G.B. Madison

G.B. Madison
The Wild Ol' Okie Boy

Thursday, August 7, 2008

RETURN TO ASH FORK cont.- page 18

G.B. turned off Route 66, drove onto the open ranch land and searched to the horizon line.

"I want y'all to watch fer antelope." he said with charming enthusiasm.

I gratefully took the opportunity to turn away from his face and stare through the passenger side window, while I listened to the dear familiar voice. Skin stretched over bones isn't important, I thought to myself. What matters is all the beauty inside.

I turned back from the window and again I looked at G.B.'s face. This time I saw brilliant turquoise eyes, a colour I had never seen. I saw his proud Teutonic neck, and felt compassion sweep over me as I inspected the narrative scars by his mouth and on his chin. Such a nice chin, he may have been quite handsome as a young man.

This is a fine strong man, I thought, a protector to stand between me and the world. Then I looked at his hands. Such beautiful hands. I wondered what makes a hand beautiful? Maybe it is loving the person whose hand it is. I looked back to G.B.'s dear face and he turned to look at me. He smiled, tears spilled down his cheeks as he said, "I've got so much to show y'all Charle."

We watched for the antelope, and I thrilled to the dusty ride across the Arizona high desert ranch land.

G.B. stopped the pick-up at a whole lot of black and stated, "Charle, this is a black cinder pit, I'm fixin' to show y'all somethin'."

I stepped down from the old pick-up and gazed at the vast expanse of land which encircled the volcanic cinder pit. Despite my fascination, a strange thought . . . . What if this rather odd man is crazed - kills me, then buries me under the cinders? I felt an adrenalin rush, then I heard again the beautiful music of his voice.

"Look Charle, 'cross yonder - at that white scar n the mountain. That's my quarry, the White Elephant.

"Where?" I asked, as I scanned the long line of mountains.

G.B. moved behind me to the right. He reached across my back with his left arm and gripped my left arm with his powerful hand. H closed tight around me and pointed to the scar on the mountain. Either this man is going to kiss me - or kill me!

We stood alone in the world under a clear blue sky and G.B. kissed me with all the strength, confidence and emotion of his nature.



"G.B. and the Strange Canadian Painter Lady" by Charlotte Madison and Nana Cook copyright 1994

Wednesday, August 6, 2008

RETURN TO ASH FORK - page 17.

Excitement mounted as I drove the last twenty mile stretch from Seligman to Ash Fork, and I musted to calm myself. I had seen G.B.'s face, but only in short bursts of light from passing cars, so I had left Arizona with at most, a vague impression of his head. I did not know if he was tall or short, fat or thin, handsome or homely. I only knew I loved the beautiful music of his slow southern voice and the tender loving words he spoke each time he phoned me in Canada.

I decided he would be wearing gorgeous hand tooled leather cowboy boots, a big Stetson hat and a western style suit.

Our rendezvous was the "Bus Depot" at eight-fifteen a. m. When I walked into the cafe' "dressed and groomed," I stared intently into each man's face. They looked, but no one rose to greet me. I turned when I heard the front door open and saw a man of medium height standing in the doorway. He was dressed in khaki work shirt and pants, steel toed work boots and an old straw cowboy hat.

"Are you G.B.?" I asked the man.

"Oh. . . " he replied, "a red-head, I thought y'all was a blonde."

G.B. had a fine straight back, but a decided bow to the legs, and I couldn't see any sign of hair beneath his straw hat. This was definately not the Adonia for whom my mother was hoping. "Before I take y'all to y'all's motel, I'm fixin' to show y'all somethin'." I left Ludwig Van Volkswagon parked at the cafe' and London my faithful sheepdog and I climbed into G.B.'s company pick-up.

G.B. drove in a westerly direction through town and on down Route 66. I studied his face as he chatted and I thought it looks so , used. His chin had been split and mended in several places and his nose. . . was one of a kind. I could not associate my new love with his face.


"G.B. and the Strange Canadian Painter Lady"
By Charlotte Madison and Nana Cook copyright 1994

Saturday, July 19, 2008

THE ENCOUNTER cont. - page 13

The Encounter cont.

"Hello Lady, y'all waitin' fer a ride?" asked the man driving the Buick.

"No, I'm waiting for the bus." I replied.

"Oh, people most times wait fer the bus at home or in their motel rooms. " "Well, I'll just stay with y'all, 'till y'all's bus comes." He pondered a moment, and then he asked. "Would y'all like to go to supper?"

