George Burr Gallery FREE
6 THE HAL PRIZE 2015
PENINSULA PULSE august 7–14/2015 DOORCOUNTYPULSE.COM
Bring in this ad for one
FREE print by
GEORGE BURR one per household per year, expires 12/31/15
Over $100K in Prints Given Away
(920) 854-7877 • GeorgeBurr.com OPEN DAILY 10-5 • 10325 Hwy 42, Ephraim
Est. 1976
Jeanne & David Aurelius
Demonstrations Thursdays 1-3 OPEN 10-5 Located North of Sister Bay 11650 Hwy 42 Ellison Bay, WI 54210 Email: aurelius.jeanne@gmail.com Phone: 920.854.5027 www.claybaypottery.net
[photography-honorable] “Clearing Thunderstorm, Fish Creek Harbor, Door County, Wisconsin” {By David Farr David Farr is a graphic designer, art director, and photographer. He uses digital cameras for his color work, while his black-and-white images are shot using 6x7 and 4x5 cameras using traditional film developed and printed in his wet darkroom.
brew
coffeehouse downtown Ellison Bay Specialty Drinks & Treats
Hot Coffee - Cool Customers!
Summer Sidewalk Sale Our Biggest Sale of the Season! Friday & Saturday, Aug. 7 & 8 10am - 6pm each day 10667 N. Bay Shore Dr. Sister Bay Open Daily 10 - 5; Sundays 10 - 1 (262) 685-8360
POPELKA TRENCHARD FINE ART GLASS GALLERY
Fine Art Glass, Painting, Jewelry, & Gifts Glass Blowing Demonstration: Saturday, August 8th, Noon-2pm 64 S 2nd Ave, Sturgeon Bay
over the course of our weekly sessions. Truck driver. Mechanic. Cook. Foundry worker. Then a horrific workplace accident had put him on his back for months and he’d had no steady employment for the past nine or 10 years. He seemed to have few worldly possessions and the means of his subsistence were a mystery. I knew he went everywhere by bicycle, and one time when we’d come out of the Literacy Council building into a blustery early spring drizzle I offered to give him a lift. “In that thing?” He pointed at my BMW and laughed. “I owned a car once. Pretty soon the damn thing owned me. Don’t miss ‘em. I’ll see you later man.” As our relationship developed into a friendship of sorts he liked to poke a bit of fun at me and when he asked me how my weekend had been he’d always answer for me: “Let me guess -- work.” Then he’d contrast that with his own weekend, invariably a fishing trip to a nearby lake with his girlfriend or perhaps an impromptu party with friends. (“…Fixed a tractor, traded it out for a whole pig. My man Robert butchered it; then we dug an open pit barbeque and threw a party for about 30. Only problem was an old girlfriend showed up uninvited and man, you should have seen the fireworks!”). And so on. He seemed to sense, too, that my wife and I were struggling through a seasonal drought of the type every long marriage goes through. But the long-awaited and always predictable rains hadn’t arrived, and now we seemed like two strangers traveling together in a barren, hostile country. Perhaps he picked up on something in my
voice when on occasion my wife called me during a session. Once, I’d just returned from a particularly strenuous weekend trip to our vacation home in Wisconsin where I’d fired our caretaker in a cost-cutting measure, and I let it slip that my wife was none too happy about two days of back-breaking labor. With two kids in college out of state, two homes, a country club membership and four cars, even my law firm partnership wasn’t generating enough income to cover all the expenses, and what had seemed like a relatively simple ‘belt-tightening’ had turned into a weekend of harsh recriminations and the opening of old wounds. Joe, who seemed to have a particularly deep understanding of women gave a low, sympathetic whistle and stated one of his many truisms, “If mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.” It wasn’t long before he was giving me what I guessed were small tokens of his appreciation for the work we were doing together, or perhaps in his world of barter economics it was simply the honorable thing to do: giant tomatoes and zucchini from a communal garden that he helped cultivate…Ball jars of honey from one of the bee hives that he managed…bars of soap that he said were made from goat’s milk. One day as we were walking out the door after a session he said, “C’mon man, I want to show you something,” and he led the way around the corner of the building and there was an old green Schwinn five-speed bike of a type I hadn’t seen in years, with the chrome fenders, two-tone seat and matching plastic handle grips that I remembered from childhood.
“People throwin’ out the craziest things these days,” he said. “Found some tires, fixed the gears, good as new. Here, get on it.” I awkwardly threw a leg over the frame. He’d evidently sized me up, and the seat had been adjusted to about the right height. I hadn’t ridden in years but I felt a vestigial excitement about being on a bike again. “It’s yours. You going to ride it.” It was more of a statement than a question. So when the weather or my schedule allowed, and to the surprise of my wife and most of my co-workers, I started riding the bike to work – about five miles one way and then another mile or so two days a week from my office to the Literacy Council building. The terrain was relatively flat but I rode slowly at first, stopping along the way for rest and if the day was particularly warm I’d arrive at work soaking wet. Over the next few months my stamina improved and my speed and enjoyment increased and by the end of summer I could see a physical transformation that was confirmed in the approving looks of those around me. “Hey man, check this out.” It was fall and at the end of one of our last scheduled sessions together. Joe pulled a plastic garbage bag out of his backpack, unwrapped it and inside in baggies were what appeared to be six or seven frozen fillets of fish. “Here.” Joe handed me a folded piece of paper. I unfolded it. I recognized Joe’s simple schoolboy handwriting. I read the heading: Southern Fried Catfish. Joe’s Delectable Secret Recipe.