pomegranatesandpaper

Calm After the Storm

A whole week has gone by since Mystery Man left for college. We are all settling into a new routine and I have calmed down and stopped obsessing over matters over which I have no control. We have pleasant phone conversations with both the kids and are trying to get a handle on the amount of money we've spent since the summer. I took the Little One for school clothes last night and that should be the end of the big outlays, besides the usual bills.

Still, when I go to sleep at night, the last prayer on my lips is to pray for my kids' safety, well-being, and security. I pray that they are safe from harm, from violence, from rape, assault, drugs, disease, and emotional harm. I pray that they used good judgment about sex, drugs, and alcohol, that they remain happy and well-adjusted, that they are safe drivers, and that they find good friends. I pray that the Little One grows into herself, that she is not bullied this year, or made fun of for her tomboy ways.

It's just that it feels weird to have both of them and before I can close my eyes, I have to account for them in some way. I draw a big circle in my mind around their rooms and ask God to shelter them through the night. The house is quiet without a stereo blaring, no bass guitars being played, or surround sound movies thumping noise into my room. I'm not waiting to hear their cars pull in the driveway and I don't have to get up in the middle of the night and shut all the lights they leave on. I miss falling over my son's huge sneakers and picking up my daughter's sweaters from the living room chair.

Tonight I had the energy to come home and paint. I was on teesha moore's site and followed a link to this artist whose paintings I love. After studying her paintings, I realized that one of my problems is that I have to work BIG. I am always limiting myself to about 8 X 10 or 11 X 14, and such small images make me anal and I do itsby bitsy, careful work.For example, the picture above is from my journal which is about 7 X 5. I need to work LARGE, to have big blocks of color to fill in and grand sweeping lines to paint. So I guess my next trip is to the art store to buy big sheets of watercolor paper.

Surfing art sites is a good way to get inspired when you want to do something and are not sure what to work on. The next art submission for the magazine is due in two weeks and I haven't a clue what I'm doing. The Canson Mi Tientes pastel paper I bought last night in luscious fall hues with give me some inspiration I'm sure. At least I feel that I'm getting enough didactic experience painting that I can now follow what they say in the painting books, so I'll probably spend a morning at Borders looking through the books and taking ssome notes. (What, it's not a library??

Tonight though, I'm going to bed , head to toe with my husband who is snoring, and sleeping this way gives me a little distance from the noise. The room is cool for the first time in a week. There is a breeze blowing in the French doors and the air is dry. The hint of autumn is in the air and I'm thinking of cleaning out my closet this weekend and and sewing on buttons and fixing hems that have fallen during the summer. The autumn shelter mags are out and I'm in the mood to paint a room and sew up new curtains and some pillows. The morning glories by the porch are just about done but the red and orange nasturtiums are still blooming like crazy. It's a good time to sit on the porch at night and pull a blanket off the couch and have coffee by moonlight.

And so sleep I go. I wish you all sweet dreams and breezes across the sheets.

It Does Take a Village

To stem the flood of outraged emails I've received over my cat pranks, let me clarify that I did abandon the cat in a park, but it was a mere few months after it strolled into our life as a stray that literally walked into our kitchen and demanded a meal. I figured it could do the trick one more time and get someone else to fall for it. In any case, we've had the beast for ten years and he's not going anywhere soon. And we have another cat, Whiskers, MY cat, who is an indoor cat and has no bad habits other than urinating on the basement floor NEXT to the litter box that he'll only use for the other business.

This sketch is from my vacation journal of a few years ago. It's a drawing of the Little One and my older sister. Mar has always been our Auntie Mame, the aunt who takes the kids to Splish Splash, who doesn't mind having the three girls sleep over half the summer, and our companion on our vacations since the kids were born.

Mar and my other sisters are the only way I can work in the summer and vacations. They fill in as surrogate Mom, taking my kids where they need to go, providing meals, sleep overs, trips to the club, and advice over everything from how many Advils to take to what to wash with what when they can't reach me in court. Between my sisters and the grandmothers, there's always someone who can take in the Little One if no one is home or she needs some company. I'm very grateful to all of them and when I get fed up of living in New York, I remind myself over and over that family is the reason we moved back to New York.

I've always been extremely lucky in having good childcare available as a working Mom. I say "I" and not "we" because it's always been my responsibility to find and attange the childcare for whatever reasons, that's just the way it's been.

When I quit my prosecutor's job after I had The Princess, the neighbor behind us was going through a divorce and raising her son and looking for extra money. "Bobo" as the kids called her, was about ten years older than I was and a wonderful mother and babysitter. She gave them hot meals, took them to the Mall and bought them little gifts, and had a big household of relatives and two energetic dogs. I left for work each morning after opening the gate between our houses and the two kids toddled over and never looked back. She was the kind of neighbor that sent over meals when you were sick and had more patience with my kids than I did myself.

When we moved to California, I took an extended child care leave, as I called it, and my mother in law moved in with us. For the next seven years, the kids lived in an extended family and we never had to worry about finding someone to watch them when we went out on a Satuday night.

In the last few years, we haven't had to worry about babysitters. The older kids were here and my sisters live within blocks of our house. Even after The Princess went to college two years ago, Mystery Man was usually around. When he got an after school job, my mother in law started coming by after school, or Julia went to my sister's house.

This year we're going to have to be more creative about an after school program. She's technically old enough to come home by herself, but I've found that is not a good thing on a regular basis, both for her and for me. I think she needs more structure than just hanging around with her cousins every day. They get bored with each and fight if they are together constantly. Homeowrk is heavier now and she wants to be in the neighborhood to play with her own friends. so we're still talking about what to do.

Yesterday was the first day since we came home from vacation that I didn't have a list of college-related errands to do. We grocery shopped, went to church, Stan did laundry, and I took Julia and her friend to the pool in the late afternoon. We had an actual sit down at the table dinner, one of the few of the summer. Stan grilled steaks and zucchini and his homegrown tomatoes. (all 3 of them:) Later we were home by ourselves, watching the end of the Olympics and I think we both relaxed for the first time in weeks.

And no cats were in the house!

Thumper Redux

In my new commitment to be honest with myself and in this blog, I have to tell a tale on myself. This cat's encounter with a rabbit is not the first. Many years ago in Memphis, when the Little Girl was only a few years old, I looked out on my backyard with the sparkling pool, the bosomy hydrangeas, and the flowering crepe myrtles and found the snake in the garden.

Or, rather, the same cat with a rabbit in its mouth, while it paraded proudly around the pool. I gave chase with a broom and the cat dropped the rabbit out of its mouth. The rabbit, having seen too many Bugs Bunny cartoons, played dead. The cat sat a companionable distance from it, and as I tried to approach to warn the bunny off, the cat would jump up and place its nasty self between me and the rabbit, hissing at me whereupon it would receive the whisk end of the broom along its backside.

This charade played itself out about for or five times, with me trying to prod the bunny to run, the bunny preferring to close its eyes and pretend it all was a bad dream, and the cat living up to its moniker, Tiger. I thus learned first hand the origin of the expression, "What a dumb bunny", also the title of a series of hilarious children's books.

At my last swipe at Tiger, he picked up the rabbit in his jaw and took cover behind the rose bushes where he proceeded to perform sadistic rituals to the bunny who, and I'll never forget the sound of it, screamed. Yes, bunnies do make noise upon being served up as Tender Morsels.

In my anthropomorphic fury, I ran in the house to shut the doors and windows so the Little One, who had been distracted with a Barney show (I wouldn't have minded if the cat ate That!), wouldn't hear the sound of the Easter Rabbit being eaten alive by the very same beast who slept on her parents' bed at night.

