First, I have to say I am a very lucky man, born into three privileged classes: white, male and American. Sure, I was brought up by a single mom in an economically-depressed home town, but I have never had the struggles of the vast majority of people.
I have never felt driven to pursue money or “success” very hard either. And although I may never marry, I have been blessed by the inspiration and teachings of worthy and beautiful women throughout my life. It started with my mother, who taught me to be tolerant and compassionate for those born less fortunate. These and a life-long love of learning are pearls beyond price. 

I was born in Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan, where water flows through our St. Mary’s River – the boundary with Canada – from Lake Superior to the lower lakes. Our riches were books from the attic and the Carnegie Public Library. Illustrations by N.C. Wyeth and Howard Pyle won me over to chivalric romance, swordplay and art. Local history was rich. On rare holidays we got to sleep in an old loggers’ bunkhouse and paddle pulp-log rafts on the river.
I listened to 78 rpm symphonies, played with lath swords, and imitated Walt Disney with cartoons starring my teddy bear. I studied the old masters in print catalogs until the “Art Train” came to town with real Canalettos, Claude-Lorrains, and a Turner. That decided me to be a painter. My mother bought me oils when I was 15. She also took us to Sault Ontario to see the Queen in her motorcade. From only a few yards away she looked right into my eyes.
I also followed my siblings for four years on the high-school paper, led and taught by an amazing mentor, John F. McDonald, who would answer only to the nickname “Mac.”   
But meanwhile our industries closed; our five thousand elms died, jobs vanished and our beautiful city shrank to a tourist town. The unwinnable Viet Nam War was still going; it was a case of go to college or be drafted. I got accepted at five universities but couldn’t afford any of them. 
But wait! At the very last minute came the new Michigan Higher Ed scholarships for qualified low-income students. Full tuition for four years. By living at home and borrowing I could just afford the local two-year branch of Michigan Tech.
As it turned out, I didn’t have to borrow much. The professors were my friends and allies from the start. A department chairman hired me – an incoming freshman – to correct his sophomores’ essays. Free-lance art paid for books.
With 1200 guys and 110 girls you could forget about dates, but I actually did date a real beauty – a former fencing student. Did I follow up? No. I had plenty else to do. With the yearbook I learned photo darkroom skills. Like my brother before me I marched with the Army ROTC Drill Team. Not the rifle team.
Sophomore year coming on, the new, go-getter college president hired me to re-invent the the college paper. I did a lot more, including teaching the for-credit journalism course.
That won me the University of Michigan journalism scholarship I had never dared to dream of. 
For one glorious semester, I walked on air. The ten stories I wrote for the Michigan Daily all appeared on page 1 with my by-line. Romanced by Ann Arbor, I neglected my studies. But my foolish pride cut off the happy ending: I flunked out. I was mortified as never before or since. My sisters had both graduated from that same program.
Now here's the kicker: when I applied for a menial summer job at the Ann Arbor News, they offered me an internship with seniority preserved while in the service; plus they’d get me back into j-school! I nearly choked on my anger as I walked out: my sisters’ journalism degrees hadn’t gotten them a hearing at the News. (However, that’s not what I wrote to my mother.)

My professors liked me, but my savings and the GI Bill weren’t enough to finish my BFA. It was May 1974. My world wasn’t rocked: the Coast Guard had built my confidence. Resolving to work in art, no matter the level, I applied at Pierian Press, a library publisher. I was hired on the spot as Editorial Assistant. It was said of those days that you could get a job and a girlfriend for the asking. The girlfriend didn't need asking.
Less than a year later I was Advertising Manager, acquiring a print shop to boot. When they laid off the staff in 1976 I was immediately hired by a book manufacturer, then an ad agency, then in 1978 by Typographic Insight, the new, truly high-tech typesetter in town.
In 1979, co-owner Larry Bell had me illustrate covers for automotive clients Dana, Monroe and GM. Within a year, he and I became TI Group, producing design, illustration, photography and writing for print media. It was a dream job, developing all my favorite skills. I became Creative Director, hiring artists who did have BFAs. Once they were on board, I needed to develop the skill of supervising them. In this I failed.
I diverted way too much energy into avocations that did nothing for my career. I fenced hard, competed regionally and co-founded the Ann Arbor Sword Club. I took my photography passion to Scotland. But the big side-trip was joining the Society for Creative Anachronism, a medievalist fantasy group where I did manuscript illumination, fought in armor and played leader. For ten years I often logged 28 hours a week at those activities while also working 14-hour days at the agency.
In the nineties I hooked up with a truly academic medievalist. Due to her urging I attended an enclusive Heraldic Painting workshop in England and later the World Congress in Medieval Studies. She got me to give my first paper there in 1998. I wound up getting published in a distinguished Hundred years War series in 2014.
Meanwhile, back at the agency, by 1987 my dream job evaporated; Larry moved west and sold out; I had to go free-lance. Things  stayed tough for ten years. Among other things, I edited snowmobiling and offroad bike magazines, never having touched either vehicle. By 1996 I had part-time in-house graphic design jobs with both Electro Arc and Thetford. In 2008 I bought a nice house in a great neighborhood.

But in 2012 I was 65. My work life got really slow, so I tried painting full time. Doing five art fairs a year including the big Ann Arbor fair for five years, I neither painted nor sold as much as I had hoped. I was too much of a perfectionist. Had to sell the house, but again I was lucky: made $40,000 on it.
In 2017, I stopped painting and stepped away to re-evaluate everything. Turns out I’m not an “art-fair” artist.
I had been certain that my love life was over, but as I turned 75 something happened. It lasted a year and changed my outlook considerably. Now, in 2022, with a different attitude, I have a major canvas in the works.