Where? I thought, "No thank you."

"Well," He reiterated, "I'll just stay with y'all, 'till y'all's bus gets here."

"Oh you don't have to bother." But the man totally ignored my response.

"Y'all'r a-shiverin' like a line wash in a wind storm. Get in the car an' I'll turn on the heater."

"No, I'm fine - thank you." I stated through chenched teeth.

He offered me something warm to wear, reached into the back seat of his car and pulled forth his overcoat.

"No, really, I am fine. Thank you." I did not want some stranger's coat all over me.

"I feel responsible fer y'all, 'cause I own the bus depot." He announced with pride.

What bus depot? I snorted in my mind. It was obvious that this man was going to wait with me and see me safely onto that bus. There was an earnest sweetness about him and I found myself thankful to have his company.

"I'll tell y'all about me an' then y'all can tell me about y'all. My name is G.B., that's short fer Good Boy . . . ."

Hours later when the bus pulled into view I thought my adventure on Route 66 was coming to a close.

"Won't y'all stay or stop in on y'all's way back from Santa Fe? Let me show y'all the places to paint 'round here."

G.B. did not list the Grand Canyon, Jerome or Sedona, instead he continued, "Out on the big ol' ranches 'round here are rusty ol' windmills, with chains a-rattlin' in the breeze. Y'all could paint them."

Windmills! I was halfway to being in love with G.B. Madison.

Four months after I returned home to Canada, I received a copy of Arizona Highways and a letter that had been wandering about, returned for insufficient postage, mailed again, misdirected here and there and addresseed only to: Charlotte, Ganges, Canada. It was an outspoken letter, ordering me to call him collect. I called immediately, filled with joy, and heard a sob in his voice as he said, "Oh Charle, it's been so long. I'd given up hope that y'all would ever call."

G.B. and the Strange Canadian Painter Lady by Charlotte Madison and Nana Cook copyright 1994

Thursday, July 17, 2008

THE ENCOUNTER cont - page 12

The Encounter cont.

I continued on for several more bloc s and was approaching the eastern end of town. The last relic before the range land and hills was a Shell gas station - my last hope. I passed a junk yard, and hanging on a rope that stretched from one rusted and wrecked vehicle to another, was an old long-john washing, kicking in the breeze. Issuing forth from one of the old cars was a joy filled voice, heartily singing a happy old-fashioned song. All this made me smile, and when a trucker honked out a greeting I was able to laugh and wave back. I was not alone in Ash Fork any longer.

The Shell gas station was open. I walked in and asked the men who were staring at me, "May I paint in your field today?"

Nobody answered, they just stared.

"Do you have food and pop dispensers?" I asked.

"We have sodas," one of the men replied.

"May I fill my canteens and use your rest room?"

Again they just stared, so I took that for yes, thanked them profusely and took advantage of the amenities. I walked out to the field where I donned a paint covered Hawaiian muumuu, a flower covered sun-hat and began to wallow in paint, finishing paintings through which I had previously rushed.
Off and on throughout the day vehicles which I presumed to be local traffic slowly cruised by me. One in particular, a sleek, new white Buick Electra, must have driven past ten times. Something about me struck these people as odd.


The gas station closed as the sun began to drop close to the hills. I packed up and trudged back to the "bus depot" where I set up my canvas stool, sat down and looked longlingly at the cafe', wishing it would open. To add insult to injury, behind the greasy window I could see the family who ran the cafe; eating their dinner at the counter. As I sat alone and cold I was tantalized by the aroma of their fried onions.

The sun set early, and with darkness came unexpected high desert cold. Grimy, hungry and shivering from the drop in temperature - I was not happy.

Again the white Buick appeared. Slowly it drove up onto the sidewalk and parked beside me.

"Hello Lady. Y'all waitin' fer a ride?" asked the man in the Buick.



G.B. and the Strange Canadian Painter Lady by Charlotte Madison and Nana Cook - copyright 1994

Wednesday, July 16, 2008

THE ENCOUNTER cont. page 10

The Encounter

Vibrant hues enliven my paintings, so I scanned the town for an inspiring subject to paint. But this town had to be the most monochromatic sight I had ever seen. It had sun-bleached wooden buildings, heaved up grey pavement, slate colored Santa Fe Railroad water towers, silver railway tracks, hoary leafless trees, dry cracked pinkish-grey earth and dust - dust everywhere. The town did not appear to be alive, yet it lacked the magic of a real ghost town.

