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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
Happy Holidays, Merry Christmas, and Happy Winter. It’s hard to believe another year has gone by. After a whirlwind of art fairs, gardening, raising baby chicks, and now the holidays, I’m looking forward to some quiet time this winter. The hills around us are silent with snow, and the only sound nearby are the birds at the feeders. The cats are happily snoozing on the couch, or are glued to the window, watching the birds. This is the time of year when I can try some new things- master a new crochet stitch for a scarf, get out my pretty papers and do some decoupage projects, and best of all, get out my paints and canvas!
As I get ready to wrap up some presents, I think of all the creations I’ve sold over the year, many of which I know will be given as gifts tomorrow. What a wonderful feeling it gives me to be a part of so many celebrations! Please know that each piece was made with thoughtfulness and care, and that it was given with love- enjoy!
So happy holidays- wishing you all sweet times with family and friends. Here’s to a new year filled with peace, hope, and lots of creativity!
Wishing you a Meowy Christmas and a Purrfect New Year!
December 24th, 2010
For years our winters here in Indiana have been fairly mild. By mild I mean temps in the 20′s at night and 30′s during the day. A little snow which usually doesn’t stick around for more than a few days. There will be cold spells and warm spells too. So far this winter has been a cold one, temps down to zero at night and only up to the teens or twenties during the day. We had a few snowfalls, and the snow still lingers on the ground, though it’s been blown off the roofs and tree branches. More snow is predicted for tomorrow.
9 degrees
Our hundred-plus year old farmhouse is drafty and chilly, so I’ve piled on the layers. Three sweaters, two pairs of socks. The cats are chilled too, and they head for my lap any time I sit down. At night they form a living, albeit heavy, comforter on the bed which keeps us warm. The dogs, on the other hand, hate being cooped up, and love running around in the snow.
Speaking of dogs, we had a stray show up in the neighborhood a few weeks ago. I saw her once, then not again for two weeks. The second time I marveled that she had made it through so many cold nights and wondered what had kept her going- she was so thin! I took her to my house, fed her and gave her a blanket to sleep on. She was an old Plott Hound, beautiful brown brindle coat,white around the muzzle with worn down teeth. Her collar (no tags) and friendly manner said she belonged to someone. The next day we took her to our local shelter, hoping someone may have reported her missing, or if not that they would be able to find her a home. I know some people cringe at the thought of taking an animal to a shelter, thinking it just means death or life in a cage, but we have a wonderful Animal Shelter in Brown County. The staff oohed and awed over the dog we now called Lady. They petted her, checked her for a microchip (none) and checked her teeth and ears. That night it was bitterly cold and I was so glad that Lady was now safe and warm with a new loving home in her future.
Lady, the stray dog
I set out to write about how cold I was, but slipped off track thinking about that dog and how glad I was that she wasn’t out there freezing somewhere. Funny how easy it is to get caught up in one’s own discomfort, or troubles, when there’s always someone else who has it worse. Could the world be a better place if we all just stepped out of our shoes for a moment and tried on someone else’s?
December 15th, 2010
Being a full-time artist and taking care of various critters can be a challenge at times. Luckily Eric helps me out a great deal with our animals, making it a bit easier. Recently however, I was headed home from a craft fair and he was still at work. Behind the heavy clouds the sun was setting and I was hurrying home in the rain to get the chickens and ducks locked up before dark. When I’m home, I let them free-range over our property, but when I’m away they stay in their fenced-in yard to protect them from stray dogs and coyotes. The fence doesn’t stop raccoons or possums who can climb right over, so the birds are locked up- chickens in the chicken house and ducks in their pen- when night falls.
This particular night I pulled in the driveway just at dusk. I stumbled over various cats in the house, found the flashlight and went out through the pouring rain to the chicken house. All was quiet inside when I opened the door and flipped on the lights to do a head count. I did a quick step back when the light revealed the huge possum who now stopped mid-step in the middle of the floor. Instantly the carnage of the stray dog chicken massacre of earlier this year sprang to mind and I looked for injured birds. They were all fine, just a little ruffled that I had turned on the light. “You get out of here!” I yelled at the possum who simply looked vaguely in my direction. “Out!” I rattled the metal feed can loudly. He gave a start, and slowly turned towards the little chicken door. I hissed, sssssssittt! That did the trick and he ran out as fast as his little legs could carry him.
