Our old house is getting a new roof. Back in April, the spring storms did some wind damage, and after some time the stars governing the insurance company, the roofer, us and the weather all finally aligned and with much scraping and hammering the old roof is coming off and the new one is going up.
The crew tears off the old shingles, note the older pink ones under the green.
We mulled over what the new roof should be- metal or shingle, what color, what style. Limited by our funds we went with shingles, a dark green similar to what we started with, only a bit better quality and a slight textured look. Tuesday morning a crew of guys arrived and quick as locusts moving through a wheat field, they soon were scraping the old roof off. Under our green shingles was a layer of faded red- this is the roof I remember from my childhood, growing up in a house nearby. I have a memory of this house with a pinkish roof, weathered wood siding and a crumbling front porch laced with gingerbread, and a little metal gate out front. When we were looking at shingle colors I considered going back to the pink, but couldn’t find that option- guess it’s not a popular choice! But it would have looked sweet with the pink roses that bloom in the spring.
I was a little worried about what the crew might find once they got all those old shingles off- rotted wood, odd repairs, holes… But this old house though she may be saggy with age, is also sturdy. A few minor repairs were needed before the men started putting the new roof on. The man in charge said he thought originally the house had wood shingles- now that would look neat, I thought! Too late to change course now, though. As the guys threw heavy bundles of shingles up and stomped and hammered, the old house shook and trembled. A cup fell from a shelf and smashed on the kitchen floor, a clock fell from the wall. The cats mostly hid, or clung to my side. But the house was strong, the old timbers aged to iron-like firmness, and she took each swing of the hammer like a plough horse getting new shoes. “Hang in there, ” I tell her, “this new roof will keep us safe and dry next time the storms come through.”
The roof is bare! And in good shape.
As the new roof goes up, already the house looks better. The roof line is sharp and straight, the rows of shingles neat and orderly. Gone are the gaps and sags that made me fear that the whole roof would one day slide into the flower bed, crushing the hydrangeas and leaving us exposed to the elements. The crew works fast, noisy and swearing and joking with each other. They smoke and sweat, and belong to a club I could never, but I can play the fly on the wall and get a glimpse inside. While they work, it’s as though the house is caught up in a mini tornado. The saws, hammers, and generator roar and bang. Then just as quickly they pack up at the end of the day, neatly covering everything with tarps. The silence is tangible. My ears nearly ache with it. I pause to make sure the coast is clear, then Mama Cat and I slip out the door to inspect the work.
The new shingles, with a little work to finish up.
For the most part the crew is tidy, but bits of old shingles hang in the bushes and are scattered about the yard. Mama Cat is cautious and curious and she checks out the changes to her yard slowly. She doesn’t like being kept inside during the day when the crew is here, just as the chickens and ducks don’t like being kept in their yard. I let them out for some free time in the evening, and they rush about with wings flapping and feathers flying. A few more days of noise and men climbing about, then we will be back to peace and quiet, and the roof will be new and strong, ready for the fall storms.
August 18th, 2010
The heat wave continues. I’m a whimp, I freely admit- I don’t like extreme temperatures, either hot or cold. So when the temps rise into the nineties and the humidity is so high that the dew doesn’t evaporate off the grass until afternoon, I tend to become a recluse in the coolness of the house. Because the A/C in my car ceased to function years ago, I tend not to go places on days like this, re-enforcing my hermit status. It’s really not so bad, I’m pretty much a homebody anyway. I have my critters and the radio and computer to keep me company, and my art to keep me busy. When the walls get too much for me, I slip outside to pick a tomato or two, and check the chicken house for eggs.
But one thing I miss that the heat has kept me from are the once daily walks with the dogs down to the pond. There’s a song by Mary Chapin Carpenter called “Twight” that describes our little walk to a T. I once heard her on NPR talking about this song and felt like she was talking about the walk we go on, and even describing some of the paintings I’ve done of the path we take. Nice how something as simple as an evening walk in the country can be a connection between all kinds of people.