The same beast had been leaving me dead mice, birds, and other regurgitated gifts on our Welcome mat each morning. Now we are essentially dog people. I have never been a cat person, but this cat found us when we moved in, and fresh from the loss of our 15-year old Husky, my husband decided we should take it in. He was very friendly and liked to talk loudly before jumping into your lap (the cat, not Stan, though both loved a little stroking).

Fooled by his talk show host personality, we had little idea what a predator it was, though the BB shot we found stuck in his hind leg should have given us an idea as to the life he'd been living before he meowed his way through the back door. That and the fact that after he jumped into your lap and was quietly purring as you stroked his head, he’d turn and bite you on the arm, give a shake, and jump off to have a drink of water. Tiger then received his middle name, “He’s Your Damn Cat, Stan”.

The morning following the Blair Bunny Project, I was quietly emptying the skimmers for the pool, which involved lifting a round plastic lid sunk into the pool decking, lifting out the basket, and dumping the leaves and dead bugs into the compost pile.

That morning, I dumped out a dead bunny. Or rather I screamed "HOLY SHIT!" and threw the skimmer across the yard and had to pay my son $5 to remove the carcass and shock the pool. (That's what was wrong last night - had Mystery Man been home, he'd have gotten rid of Harvey and earned a little pocket money and my husband would not have had to sleep with the light on.)

This was the last straw. I could no longer inhabit the house with this fur trapper, poacher of the wild, this despoiler of nature. When the kids went to their friends' house to play, I scooped up the miserable cat and threw him into the back of the car. I drove about 3 miles to a park, opened the door, ejected the cat, and said "Have fun", knowing he'd survive on whatever rodent population was in the area and eventually be adopted by some other unsuspecting family of good moral fiber.

Of course I told no one, not even my husband who was away on a trip, entertaining sleazy cotton buyers in houses of ill repute (okay, on a golf course) while I was defending the hares of the neighborhood and protecting the innocence of his children's Shangri La. I felt no remorse. I felt no guilt. I was cagey, never letting on, expressing just enough concern when the cat didn't turn up for dinner. Oh well, he's stayed out many nights before, I sweetly told my innocents, covering my tracks while all the while knowing that the cat was safely prowling several miles away with a big swath of woods between him and ever finding his way back home.

He was sitting in front of the garage waiting for me when I returned from dropping the kids off at school the next morning.

We never spoke about it. There was no rapprochement. We’ve done a faux cat and owner dance ever since, pretending to be mistress and beast, but giving each other wide berth. I am not the lap he jumps into at the first sign of fall. His is not the bowl into which the kitty treats are dropped. He’s kept out of trouble since; having learned discretion is the better part of valor, he keeps his kill in the driveway or around the side of the house where the possum and raccoon have Saturday Night Fever each night. Until, the great invasion of last night.

Today his existence hangs in the balance. He has sullied the one ardor of the one supporter he had left, The Little One, who has revved up the security around Madeline the Hamster’s cage. In short, we are at Orange Alert.

Anybody want a pussy cat?

Where is Thumper?

It meant so much to me to come home from another twelve-hour road trip to find you kind comments and support waiting for me. I feel much better tonight, now that the two older kids are settled at school. Sending my son off to school was much more emotional than it was when my daughter went. For one thing, I still had two kids at home. For another, I was a girl once and I understood exactly how she would adjust and react to college. I don't call my son Mystery Man for nothing, and I realize now how high my fears were about him going off to school and starting a life that I would never be a part of again.

And it didn't help that he had some issues the first day and I did not agree with the decisions he made.

My hormones were in a turmoil this week and I felt like I'd never sleep through the night again. I cried the whole way home from work on Wednesday night after a disastrous conversation with my son concerning the decision he'd made and my reaction of utter disbelief that resulted in him telling me he'd never tell me anything again. I felt as though the scales had fallen from my eyes and I was seeing him for the first time and realized that he'd never make it through the school year.

After I came in the house and scared The Princess to death by bursting into tears, she told me to calm down, that it was only the first day, and that he did have to grow up, but I couldn't rescue him or do it for him. I've given this advice to countless friends who have children who screw up at times, but I couldn't hear it for myself.

I have an obsessive personality. I dwell on things and play the scenarios out in my mind until they come to an ugly ending. I do this with money problems, health isssues, and relationship problems, actually, just about everything. For example, today while we were at my daughter's off campus apartment, my husband had a dizzy spell and double vision that lasted about 1 minute and I was convinced he'd had a stroke By the time we'd gotten to lunch, my stomach was in such knot I couldn't eat and I had a pounding headache. Of course, my husband, who now felt fine, ate happily and heartily and had forgotten it even happened until I asked him if he felt well enough to drive. I, on the other hand, was on the verge of tears trying to figure out how we'd survive on my salary while he was being pushed around in a wheelchair.

Doesn't every 19 year old girl want to walk around Target with a mother who looks like she is about to burst into tears and is snapping at everyone? Do other people - - -

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My soliloquy on my fragile emotional state was just interrupted by my husband coming into the room to inform me that while, I was sitting in the luxuriously air conditioned bedroom, writing my sad story, .the cat, his cat mind you, has brought a dead baby rabbit into the house and is eating it under the dining room table. Husband is near hysteria, being deathly afraid of dead things, and little daughter is hiding in the pantry absolutely hysterical, having heard the cat bite into the baby rabbit and the rabbit squeal.

So I ran downstairs in my t-shirt and underpants, held the flashlight under the table so the husband could scoop up the dead rabbit (god knows what he did with the cat!) Honestly, I thought my husband was going to have THE STROKE when I bumped him as I tried to reach the kitchen door and the goddamn rabbit fell off the end of the shovel that he was carrying by the very tip of the handle with his outstretched arms, as he walked with his eyes shut to the back door and shouted at me while I tried to get him to one side to open said door.

At that point, I grabbed the shovel from him and told him to get out of the way, scooped up the poor dead thing, and then I dropped it on the porch steps, requiring me to go outside in the t-shirt and underwear and dispose of the rabbit.

Now the little one is lying on the pillow next to me, quietly sobbing and hiccuping next to me, totally traumatized by the whole situation, compounded by her father yelling at her because she let the cat into the house not noticing it had something in its mouth and she thinks the dead animal brushed her leg (I didn't tell her it was a baby rabbit because she'd never recover). Now she is freaked out to see her hamster because it will remind her of this trauma and I am trying to comfort her.

Who could make this stuff up?

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So, was that a sign from the universe or what? I mean, you don't have to hit me over the head, Holy Spirit. I get it. This is who I am and this is where I live. We've had enough change in our life, and maybe that is what I'm reacting to. We don't have much experience with sustained periods of normal ordinary life. We're usually moving cross-country, having surgeries, losing jobs, spending our 401 (k) on the light bill, or waiting for the results of a biopsy.

In the comments, Doree pointed out to me that I need to work out, or through, the internal resistance and grow from it. Something is definitely working its way to surface of my consciousness, and thank you Doree for pointing me towards it and reminding me that growth is hard work. I can face it and work with it, or medicate myself with some M&Ms and add yet another layer of fat to insulate me from facing my authentic life.

I'll stop now, for fear I'm starting to sound like a segment on Oprah, or before the cat decides to retrieve the dead rabbit from the neighbor's yard (where'd you think I was going to put it? Certainly not in the garbag can in the dark corner of the yard that is the party boat for the local possum and racoon.)

Tomorrow we're going to skin the cat and hang it outside the door as atonement so Thumper doesn't come to avenge the death.