I decided to stay in sight of the "bus depot," as it had become my safe place in this ramshackle old town. But I did have to go in search of water, food, facilities and a subject to paint.

I looked west. The road passed by the water towers and several strange, little stone houses, before it disappeared around a curve. I looked east and saw the familiar Union 76 orange ball. It looked encouraging, so I headed that way.

The sidewalk was encompassed a variety of hazards. There were potholes, sections of unevenly set flagstone, rocks strewn everywhere, whole sections of sidewalk covered in broken glass and cement steps that went up for no apparent reason - and then back down.

I stopped at a closed shop and peered through one of its filthy windows. Inside, frozen in time, I saw the interior of a circa 1940's fifteen cent store. Old familiar lables and price tags hurtled me back to my childhood and to the first time I was allowed to walk alone to the shops, where I purchased a twist of variegated pink wool for my spool knitting.

I continued on past a boarded up old theatre and the old Union 76 gas station. The front window of the station was solid house plants, all green and thriving - an encouraging sign. Next to closed old station sat a general store with sun faded posters, signs and sun shielding devices covering the windows. I could not be sure if the store was closed or out of business.

What if the entire town is vacant and all these passing vehicles are just driving throu? I thought to myself, Can I go for twelve hours without a drink? No! I'll have to stop a car and beg for water. I felt a rising panic. The Chicago to L.A. traffic was increasing, but there was no sign of local activity.

G.B. and the Strange Canadian Painter Lady by Charlotte Madison and Nana Cook copyright 1994

Saturday, July 12, 2008

THE ENCOUNTER - page 9

The Encounter

I set sail for the desert onboard a British Columbia ferry boat, and stood on the deck weighted down with canteens, back-packs and canvas boards. I held a tattered copy of Don Quixote in my hands and as the ferry glided down Long Harbour, away from my home on Salt Spring Island I whispered into the wind, "I too shall tilt windmills."

My plan was to crisscross the American Southwest by bus at night and to paint Franciscan missions by day. After two months I had perfected my technique - until that October Sunday morning when I got off the bus in Ash Fork, Arizona.

The bus pulled away and I was left standing in what appeared to be a deserted town, without a mission in sight.

I crossed the road to a dingy cafe located beside a vacant pool hall and an old fashioned wooden hotel, which was also vacant. There was a Greyhound sign above the pool hall window and as I neared the cafe a woman turned the open sign to closed and locked the door. I called out, "When does the next bus to Santa Fe come through?"

"Eight fifteen tonight." she barked. I was stunned. Twelve hours in what appeared to be a ghost town with closed shops, vacant hotels, caved in roofs, broken store windows, scattered floor tiles on the sidewalk, abandoned gas stations and what might be a cafe/saloon on a good day.

I felt disheartened until my eyes lit on a westbournd Route 66 sign. Route 66- a highway to adventure and I began to wonder what mine could be.

G.B. and the Strange Canadian Painter Lady

by Charlotte Madison and Nana Cook - copyright 1994

The Strange Canadian Painter Lady - page 7

Charle, the Artist.

I keep my head empty, so I can feel the gentle breezes blow through.


G.B. and the Strange Canadian Painter Lady
by Charlotte Madison and Nana Cook - copyright 1994

Friday, July 11, 2008

PROLOGUE AND G.B. cont. - page 5

G.B.

"Charle, June sixteen, nineteen and fifty, I stepped off 'a that Greyhound bus in Ash Fork, Arizona, sad, broke, busted an' mad as Hayll. I was mad as a snortin' bull on the wrong side of a barbed wire fence. I got a lift out to my uncle's flagstone quarry an' I asked him fer a job. Uncle Frank handed me a hammer, some wedges an' a pry bar. He told me, "Rock's over thar - start a-workin'"

"Will someone show me what to do, or will y'all learn me?" G.B. asked.

"Yall got tools Bremond." Uncle Frank told me, "An I reckon y'all got a brain, an' I told y'all where the stone is . . . y'all want me to do y'all's work fer ye?"

G.B. learned, earned and saved enough money doodling rock to buy an' old rock hauling truck. He slammed down his tools and began to haul stone for his uncle.

When stone company drivers were off for the night or home because of inclement weather, G.B. was out driving loads of stone into town, or he was digging his truck out of the mud.

