The following is fairly personal and was not easy to write. But, I thought I owed it to him.
On the day that I heard Joe Sinnott had died, I found myself harkening back to days from my childhood. If you could transport yourself back in time as well and were searching for my younger self, you might find me mowing the lawns or working in various places around the family property; the garage, the basement, the attic, the cars and so on. Where ever there was work to be done, you would find me.
I felt free and away from harm in two situations during childhood. Running through the woods that surrounded our property with my German shepherd or escaping into new worlds in the comic books that I read. They were my sanctuaries.
I need to remember.
It was October 1974 in New England where once again I found myself recuperating in a Massachusetts hospital room. I had been in and out of hospitals throughout my childhood. Even at that young of an age, I always tried to look at the bright side of things. At least on this occasion, I hadn’t lost massive amounts of blood. I remember waking from surgery to the image of my Mom’s smiling face. She was a month away from her 53rd birthday (she was like a Mom/Grandma in one person). She also was the only one that came to visit me that day. She told me that everything was going to be fine and that I did well. And as she said this, she reached into a bag that she had brought in the room with her and handed me my very first comic book experience; the very large format – Marvel Treasury Edition 2 (stories from Marvel’s Silver age and first family – The Fantastic Four). This was my introduction into the world of comics. “The Coming of Galactus!” and the first appearance of the Silver Surfer captured my imagination. It had such an impact on me, that I worked for three years in order to purchase my own Celestron-8(inch) telescope at the age of 15. Even, with all the moves around the U.S., it is still with me to this day.
I started working at the age of 12. I would catch a ride every Saturday morning with Mr. Kenneth Hale to travel around town in his beat-up van cleaning bars, apartments, bathrooms or whatever. You name it, Ken Hale Maintenance cleaned it. I didn’t get paid much, $1.50/hr, but at least I was making some money and out of the house. I looked forward to running over to the local package store, located about the length of a football field south of the church, at the end of every Sunday Mass. It was only the three of us (Mom, my sister and I) that went to church. Dad stayed home still sleeping off his hangover from the previous day. I’d ask my Mom if it was OK for me to find out what new comics arrived before we drove over to my Aunt Mary’s or Auntie Vee’s. She always said yes with a smile. You would have a hard time finding me during the day (My sister and I constructed a tree fort in the woods) or at night (under the covers with a flashlight) long past lights out, reading about the adventures of my favorite super heroes.
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Many years later, I was in Charlotte at a Heroes Convention in 2005 when I discovered one of the two artists most instrumental for my love of comics, stemming from the introduction in that hospital bed some 30+ years earlier, had made the journey as well. I was about to meet one of my childhood heroes, Joe Sinnott. And at that moment, I was surprised by my own reaction to the news - That I was so happy!
I need to remember.
Life in our family could best be described as chaotic. Yet, no one outside the immediate family ever knew what was taking place in the house located 3 miles from the center of that small town in western, MA in the 1970’s.
My Dad (25) was 15 years younger than my Mom (40) when they got married. Ever since I can remember, he would arrive home from work M-Th around 5:30pm. But, on Friday nights, he would go out (directly from work) drinking with his buddies until the early hours of the following morning. When it first happened, I probably was 5 or 6 years old. He arrived back home around 3:00am. I don’t think I heard the sound of the front door being opened or his dress shoes as they came in contact with the hard wood floors of the living room. I became much more aware over time, as I would first hear the front door being opened. Eventually, I was able to detect the garage door being closed.
On that very first occasion, I first felt a jarring shove and heard the words: “Get Up!”
In general, he would typically start by calmly telling us to eat the cold pizza leftovers he brought home from the bar and eventually 2-3 hours later, the violence would peak. This played out every Friday night for the next 7-8 years of my childhood.
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I have shaken many hands in my life; athletes, movie stars, comedians, regular everyday folks. I can say without question, when I walked up to Mr. Sinnott that day in Charlotte, he is the only person, before or since, that I have shaken their hand with both of my hands.
From that very first chance meeting in Charlotte and since, he could not have been kinder. We began a friendship that involved speaking to each other by phone every other month for the next 3-4 years. We spoke for hours and the majority of the time, it was about a love we both shared - baseball. I remember the time he spoke of when he was a youth sitting in the stands at the old Yankee Stadium near the home town team’s on deck circle and none other than Babe Ruth was loosening up.
It’s seems different when I reflect back on those chats now. I didn’t even realize he was still working until 2 years after we began speaking to each other. It never even occurred to me to ask. I was just so happy to think of him as my friend. It was towards the end of one of those calls when I told him that I was leaving for the SD Comic Con in the morning and I had not yet finalized the travel arrangements, so I was going to have to get going and he said; “Hey Mark, if you get a chance, let Stan (Lee) know I’m having a difficult time with the paper he’s been sending me.” Maybe, a couple of seconds went by before I replied somewhat puzzled; “Joe, you’re not still working, are you?” I just assumed he had retired a while back. And he shared with me that he was still working on the Spider-Man strip for the National newspapers.
Another time, Joe told me he was going to be set up at the New York Comic Con a few weeks before I was planning on attending. I told him I would see him there. I talked my friend into joining me in Joe’s sketch line. I greeted Joe and introduced my friend and stated we’d love to each get a sketch from him. (Btw, I’ve never gotten a sketch from anyone before or since). Joe, spent so much time on my friend’s Captain America sketch, that I happened to notice some kids were now in line behind me. I stepped out of line and told his son Mark that I could wait for another time as I felt this might be the only time the kids would have a chance to get one. I spoke with Joe the following week and he asked me if I had ended up making it to the show. I said; “Joe, that was me that introduced my friend Ken to you. That’s why I thought you spent so much time on his sketch.” He laughed and said he didn’t recognize me and that he was a little harder of hearing than he’d care to admit to.
We spoke through the years and at one point, I went outside the immediate family and let him know what Jack Kirby and his work meant to me. What he meant to me. I wish I could have had those kinds of conversations with my own Father.
He touched my life through his collaborative works. Not so much for its style and beauty, but more for what it meant to me. It gave the younger me hope for better days. It helped me run out of the woods.
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