I'm thinking of pulling the plug on this blog. I am getting old, stale, boring, decrepit. The quality of the writing is down, not what I was putting into it when I first started. I have less time for it, and I feel like I've turned it into a run-of-the-mill what I ate for breakfast blog. Maybe I just need some time away. Too many family members reading it also, so I have to filter an awful lot. (no, I don't mean you). Maybe I'll just post art for awhile. When I run out of art to upload, I'll reconsider what else to talk about.

I think that's it - I've run out of stuff to talk about. Or stuff I want to talk about.

Maybe it's a change of seasons reaction. I'm tired of writing about: money, illness, relationship problems, in short I am tired of writing about my life. Can i write about yours instead? It's got to be more interesting than this nickel and dime existence of work, food, bed, work, food, bed, work, food, bed. Anything has to be more inspiring than I don't feel well, he doesn't feel well, the cell phone bill is too high, I need money for this, why can't I have that, time to get in the car and blow another weekend, sit around the pool and watch a thousand people I don't know swimming, eating the same pizza, Chinese food, pasta, and hamburgers each week, waiting for lunch and what should we order from the same 3 delis, posting posts that fail to raise a comment.

Shit, I am in a bad mood.

Or maybe it's midlife and I'm finally feeling empathy for those people who walk out of long marriages, leave behind their kids, and go sit in an ashram in New Delhi or become a Forest Ranger in Vancouver. The stories I would hear about as a young mother and gather my children to my breast and say, HOW could she DO that. Now I know how. It's that shift in perception from raising to maintaining, from ambition to settling, from fervor to lassitude. You know, I want to say, I've done this all before.I don't want to leave them, I just want to redefine our roles. Really, I don't need to cook another Thanksgiving turkey, or trim another tree. I can live without seeing another first snowfall, and I'll phone in another birthday. Wouldn't it be nice if we all went to live in the city, and Mommy lost a 100 pounds, dyed her hair red, and worked as an editorial assitant with ink on her fingers.? You can visit.

OMG, i'M HAVING A MID LIFE CRISIS. How very pedestrian, so jejune. I'm a comic book mom, the female equivalent of Rabbit Redux. And just three days ago I was bemoaning being an empty nester.

Ot maybe my blood sugar is low and I just need some chocolate.

Either way, it's been a great ride.

I'd like to lay around like a cat today, but one more day in court, one more trial to fight for, and then we're on the road again to take The Princess to school. She, thank God, packs herself and is very organized. I've enjoyed having her home this summer. She's between boyfriends and is more even-tempered than in summers past. I'll miss her sitting on the couch admiring her new red pedicure while rooting on the Yankees and exploding when they miss the ball.

Julia has been solaced at the temporary loss of both brother and sister by the addition of a new pet, Madeline the Hamster. So far she's a respectable critter: neat, contained in a cage, frisky, and eats very little. It will stave her for awhile from her desire to have a dog (read puppy and Mom an dDad running after it once it grows up like the kittens she fell in love with).

On an email list, we are torturing ourselves by listing our top ten favorite sweet junk foods (we're talking I have my period comfort food, I hate my job, comfort food, my husband and I aren't talking junk food, my son is driving me crazy long distance from college junk food.). It's been interesting to find out that certain brands of junk food are not national brands, like Scooter Pies, Yankee doodles, Devil Dogs, and Funny Bones.

Here's my list:

1. Haagen Daz coffee ice cream
2. French cruller from Dunkin'Donuts
3. Cannoli
4. Dove chocolate bars
5. Lemon ice
6. Starbucks Cafe Latte, skim, with sugar free hazelnut or sugar free vanilla syrup.
7. Black and white cookies ( large, cake like cookie topped with chocolate fondant and vanilla fondant, a NY specialty)
8. Creme brulee
9. Mint souffle with hot fudge sauce
10. Funny Bones w/ milk

What's yours?

Moving On

This photo is a picture of my grandmother's house being moved to the other side of her property about 49 years ago. The State of New York decided to put an exit ramp for the New England Thruway through the side of my grandparents' lot, and their wooded, quiet dead end street became an overlook for the noisy, dirty constant noise of progress.

The house was a beautiful Queen Anne Victorian with upper and lower porches, perfectly suited to its site. In order to move it, the porches were stripped off , and after the move, it was shingled with ugly grey siding, got pink shutters, an ugly garage was shoved underneath it. You can tell in the photo how awkward the house feels, how denuded it appears, and how it appears to be floundering while everyone around shores it up.

That's kind of how we feel today. Not to make too much of it, but we left Mystery Man at college yesterday and The Princess goes back this weekend, and both Stan and I came home feeling like we were being stripped of the best parts of us and being forced to move on when we'd really just like to stay in the comfortable place of parents raising kids. the kids are having no problem moving on , of course. Mystery Man was perfectly cool, of course, and happy to finally get there after all the hard work. And so were we! It was a long year and we are very proud that he made it to his number one choice.

But Saturday The Princess leaves, ready to make her new home in the off campus apartment she has with about a million other kids, okay 8, and then we are down to one kid, who is none too happy about home alone. Sounds silly when I type it, but having the second kid off at school makes us realize even more that the best part of our lives is over. Yikes! I can't believe I just wrote that. I never thought I'd be an empty nester. I've always had a full, active life outside of my kids' lives. (Ask them - I'm sure they have a litany of times I wasn't there and what I didn't do, etc.) It's still tough to come home to an almost empty house.

Stan is especially down, having that father/son bond, and I'm happy that he and the girls share so much with sports so it is not too intense.I know this feeling will not last. I went through it with Jess and it got much easier after she came and went for weekends several times. And then there's the holidays when they reinvade and we count the days until I'm not up at 3:00 a.m. tracking down where they are and counting the cars in the driveway.

It's not about them moving on with their lives. We want that, expect that, and would be very upset if they weren't. It's not even about the enormous debt all this carries (well, it is a little). As much as we pride ourselves on being "perfect parents", the type that know how to support their kids, how to let them go, how to praise them, how to discipline them, how to push them out the door, and how to keep our own relationship fulfilled, the fact is that being parents raising kids has been our main focus for twenty years and it's hard to say good bye. As we drive home, we are acutely aware that their lives are just beginning while ours are fixed and certain and finite.

When I feel very down, I do have the pleasure of going into his room and surveying the absolute, freaking mess that is his room. And if I keep the door open, the smell of dirty socks fills the house and it's almost like he is home again. Over the weekend I'll excavate his room, sifting through the rubble for my dishes, spoons, mugs, and hoping to find some jewels like CD's that are missing, tools that haven't seen their spot on the wall in months, and even clothes that seem to have disappeared into the walls of the house. He told us not to touch a thing, but - too bad! I'll assuage my grief by throwing out all the curbside electronics he'd haul home and leave in pieces all over the house. Yes, I'll probably never step on a stripped wire in the middle of the night again, or open his room to find four car tires with rims blocking my way to his alarm clock which is ringing at 7:00 a.m. on a Satuday.

But I'll have my memories. And with luck, we'll adjust into our new lifestyle and become sleeker and stronger. I just hope no one paints me pink and grey and sticks asbestos shingles on me to hide what I once was.

A Mailbox Full of Journal Goodies

I preordered Hannah Hinchman's book last March and then the publication was postponed month after month and I eventually forgot about it. So I ripped open the familiar brown, flat Amazon package without a clue as to what I was getting and I was jazzed to see Walks With Sisu (which was the original name and that's what has stuck with me). The book is as elegant and authentic as A Trail Through Leaves. The entire book, from frontspiece to end is hand-lettered - even the ISBN number - by the author and it's not a computer font either, and filled with her watercolor sketches. For those of us art journalers who concentrate on drawing and painting, this book is like a Holy Grail. Now if only my friend, Roz Stendahl could get a contract to publish a book like this! Check out the link to see her latest journal, "My Ten Days in Wisconsin with Three Bitches."