G.B's bank account began to grow and with it his knowledge of Arizona's geology and the business of producing flagstone. He was hired as foreman when the company owner left Ash Fork to make major changes and open a sales division in Phoenix. G.B. was promoted to "Superintendent of Operations, Ash Fork Production Division."

I ate in cafes an' I worked hard from dawn 'till late. On weekends I played just as hard. I slept in a stack a'pallets at the stone yard 'till I got a chance to buy a cheap house. I'd be DAMNED if I'd pay rent with my hard earned money just so's I could sleep in someone else's house. I'm a-goin' an' a-blowin', steamin', dumb ol' Okie boy. I'm fify-seven an' I own a third a' this town. I'm a rich, bald-headed, son of a bitch, stingy ol' landlord, but I never did work a man cold, thirsty, hungry or without a house to go home to. Oh I've lived a hard life Charle, an if any danged renter tries to tell me what to do, why I tell 'em - DAMMIT - IF Y'ALL DON'T LIKE IT - MOVE!"

G,B, and the Strange Canadian Painter Lady

by Charlotte Madison and Nana Cook copyright 1994


Wednesday, July 9, 2008

PROLOGUE page 1 AND G.B. - page 3

PROLOGUE

I live by the sea and I hear eagles and herons and such.
But oh what I'd give to hear one "com'ere."* Oh I'd give so much.
I live by the sea and I sea rain and clouds and such.
But oh what I'd give for one desert storm. Oh I'd give so much.

Cotton-tails, jackrabbits scamper galore.
An antelope pounding the desert floor.
Sweet sound of a coyote in the moon-lit night.
But I'm here by the sea . . . and it's right.

I live by the sea and I see whales and seals and such.
But oh what I'd give for the mouring doves. Oh I'd give so much.
I live by the sea and I hear ducks and sea-lions and such.
But oh to hear the diamondback's rattle! Oh I'd give so much.

Jimsonweed, prairie dogs, cactus in bloom,
The silhouette of Junipers against the moon
"Com'ere." says that little bird with heart so light.
But I'm here by the sea . . . and it's right.

* the call of the little bird at the northern campsite.


G.B.

"I am what I am an' I don't give a damn! They call me G.B. That's short fer good boy. 'Course most people say its short fer gone bad."

August 14 1917, G.B. Madison was born to a share-cropping family in Chickasaw, Oklahoma.

"When I was a little bitty boy, had to learn to walk real fast so's I could help with the chores. Us boys went barefoot all summer. Couldn't go to school in September each year 'till we'd picked cotton 'nough to buy shoes an' books. Oh Charle, that cotton tears up a boy's hands real bad."

G.B.'s father was an ethical, religious, dominant, stubborn, hard working man who had demanding expectations for his five sons.
According to G.B., his sister was favoured by their mother and his father ruled the boys.

"I've taken many a beatin' from my Daddy, but he was the best man who ever lived. If me an' my four brothers couldn't find a friend to fight with, we beat on each other, or we teased our li'l sister 'till 'er screams brought our mother a runnin'. Either way, we got a whippin' from my Daddy.

"I recall how after dinner, an' after Daddy read some from the bible, he'd get out his fiddle. With us all gathered 'round, an' with the least little bitty one a-ridin' his leg, my Daddy played his fiddle an' beat out the rhythm with his foot."

On special winter nights, our mother made popcorn balls. Made 'em with our very own home-grown popcorn an' parched peanuts. Even had our own home-grown sorghum molasses. Big as softballs they was. Oh Charle they tasted larrupin'."

As a young adult, G.B. rose early to milk his cows and drive the milk into town, picking up other people's milk cans along the way. Next he put in a day's work in his feed and seed store. After dinner he put in a late shift at his "beer joint." Between marriages he squeezed in two years at the University of Oklahoma. G.B. rapidly learned to channel his quick mind and endless energy into hard work and steady financial growth.

"A full night's sleep is a downright waste a-money."

At thirty-three G.B. left Oklahoma. He left everyone he loved, the children he adored and he left his "beer joint" in the hands of tenants. He was fatigued by the quirks of his nature and by the twists of fate that had left him cash poor, alone and sad. Like many an Okie, G.B. headed west on Route 66.



G.B. and the Strange Canadian Painter Lady
by Charlotte Madison and Nana Cook copyright 1994