Only now he was out in the fenced yard, where the ducks were still wandering around enjoying the new mud puddles. Hurriedly I shut the chicken door and ran out to defend my ducks. I might just mention that this heavy rain came after a long period of drought. Little moles and such had easily tunneled here and there through the dry earth, and now those tunnels were hidden booby traps to any poor human unlucky enough to step on them. Like me. So now I was slogging around in the rain (did I mention it was raining? And very cold too) and in the dark, keeping an eye out for the huge possum and trying not to twist an ankle.
The ducks love water and even though it was pitch dark now, they were in no mood to go into their pen. The freaked out possum running along the fence trying to find his way out spooked them and they ran around quacking loudly, slipping in the mud. I opened the little gate in the fence and the possum headed for it. I finally got the six ducks rounded up and secure in their pen. I was freezing, my feet were wet and the rain was still coming down in icy buckets. Back through the chicken house I went, stopping to count heads. 21. One chicken was missing. It was the little Golden Compine- a small hen, light enough to be able to fly short distances and known to be able to get over the fence when she pleased. She could be anywhere. I went out to shine my flashlight around and found her perched on top of the duck pen roof.
Keep in mind I’m now on the outside of their fenced yard, as is the possum (remember the possum? Big scary guy), it’s dark and still, yep, you guessed it, still raining cats and dogs. The roof of the duck pen butts up against the fence and I could just reach the little wet hen. This is also where the water from the chicken house was running off the roof, pretty much right down my back. I wasn’t a hundred percent sure where the possum was at this point. I really just wanted to get back inside the house, change clothes and have a hot cup of tea. As I reached for the little hen, she of course backed away. She squawked and flapped her wings. I’m not sure where the flashlight was at this point, but I did catch a glimpse of the possum out of the corner of my eye just as I grabbed the wayward hen. More squawking and wing-flapping ensued and she got herself loose, but then landed on my head. I figured this would be when the possum would take the opportunity to bite my ankles, but he decided things were getting just too crazy for him, and headed off into the night. I bent over, trying to dislodge the hen from my head. She now hopped onto my back and I prayed she wouldn’t poop on my favorite green corduroy jacket. Into the chicken house I stumbled and shook her off on to the roost amongst the other birds, who gave a collective protest then settled down.
Back through the mud and the rain I went, keeping a wary eye out for the possum, who by now was probably safe and dry back in his own home. Ahhh, a cup of tea was never so satisfying as that one. And life on the farm is never dull.
December 10th, 2010
Thank you. Two little words easily given to the waitress who tops off the coffee cup, or tossed over my shoulder to the other shopper who held the door open for me on her way out and my way in. Quickly given, received and forgotten. But pause a moment, and please accept my “thank you” to you.
Thanks to all the people who have supported my art for another year, either by buying it, helping to sell it, or simply admiring it. Compliments don’t pay the bills, but they create a richness in my soul worth more than gold. Thanks to the folks that own the art galleries who took my art within their walls and shared it with their customers. Thanks to all the people who organize, host, jury and help set up all the art and craft fairs and events. Thanks to all the people who come to those events, even if they aren’t there to see me, because the arts will always need support. Thanks to my fellow artists for inspiration, tidbits of knowledge, and commiseration when the times get tough. I am so lucky to live in a community flush with artists of all types and backgrounds, personalities and experience. They welcome, nurture, teach and share. Thanks too, to my family for all the encouragement and the wealth of talent that amazes me. Thanks most of all to Eric, who tirelessly lugs my boxes and tent from one art fair to the next, made my website and makes my dinner, and makes my life whole.
Recently I was set up at an art fair and a lady commented, surveying my booth, “Oh my, you make all this? You must not work!” I bit my tongue to keep from saying “Yes, all this just magically appears when I twitch my nose Samantha-like.” I know what she meant- no, I don’t work 8-5, Monday through Friday. I work Sunday through Saturday, 8, 10, 12 hours sometimes. I can’t remember the last time I took a day off where I didn’t do something related to my art. What I wouldn’t do for a quiet day on a beach sometimes! And, no, I wouldn’t trade it for any other job. So, thank you. Thank you to the woman who asked me to paint a portrait of her rabbits, thank you to the man who bought felted booties for his son on a chilly day at the farmers’ market, thank you to the lady who wanted a mug with a picture of a cow painted on it, and to the man who bought a bracelet for his stepmother so she would like him, and the woman who picked out a felted rose pin for her daughter. Thank you to the sweet lady who gave me a Monet coffee mug because his paintings make her think of me, and to the woman who sent such a nice card saying how much she enjoyed her barn painting. I love the thought of my art in its various forms working its way out into the world- a painting on someone’s wall, a mug holding hot coffee, a baby’s feet cozy warm in new wool booties. So… thanks. Really.