Our walk is best taken in the evening, when it’s a little cooler, and the sun sends shadows stretching across the hayfield. First we collect the dogs, who at the sight of the leashes transform from apathetic mounds of fur into leaping ecstasy. I feel my right arm grow two inches longer as Molly pulls hard and I stumble, laughing or cursing, trying to keep up with her. The dog trainer told us “just be a tree when they pull like that.” Ha, I’m a tree pulled up from my roots, leaving a trail of branches and leaves. Chickens, ducks and rabbits keep clear of our path, while the dogs follow whatever scent has caught their noses. Past the house, the chicken house, the barns, we stop at the openness of the hay field and let the dogs go. Two streaks, one black, one gold, and they’re lost in the tall grass. This is our chance to catch our breath, to pause and drink in the distance, the perfume of the hay. There’s a golden light in the air, and the hills are layered in a purple haze.
The dogs chase each other, while overhead the barn swallows dip and dive, skimming along swifter and more daring than the Red Baron. In late summer the deep purple iron weed is blooming, along with the Queen Ann’s lace, and wild sunflowers. We talk about our day, our plans; calling to the dogs to keep them in view as we make our way down the mowed path towards the pond. We spy yellow butterflies, and black ones, and point at the blue heron high above us. Sometimes we startle a deer and see the flash of a white tail disappear into the shadows of the woods.
It feels cooler near the pond. We stand on the bank and look for the young bluegills and bass. The heads of snapping turtles surface, sentries keeping an eye on us. Dragonflies in different sizes and colors weave around us. Sometimes Rudi will wade into the water, swimming in circles with his thick tail floating behind him. Molly prefers a long drink and hunts for frogs which are too quick for her. Rudi glimpses a fish that has come too close and loses his nerve, coming out of the water to give us a shower as he shakes off. Leashes go back on now so the dogs won’t run out to the field to bother the neighbor’s horses. The edge is worn off their energy now, and they are content to hang out with us. Rounding the pond, we shield our eyes from the reflection of the setting sun, and stop to pick a few blackberries for the dogs to munch on. The berries are small and tart, and Rudi makes a face but goes back for more. We wave hello to the horses and tell them how great they look. Arty is a big black percheron who when he arrived was skin and bones, but with care and grain and lots of hay he’s looking good now.
We take the path up through the woods, and Eric points out where he saw the wild turkeys. Once we found a box turtle on the path which the dogs found very interesting. The feeling was not returned by the turtle, who withdrew into his shell. I love this spot with the tall old oak trees and moss, and may apples in the spring. I can imagine the fairies having parties around the tree stump, wearing their acorn caps. I hear the indignant squeak a chipmunk as we pass by his tree and Molly pricks her ears. The dogs pull hard going up the hill- they know bunnies often hang out on the path along here.
Then we’re back in the field, slivers of sunlight coming through the woods and the timbers of the old barn. The puddles Molly likes to drink from have long since dried up in the summer heat, leaving a powdery dust marked with little hand prints left by raccoons. We pass two of our old barns; one houses my brother’s faded blue pick-up trucks- rusty with tires flat; the other barn tall and grey, draped in vines, and fragrant with rolls of hay inside. Into the farm yard, we wait for the ducks to go by, the lame peking dipping her head our way. The dogs reluctantly go back to their kennel, but perk up at the promise of their supper. We head inside- back to the A/C, to our own supper, back to mundane life and all that comes with it. But in my mind’s eye, I can slip back to that image of the sun gleaming off the wings of the blue heron, high above. I’ll hold on to that in my mind, like a child holds a sweet in her mouth, till it dissolves in time, and then it’s time for another walk.
August 13th, 2010
We’ve been stuck in a never ending heat wave, or so it seems. Temps have been in the 90′s with high humidity. Partly to save water, and partly because it’s just so hot outside, I’ve not watered the gardens much and as a result anything in a container has shriveled. The late summer flowers- the black-eyed susans, the joe pye weed and iron weed are blooming happily, and the tomato plants are bending from the weight of the fruit. The furry bandits of the night (AKA raccoons) ravaged our sweet corn, something I have a hard time forgiving even if it is hot and dry. I tried dusting the ears with cayenne powder and crushed peppers, and even spread dog hair around (from Rudi’s last brushing) hoping the scent would keep critters away, but no such luck.
