Oakwood Comic Book Program - Oakwood Healthcare System

DEEP ROOTS.
STRONG BRANCHES.
Oakwood Healthcare and Green Brain Comics Present
We live here. We work here.
For more than 50 years, Oakwood Healthcare
System physicians have been dedicated to
providing exceptional care to our entire
community. This includes extending our hearts
and hands to those in extending our hearts
and hands to those in need. Last year,
Oakwood provided more than $62 million in
community benefits with free heart, stroke and
diabetes health screenings, obesity awareness
programs, emergency services and more. At
Oakwood, we sincerely appreciate the support
and service provided by you - our partners.
Through you, we continue to contribute to
maintaining healthy lives in our community.
By
Jim Anderson • Deena D. Baty • Suzanne Baumann
Michelangelo Cicerone • John Dunivant • Beverly Emery
Joy Gaines-Friedler • Camilla Herod • Chris Houghton • Jesse Hughes
Geneva Larrair • Michael Madigan • Michael Marcus • George McVey
Kathleen Puchala • Eugene Session • Windy Weber • Martha Whitfield
Copyright © 2009 by the Author or Artist and used
with their permission. All rights reserved.
Published by Oakwood Healthcare System, 2010
www.oakwood.org
Cover art and design by Michael Madigan
oakwood.org • 800.543.WELL
2 3
©Oakwood Healthcare System, 2009. All rights reserved.

The extraordinary pictures displayed in the first Graphic Stories exhibition emerged
from the “Comic Jams” and are the work of nine original artists who have the fertile
ground of Green Brain Comics in common.
The Graphic Stories project, which comprises a 6 week exhibition of artwork at Oakwood
Hospital & Medical Center and the writing in the book you hold in your hands, is the result
of separate, long-running programs that discovered each other and found this as a way to
magnify each other’s work.
Each is unique in our community:
• Oakwood’s Arts for the Spirit led by Sandra Baughman and Allie Butler sprang from
the belief that art literally can help people heal themselves and others by inspiring
and strengthening the life force inside them. It encourages and supports works of
creative art in all media by employees, physicians, volunteers and neighbors in
Oakwood’s southeast Michigan service area.
AFTS mounts a new show of both distinguished and emerging visual artists every
two months, throughout the public galleries of all four Oakwood hospitals. With the
National Arts Program Foundation, it sponsors an annual juried exhibition of artwork
by Oakwood people and their families. It partners with local arts organizations to
provide ongoing art instruction programs at nominal cost to participants.
One such program is Oakwood’s monthly Creative Writing workshops, cosponsored
for more than four years with Springfed Arts/Metro Detroit Writers. These
popular classes are led by a teaching staff of published authors and facilitators,
including Michael Madigan, Creative Writing Workshop moderator, and Joy Gaines-
Friedler, who coached the writers featured in these pages through the summer of
2009. The individuality and craftsmanship of these fifteen works is a tribute to Joy’s
guidance, discernment and stamina.
• Green Brain Comics in Dearborn has been named metro Detroit’s “Best Comic
Book Store” four years in a row. It has been family owned and operated by Katie and
Dan Merritt since 1999. It specializes in new comic books and graphic novels and
takes pride in its definitive comic book archive and its diverse selection of material
from smaller publishers.
The happy alignment of Arts for the Spirit and Green Brain Comics in May 2009 took
shape in the imagination of Roy Sexton, Oakwood corporate director of Strategic
Communications and a longtime Green Brain maven. He challenged the Merritts and
Sandra Baughman to bring about a show of highly imaginative original art and writing in
the spirit of the comic/fantasy genre, in a format never before presented at Oakwood.
The product of their first attempt may be found on the gallery walls of Oakwood Hospital &
Medical Center and in the pages of this book. We hope you enjoy it.
Roy Sexton
Corporate Director, Strategic Community & Planning
Sandra Baughman
Arts Coordinator, Oakwood Arts for the Spirit Program
Michael Madigan
Community Relations Specialist, Oakwood Community & Public Relations Group
Allie Butler
Arts Planner, Oakwood Arts for the Spirit Program
Dan and Katie Merritt
Owners, Green Brain Comics
Joy Gaines-Friedler
Author and Oakwood Creative Writing Instructor
M.L. Liebler
Professor of English, Wayne State University, Oakwood Creative Writing Director
Through the Merritts’ stewardship Green Brain Comics has become both a
destination and a kind of academy of comic culture for fans and creators alike.
