Jack’s pencil captured my essence

I had to stop my car and watch. I’d never seen anything like it. There was a gale force wind out of the north, blowing across a frozen landscape, and about 30 feet in the air was red-tailed hawk flying straight in to the wind and not having much luck. And here is the part folks with sailboats understand. Sailors may not know the exact science of it but they know how to do it. After a bit more struggling the hawk shifted her body just slightly and she began tacking against the wind, moving slowly forward. I am forever astonished by what nature can do and what I cannot.

The afternoon prior, the sun was setting beyond the western horizon, out near Nebraska I suppose, and occupying the partially snow-covered field in front of my house were 16 deer, munching away quietly. We’ve been here previously, you and I, but it’s OK. Some things repeat themselves and the appearance of wildness on our land is just as thrilling the tenth time as it is the first. A dusting of soft, dry snow a couple of nights ago revealed adorable rabbit tracks, as well a host of sparrow tracks, like Woodstock and his friends had crossed the drive.

This past weekend I posed in front of an artist. He was doing a pencil portrait of me, a drawing I’ll never part with. The artist is evidently more of a landscape artist but he happily agreed to give portraiture a shot and, I have to say, he pretty well nailed it, catching the essence of me like no one else. My hair, my smile (which he called creepy), glasses, everything. The guy is good and it’s possible he’ll be drawing for the next 70-80 years. You see, his name is Jack and he’s 7 years old.

I don’t normally hang with “artists,” too many self-proclaimed geniuses who are happy to tell you about it. “I write because I can’t NOT write.” “I paint because that’s who I am.” Spare me. Get a job. Jack is not remotely self-important and you’d be wise to seek him out now before he becomes the painter du jour.

Anyway, I sat at a beautiful handmade dining room table sipping a wee bit of Jameson (it was in the evening) while Jack worked on his masterpiece. Long after I am gone Jack will forget me but I have to tell you, even if I live longer than I believe I will I’ll not forget him. I was my best 7-year-old self and the two of us laughed, smiled, and even squealed, something I haven’t done since my wife and I rocketed down the hills out here on our toboggan. I’m 70, and laughing out loud about what looked like some snot (am I allowed to write that?) Jack drew beneath my nose was almost more than I could handle. My eyes watered.

As with artists, I do not tolerate children well, so this connection I made with a 7-year-old artist took me by surprise. I have been lugging around a Gladstone leather bag for more than a year, half of it filled with my grief, the other half with disparate bits of joy that never seem to connect, until I met an artist named Jack.

Kurt Ullrich lives in rural Jackson County. His book “The Iowa State Fair” is available from the University of Iowa Press.