today, as you already know if you have waded through this (look at the extraordinary art work; it makes the reading easier). I also had help from my pal, Jim, who had the same form of cancer as I. He had been cancer free for six years, and he was extremely fit when I met him. He gave me a lot of confidence and encouragement. Imagine how I felt when I was sitting in the doctor’s waiting room and Jim walked in. “What are you doing here, getting a check-up?” “No, not exactly,” he replied. I thought “Oh, oh.” Sure enough the cancer had come back, and it has been back four more times since. However, the gutsiest 130 pound guy I ever have known is still here. He has lived way beyond the life expectancy of Mantle Cell Lymphoma, and that certainly gives me hope. Jim was also very reassuring when he talked to me about my extreme fatigue after I had finished my treatment. I was sure that fifteen days or so after my treatment ended, I would feel like my old self again. Jim brought me back to reality by telling me it took him two-and-one half years to feel normal. It took me three, but I’m not as tough as he is. One day, I woke up and thought, “Hey, I feel pretty good.” But “normal”? I’ll never get there because I was three years older then and am five years older now. However, I do okay for a sixty-eight year old cancer survivor, except of course in golf where people with physical handicaps kick my rear. But, I can’t blame the disease for that.

Another friend of mine, Woody, who has survived leukemia for over ten years was so helpful to me with his encouragement; and best of all, he wouldn’t stand for any negativity. I took cues from both Jim and Woody when I helped my good friend Linda to survive her cancer. She was another tough cookie for whom I have great admiration. Not only was she fighting cancer but she had daily major battles with a lot of uncaring people because she didn’t have insurance. One of them was a doctor for whom she had worked, not one from St. Pats or Deaconess I’m happy to say. A little word of encouragement to those of you reading this who are battling cancer: it’s not the killer it used to be. Cancer deaths are going down while our population is growing. That’s a sign that cancer is becoming more of a “manageable” disease every day. New discoveries are on their way. Had it not been for the drug Rituxan (Rituximab), you wouldn’t be viewing my sister’s creativity today. Finally, the major thing a cancer survivor must come to grips with is that in many cases of the disease, recurrence is always a possibility. I asked Dr. Wittenberger what we’d do if it came back. His answer was simple; “Treat it.” So my days now are spent in remission, and I’m having the best time of my life. I just started yearly checkups, and that gives me 11½ worry free months not to think about it. However, next February 1st, I’ll be back to sweating out blood tests and CT scans again. That’s part of my life now. It’s not so bad. I’m able to connect, again, with some of the finest people I know: Doc Brock the Rock, Kathy, Christina, Cheryl, and all of the others who helped God save my life, so that I could hear the most beautiful words in the world, “I love you Grandpa Bob.”

Milestones of Robert’s Life

Poem written by: Barb Schwarz Karst Edited by: Robert Schwarz

Ten little fingers, ten little toes

reared from sinner and saint, friend and foe.

Aged leather bounds, dusted in chalk, readin’ and writin’, Yankees play in a lot.

Toil set aside as duties of men

long hard roads, baton snapped at the bend.

Reigned by passion, swept by flood, two blessings born blood of my blood.

House of cards collapsed to the table

chaotic in structure, stacker’s hand unstable.

Calling to God – “Is this the score?” A sign, a test, a lesson no more.

Assemble all angels, their wings all aflutter.

Nourish the soul; then calm the stutter.

Transcending voice through verb and through noun, together we dance on hallowed ground.

Hush for a moment; be quiet, be still

Quixote just conquered the blades of the mill.

ARTIST BIOGRAPHY Barb Schwarz Karst is best known as a painter who blends traditional media and subject matters with splashes of contemporary freshness and attitude. Originally trained as a watercolorist, she “pushes the envelope” by manipulating oils and acrylics into what some viewers find intriguing, questioning the actual source of materials and their method of application. Her inspirations for her works comes from a “heady,” intellectual approach to her expressive, deeply personal subjects that passionately inspire her. Her current show, Blades of the Mill, is a collaborative effort with her eldest brother, Bob, who in 2003 was diagnosed with a rare and deadly form of lymphoma, Mantle Cell. The eighteen mixed media paintings depict electrified portraits of Bob, four months into his eight-months of chemotherapy sessions. Each painted panel, representing crucial turning points in his life, contain meditative phrases which read in succession, left to right, complete a poem chronicling his life. In addition, Bob adds to the completeness of his own story by honestly writing short stories and dialog which illustrate each life experience. Last year, Schwarz Karst produced the Montana Rust Belt: Abandoned Industries series of brightly colored, interchangeable square canvas oils depicting close ups of rusted, damaged metal equipment, which summarize the dying and lost industries on which Montana was founded, copper mining, the oil industry, passenger trains, etc. “All art in Schwarz Karst’s world, whether abstract or contemporary, is hollow and shallow if without inspiration in mind or purpose of soul.” (Brian D’Ambrosio, Clark Fork Journal) Her work has been featured in worldwide and domestic exhibitions, publicized in several books and magazines, featured in a number of one-person shows, and has been acquired and housed in permanent collections of museums, corporate, private, and traveling collections throughout the United States. Barb is a Montana native, born in Billings, but has lived in Missoula for the past twenty-five years. Currently, she has two works in the Montana Triennial at the MAM (Missoula Art Museum) and is represented by the Dana Gallery in Missoula, MT. Bob Schwarz, a thirty-three year veteran public school teacher, taught high school English and coached most of his career in Billings. He was a department chairperson from 1995-1998 at Billings Senior. Known as a “stickler” for proper English prose and highly influenced by the great authors, Schwarz helped many a beginning reader and writer develop a true passion for literature. Additionally, he has edited books, poems, short stories, letters, etc. for some professionals throughout the years. Personally, he has written several “unpublished” short stories, but you can find proof of his creative political penning by searching the opinion page archives of The Billings Gazette at http://www.billingsgazette.com/. He received the Gazette Golden Pen Award in 2003 for an article he wrote about how some Americans use the flag. The Billings Gazette wrote, “Thanks to Bob Schwarz for a letter that raises good questions about the meanings of patriotism and respect.” Bob was born with Nebraska Cornhusker blood, but he currently resides in Billings, MT.