“Free Comic Book Day” celebrations and signing appearances by artists and writers
are featured there throughout the year. Serious comic book and fantasy creators,
novice and veteran, gather at Green Brain’s monthly “Comic Jams”, to show and
collaborate on works in progress and learn from each other about art and publishing.
4 5

A picture is famously the equal of a thousand words, but words that are, at best, implied.
“Graphic detail” is that which has the unambiguousness of a picture, detail that ought to
be understood universally, without interpretation. Yet a picture can appear in as many
different ways as there are people who can see, think and understand. A picture may
be defined uniquely by as many of those people as have the use of language, and may
be transformed by those who use language as art. Every pair of eyes and every voice
multiplies the thousand words that are a picture’s nominal value.
When it occurs, the transition from image to language is not a door, but a bridge that
crosses emotion, memory, recognition and intention. In each case it can lead to a
response not only as detailed and explicit as the picture that generated it but also as
original and personal.
The human spirit is always present and moving, in every age and phase of existence,
including those from which we move on and experience a different kind of life. Each of
the works of prose and poetry in this journal is the result of its creator’s encounter with
one of the nine pictures in the Graphic Stories exhibition. Each, even the most free,
individual or questioning, is proof of the movement of art on the human spirit, to awaken
and breathe, to act and create. That is what draws these fifteen stories, prose reflections
and poems together.
Yep
Eugene Session
“Yeah, that’s great,” I say, walking about the gallery, soda cup in hand, the proverbial
Big Gulp from 7-11. Thirty-two ounces of bladder filling slushy goodness. The hot little
number wrapped around my arm wastes no time in glaring at me for bringing it in.
She’s pointing and squeaking out names that sound more like sentences than actual
people. All I can do is just nod my head, feign interest, look at my watch and pray the
fabric of space time accelerates so I can somehow get out of here and make it home in
time to watch the game. She inquires about my opinion on the work but I can’t think of
much to say, and she’s really not interested anyway. She goes off on her egghead, artsy
rants and my reply is always the same, the standard slow nod followed by a monotone
“Mm-hm.” …She never seems to notice.
I look down at my watch. 8:45...it’s gonna be a long night.
If you visited the exhibition before opening this book you most likely saw the pictures
in it for the first time. You set foot on the same bridge as these writers. A love for our
common humanity allows anyone who crosses it, who is essentially humane and
optimistic, the broadest range of expression. This is what we hope to present in this
show and in this journal.
Our writers and artists have thought of their neighbors, the patients, family members
and caregivers who will come into the presence of their work in the Oakwood setting.
They have thought of what these people have just experienced or are anticipating as
they pause to view or read these works. They have thought of classic comics and new
stories of imagination and fantasy. They are people who also sometimes think of castles,
mountains, stars, thrilling adventure and heroes who defend and save.
True art, like true beauty, is purely subjective, and takes an infinite variety of shapes and
appearances. It is an individual and even private thing. But we know that a strengthening,
inspiring work of art can be any that moves us to laugh, to remember with affection, to
remain curious about the world and the human condition and still find confidence and
satisfaction in them.
6 7

Jim Anderson
Untitled
Cool
Michael Madigan
Saturday morning. Jerry starts out at the barber’s. He waits for a seat in Eugene’s chair.
Cool with it, Jerry decides, worth it to wait for a man who needn’t be told what to do to his
comb-bending, aerodynamic, lacquer-black hair.
Draped to his knees in the chair, Jerry leans on the points of ten fingertips lifting,
appraising behind him. The call and response of the barbers and customers, crowing and
barking, and ceiling fans, baseball game, teenagers minding their manners, unanswered
rings from guys’ wives on the coin telephone, and Eugene like a priest with his hands on
the Sacrament – brush Jerry’s ears like a jazzman.
Cool, he would say of the scene if one asked.
Jerry turns to the mirror to size up the man he has made of his everyday stuff. He
encounters the eyes of the man she ignored at the bar, the man she turned vacantly from
at her door as he waited, the eyes that looked back in his view to the rear as he drove
away later, flat-footed, blinded, accusing, denying, set in a fist of a face.
But they’re not the eyes he identifies. Nothing but cool is the man Jerry sees.