Another surprise in my mailbox was Lisa Shumicky's first volume of her newly republished journaling newsletter, "Capacious - Redux". It is full of journaling ideas and information. Lisa was publishing it for a long time and then took a break. It's great to have her back. Email her if you are interested in a copy.

Honestly, I have no idea how it got to be Saturday night before I got around to posting here. I was home Thursday from work, but took The Princess to have her wisdom teeth out and spent the rest of the afternoon nursing her. I'd thought she'd fall asleep for a long while and I'd be free to do some errands or clean out the art room, but she needed ice every 15 minutes, apple juice, and her Mommy. Two days later she is in less pain, but looks like she is auditioning for Alvin and The Chipmunks and don't you dare tell her I said so.

Friday was court all morning, followed by a really wonderful, leisurely lunch at Harvest On Hudson, which has the most spectacular view of any restaurant in Westchester County. The building is a sprawling, Mediterranean style restaurant with quarry tile floors, high ceilings, and french doors that open onto a terrace surrounded by sunflowers and a view of the Hudson River. We were taking a colleague to lunch who was leaving for another job. She and I started a week apart from each other and became fast friends. We went to Chicago last year for a week of trial practice and have children somewhat close in age. I will really miss her and counted her as my one real "outside work" friend. (You know how it is: it's a large office and I have lots of colleagues I count as friends but we never see each other or talk to each outside of the office and the day they leave I know I'll never see them again. )

Anyway, there were about ten of us and we sat with a cool view of the river and had great food and a lot of laughs, mainly consisting of office humor and jokes about people in abstentia, the usual office bonding at expense of others. It was a very hot, sunny day and the food and wine and sunflowers put me in the frame of mind of Sonoma and I came away feeling like I'd taken a mini-vacation.

Today I had my hair cut, always a sensuous event. I love having my hair shampooed and the little massage that the shampooer gives on the back of my neck. Nothing is more relaxing to me than having someone stroke my hair or rub my scalp. Shivers up my arm.

I did a collage for Cloth, Paper, Scissors that will be featured with my column. It is one of the best collages I've ever done, very different from anything I've attempted before. I have about a dozen sketches of more to do in the same style, but you'll have to wait until the magazine comes out and buy a copy to see it. (Editors are very cranky about publishing anything that's already on the internet, which limits a lot of what I can post here.)

Tomorrow we are celebrating my mother's 79th birthday. She doesn't look a day over 65. She was worried how she would look in her bathing suit on the beach this summer and she looked better than all of us! She never fails to look impeccably dressed and accessorized and has a more active social life than any one of her daughters - or all of us put together. Happy Birthday Mom!

The next few days is the big pack up and move out for Mystery Man. Today was his last day of work and he came home in a great mood. I'm not sure how we're going to fit his luggage, footlocker, bass guitar, amp, trumpet, steroe with 4 ft. speaker (hauled out of trash and fixed by him and his buddy who took the other one - hello, do you understand the concept of stereo the mother asks and gets eye rolls as an answer), plus bicycle, and various other necessities of dorm life like a refrigerator and microwave.

Wish us luck!

So Lonely

Hullo? Anybody home? Knock, knock, anyone out there? comments down, visits down. Gives a girl pause. (Shameless trolling for responses).

This is a photo of The Young One in her surfing gear. We actually got the surf board on the Cape, and it just happened to match the outfit she bought at Old Navy. Is she cute or what, excuse the mother kvelling.

I'm home today to take The Princess to have all four wisdom teeth removed. Ouch! I didn't dare tell her that at her age, I was supposed to have all four removed but only went for two at a time. The first two hurt so much, I never went back for the other two - and they haven't hurt in 25 years! I think that this pulling of wisdom teeth is the biggest scam in dental history, right up there with the "shrinking" of bonded fillings that was so popular in the early '90's and cost me a fortune. But who's to say. She's been having trouble with her jaw and the dentist said she's needs all four wisdom teeth out and a bite plate.

Otherwise, we've reached the raggedy tail end of summer. All the cousins are sick of each other and even sleep overs are shunned. The mothers are crossing the days off the calendar with a big circle around the first day of school. Anxiety is ratcheting up in our household. Mystery Man is having trouble sleeping as he finishes his last three days of work and then the furious and fast packing up for college. The Princess had her last day of lifeguarding at camp yesterday and came home sad and weepy. The little one is still trying to squeeze the last drops of fun out of summer: when are we going to Playland? when am I getting my hamster? can I have my ears pierced? can I have my hair highlighted? (this is before I get out of the car in the driveway.)

I'm going downstairs to make myself a cup of the Wellfleet Blend we brought back from vacation. I've been told there is no bread in the house and thus, I admit to eating four Chips Ahoy, but now I'll have some cereal. In between giving The Princess ice packs and juice, I intend to clean out my art room. And my very sweet boss, did NOT assign me the two trials tomorrow, so I don't have to do any work! So I have nothing to complain about and will stop whining about the gloomy weather and the pool we paid through the nose to join and the fact that I've only been able to go there FIVE times.

Night Visitor

This is a photo of the owl who came to visit us while we sat on the deck in Cape Cod. We were just finished having dinner and were talking around the table when my husband said, "There's an owl in the tree". I turned, expecting to see a blur in the distance, and was surprised to the owl was on the branch closest to the deck, close enough that I could have stood up and tugged on the branch if I wanted to.

He was a very composed owl. He sat there nonplussed for at least five minutes while we "quietly'" yelled for the rest of the family to come out and see it. He even endured three flashes of my sister's camera before he flew away. We watched him land at a tree across the yard, then disappear into the dusk. We never saw him again, but heard his companionable hoots many more evenings.

It was an unusual occurence, even at a house that was regularly visited with all manner of birds during our stay. The house was built on a hill on a very wooded lot. The living area of the house was actually the second floor, which was perched in the middle of the large trees that grew all around the house. Mountain laurel and rhododendren bushes had grown to the two-story height and provided plenty of hiding places for birds to flit in and out from the trees. Outside the den, next to the deck, was a bird feeder that we religiously filled each day. I sat outside each morning with my coffee and journal and watched the birds feeding and fussing at each other about whose turn it was for a perch.

The most regular visitors were black-capped chicadees, followed by house finches, whose rosy heads resembled the female cardinals who also were in the area. The male cardinals were flashing red all day in the trees, but rarely came to the feeder. As the week progressed, we were used to hearing the chirping and clatter of the feeder outside the window as we sat at the table and ate. The blue jays muscled their way in at times, sending birdseed flying everywhere as their weight tipped the feeder off balance. We were thrilled when an occasional yellow chicadee showed up, and ran for the camera when a Baltimore Oriole appeared, a flash of beautiful orange that flflew away before we could take a photo. Once a crow got jealous and descended on the feeder, its glossy black leaves purple in the sun. We held out breath, expecting the feeder to give way any second, but it held. My sister saw a woodpecker and we both saw a bird with a tuft on its head, whose name I can't remember.

The Cape always gives us gifts of nature like the visting owl. Last year, a red-tailed hawk visited every day and sat atop a telephone pole behind the house. It's shrill call was disturbing at times because it sounded very upset at something. After a few days, we became used to it and looked for its arrival mid-morning.

We don't have a bird feeder at home. With two cats who regularly are in and out of the house, a feeder would become a snack bar for them, so we'll have to figure out a way to hang one from outside our second-story bedroom window, or wait until next summer and the Cape again.

Or, better yet, figure out how to live on the Cape year round, a dream we've held for years. Gotta buy those Lotto tickets.