Our chickens and ducks have grown and should start laying soon- I think the heat has stressed them a bit. Unfortunately we ended up with four roosters! Mornings around here can be kind of noisy. So far the boys are getting along, but I fear that will change in time. I’ve asked around to see if anyone would want a rooster, but haven’t found any takers, not surprised! They are beautiful birds and it’s interesting to watch the flock interacting, seeing their personalities develop.
Our old house will be getting a new roof soon! We had some wind damage in April and have been losing shingles ever since. Luckily our insurance will cover it and I’m hoping to have a new roof by winter. My brother suggested we have a metal roof put on, but that’s a little beyond our reach, so we’ll stick with the green shingles we have now.
The heat has cast a cover of lethargy over us- the cats lie around barely breathing it seems. Their mad dashes from room to room have become only a thought, now expressed by a slight flick of the tail. I wander aimlessly around, easily distracted, hardly able to accomplish much. I get lured outside by the bright flowers and promise of cherry tomatoes in the garden, only to come reeling back inside on a wave of heat and the roaring buzz of cicadas. The chickens and ducks keep still and pant. I bring them fresh water and ice cubes- which the ducks love. I sacrifice a cold watermelon for the chickens. These are the long, hot, dog days of summer. I think I’ll have some watermelon too.
August 11th, 2010
I’ve gotten used to writing blogs about whatever is on my mind- cats, garden, chickens- but it struck me the other day that this is an artist’s website and blog and perhaps people are surprised or disappointed to not find discourses on art, or how-to instructions, or insights on my latest work. I can only answer that perhaps it boils down to a lack of ego, a disinterest in myself as a topic, and I confess I’m too disorganized to figure out how-to instructions that some find so helpful on other blogs. It’s not that I mind sharing or teaching, it’s just that I often don’t know how I got from point A to point B ( or C or L or Z) on a project, because I make things up as I go and am remiss about taking notes. I often start with one intention and at the end find myself in a very different direction. As you can see from the title of this blog, I intended to write about painting, and nearly found myself writing about the new scarves I’ve been creating. So writing how-to pieces is not practical for this butter-fly like mind.
I confess I don’t much like going into detailed discussions on a particular painting, I think it spoils the magic a bit. I don’t want to know how the magician’s trick was done, I don’t want to know how a firefly lights up, I don’t want to see the behind the scenes part on the DVD of my favorite movie. Art is one part magic, and I don’t like to dissect it. Making jewelry and textiles is a little different, I enjoy figuring out how these things are made.
But back to the subject of painting… People are often surprised that I do so many forms of art and ask what I enjoy doing the most. That’s a tough one to answer. Creating different types of art uses different parts of my mind, just as different activities do. So one might use different skills and insights to drive, than those used to swim. For me, making jewelry is a fun challenge of design and engineering combined- a necklace should be attractive, comfortable and lay around the neck properly. Textiles are a sensation for the fingertips and eyes, with texture and color; engineering plays a roll here too.
But painting is something else. Painting is where I lose myself and the world around me. There aren’t any rules. It is such a challenge, such a joy, that my mind can be completely intrigued with light and color. I find an image that connects to me for some reason, and I have to try to put it on canvas. I love to paint a piece for a specific person; I keep them in my thoughts as I paint and I think a part of them ends up in the finished piece. I listen to music while I paint, and I like to think that ends up in the picture too- the way the light dances or blades of grass bend. When a painting doesn’t turn out, the frustration can bring me to tears and cause a black cloud to hover over me for the rest of the day. On the flip side , a painting that pleases can cause my heart to swell like that of a proud parent whose child just got the lead in the school play. And I feel a bit like a mother of these paintings- like I had something to do with their initial existence, but they then went on and developed of their own volition into these works of art, something I never feel that I can take complete credit for. Like children, my paintings are hard to let go of, to send out into the world on their own. A few are still at home with mom for the time being.
I recently hung a body of my work in a show shared with another Brown County artist, Norene Mara. It was fun seeing so many of my paintings hanging together, a bit like a family reunion. I remembered painting each one and could see the family resemblance among them, though style and subject matter varied a bit. Not a bad looking group, I thought. Some vibrant and bold, some a little softer and nebulous, but all showing that same openness and honesty, that same love of color and light. Stop in and see the show if you’re in the Bloomington, Indiana area in August. The show is at the Ivy Tech John Waldron Arts Center, opening reception this Friday (Aug. 6th) evening, 5p.m. to 8p.m. Details on the Sleepy Cat Studio events page.