At eight Jerry’s up at the Palisades Bowl in a silk shirt. He passes the lounge where his
night will end up, and the silk stirs his skin, like a breath he felt once when she bent down
to look at his watch, stirs with a fugitive shade like her first cautious glance, passing
intangibly through to the bone like her words somehow heard but unsaid.
But he doesn’t remember the night or the lips or the look or the voice. The coolest, he
thinks, of the shirt on his back, and no other reflection intrudes.
Jerry changes his cool lizard slip-ons for Dexters in indigo blue, also cool. The clatter of
pins and the rush of the pinsetters flows like a beat in a groove. The fellas show up and
the frames are all open and Jerry steps up to the line.
It feels cool, Jerry thinks as he lifts sixteen pounds with a natural action and unpondered
ease, coiling to start his approach.
Jerry enters his motion, a motion as cool as the curve and the shift of a dance step
performed without touching the floor. Like their dance when the curve and the shift of her
hand in his fingers turned everything silent and weightless.
This time the ball – like his heart when her memory forms on it stealthy as dew, before he
can rise and burn hot enough over the chill to dispel it – gains all of the mass of the earth.
I am cool, Jerry shivers. So cool.
8 9

NALGA
Deena Baty
The North American Little Genius Association contest is today, January 22, 1972.
Randolph Wemberley intends to be the NALGA Sunrise grant winner. Coming up on
thirteen, he has one last chance to qualify. Hadn’t he always been told he was a genius,
a prodigy? But by thirteen, a ‘prodigy’ becomes merely ‘gifted’, and by fourteen you can
kiss your grant monies goodbye. At fourteen, intelligence is no longer precocious. It isn’t
cute, unless you are Doogie Houser.
At the moment, thanks to a combination of science and nostalgia, young Wemberley is
still twelve, still puppy-cute enough for papers, all freckles and cowlicks, a prepubescent
scarecrow in a sporty sweater with patches on the elbows.
He strokes the picture of the former winners, caressing the glass. NALGA 1972. He
wants it. He needs it. His need bleeds into the air, surrounding him with a palpable aura
of desperation. He straightens his dad’s tie and tweaks the Unit just slightly to the left to
bring out its shine.
In the every day, in the real Now, it is 2009. Randolph Wemberley is 49 years old, a
has-been, unemployed, overweight, probably only a year from serious medical problems.
But he has conquered time and space, and the Time Travel Unit is the project he presents
to NALGA today. January 22, 1972 is the day he has chosen, of all days, to change the
course of his life forever. It is his last chance.
The judges come closer. Young Wemberley holds his breath.
Suzanne Baumann N.A.L.G.A. Sunrise Prize Recipients 1930-1970
10 11

Michelangelo Cicerone
Untitled
Nine Twelve
Michael Madigan
She: How are your parents?
He: A little shaken, but still mainly dazed, like the rest of us.
She: Mm-hm. I was just thinking – is fate just or merciful?
He: Fate? In the sense that things are inevitable, like a trajectory? That all we can be
sure of is what we can’t control? Or that things are predetermined, that we have no
real control over anything? That will is nothing more than acceptance? I don’t know
if I believe in fate. There still is something to be said for randomness and Ayn Rand.
She: No, not like there’s any sort of plan or intention behind things. But let’s say that,
if something actually happens, then the fact that it happened gives it meaning.
So fate is what was meant to happen. And if it happened then there’s nothing
we can do to change it, regardless of what we do or want. Everybody thinks
that way sometimes.
He: People who are regretful or nostalgic, sure.
She: Or just, “Que sera, sera.”
He: Okay. So…
She: So – is fate just or merciful?
He: Wow. Okay. Well, if fate is determined, then I say fate is just. Justice is the action
of laws on things, which is how everything turns out anyway, if you believe in an
orderly universe.
She: But what about the planes, and the men in the cockpits, and the buildings and all
the people inside them? Was that just?
He: Was it merciful?
She: Why not? What was the direction of all those lives before they ended? Those men
who took the planes, where were they headed before they signed up to do it?
What was going on in those businesses, things they were doing with other people’s
money, things going on between them? Why were those particular passengers
on those particular planes? What would have happened to them if this hadn’t
happened first?
He: Does any of that bear on whether fate is just or merciful?
She: All I’m saying is that events are kind to at least some people. A blessing at least,
if not intended with love or compassion. More than just a reckoning. For some of
those people, or for some they left behind, this must have been merciful. Would
you grant me that?
