Archive for January, 2011
I have a confession to make, at the risk of revealing just what a crazy cat lady I am. Sometimes I dance in the kitchen with Smokey. Smokey is our big grey tuxedo cat with green eyes. He’s just as shy as I am and neither of us would be caught dead dancing in public. Me with my two left feet and no sense of rhythm, him with his fear of strangers. But together in the privacy of our kitchen, we do alright. Today the sunshine on the clay tile floor made us both happy, and Mary Chapin Carpenter was singing a waltz for us. Smokey likes to dance if we go slow, not too many dips or twirls. He’s heavy and warm in my arms and I lay my cheek against his fur to feel him purring. If I put him down, he paws at my leg- again, he’s saying, again. So we dance some more, Noir staring at us like we’re crazy, Milo wants to cut in. You can have the next dance, Milo.
January 25th, 2011
We’ve had an usually snowy, chilly winter. And like some small creature from “Wind in the Willows” I’ve burrowed deep, nesting in layers of down and wool to keep warm. My cabinets are stocked with tea and chocolate and treasure of all treasures, raspberry jam. The ice may be thick on the pond, with the snapping turtles sleeping below, but I have summer in a jar. Gleaming jars of jam, garnet red, lined up on the shelf.
I spent hot summer days in June combating thorns and mosquitos, chiggers and snakes for this bounty. Sweat in my eyes, burrs in my hair, bright scratches on hands and arms, horse flies buzzing around my head. Stained fingertips, tart sweet flavor on my lips, not all the berries made it into the bucket. Images of “Blueberries For Sal” in my mind, relieved that we don’t have bears around here. Picking berries that summer became a bit of a compulsion for me, like Brer Rabbit, I was happy to be in the briar patch. Bag after bag went into the freezer, into pies, and into jam. I always left some berries behind for the critters.
And now we come to the end of January. We gave jars of jam away to friends at Christmas, and ate plenty ourselves on toast, bagels, and crepes. Now just three jars remain. Precious memory of summer, sweet with a slight tang, full of the flavor that was there that hot day in June. I had a visit to a friend planned and my hand hovered over a jar, thinking to take one as a gift. Hmmmm. Perhaps a dozen eggs from our hens would be just as nice, I decided, and shut the cabinet door. Three jars left. And June is five months away.
January 25th, 2011
Today the sun is shining and I can see a swatch of bright blue sky outside my window, above the stand of pine trees. Beneath the trees, the snow has melted and there’s a blanket of reddish brown needles revealed. It’s so nice to see some color, even something so muted, after what felt like weeks of gloomy grey days. The artist in me can see the beauty in the range of greys and browns, the stark black trees and blue shadows on the snow. But my family roots came from California and sometimes I long for bright colors and warm sun.
The other day Eric brought home five peaches. Obviously not local, not in season. Having read Barbara Kingslover’s “Animal, Miracle, Vegetable” I felt a twinge of guilt, but, oh, they smelled so good. Small and fragrant, with soft velvet skin and a blush of color. I was down to two when I decided to get out my paints and set this bit of imported summer down on canvas. A little turquoise bowl, a green placemat, a blue and white vase, and a bit of winter sunshine and my set-up was complete. I worked on the painting for two days, not in any hurry, just enjoying the process and the colors. Those peaches called up a memory from years ago when Eric and I got in the car and with no particular plan in mind we drove south, just like the song. Radio up, windows down, holding hands, my hair swirling in the wind. Long highways, little roads, farms and fields as far as we could see. We stopped at a roadside stand and bought a bag of peaches, the best I’ve ever had. With juice running down my chin and the whole car perfumed with the scent of those peaches, we dipped below the state line to Kentucky, turned around and headed home, the sun lowering on our left. Now just one sniff of a peach takes me back to that day. I stepped back, tilted my head and contemplated my painting. Not perfect, maybe needs some tweaking, but it’ll do. I savored the last two peaches.
January 25th, 2011
Recently I received a slick new catalog of art supplies in the mail. I flipped through it looking at the colorful paint squares, the brushes, and how-to videos. I paused on a page of easels. I have a fancy big floor easel, heavy and cumbersome, and a French easel with awkward, delicate legs and a complicated method of unfolding. But my everyday, take anywhere easel is just a simple wooden watercolor easel. It folds up compactly and quickly and can hold a pretty good sized canvas despite its small stature. Over the years, it has gotten a little worn; the legs are scuffed and scarred, the wing-nuts that hold it together slip a bit.
So I perused the pages of easels, looking at the new models. Ultra-light, matte black, with clips and shiny knobs, a black zippered case with a strap was included. Handy little spikes could be attached for plein air painting. The whole package was so slick. I could see myself outside painting- with a new pair of sunglasses, my hair blown back by the breeze, but the black easel rock steady with its spikes set firmly in the ground. The clips and knobs would hold my canvas in a snug grip; the legs wouldn’t suddenly collapse on me, dumping my fresh painting onto the grass. It was tempting.