Now, back to those scarves I’m working on…
August 4th, 2010
Our dear cat Chessie, who we named after the railroad cat because we found her by the tracks, died July 30th. She had been diagnosed with hyperthyroidism and her kidneys were not in great shape- she was an older kitty. The medication didn’t seem to improve her health any- I wonder if it may have caused other problems, and she continued to lose weight. Then her breathing became labored, and despite the vet’s efforts, she worsened overnight. We couldn’t let her suffer, and had her put to sleep. It all seemed to happen so suddenly, I didn’t have much time to get used to the idea of losing her, or time to say good-bye.
Chessie was a sweet natured cat, happiest on my lap in the evenings. She sometimes bossed or mothered the other cats. It was amusing to see this smaller stature cat fling her arm over the shoulder of a much larger cat and vigorously wash his face. If the other cat tried to back away, Chessie might give him a quick cuff or nip to let him know who’s boss. One of her favorite spots was in the kitchen sink, drinking from the faucet, or sitting in the window above the sink where she could survey both the kitchen and the bird feeder outside.
Loss is never easy, be it a cat or a dog, or a person. I know Chessie isn’t suffering any longer, and her body rests in the flower garden. I know she had a pretty good life with us and she was loved. But the raw truth is that I miss her, and feel some guilt that I couldn’t save her. In time this will heal, and the other kitties are a comfort. I do have a small painting I did of Chessie when she was healthy, snoozing on a sunny window seat- I think I’ll find a special place for it to remind me of better days.
August 2nd, 2010
Life is full of expectations, dreams and plans. Some come to fruition, others fade or change, or completely fall to pieces. So few things live up to the image our minds create. We all know about the post-Christmas let-down. As a child my favorite part of Christmas was before the gifts were opened, not after. Before, anything could be in those colorful packages, anything. After, all was revealed- and though many gifts were truly wonderful, none matched the rich imagination of my childhood.
I have discovered one thing that lives up to all that is expected of it. The homegrown tomato. Yes, that sounds simple, humble even, and maybe that’s the key. But in the depths of winter, I think quite often about those summer tomatoes, with their rich orangy-red skins, and acidic sweetness still warm from the sun. Store-bought tomatoes don’t even deserve the name- pale, hard things that they are, with little or no taste.
In early spring we planted little tomato plants with promising names- Early Girl, Jet Star, and Super Sweet; with intriguing names- Cherokee Purple, Juliet and Keepsake; and names that made me smile- Mr. Stripy, Jolly, and Lemon Boy. I planted one Roma, revealing my interest in canning without wanting to get in too deep. We staked and caged and mulched these little plants, we fed them with chicken manure and bone meal. Soon they grew large and sturdy, and their small yellow blossoms called out to the bees. Green tomatoes formed and hung there for what seemed like months while I checked every day for signs of that first blush of warm color.
Jolly lived up to its name: smallish pointed rosy fruits hung like ornaments- the first to ripen. That first tomato of summer is like no other- warm, sweet, tangy. A gentle pop as my teeth break the skin and the first taste takes me back to my mother’s garden. I can close my eyes and feel myself standing on my seven year-old, sturdy legs, my feet in stubby sandals, my hair tickling my face. I open my eyes again and I’m in my own garden, the tomato plants nearly groaning with fruit. We heap tomatoes in bowls, put them in salad, read up on how to freeze and can them. We offer them to country neighbors, who turn them away because their kitchen counters are sagging from the weight of their own tomatoes. We offer them to our city friends who exclaim over them as though we had given them gold.
By the end of summer the plants will be withered, the few remaining tomatoes will be splitting and sagging a bit. We’ll give them to the chickens who will chortle and cluck with excitement. We’ll be complacent then, used to our wealth of tomatoes. But come January, I’ll have a restless stirring in my mind, a dissatisfaction with what the stores have to offer. The seed catalogs will arrive and the anticipation of spring, of green things, and that first tomato will take hold- a true promise, one that will deliver.