He: Yes. Rational or not, righteous or not, kismet is often humane.
She: Then if fate is sometimes merciful, who’s to say it isn’t always merciful?
He: Look at the clock. To us it just keeps ticking, but every second it stops for
someone. As long as there’s time, justice can be delayed; the world can stay out
of balance. Fate is when time runs out. That’s the only point where we can be sure
things are as they ought to be – when we can no longer do anything about them.
I don’t think justice could be more perfect than that. It may be merciful, but it’s
justice nonetheless.
She: Jesus said mercy is more important than justice.
He: Because mercy is something we can do. Only God is just.
12 13

Goddess
Deena Baty
Goddess
Mother
Sister
Healer
Red Cross,
Wimple
All revealer
Eyes of Grey,
Caftan white
They tell me
You have
Second Sight
Peerless
Eugene Session
I can’t imagine, I can’t, I never wanted to. It’s beyond what I could’ve ever imagined.
Those eyes, those eyes that have gazed through an anthology of lives and years were
now focused on me and the shrillness of it all was beyond my ability to describe.
“Why?” I asked.
She said nothing. I imagine she heard that question so many times the word lost all
meaning, but that never stops anyone from asking. It was silence, the wind whistled in the
background. She stood beside me and held my hand. I heard crying but I wasn’t sure if
they were tears of joy or of sorrow.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“…not your fault.” she said, her voice cracking.
I left and the silence returned.
John Dunivant
Angel of Mercy
14 15

Chris Houghton
Sweet Dreams
Robitussin
Michael Madigan
Coughs, snot and sneezes were only part of the perpetual background of noise, confusion
and anxiety in Baby Boom households that drove our parents to it. During my introduction
to two-wheelers and roller skates, when I came home with bruises, ragged scrapes and
oddly twisted joints; when friends fought or fell out with me, or when I had been exposed
to them as morally weak or vulnerable; when I was afraid or – later on – ashamed or
regretful; when my dog ran away or I lost an argument over which channel to watch; when
mercurochrome and bandages were unequal to the pain – actual, imagined or dramatized
– and the indignity and self pity that fed on it; when my bewailing and acting out reached
an arbitrary threshold, like a fever of over one hundred degrees – it was announced, like
a verdict, or strike three.
It was the last word when I was full of myself and of the pleasure of being myself,
especially at bedtime, or steadfast in blaming the monsters and cowboys in the woods
south of town for my failure to come straight home.
No matter what, the answer was Robitussin.
The mythology of Robitussin had to do with its power to lower the volume, peel any child
down from the ceiling and render him placid and compliant. Such was the experience
adults had with it. Mom would park me on a step-stool in the kitchen and retrieve the
Robitussin from behind a stack of glossy damask dinner napkins in the linen closet
where she believed, I suppose, only she knew it was hidden. Though its slipperiness
and intoxicating tickle weren’t the worst things I’d had in my mouth at that age, I still
winced and gagged convincingly. Warmth spread out from my ears, and my bearing grew
lopsided and tentative. I was Play-Doh in Mom’s hands.
Then, day or night, it was off to bed and, theoretically, a sleep as heavy and dreamless as
Juliet’s. For a dull child, perhaps, the medicine would have performed in that way. But I,
on Robitussin, left to myself in the dark, was a sideshow.
For me, the spell cast by Robitussin was not a restful trance but the kind employed by
stage hypnotists to amuse an audience. In its lightness my head did not unburden itself of
thought but filled and raced with vivid pandemonium: talking animals, sharp objects, deep
water, picnics, devils, clouds and mountains, bondage, flight, hidden passages, unknown
languages, school, exquisite dread, frantic embarrassment, violent happiness. I talked,
posed, gestured and panted, just below the shadow of my eyelids, rattling awake my
brother in the bunk below me. A night with Robitussin was rip-roaring for both of us.
While it lasted, there was nothing like it. Yes, the dull percussion and disoriented
queasiness were a steep price to pay the next morning; but as long as the linen closet
remained unlocked that memory persisted as little more than a cautionary tale.
16 17

Lil’l Tom
Michael Madigan
You laze and loll in gliding yellow squares
While household mechanisms tick and play
Neglected. Only gravity’s affairs
Have any charm or hold on you today.
Your deference to sleep is like the tide’s
To cosmic motion: total, chaste, abject.
The flooding blanket of your peace provides
No sign of life or sense or intellect.
