The Art Of Living A Very Full Life.

When he was just a mere lad, my father, "Buddy" Ternay, was told by his 7th grade teacher that he
would not be going into the 8th grade unless he completed a report about the country of China.

 Having been raised by a tough and very independent Irish mother who didn't take crap from anybody, my father told the teacher, " I am going to be a farmer and I can't see how knowing anything about China will make me a better farmer." Pop walked out of the Olivet School on that day and never looked back. It was the end of his formal education.



My father was a very dapper young man.
He got his nickname because his good
looks reminded many of the then popular
movie star, Charles "Buddy" Rogers.

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My dad met my  mom, Helen Mason,
at a "Speakeasy" in Vineland, New Jersey. They soon eloped to Elkton, Maryland, to get married. It seems running off to Elkton in the heat of passion was what young couples did, kinda' like another fad of the times, marathon dancing.
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Their passion soon spawned three sons; William T. Jr., (with the gun) Frank, and Robert.

Bud and Helen were married for sixty-four years.

In addition to being farmers, they put in long hours in their country store.For over 31 years it was the social hub of the local farming community. The store also got raided every month or so because of the poker games played in the back room, late into the night.

My dad was famous for his "Subs," and at Thanksgiving, for his delicious Pumpkin pies.

When he finally retired, he had the dilapidated store moved to the field behind his house, nestled
into the hedgerow.  It was his visual "touchstone" to an enjoyable part of his past.

At 2: 34 p.m. on the 16th of May 2014, our father died, very peacefully, in his house and on the land he had
farmed and loved for over sixty years. A week before he passed he said "If you own farmland, you've got to grow something on it."  This is the last drawing I did of my father.

Although he was very much an Agnostic, I like to think that Pop's spirit will forever be linked to the fields he cultivated, plowed, nourished, and harvested, on his little piece of South Jersey.
He will be missed by many.






 

Sketching And Unwinding With The Locals.

Yesterday my Dad finally got his wish; to be released from the rehab facility he's been in for the past twenty days, and get back to his little South Jersey home, and his five tomato plants.

After my visits with him I would head out to find a place to eat, have a drink, unwind, bring my journal up to date, and of course, draw.

If it was in the afternoon I might meander the aisles of a nearby Barnes and Noble, checking out Art books I really couldn't afford.

Or get coffee and something evil at the Dunkin Donuts.

If later in the evening I'd explore local bars and restaurants, where "characters" were in abundance.

One Friday night I found myself surrounded by locals who were hard-core...and often very talented,
"Karaoke" singers. I was tempted... but decided instead to indulge my ego within the comfort and safety of
my sketchbook pages. Maybe next time.
Welcome home, Pop.