July 27th, 2010
Last weekend was the Brown County Studio and Garden Tour. I suppose in hindsight from a marketing standpoint it would have been better to talk about the tour beforehand, rather than after, but I’m not always about marketing, and hey, I was busy! Eric and I planted, weeded, mulched, raked, painted, cleaned, and polished, and things looked reasonably good. We were in the midst of muggy humid weather with temps in the 90′s- not much we could do about that.
But people gamely got in their cars and drove the windy country roads to find us. Around 130 visitors came and admired the gardens, the art, the chickens and the kitties peering at them from many windows. Old friends and new, neighbors, fellow artists and aspiring artists, animal and nature lovers alike stopped by. There was a couple who was out celebrating the woman’s 60th birthday and they had Eric take their photo in front of our house. There was the man who brought his daughters hoping to spark their inner artists. There were young couples looking for art for their new home together, and old ones strolling around the garden arm in arm, sipping lemonade.
At times it was a busy, bustling place, with people chatting and laughing, other times it was quieter, giving Eric and me a moment to sit on the porch and catch our breaths. Though the numbers are down from last year, all in all it was a good tour and I enjoyed meeting all the different people. Afterwards I felt both tired and energized- my mind is full of new ideas to get started on.
Now the crowds are gone, the cats have their screened in porch back to themselves, and most of my art is packed back into tubs for the next art fair. The humid weather evaporated, and today is a truly gorgeous day. I puttered around the garden, picked a few yellow squash, a Lemon Boy tomato, and a cucumber, along with a couple onions. Being able to go out to my garden and pick my own produce gives me richest feeling in the world, never mind the toil it took to get to that point. I cut a big bunch of catnip to dry for the cats- they earned a treat too!
It’s time for my hands to get busy with the ideas my mind is turing around- new jewelry, mosaic trivets, a big painting of a winter scene (funny how I always want to paint snow when it’s hot outside). I’ve had many requests for rings that go with my jewelry, so I’ve been experimenting with wire wrapping, using semi-precious stones, or interesting beads or even buttons. And I have new ideas for felted purses I want to try, and soft warm scarves that will be delicious come December… Oh, if I only had an extra pair of hands! Sure, I’d look a little odd, but think of all the things I could do!
June 30th, 2010
I worry sometimes about the educational system these days. There’s so much focus on testing, and not much focus on actual learning and development. With restricted budgets, programs like art, music, shop, and even sports are being cut. Children are so pressured to memorize things for tests, and the rest of their time seems to be spent plugged into their smart phones, ipods, computers, etc, that they barely lift their eyes to take in the world around them.
It’s important for kids to interact with reality on a regular basis. To stimulate their minds with tactile sensations- wet paint, fuzzy yarn, mud- whatever! To stretch their muscles, their minds, to hear new things, taste new things, see new things. To ask questions, to find out what happens when you mix blue and yellow, and then add red. Kids need a way to express themselves, whether through art, music, sports, or some other avenue.
I was fortunate enough to go to a small, ordinary public school where art and music, shop and sports were offered. I loved art, dreaded sports, enjoyed shop class, and unfortunately didn’t explore music. And of course there was math and science, reading, history- all the basics. I was blessed to have parents who read to their children, and a mother who was creative and encouraged her kids to be. Without all that freedom to create, explore, and learn I’m not sure where I would have ended up. So I wonder what sort of future are today’s schools preparing the kids for? Okay, they can’t all be artists, and the ones that are truly driven to be creative will find a way, but it seems so much is lost without the lessons learned in art, or sports, or music. How to think creatively, how to work together, how to improvise.
Parents are so proud of their five-year-old’s watercolors, but they get a little nervous if the child shows interest in art as they get older. Art is not a money-making career, except for the very few. It sounds nebulous and wishy-washy to some. I see a lot of older artists just beginning their art careers- they spent most of their lives at a sensible job, and now at retirement age are finally doing what they really wanted. I wonder what might have happened if they had had the opportunity and encouragement to focus on their art for all those years? It frustrates me that people place so little importance on art, and yet it’s a part of almost everything in our lives. Our houses, cars, clothes and the fabric those clothes are made out of all had the hand of an artist in them at some point. Every ad, every website, every font, every label had a creative person involved.