And then you stir, elastic limbs embrace
The sun, and something in your dreaming springs
Beyond the shadows of your ancient race,
Pursuing scents and flutterings of wings.
Who are you now, how high, how strong, how free?
Does slumber ever lead you back to me?
Jesse Hughes
To the Rescue
Heroic Effort
Martha Whitfield
“Help! Help! Help!” echoes out across the night,
Awakening a hero with tones of fright.
Pulling on his super garb,
He races across the darkened yard.
Looking up, he sees her plight,
Up in a tree, no rescue in sight.
Giving no more thought, he climbs to her side,
“My hero!” embracing, she cries.
So there they are, both out on a limb,
“Help! Help! Help!” they cry again.
18 19

Harmonic Palettes
Joy Gaines-Friedler
Streetlights –
the stop and go.
The way they mark time.
The way the long school bus,
those yellow mornings
filled with so much
conversation, crossed
the familiar bridge
over wet lands where
sun harmonized
with blackbirds
and the scratch laugh
of herons. A strange
two-bar glitch.
Michael Marcus
Leaving
Beverly J. Emery
The Magic City
I already miss Salty, with his great handshake, peppering us with the same silly anecdotes season after
season. A smile crosses my lips as I think of Mr. Pennie waddling around town every day in that old tuxedo
he found behind the wedding chapel. I envision the mayor, Mr. Burger, wearing that cheesy looking yellow hat
draped down over his right eye. We all thought he was crazy putting up an orchid streetlight but it perfectly
matched the huge purple pinwheel that generates warmth when the sun does down. I remember when
wealthy Mr. Nugget died, leaving Goldie and all those kids he referred to as his “precious golden coins.”
I almost laugh out loud at the memory of the celebration when the “Bridge to Where” was completed. The
“Triangular Music Notes” band played until the predawn hours. Chess Greene and Miss Scarlet, the town’s
“drama queen”, danced and toasted long into the night. After too many Margaritas, Sunnie, the white haired
beautician in an elegant blue brocade gown, just folded on the ground like a huge blue blob.
Later, those untamable
rhythms. Late nights
at The Clock Restaurant
with my best friend –
me the willing driver,
she the seamstress
making my party pants,
loaning me
her rhinestones.
We were so full
of night then,
smoke in our hair,
ordering eggs
and cherry pie,
not wanting to go home.
That was how it was.
Years later, after
I lost her, I clung
to those musical nights
like the king clings
to the accord,
the steady pattern
of his chess board.
How can I leave them all behind? How does anyone just let go and move on?
Okay, Alice. JUMP!
20 21

George McVey
Call Me Caduceus
Don’t Mess With A Honda Civic
Geneva Larrair
The light was yellow – I’m sure it was.
Wolf and Monk roared past me.
Digging in, holding tight, I pushed it.
A Honda Civic – A Honda Civic! – wiped me out.
A thin, bright light urges me to follow.
My life is a light show on a tunnel wall.
Wolf, Monk and me (Walt and Mark when we were ten)
Flying our bikes over makeshift ramps, popping wheelies
Standing on Banana Seats, and, “Look no hands.”
Bruises and sprains – badges of honor.
Later, lanky boys leaning into berms, breathing exhaust and digesting dirt,
An occasional trophy of no consequence.
The adrenal rushes of the earth soaring beneath us,
Thrill of the ride: that was the prize.
Dads asked, “What will you do with your lives?”
“Ride, man, ride,” our answer.
Construction jobs bought our “Hogs.”
From Copper Harbor to St. Pete,
Dealing with diesel dirt, insects and demon drivers
The road was ours,
Taking curves as low as we could go.
Now hands press against my failing heart,
Hands trained to heal, to squeeze, to pump and pound
Until life returns to a body too broken to heal.
I hear their demanding voices,
“Hang on, man, hang on! Beat, damn it, beat!”
I cry out, “Give it up.
“I am at peace. I feel nothing.
“The ride is over.”
They assume life should go on in this empty shell.
I stand my ground, deny them conquest over death.
The Riderless Bike calls. I hit the road – no helmet required.
22 23

A Symphony of Bees
Camilla Herod
The basses begin with a low buzz while cellos glide
on arpeggios and glissandos.
Violas vibrate up and down on scales of sound.
Violins soar with virtuosic flair above the cacophony,
trill gracefully as they chase each other through the air.