But who am I kidding? I’m not ready to trade the warmth of wood for cold metal. I have a battered old straw hat in lieu of fancy shades. I look at my old easel which came all the way from Italy to live in Brown County; smooth legs with a gleam of brass fittings, the brown leather strap that turns it into a neat package to carry. I see the build up of paint on the canvas supports, left there from so many paintings of cats, landscapes (that’s where the green paint is from), still-lifes of sweet peaches. There’s a strand of yarn that winds around the legs to keep them from splaying which my cats have chewed on it a bit so it’s frayed. The long bolts that hold it together are getting stripped, causing it to lean forward or backward unpredictably. Yes, it’s getting old. But so am I. My knee aches sometimes, and my eyes aren’t as sharp as they once were. I’ll admit to a few strands of silver hair.
This old easel has been through a lot with me. Paint-outs where I won prizes, and ones where I didn’t. Hot summer sun, rain, mud and bugs. Long hours at home, with my music turned up high and the cats rubbing first against my legs then those of the easel. Tears of frustration when a painting goes south, and the triumphant display of the ones that came out alright. Old friend. I’m just not ready to replace you. So I’ll make a trip to the hardware store for some new bolts and wing-nuts, and I’ll wind a fresh piece of yarn around the legs. I could use some new brushes though…..
January 20th, 2011
It’s no secret I’m no fan of winter. I agree it’s a good time for reflection, introspection, and a recharging of the creative batteries. It’s a time for me to get caught up on a few projects around the house and try to learn some new things. But the cold, the damp and the semi-isolation get to me after a while. To combat this, I’ve filled my house with color, fun and whimsical things, cats and music. I have an entertaining group of friends on Facebook to keep me somewhat connected to the human race. I have books, and a busy imagination.
But this morning, instead of sleeping in as I usually do when I can, I woke up early. Outside was a cold drizzly rain, and fog lay thick in the valley. Call me crazy, but I threw on my layers of winter clothes, grabbed my camera and went out there. Looking back over the pictures I took, I’m not sure what I had hoped to catch with the camera. It couldn’t tell the story of the smell of rain, or its wet fingers through my hair- yes, I have a rain jacket with a hood, but it has long been hanging in the closet and probably has a mouse living in the pocket by now, so I just grabbed my down coat from the back of the chair on my way out the door.
The ground under my boots was mostly frozen, the top layer had begun to thaw in the rain and was soupy enough to make walking interesting. I stopped near the duck yard to open their gate, knowing they love poking around in the mud and the puddles. The rain picked up and I slipped into the old grey barn. I was in heaven. The sound of rain on the tin roof was delicious, as was the smell of the hay stored inside. Big, shaggy rolls of hay, nestled together like dozing cows. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Inside the barn, it was shadowy and still, the rain was all I could hear. The thick dust on the floor was crisscrossed with critter tracks, and I added my own as I walked to the back of the barn to look out through the woods to the valley.
Our covering of snow had dwindled till it only filled the path out to the field, as though the snow had collectively gathered and traveled down the path to empty itself into the pond, leaving a tracing of itself behind. Where my eyes led, my feet soon followed and I found myself on top of the hill overlooking the pond. A long stretch of fog hung all along the valley. It was cold, and my finger tips were pink and damp and just beginning to ache a bit. Despite the cold, and the constant icy rain falling on my head, I felt so incredibly lucky to be there at that moment. Somewhere beyond me, the busy world was chugging along, but I was caught up in this stillness, safe in this coldness. Another deep breath of chilling air, then I tucked my camera and cold fingers into my pockets and followed the path of snow back home. I knew a hot cup of tea would soon be mine, and I felt pretty content with this world.
January 18th, 2011
Here in the hills of Brown County, the old year went out with a rumble and a roll of thunder. A small earthquake on the 30th (my birthday) reminded us that Mother Nature is alive and well, and she followed that up with a thunderstorm last night. The new year started out with sunny skies but soon clouded over and the familiar greys of winter surround us. The warm temperatures and rain did away with our layer of snow and the faded green of last summer’s grass assures me that spring will come again. The chickens and ducks are happy at the snow’s absence, scratching in the revealed leaves for sleeping bugs and lost seeds. At the feeders, starlings fight over the suet and red cardinals deck the trees, waiting their turn.
With the new year come resolutions, wishes and good intentions. To clean the house, to lose weight, get in better shape. Practical goals, lofty goals, mere wishes that will likely not come true. Paint more, be nicer, learn Spanish. Grow a better garden, learn to knit, open my mind, be more adventurous. Get a tan, be a better friend, learn something new at least once a week. I’ve never been one who placed a lot of store in New Year’s resolutions, after all what makes the beginning of the year any different than any other time? Can we only resolve and promise and strive to improve in this one window in time? But this year I am seeing the worth of winter’s quiet and solitude as a time to set goals, to take stock, and hopefully direct my life on a brighter course. So perhaps my earliest resolution is to make this time of isolation into a time of emersion and cleansing. A detox from life if you will, getting rid of clutter, both tangible and imagined. Sort through the closet, keep the things that fit. Sort through dreams, keep the ones that are attainable. But keep that pretty dress which I haven’t worn, because someday I’ll have a reason to. Keep that one lofty dream, because I want to have something difficult to strive for. Life is full of challenges, some we have no control over. But at this one time of year, we get to make some choices, to pick the challenges we think we’re up to. Choose wisely, choose carefully. Don’t set yourself up to fail, but don’t make it too easy either.
January 1st, 2011