If art and creativity were celebrated, encouraged, even required in schools, imagine the mental and emotional doors this would open. Kids would learn to be innovative, confident, curious, and explorative. They’d learn to think, question, and challenge. But here’s so much attention on schools and teachers being accountable, and I guess they haven’t developed a test to gage creativity- so much easier to focus on math and reading- which are important too, don’t get me wrong. I just think the scales are tipped too far in that direction for kids to be getting a balanced education.
June 9th, 2010
I’m a seed saver. Not one of the scholarly types who saves seeds from actual plants, I just save leftover store-bought seeds that didn’t get planted. My mom did the same thing and had old packets of flower and veggie seeds, some going back to the fifties. She did some traveling in her life and had seeds from France and Germany- pretty, delicate wildflowers that probably wouldn’t grow in the hot humid summers in Indiana. As a child I loved going through her boxes of seeds, admiring the old lithograph-style illustrations of flowers and vegetables, so much nicer than today’s gaudy, color-enhanced photos.
So yesterday when I was finally getting to do some planting in our garden after nearly ten days of rain and grey skies, I thought I’d dig out my seed box and plant some more squash and different varieties of cucumbers. The seeds were in a plastic box in the shed, but somehow the lid went missing, and my heart sank when I realized that some lucky mouse had munched its way through my seed packets. I sat down on the back porch step to take inventory of the damage.
No more summer squash, zucchini, or winter squash seeds, no more sugar snap peas, or oriental peas. Radish seeds were sampled and rejected, lima beans weren’t touched (can’t blame him there). The thoughtful creature had mostly left the flower seeds alone, with the exception of most of the sunflower seeds- missed one packet, and inexplicably one packet of sweet corn. The paper packets had been nibbled up and made into a snug little bed, along with the hulls of the seeds. Having been properly raised on Beatrix Potter books, and “Wind in the Willows” and such, it was hard for me to be too angry at the little fellow. I imagined him quite pleased with himself, munching through those years of accumulated seeds, dreaming at night of gardens full of squash and nodding sunflowers, snug in his little bed all through the winter. I did find some cucumber seeds and planted those. I sorted out the intact seed packets and pitched the chewed up bits and loose seeds on the compost pile- perhaps something will take root there.
Later I’ll go off in search of new squash seeds, and a new box- with a lid.
May 23rd, 2010
In my flower garden I put up several birdhouses which I painted in bright colors. They were just cheap things, glued together and my main thought was decoration, not really thinking any bird would want to live in one. To my surprise over the years they have been inhabited by chickadees and sparrows and bluebirds. Being rather flimsy, they’ve gradually fallen apart prompting the birds to go elsewhere. But one remains on the post of my garden gate, and that’s where Mr. and Mrs. Bluebird have decided to live. Not in one of those drab, proper bluebird houses, set on a stake in the middle of a cleared field.
This little house is mint green with a hot pink roof, octagon shaped, with daisies painted on it. Tucked under the garden arch with a purple clematis blooming overhead, next to the gate which I’m often going in and out of with the rattlely old wheel barrow. The blue gate, made from a bit of picket fence, is hung with bells of different sorts that make a cheerful noise when the gate is opened and shut, but to keep things a little quieter for the new parents I’ve just left the gate open so I can slip in and out with minimal disturbance.
I love looking out my kitchen window to watch the bluebirds working on their new home- a beak-full of straw first (that was a challenge to fit through the little hole), then some grass clippings, and lastly a few downy duck feathers. Papa Bluebird is quite protective and has chased away the big pileated woodpecker who had come to check out the suet nearby. One day I looked out to see Papa Bluebird perched on top of the arch glaring at the pileated who sat on one side. On the other side sat a dove, and underneath a humming bird hovered at the feeder hanging from the arch. Impossible to find the camera in time! As I watch this pair, the male bringing the female things to eat and watching over her, I feel so lucky to be in this corner of the world. My life isn’t all roses and butterflies, no one’s is, but it is a gift to take a step back from the worries and troubles to watch a small bird of the most beautiful shade of blue glide through the sunshine, after a week of cloudy days and rain.
May 22nd, 2010
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