The orchestra is a symphony of bees weaving
amongst the shimmering flowers
and shining leaves they have conjured
with the magic of music.
Acceptance Journey
Kathleen Puchala
Windy Weber
Age 6
Deena Baty
A Symphony of Bees
I am drifting through the deceit of my life
With shades of fire and frigid ice growing mundane spice
I gather Queen Anne’s lace camouflaging my naked face
Mustard yellow weeds try to choke and invade my space
The strong odd willow trees of my tangled youth
Are all but absent in my meaningless hour of truth
“Daddy, can you tell which one is mine?
I painted this for Grandma so she won’t be sad
When she goes back to the apartment.
This is her backyard, see? The one she used to have at her house.
Now she’ll have it always,
And she won’t have to remember.
Because I will show it to her
Every
Day”
The innocent paintings of Kindergarten days sneak back
As my thirst for creativity seems to lack
The frail flowers slither beyond the darkness of my soul
With visions of bees stinging and arousing my goals
Sponge soaked leaves scattered across the cobalt sky
Braided empty gaps of haze keep me wondering why
A symphony of spiritual maturity and grace
Sets me free to nourish and embrace my obtuse pace
24 25

Jim Anderson (Artist)
Jim Anderson likes breakfast cereal, cartoons, Star Wars, and dinosaurs. Though perhaps
not immediately evident, all of these, as well as other pop culture icons, have found their
ways into his artwork in one form or another. He’s also a graphic designer. He has a dog.
Deena D. Baty (Writer)
Deena D. Baty is a social worker formerly employed with Oakwood Healthcare. She
graduated from EMU in 1990 with her BA in Communications and Theatre Arts, returning
for her MSW in 2007. When not working with seniors, Ms. Baty is the “ Drama Mama” for
Washtenaw Community College’s Neighborhood Community Theatre project. Ms. Baty
would like to dedicate her work to her mother in law, who currently is in a brave struggle
against Lewy Body Disease.
Suzanne Baumann (Artist)
Suzanne Baumann likes collecting old scraps of printed paper and doodling on scrap
paper of any sort. She has been writing, drawing and publishing mini comics consistently
since 1995. Her comics and illustrations have appeared in books, newspapers,
magazines, album covers, websites and more. She has also held about fifty different
graphic design and production jobs over the years. These don’t involve cartooning but
they do bring in a relatively reliable income.
Suzanne lives in Hamtramck, Michigan with two cats, countless edible plants, old pieces
of furniture in various stages of refinishing and probably too many unread used books.
Michelangelo Cicerone (Artist)
Michelangelo Cicerone knew he wanted to be a cartoonist at the age of six, when he
purchased two old comic books at a local church rummage sale (one could say it was a
religious experience). Since then, he has been inextricably bonded to comics – and to
Ozone Jones, an instructional avatar initially created for a children’s cartooning class that
has subsequently taken a life of its own. Cicerone has also storyboarded and directed
commercials, animated cartoons for corporations, created characters for consumer
products, caricatured executives and politicians by commission, and even written a few
jokes for the lamented Disney Adventures magazine (which may or may not have had
anything to do with its demise). Read his comics (for free!) at www.ozonejones.com.
John Dunivant (Artist)
Detroit illustrator John Dunivant is the artistic visionary and director of Theatre Bizarre,
a freestanding art installation that for the past nine years has spanned ten city lots in
Detroit, directly behind the Michigan State Fairgrounds, and is the site each Halloween
of an extravagant, surreal party that draws thousands of disbelieving but devoted fans
from around the world. John’s meticulous designs and set pieces for Theatre Bizarre have
been described as “a nightmarish Disneyland,” “a louder, brighter, alternate reality,” “as
if the cast of a Fellini movie took up residence on a turn-of-the-century carnival midway,”
“like Cirque du Soleil, except weirder and with everyone in the act.”
John has a day job when he has time for it. He paints, sculpts, designs and does film. His
film, The Things That Ate Detroit, won a Rob Zombie short horror movie contest. “Adults
are weird,” he says. “I think, for a child, everything is so much more alive and magical. I
don’t want to grow up. That would be horrible. I don’t plan on it.” John lives a deceptively
normal existence in Lathrup Village with his wife, Robin, and their daughter, pets and
unsuspecting neighbors.