Great Expectations

Has the summer held up to all the hype I placed on it? I was waiting for the long, golden days to fit in more writing and art, to spend the evenings at the water, to picnic each weekend, to play outside and dig up my garden and loop it around the front yard.

The cold, rainy weather has dampened most of everyone's plans. Yet, I'm not ready for summer to leave. My sister makes noises about being ready for school, crisp mornings, a quiet house, and the coming of the holidays. I am stubbornly stuck with my feet in the sand, toying with planning one more trip to the Cape, needing salt spray to sting my cheeks and to see the sun spread out in an embrace across Nauset Beach. Yet, I'd hate to go and have yet another cold, windy, damp weekend instead. Still, there's the taste of brine on my lips after a meal of raw oysters and Pinot Grigio, and the quiet of Corn Hill while we search for shells on the beach.

Our household is in transition as we get ready for the kids to leave for school. I'm not ready for them to leave, perhaps not ever ready. My husband's sick, on antibiotics and we toss and turn together all night. I am grumpy this morning, not looking forward to the duel I will have in a few hours with an elderly attorney over a trivial case. It's a call in sick day, without that option.

Hello from the gloomy Northeast. We were spared the brunt of the storm, but received plenty of rain and, thus far, two days of gloom. I am officially declaring this as the summer that never was in the Northeast. My heart goes out to the Floridians who have suffered such devastation. I hope Jeb Bush gets his brother to get plenty of money and help to the area.

Pictured above one of my first "full scene" watercolors, which I did from this photo of a garden in Wellfleet. All the colors are mixed from the Winsor Lemon, Permanent Yellow, and Winsor Blue (Red) and painted on 300 lb. Arches hot press.

I spent the entire day inside yesterday. I planned to clean out my art room, but got waylaid in my kitchen and cleaned out my pantry instead. Stan was smoking a brisket, an all day endeavor, so I decided to clean out the pantry and use up a lot of odds and ends, which resulted in three pies for dessert: chocolate pudding, vanilla pudding, and pumpkin. We all confesssed that we'd never eaten pumpkin pie except at Thanksgiving, which is rather silly considering how good it is and how easy it is to make. So we had an impromptu dessert party with my sister Marietta and fed our faces.

One week left until Mystery Man goes off to college. Now he wants to go shopping and is a little miffed that his mother picked out his towels (navy blue), his sheets (blue plaid), and his desk lamp. What he doesn't remember is that he didn't want to participate when I was on line doing it, but really, he's finally getting excited about going as it becomes real to him this last week. The Princess, on the other hand, has been shopping in person and on line for the accoutrements for her first apartment. She'd going with a tasteful pink with orange highlights (very funky) and I've been drafted to make some throw pillows for the boring dark blue and white living room that they are not allowed to paint.

The little one is making noises about getting her hamster. She's worried about being the only kid home and thought it would be cool if we took in a foster child. Maybe, but I don't think two parents who work full time are equipped to provide the needs of a foster child. Hell, we can barely provide the needs of the three we have!

I started a new art journal and I'm concentrating on making it more "spare", and I'm back to pen and ink with a watercolor wash. I'm playing with the Peerless Watercolors and enjoying their vivid colors and how well they spread on the paper.

I have to log off now as I've done something to my neck from using the laptop too much. Yesterday The Princess gave me a great upper back massage, which I followed with two Aleve and a glass of wine, and it felt much better. After a night's sleep, the stiffness and pain is back, so I'm limiting my time on the laptop this week and hoping it goes away by itself.

Ah, it's raining again. Off to blow dry my hair, though what's the point???

Everyday Picnic

So Maria and I overcame our natural inclination to hide in our houses and share our artwork with no one (at least face to face) and managed to arrange for babysitters for the kids, made sure the husbands were happily occupied, and drove into Manhattan to meet the New Yorkers on the Everyday Matters list. To fortify ourselves for the event at Pier 45 ( and because we never get to go into the city together and do something like eat lunch), we ate first, at Rafaela's on Ninth Av, a charming cafe where I had great Eggs Benedict and Maria had a crepe with chicken and artichokes. Then we found Billy's Bakery, , and bought scrumptious cupcakes to bring to the party, because you know, it's all about the food, and then traipsed over to La Cafetiere, a tres chic French home accessories and kitchen store where we drooled over pricey but gorgeous French linen kitchen towels in drop-dead colors. Finally, we braced ourselves for meeting a group of artists and made our way to piers.

Within seconds of getting there, Patti, Danny's wife, had introduced us to the group and insisted on seeing my vacation journal, which was coyly peeking out of my bag. Patti was the unofficial hostess of the group and a more charming, bubbly, wise-cracking, and warm woman could not be found. Danny's son, Jack, is exactly as you picture him from his photos on the website: a regular ten-year old with a great journal filled with robots, aliens, and dinosaurs, and a chin full of chocolate ice cream. Danny himself is very low key, talking one on one with everyone in the group at one time or another, staying in the background and taking photos of the event, and leaving his journals lying on the grass for us to pick up and peruse.

And his journals, oh my, what journals. I couldn't figure out what was so different about them, besides his extraordinary artwork, and then I read Melanie's post at the website, and nodded right, they are "pristine and almost austere". His pages look like they are laid out by an art director, and right, he is an art director! His drawing line is so black and vivid, yet delicate at the same time. The colors are phenomenal, watery, rich, and completely evocative of the imagery. He appears to spend as much time on his lettering as on his drawings, a real weak point with me. And if I wasn't envious enough already, his is off this week to visit Roz, Dan Price and Andrea, all people I'd love to meet. Go to Danny's website to see photos of the event.

After meeting such great people, and eating ripe tomatoes from a Connecticut garden, bowls of hummus with chunks of rustic breads, finger sandwiches, and, of course, our cupcakes, which had the most amazing icing that tasted like roasted marshmallows, we were reluctant to leave, but knew that as two suburban mothers on the lam, we had miles to go before we slept, so we took off for The Ink Pad, the NYC stamp store we've been meaning to get to for a few years. After driving up and down Hudson and 8th Av a few hundred times, we finally gave up and lucked into a parking space on the street, figuring we'd try to find it on foot, when we looked up, and there was the store. It was a tiny shop crammed with stamps, and we bought some collage packs that Magenta puts out. Across the street was a tiny shop reminiscent of The Cabinet of Curiosities, and we browsed the crammed, narrow shelves full of Chinese handcuffs, Mexican marionettes, and art postcards. Finally, it was time to find a bathroom, a final cup of coffee, and then head home.

A big thanks to Danny and Melly for organizing the event, and to all the new friends we made and hope to meet again. We were excited to be in the city without any kids demanding to go to Canal Street and buy laser pointers, and everything else was icing on the cake. A great time was had by all.

Palettes

This is the palette of colors that I mixed for my watercolor journal while on vacation. Art Escapes. the book I wrote about two weeks ago, recommended mixing Winsor Lemon, Permanent Rose, and Winsor Blue for a palette of "brights". I've finally understood why most artists only have a palette of about twenty colors. It is not necessary to buy a hundred paints, though certainly they are hard to resist. But now that I understand a little better how to mix a palette, I can keep to a limited selection of color, then spend my mo ney on those luscious paints in mineral colors likef turquoise and malachite that cost a fortune, because I only have to buy a few tubes.

Naturally, I'm attracted to "brights" as my first palette. I am working my way through my first inclination to paint lush fruits and vegetables in bright colors. I think I'll outgrow it eventually and my painting will catch up with the more interesting palette I use in my collages and books. You'd think that I would be able to just use the same hues in the watercolors, but so far I'm not. I'm in love with the rich, vivid colors of the gouache, and the transparent, yet lush, quinacridones of the watercolor.

