This article appeared in a forerunner of The Sewer Raccoon News, a pioneering effort of this editor using a mimeo machine - remember them? - a periodical called Vulcan Weathervanes. It was called that because in 1981 when this article ran, yours truly was playing with F-I-R-E. 
Playing with oxyacetelene fire, making and selling weathervanes. (And other firey engagements.)
A long-term friend, now deceased, was John Tyson. We should make that
J-O-H-N T-Y-S-O-N
one of the best friends this fire-player ever had.
Until shortly before his untimely death at age 52- of a heart attack - John was an art professor at Carroll College. He inspired me. I learned to weld because of him, and I learned to let my sculptures and other metal products rust because of his own rusty work. One day we took one of his large steel mobiles and hung it in a tree at his farm and punctured multiple holes in it with a .22 caliber rifle.
At the Milwaukee Lake Front annual art festival he was juried permission to show, and he took ONE (1) pot, what he considered his best. He set it on the hood of his rusty pick-up. All the other artists had their customary partitions and tables loaded with saleable merchandise, but John Tyson took only his best effort, and sat in his folding chair next to the truck.
When drinking Harvey's Bristol Cream once in my living room, he accidentally spilled a little. A smigeon. Calling him on it scoldingly, he looked at me and took his glass and emptied it on the carpet, totally. We exchanged a long direct gaze, and then nearly ruptured our spleens with laugher. Over time, but too little, John Tyson taught me alot.
The day he died he saw me passing on the road and waved.
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