December 6th, 2010
Recently I felt moved to do a bit of closet cleaning. I’ve gotten into the habit of not putting away the neatly folded laundry, and it began to pile up. Our hundred-plus year old house is skimpy on closet space and it was a challenge to get everything put away. I also tend to be a mixture of a sentimentalist and an optimist so it’s hard to let go of an old shirt long out of fashion, or that pair of jeans that would fit again if I only lost a few pounds. So when it came to cleaning out the closet, I had to be quick and ruthless. Soon I had a big bag of clothes to donate to the thrift store.
Then I got to the back of the closet where the dresses were hanging. I’m not much of one to wear dresses; I prefer comfy jeans and cozy sweaters or t-shirts. But the romantic in me loves dresses and I had a small collection built up from the need to be properly attired for various weddings and funerals, and warm summer days. Oh, the memories attached to those dresses. The blue plaid one I wore in college in the bar with friends, secretly holding Eric’s hand under the table because no one knew we were a couple yet. The sexy, navy blue one that was so short I never actually had the guts to wear it. The pink, vaguely 1920′s style one that I wore to my friend Kathleen’s wedding. The pale yellow silky one I wore to my friend Will’s wedding and the black one with little flowers that I wore to his funeral when he died less than a year later. The yellow one with the scooped neckline and full skirt, covered with big pink roses that I wore to the dinner before my wedding, where our relatives of many different backgrounds came together and talked and laughed and ate. There was the long blue dress I bought on my first day of vacation one day in June, not yet knowing that my mother had died that same day. That dress I put away, too sad to wear it, until the day my older brother and I attended a ceremony where the US Census Bureau presented us with a flag in her honor.
All these dresses, sitting on padded hangers, the longer ones with a fringe of cat fur along the hem from the cats who slipped in for a nap at the back of the closet. A few I kept, the rest I cleaned and packed off to the thrift store. Let them start a new life with someone who needs a dress for a wedding, a funeral, or just to dress up their scarecrow, with no idea of where that dress has been.
December 6th, 2010
Our dear old cat Alex was put to sleep yesterday. He was over twenty years old with failing kidneys and terrible arthritis, and he could no longer stand up. He will have a special place in the garden under the Mimosa tree, and in my heart. He had been with me most of my adult life, lived with me in four different houses, and outlived several other cats.
Alex came to me as a tiny tabby kitten. A girl I worked with needed to find a home for a kitten: a female and the runt of the litter. I had two cats already in my tiny apartment and really didn’t need another, but my cat Annie seemed to crave the attention of another cat and Inky was pretty much a people cat. So I agreed to take this little kitten to be company for Annie.
Like some secret spy transaction, I met the kitten’s owners in a parking lot, and quickly transfered the little tabby into a picnic basket and whisked her home. Where I discovered she was a he, and while he was tiny, he was fierce! Spitting, biting and scratching he was in no mood to be friends with anyone. Annie was horrified. Inky was disdainful. I foolishly assumed with enough love and attention I could tame this fearsome beast. As the years went by, Alex did mellow a bit. I could carefully pet him, mostly just on his head and avoiding his belly at all cost. With quick reflexes I mostly avoided being bitten. He disliked most of the other cats. Only Muffy could snuggle with him- she would tuck in her head and ignore his hissing and growling and eventually he would settle down and give her a few licks on the head.
This runt of the litter bloomed into a huge eighteen pound cat with gorgeous markings. As he aged, his belly sagged and his back humped so he resembled a raccoon. Even in his old ragged state, he had a shadow of his former presence about him. The day before he died, he reminded me of this by sinking his remaining teeth into my arm- it was a hard bite and I was glad I had a heavy fleece sleeve to protect me! You old stinker, I thought. I miss him.
November 24th, 2010
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