Yesterday I pulled a bunch of bottles and cans out of my kitchen and painted them, with little thought to composition, background, or setting. The painting came out with some strengths and obvious weaknesses. For one thing, I have to concentrate on getting objects down at right angles. In order to do this, I need an easel or at least a slanted table. I was working on the dining room table and the chandelier gives terrible light and I had trouble seeing what I was doing unless I stood up. It's too big to scan in, but I may scan in pieces of it after I'm done.

Tomorrow my sister Maria and I are supposed to go the Everyday Matters picnic in NYC. We're expecting terrible weather, so the whole thing may be a bust. I have to admit to some butterflies about it. I'm always nervous to meet people I only know online. Expectations are often dashed and I am acutely aware of my Noo Yawk accent and overweight body. Tomorrow is particulary freaky because we're all sharing our artwork -live and in person - yikes!

I'll let y'all know how it goes.

50 First Dates

I watched this movie last weekend. Normally you'd have to pay me to watch an Adam Sandler movie, but my husband rented it and I had no thing else to watch. It wasn't as bad as I thought it was, and if you stripped away all the adolescent double entendres and goofy characters, the main plot was actually kind of interesting.

For those of you who'd rather die than admit to knowing the plot of any Adam Sandler movie, it is a story about a young woman who gets into a major car accident and has no memory past the day of the accident. Her family conspires to allow her to live each day as if it was the day before the accident, until Sandler's character comes along and falls in love with her. She falls in love with him also, but every night when she goes to sleep, she loses all her short term memory and begins each day not knowing who he is. He has to figure out how to sustain a relationship with someone who begins each day not knowing who he is and ends it being in love with him.

At one point in the movie, she throws out all the devices he's created to help her remember each day, and tells him she can't have a relationship with him or anyone else because she can’t imagine waking up one morning and finding herself hugely pregnant, or with children she doesn't recognize. Despite this, in the end, he finds a way to make it work and they live happily and strangely ever after.

The movie got me thinking about what would happen if each of us woke up tomorrow morning with no memory of the past ten or twenty years. Would we scream in horror at the ravages of stress and illness that shows in our faces in the mirror? Would we wonder who the messy, noisy and ungrateful people are who live with us? Would we look in disgust at our jobs, at our homes, and wonder what happened to the dreams we had and where it all went wrong? Or would we be amazed at the family we have, be envious of our own jobs, and wonder if it was too late to start a modeling career?

I like to think I'd be somewhere in the middle.

One of the best words of advice I ever received, was someone who told me to plan my life in ten year chunks, and to work toward the goal of achieving where I wanted to be in ten years' time. No matter how in control we think we are of our lives, shit happens, and it's near impossible to plan a perfect life, unless you are a character in a movie. But you have to have life goals and work on them, almost on the sly so the universe can't hear your hot breath breathing down its neck. I know this goes against all the New Age philosophy that you are supposed to own your dreams, announce them to the universe and watch them happen. It just never works that way for me. When I make big announcements and envision big changes, the universe tends to smack me upside the head. It's like, "hey, you, with the big dreams, get real and go water the lawn."

The ten years rule is supposed to work like this: better to have written a crappy novel and painted a whole bunch of clunky pictures to look back at in ten years, then to have done nothing in those ten years but say "I really want to write a book. I really want to learn how to paint." The advice is sound, but still, I'd rather look back in ten years and reread my literary bestseller and recall my opening at The Whitney, if given a choice.

I'm more on the twenty year plan anyway. Twenty years ago, I started reading a column in a shelter magazine written by a woman who was raising a family in the country. Think of it as a prehistoric blog. I used to think I'd really like to be her, living a life in the country, raising my kids, and writing about it and getting paid for it. Twenty years later, I've lived in the country and the city, raised my kids, and was finally asked to write a column for a magazine.

Ten years seem like an eternity when you are in your twenties and younger. But once you begin to click off the years like decades on rosary beads, you can hold ten years' time in the palm of your hand like a ripe pomegranate and guess the number of seeds it holds. The point is to have a dream and take baby steps toward it each day. Read novels like the ones you'd like to write. Keep a journal to record your life. Always have a sketchpad and pen at hand to draw everyday. Practice the piano even if no one wants to hear it but your mother. Take tap lessons, learn to tango, or force your spouse to take up ballroom dancing. Go to that restaurant and send your review of it as a letter to the editor where you tie in the wonderful eating opportunities in your own home town. Join the Y and start swimming laps early in the morning when no one's there to make fun of you in your bathing suit. Go on the bunny slope and pretend to be the world's biggest kid learning how to ski. Plant a bag of bulbs each weekend in October and let the spring show be the opening of your new garden. Buy some eyelash wool and number eleven needles and knit your first scarf. String all the beads you've hoarded over the years and make yourself a necklace full of memories. Keep a place in your house with a globe and an atlas and write away to AAA for tour guides of your favorite cities and countries.

Whatever your dream is, write it, plant it, paint it, own it. It's yours and yours alone. Take it to heart.

I'm peeking out from behind the stacks of files on my desk to say hello. Vacations are great for de-stressing, until you get back to the job and find all your work waiting for you. I promised myself that I would keep up the painting when I came home, and so far, I've managed to paint for two nights - yes, I am painting on my bed and in front of the TV, but hey, that's something, isn't it? (Hence the need to use watercolor so I can wash the sheets if there's a painting accident...)

One of the best parts of vacation for me is not having to wear heels, pantyhose, make up, or mess with my hair. But as I've told you before, if I don't mess with my hair, I have a mess of hair. A lot of hair. Years past, I've searched for the perfect hat under which to hide the thick, frizz-ed out mop that soaks up the salty ocean air like a sponge. I love baseball caps, like above, but I can rarely find one that I can fit my hair under. Usually I end up looking like a bulb thermometer, with a big round hat stuffed with hair and wild strands sticking out form underneath. This hat has an adjustable band in the back that accomodates my hair. It's my favorite because it has that beat-up, washed color that speaks of years of beach-going and sun.

My painting project for this week is to paint my four beach hats. So far I've completed two, but the third is a bear and I've redone it three times and thrown them all away. More to come.

Drawing

A new, small, independent bookstore opened in Orleans this year. We used to go to Compass Rose, a larger bookstore, and spend hours going through the stacks. In the last few years it had gone downhill, its inventory dwindling and generally becoming shabbier. Last year when we visited it was gone and we mourned the loss of another independent bookstore. We were thrilled to visit this year and discover Main Street Books had opened. Although the store is small, each book was a jewel, thoughtfully selected and representing a broad range of interests and local subjects.

I made my way to the section on Arts and I practically lunged at the shelf when I saw this book, The Undressed Art, Why We Draw. The blurb on the back by Billy Collins says in part, "The Undressed Art is a charming, illuminating study of our impulse to register the world by putting pencil to paper." The book is fascinating and explores the reasons, emotional and intellectual, that causes one to draw, as well as some of the history of drawing and, a subject I knew nothing about, the history and life of life models.

Finding this book on vacation was a great gift. I read it obsessively for two days, flinging it down at times when I had to draw, just had to draw something like a crazed woman (which my husband observed as I woke him up jumping out of bed to find my pen and journal) .Steinhart approaches the subject by beginning with the observation that everyone draws when they are little and wondering why most of us stop as soon as we become literate. In middle age, the author, a naturalist, found himself beginning to draw again and explored the origin of this impulse.

"As I wrote less, I drew more. I had drawn as a child, stopped in my late twenties and thirties and then came back to it in my forties. I've been drawing more and more, and I wonder now whether is has become a substitute for the exercise I used to give my eyes out in the woods, seeing new country, describing new creatures. And that has gotten me wondering about the whole phenomenon. Why do we draw?"