Beverly J. Emery (Writer)
The first born of a generation, my seven decades so far have been a series of
adventures. An amateur photographer, I am family-, friend- and faith-oriented. Single and
retired from finance, aerospace and health care, I have time to make new friends at book
clubs, bible studies, scrapbooking workshops, and writing classes. I believe that in every
day of life there is a story to tell.
Joy Gaines-Friedler (Writer)
Joy Gaines-Friedler teaches reading and writing to students at Oakland Community
College and tutors in Political Science. She also runs creative writing seminars at both
OCC and Common Ground. Her poems have been featured in literary journals including
The Driftwood Review, Pebble Lake Review, Lilliput, HazMat Review, RATTLE, Margie
and others. Joy’s first book of poetry, Like Vapor, was published by Mayapple Press in
2008. To Joy, poetry is a natural extension of photography, as an art form and in its use
of images to convey language. Writing is the means by which she stays connected to
close friends she has lost to AIDS and domestic violence. She lives in Farmington Hills,
Michigan with her husband, Moti, and three cats.
26 27

Camilla Herod (Writer)
Writer, artist, photographer, and musician – it is the combination and interaction of
mediums that contribute to my artistic vision. I seek to open the minds and eyes and ears
of my audience to the world around them in new ways; to show them that, every day of
their lives, they are surrounded by art found in unlikely places.
Chris Houghton (Artist)
Chris Houghton is a freelance illustrator and cartoonist currently living in Detroit while
finishing up his schooling at the College for Creative Studies. Before coming to Detroit,
Chris grew up in the mint fields of St. Johns, Michigan. Living in the countryside with two
older brothers and a faithful dog, with woods and a pond to explore, Chris was able to
let his imagination get the best of him. More often than not, Chris relies on his childhood
experiences for his charming and humorous cartoons.
In the past few years working freelance, Chris has been able to participate in a variety
of fun projects with some really great people. He has had the opportunity to work on
gag cartoons, comics, animations, caricatures, and a bunch of other goofy stuff. Most
recently, he has been working for a children’s video game development company where
his assignments range from storyboards to concept art for some of the biggest children’s
entertainment and toy companies in the country.
Recently, Chris was chosen by the National Cartoonist Society Foundation as the winner
of the 2009 Jay Kennedy Memorial Scholarship.
Jesse Hughes (Artist)
It should surprise no one that my influences lean a bit more towards Bob Clampett,
Tex Avery and Chuck Jones and a little less towards Degas or Monet. I have been a
cartooning and comic book drawing instructor as well as cartoonist for the Henry Ford
Community College school paper, the Mirror.
Captain Calico/Cosmo is based on my own cat. Like any good superhero, the real Cosmo
has a collection of friends and foes. I have never seen him put on a cape or mask, but
wouldn’t be entirely surprised if he did.
A portion of the proceeds from the sale of this piece will help feed hungry cats at the
Taylor Animal Shelter.
Geneva Larrair (Writer)
Writing has come to me late in life. Unlike most writers who have kept journals and have
taken writing courses, I did not start to write until Oakwood offered the writing workshops four
years ago. I have studied the visual arts and enjoy painting, sculpting, and photography. I also
quilt, crochet and am an avid reader. I have been married for fifty-seven years and have two
sons and three grandchildren who bring me great joy. I have been an Oakwood employee for
twenty years. My philosophy of writing is to let all that is outside in, and all that is inside out.
My philosophy of life is to be honest with and considerate of all people.
Michael Madigan (Writer)
Michael Madigan is a Community Relations specialist in Oakwood’s Community and Public
Relations Group, and co-moderator of the Oakwood Creative Writing program. He is the
screenwriter of the 2006 feature film Perception: The Letter. He has written or co-written
screenplays and designed productions for short films including The Bigger They Are,
Freedom and Privacy, Game Face, Glimpses of the Moon and It’s A Jingle Out There. He
is the author of the novels Illusion of Light and Drowner’s Bliss, scores of short stories, a
collection of homilies, and Oakwood’s faith-based health education series, Stewardship of
Health. His poetry has been published in the Oakwood literary journal Poetic Resonance
Imaging. He is an enthusiastic amateur photographer, cook and gardener.
Michael Marcus (Artist)
After living most of his life in Florida, Michael Marcus responded to the clarion call of his
friends, “Why don’t you move up here and find a real job?” and moved up to Michigan, where
he finally found the sort of technical job that means plenty of cash – but not happiness.