The book is filled with quotes from artists and art historians who study the need to draw the world they see, and discuss how drawing differs from paintings or sculpture.

"A drawing, says art historian Otto Benesch, " is an immediate emanation of personality, of the rhythm of life and its creative faculty." Drawing is more an act of discovery - of one's own feelings or of the world outside. A painting is likely to translate that discovery into something broader and more calculated."

Considering that I had dedicated the vacation to learning painting skills, it was cool to switch back and forth between drawing and painting and make my own observations about what I brought to the different processes and what they demanded from me. Drawing makes me intensely study the contours of the object, noting the scale and proportions and tonal values. Painting makes me more observant of the light that falls on an object. Drawing is about the line; painting is about the light. With drawing, I'm more concerned at depicting a realistic version of what I'm seeing. With painting, I'm concentrating on the style in which I want to portray the subject, and more importantly, the color. I'm just a novice at both, and having the two to compare has made me more aware of the skills each demand of me.

I loved the way Steinhart compares drawing to being a naturalist and talks about the similarities of the two:

But there is an underlying unity. The naturalist and the artist are alike in their warchfulness. They are both servants of of their eyes. A naturalist learns to look intently at things, to listen to them, smell them touch them, to wonder what they are made of, what they do, how they are alike or not like each other, what they mean....It seems to me now much like what an artist does, looking for form and line and color and texture to define the relationship between spirit and substance."

If you are interested in drawing, pick up this book. It's not a how-to book, though it does contain a few tips on contains a few tips on standard anatomical measurements. The book will get under your skin and make you itch compulsively until you throw down the book, ransack your desk for a pencil and blank piece of paper, and fix your sight on something, anything to draw.

A Page from My Vacation Journal

Wednesday, August 04, 2004

The precious last days of vacation are here. The M.'s arrived last night, Alison, Jack, Tess, and Benjamin. This morning the house was filled with sleeping children and adults piled in little knots. The F.'s were downstairs; I had my bed and Mar and Mom their room; Jack slept on the living room couch; Alison and Ben shared the aerobed; in the den, Laura, Tess and Julia started off sharing the pull-out couch, but by the middle of the night, Julia went to the floor, and Fran was in a sleeping bag next to her.

I smelled coffee at 6:40 and pulled myself out of bed by 7:00. Maria and I shared our first cups on the deck. In an hour or so, sleepy heads appeared at the screen door and one by one, little voices filled the house. Bowls of cereal were poured and glasses of juice. We made more coffee and opened the crumb cake. Later on we sliced the cinnamon bread we’d bought at Fancy’s and slathered on the expensive butter that Maria bought. I began painting and Alison was knitting a gorgeous, scarlet red scarf. The grown ups sat around the picnic table while the kids ran in and out and played dominoes and marbles and board games, with much switching to and fro and yelling at one another.

It was cloudy, so morning plans were made for various shopping trips. One group chose to go east to the stamp store, and Alison, Mom, and I and assorted kids went west to Dennis to the Lady Bug Knitting Shop, formerly known as the Lady Bug Quilt Store, a shop I made a pilgrimage to each year when I was still quilting. I hadn’t been out that way in a long while and I’d forgotten how beautiful 6A is, but was surprised at how built up it had become. We seemed to drive forever, and stopped and called for further directions only to find we were only a block away. The little shop that had housed yarn and fabric was now exclusively yarn and we spent about an hour choosing various luscious hues for Alison to knit for us into scarves. I came away with a cotton yarn as turquoise as summer to pair with a circus blend of fuzzy yarn. We picked out a cobalt blue for Maria along with the same fuzzy yarn as mine, but in the colors of the sea. Mom bought an angora eyelash blend in magenta, orange, and purple along with an expensive magenta solid. I really resisted buying tons of fibers and yearned to have a reason to buy the cute wooden needles with the hand-painted tops. However, I exercised some self control and was resolute that I did not need one more hobby.

We came home just as Alison and the kids were returning from the lake. Maria had cut up all the fruit in the refrigerator and brought out platters of watermelon and cantaloupe. Alison heated up some spicy cheese sauce and chips and the kids swarmed the table, munching on watermelon and dipping taco chips into the spicy sauce. Benjamin had a chin of watermelon juice and Julia ate her fill of cantaloupe slices and cheese and chips. Everyone had glasses of milk – we have three gallons!- and filled their stomachs before leaving for Nauset for a late afternoon swim. Maria tried to stay home with me and Mom, but David would have none of it.

Mom cast on her first row of stitches under Alison’s supervision, and I began reading the novel I’ve carried all week. Alison packed up Ben and went to the car. Suddenly Julia appeared out of nowhere, showered and changed into a new bathing suit. We didn’t even know she was home and she almost burst into tears when I said everyone had left, but to run out and catch Alison, and thankfully, she did.

The sun is shining in the den windows and the pine table is littered with watermelon juice and plates covered with cheese goo. Chips crunch underfoot and little crayon sketches litter the floor. The kitchen counters are covered with boxes of cake, bottles of olive oil and vinegars, bags of chips, boxes of cereal, and platters of bananas and peaches. The den has stacks of books and craft supplies on every surface. Piles of pillows and extra comforters are sitting on the hard-backed chairs in the living room. The washer and dryer has been running continuously since morning, with I don’t know what, and I haven’t been able to get near it to throw my own load in since yesterday. The driveway is full of cars, and the deck has more art supplies, empty coffee cups, marbles, and water guns. In short, the house is full of people who love one another, having a riotous time together for a few short days. I haven’t said more than two words to Julia since the day before yesterday. She’s had Ben or Tess in her arms for the last 24 hours. We are all feeling fuzzy and warm and loose around the edges as our families blend comfortably with one another in a haze of eating and swimming and just getting to know one another again since last summer.

Mom and I had a nice afternoon. We finally had some quiet, alone time like we used to have in Memphis. She told me how much she was enjoying it, and thanked me, and got a little choked up about how much it reminded her of Daddy. I thank God for giving us this summer together, a vacation free of health concerns, and time and money for the asking so that we had this place to come together and be happy. I am feeling at home, with Mom making coffee, my sister whipping up meals, Mar entertaining the kids, little ones crawling everywhere, and the overwhelming knowledge that family continues on, even when we are all grown, even when we move far away from one another. It is a time of retreat for us all, a time to find new roles to play, and to remember the sound of Mom’s sandals on the kitchen floor when she made dinner, to share a meal outside and remember all the dinners we had on the porch, to think of Daddy on what would have been his 85th birthday, and to send birthday wishes to Rob who has taken over the celebration of August 3rd. For all this I am thankful O Lord, forever and ever, Amen.

Redesigning

I am mucking about with my templates, reconfiguring this site. Typepad seems to be having glitches this morning, and only half of my changes are appearing. So please be patient and pardon our appearance while I ftry to figure out why my site isn't being republished with the changes I've made.

Back in TerrorLand

My first full day in New York, and it is a cool day in the low '60's, but the sun is shining and a gentle breeze is dappling the sun through the birch trees in front of the porch. . We are sitting on the porch, having a cup of the special blend we brought back from Wellfleet and catching up with the Sunday papers. A half hour of combined attack by the two of us and we can see the floor in the living room and kitchen again, though the stairs are so loaded with bags and books and bulky items that we make our way up stairs like moutain climbers.

I'm in that limbo stage, between vacation and real life, when the mail and the TV leave me nonplussed, and I am firm in my intent to cut down on TV, email and Internet, having survived two weeks with only two short bouts of surfing. Most of all, I am determined to lay out my art supplies on my desk and use them each night after work. I've caught the painting bug and spent about a half hour this morning drooling over the Daniel Smith fall catalogue. I need some brushes, #4 and #6 rounds, and I'd like to increase my choices in gouache and watercolor, now that I feel that I have some idea what I am doing.

My travel journal are 8X8 cards of different papers, including Rives BFK, Arches Text Wove, 300 lb. Arches hot press, and Canson Mi Tientes pastel paper, which I'm pleased to say holds up to gouache very well. 95% of the journal is done in gouache, the rest in pen and ink and a few pages in watercolor. I like the way about half of it turned out, but feel that the whole journal got way too serious, much more "artful" than I would usually do. It's the first time I ever did more in my travel journal than sketch and my attempts at watercolor painting are right up there with those heavily done, clunky paintings your great aunt did in her spare bedroom after her husband died and all the kids left home.

I will post some images later in the day, or as soon as I have unpacked all the crap I brought with me. I am going to adhere the cards to 10X10 kraft paper cardstock, to provide a sturdier spine for binding them. I hope to get it done by next Saturday which is the picnic at the pier organized through Danny Gregory's site, though I doubt I'll get my act together to go to the art store and buy waxed linen thread. As for the picnic, please come if you are in driving/riding distance of NYC ( and aren't afraid of getting blown up by alleged terror trucks.)

Speaking of packing crap, I'm writing myself a big note and sticking it inside the suitcase to remind myself to bring 1/2 of what I brought last year, which was about 1/3 less than the year before. All I need is two pairs of pants, two pairs of shorts, and about three shirts. There's always a washer/dryer in the houses we rent, and it's so easy to just throw in a load each night. Last year I realized the futility of bringing a "good outfit" for the dinner at a pricey Inn that we always planned on, but never accomplished. Considering that our biggest joy is not wearing make up/shaving for the week, it's pretty remote that we'll want to dress up even for a candlelit dinner alone with no kids. (And when the hell will that ever happen??)

Which of course, leaves more room to bring and buy books. This year may have been a records for both of us. The first full day, we flew to The Brewster Bookstore and did a number with our debit card, and I did manage to sneak back two more times, as well as drop by two other great bookstores, one in Orleans and one in P.town.

All that's left is the unpacking, sorting, and renewal of promises to relax more, get rid of the clutter, remain laid back during the week, keep in touch with the water and sun, and generally pretend that we are not back at work, not about to pack the son up for college, not trying to entertain the little one while working f/t, and not worried about the older daughter who has bronchitis.......hold on, I've pulled myself back together. I'm still on vacation until tomorrow, still on vacation, still floating in the waves, still sketching under the umbrella, still drinking my coffee on the deck admiring the finches. Remind me to tell you about the owl who visited us.....

BAck in P'town!!

The stars, the moon, the sun, two sisters, a mother, a brother in law, two nieces, a nephew, and one daughter were all in perfect alignment this afternoon and I got to come back to P'town to check my mail and post. We are in day 11 of the trip, and home and work - especially the Bronx courthouse - seem very far away. Stan and Chris went home Sunday and we miss them a lot. Jess and her friend went home yesterday, after we practically had to pry them off the beach and into her car. Tonight my cousin is coming with her three kids and the house will be at full capacity.

I am still painting with the gouache and learning a lot about what I don't know about painting. I feel like I could paint for twenty years and only begin to understand how to mix color, how to control a brush, how to depict light and shadow, and how to design a composition. My appreciation for painters has deepened a thousandfold. I have fallen in love with a painter - well her paintings actually, I haven't met her! Like most of the painters that are shown in galleries on the Cape, she works in oils, but the subject of her paintings are interiors, and those have always been my favorite subjects. Her compositions are still lives of lamps and chairs and tables and vases of flowers, but her genuis is in her use of color. The lamp is violet, the Mary Jane shoes piled on the table are bright red, the vase is emerald green. A skirted table sits between two chairs that are blocks of the palest white and barely pink, the lampshade fuschia, throwing a rosy light that breaks into shadows over the soft, upholstered chairs. I want to run my finger through the lime green and lick it off. I want to turn the lamp with the tortoiseshell shade on and off. I want to crawl onto the window seat overlooking the sea with the little boy and his dog and be lit with the same folden light that floods the canvas. I want to paint like her, dammit!

The gallery owner tells me that when this artist works at the gallery, she paints. I beg to know if she is coming in the next ten days, but the owner says no. She agrees with me that I should buy the little painting of the two chairs with the skirted table and lamp. She also agrees with me that it sucks not to have the money to spend on art. She admits that interiors are her favorite paintings also. We bond, but no discounts come my way. Later on at another gallery, I find a painter whose work are very contemporary. Big planes of color make up a bowl of strawberries so photorealistic that I practically bury my nose in the canvas to figure out how he does it. The eye sees, but the mind does not comprehend. Another oil painter (where are the watercolorists that I thought the Cape was known for?) does a grouping of teapots. But these are not your grandmother's paintings of teapots. Each pot is crisply rendered in flat planes of color and light. I am drawn back to it over and over. I feel the urge to lift the orange canteloupe colored pot and pour myself a cup. The painting is almost ten times as expensive as the other artist, and I don't get why, but assume that he is more well-known. I spend about 15 minutes in front of a painting of three peppers on an old, beat up, metal-topped table. I look at how he depicted the metal, the reflection in the table-top, the juiciness of the orange, red, and yellow peppers. I am sated with desire to paint, but manage to prevent myself from flying into the nearest art supply store and loading up on canvases, brushes, paints, and an easel. Thank God.

After we visited several galleries over the weekend, my fervor for painting flared, then ebbed. My arm and hand were going numb at night,and I found myself not wanting to do anything in my journal. After a day of wondering what was going on, I realized that I was depressed - sometimes seeing great works of art is not conducive to making little puddles of paint and lop-sided pictures. But I got over it and picked up the brush and started working hard and trying to see, to really, really see what I was painting. It's another language, not like drawing at all. There are no lines, just shading and color and light.

With my head spinning with color and light, I did go into the art store and buy ten new pieces of pastel paper, all in buff, light greens, dark greens, gray blues, bright blues, and aubergine. The gouache shines like neon on these rich colors and I am off in a painting reverie. Right before I left, I bought a new book, Art Escapes , and it's a fabulous book. I hesitated to buy it because, frankly, I have enough books and I'm tired of seeing the same artists in each other's books over and over again. But this book is by someone who is a painter by trade and she's a fresh voice for me. The book is divided into exercises and they begin with the simplest techniques for keeping an art journal, and end with sophisticated exercises for perspective and design. I am using a lot of her tips, like the one minute drawings, which we were all participating in on the Everyday Matters list, and many other ideas, like framing all your pages, and painting the same scene every day, or painting the same subject in a thumbnail each day, like the sea or the sky.

The best lesson I did from the book was to take a bright yellow, a red, and a blue, and see how many shades of colors you can create from it. The palette of shades created a whole page of delicious summer brights. I've used this palette in almost all the pages I've painted and I am finally beginning to understand color-mixing.

By now you've gotten the drift that this vacation has become a mini-art retreat. I'm writing very little, but trying to keep a narrative journal on the computer (since I can't get on line, I should use it for something!) I have struggled with the watercolors and withe gouache to represent something beyond grade school paintings. I've made some progress and I'm happy with two or three of the little 8X8 pages I've done. I bought a folder to keep the journal cards in, and carry it everywhere along with the waterbrushes and the gouache box. If it's raining or I don't feel like hauling it all with me, I revert to pen and ink, and do detailed sketches that I paint later on.

I won't be on line again till Saturday when we get home. I hope everyone reading this is getting a chance to spend some time alone with whatever drives your passions - whether art, writing, food, golf, sailing, reading - and I'll see you on the weekend!