Although he still consults as a web site designer, his main passion is designing games, which
he first did for himself at Jacques Treatment Labs and now here, through Hamtramck Idea
Men. He also handles the administrative part of the company, which he describes as “the
part of the job I don’t want to do in order to be able to afford to do the part of the job I do
want to do.” In past, he has been a radio talk show host, an actor, a theatrical producer, a
published short-story author, an assembly-line worker, a bookseller, a retail manager, a movie
propmaster, a camera man, and a breather of oxygen. Now, through Hamtramck Idea Men,
he works primarily on games, website design, the occasional painting or object d’art, and the
comic book MIS-TRANSIT that George encouraged him to write. He still breathes oxygen.
In “The Magic City,” Michael symbolizes hope and recovery as a place awaiting people
after they leave, featuring symbols from every age that represent happiness, freedom,
achievement, and satisfaction. By combining acrylic work with computer-assisted
assemblage, Michael assures a one-of-a-kind piece, its painted clouds adding a motion and
dimensionality to the piece, with the wisps of purple symbolizing transition and mystery.
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George McVey (Artist)
Drawing (or some approximation thereof) since infancy, I’ve bounced all over the artistic
spectrum, from pencil and charcoal sketching to advertising art, from sculptor to painter,
from comics to movie storyboards and DVD jackets, and all points in between. When
people ask how I draw many things from memory I tell them I’m an inveterate observer,
which accounts for my versatility of styles and mediums. I am a creator, so I create. That’s
the long and short of it, and I love what I do. I also do a bit of writing and try to bring a
similar versatility to it. Hopefully, I will strike a responsive chord in a like-minded individual;
and isn’t that a microcosm of the human state – the desire to reach out and share with
another? That’s my take, anyway.
When asked to do a painting that combined healthcare and comics, my first reaction
was “Yeah! Why Not?” It was a combination rarely seen and therefore sparsely explored,
rife with possibility. As soon as the idea was verbalized the basic concept that became
this painting popped into my head: The healthcare professional as superhero. Finally!!! I
mean, a rare few acknowledge the heroic efforts made by healthcare professionals every
day in the normal course of their day, but THIS!!!?? I knew I had to put my own stamp on
the concept. The result is this painting. I hope it brings to you the visions that seeded its
birth. Enjoy in good health and happiness.
Kathleen Puchala (Writer)
I have written on and off during my adolescence with my passion for poetry being
reborn after the delivery of my only daughter. My poems generally end up rhyming and I
encounter both pleasure and satisfaction upon completion of the words fitting together like
an interlocking puzzle. I believe the legacy of writing is a whisper from God igniting my
mind, heart, and soul into a relationship of sharing thoughts and feelings with others. My
poems have been featured in Poetic Resonance Imaging (2006, 2007, 2008, Oakwood
Healthcare System) and Creative Expressions in Memoir and Verse (2007, Wayne State
University). I also enjoy gardening, literature and reading, needlework (cross stitch), and
power walking. I currently reside in Rockwood, Michigan with my husband, Stanley, and
our dog Brandi.
Eugene Session (Writer)
Eugene Session is a graduate of the Michigan Motion Picture Institute and is an aspiring
filmmaker. In his spare time he is an amateur graphic novelist, having handwritten and
drawn over 60 graphic novels. Eugene has also been involved in several Michigan
arts organizations and as an actor or behind the scenes for Mosaic Youth Theater and
Plowshares Theater Company. He is currently working at a local radio station and is
looking to break into film.
Windy Weber (Artist)
Windy Weber is a musician who has lived in southeastern Michigan her entire life. Aside
from owning and operating her own record store, she enjoys painting. Windy chose some
of her favorite subjects for this piece.
“I garden every summer, all summer long. To me, nature’s sounds remind me of music.
Hearing the bees buzzing while I am working in the garden is such a joy to me, and all I
have to do is step out into my own yard to hear a symphony every day.”
Martha Whitfield (Writer)
I am a nurse with 35 years of experience in a variety of settings. Currently I am working
as a Quality Assurance Specialist/Coder for a homecare company specializing in
Psychiatric homecare. I am an active member of Hope Community Church in Detroit,
where I volunteer with the Food Pantry run twice a month. An avid reader, I also love
computer games. I have been married to my husband, an Oakwood employee, for 35
years. I am the mother of 2 and grandma of 3.
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www.oakwood.org
www.oakwood.org/art
www.greenbrain.biz
www.springfed.org
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