Happy New Year

2007,

May this New Year bring you joy in your pain

hope in your trial, challenge with gain.

May strength in temptation

and courage in fear

grace this new living with lasting good cheer.

May successes be real ones and critics be still

unless in their speaking

they show you God’s will

May your heart be tender and your vision clear

May you say when it’s ended,

“It’s been a good year.”

Donna Woodall,

Silent New Year

New Years Eve makes me melancholic. Don't know why, but I'm always restless and displaced on New Years Eve. Well, here's a bit of a strange write. You don't have to like it and by the way, I'm certifiably sane. (Had to pass the tests for education and for social services.)
Restless, anxious.
Wanting former days; wanting future days.
Wanting anything but this moment and its solitary plight.
Walking into a moonlit spot, I look out in expectation or is it despair?
I hear the babes rustling in their bunks, striving for ordered sleep.
Yet in my true self, I know.
Babes no longer lie in the other room safe from reveling drivers with too much to drink.
Loneliness sits there instead.
Silently in pain the space cries out.
Inside my heart the space cries back
to no avail.
In silent moonlight I begin the ritual dance.
The silence is not broken by word, or song or clattering explosions heard a short time past.
Instead, the silence gnaws and claws
devouring my waiting heart.
It would be sensible to go to bed now
to wrap myself in the numbness of sleep
to dull these keen senses that reach out for –
what? I do not know.
I wish my slumbering prince were riding through the night
to enter on the brisk east wind and whisk me away to a place
where there is no now:
no screaming silence clamoring for fulfillment,
bursting with unmade plans, unanswered visions, untold stories.
I sweep it away, and sweep it away, frantically striving to rid my world of its cry.
Yet the silence stays while all others abandon.
Soft tears surround my submissive form crumbling on the floor
Time? Time is a cruel master.
It stole my youth, my children, my vigor and left behind this crumpled mass:
a wadded loveletter, discarded without reading, its message bleeding in a bitter pool of tears.
These irrational thoughts and feelings surely belong to another.
This purposeless form cannot be the person who will face the coming dawn.
This bereft woman bears no resemblance to sparking eyes enthralled with family and tasks.
Some would not trust me if they knew.
And so with a sigh, I stand and stretch,
peer once more into the moonlight of a new day,
whisper my felicitation and stumble noisily to my bed, and my prince,
in hopes that the sweeping of the floor,
that the forward bracing of the wind,
that the solitary moonlight dance and the gentle dreams that lay in store
will usher in the fulfillment of this new age,
this new destiny,
this brand new year.

Light

I waited before your throne

Enraptured by the coming sun

Knowing the light would blind my eyes but not my heart.

A phenomenon in the dark forboding clouds

I saw the light of the Son break through

with peace, renewal and love.



This drawing was done after a painting that I struggled with and still do.  Sitting in self absorption, music engulfing and yet with space to think and create, my mind realized that I had missed the point.  It was the light!

Entry for December 10, 2006

I look up and see only lavendar-grey clouds.

My heart sinks yet my eyes cannot.  I know there will be light.  The light will surely come.  I need the light to break the horizon and fill my world with illumination, good will.

But the greyness shrouds the morning.

Most days, it's no big deal.  An extra cup of coffee, a sweet roll and a little laughter for inspiration: I'm up an out.  But today the coffee is bitter, the sweet roll is stale and any laughter I try for cakes in my throat.

This heaviness, this unspeakable weight shrouds my spirit as the greyness shrouds the morning.   It encases me in hopelessness: speaking defeat, rejection, despair.

I wait fruitlessly.  Yet a voice is calling me out of my tomb, out of the cold heart, the aching heart: a soul in need.

With waning strength, I meet the task and feel the sting of my own inadequacy.  Barely strength remains to creep back to my hole, hide and wait for the light to break into my world.  Yet another and another interrupts my pilgrimage until the day is nearly gone.

What is this light that breaks forth now: now that the day has taken what I did not possess?  I cannot tell its source and yet it shines before me and in my wake.

With little strength I reach out to touch it and find that it comes from within, passing through and out of me with illumination and goodwill.

I've Lollygagged

We don't do life easy.  Louis and I used to say when we had Shambley - our former dog- that some day we'd both wake up and the dog would be driving.

Well, I haven't fallen off the face of the earth.  I just had a few intensely busy days. 

I’ve lollygagged today and felt really guilty.  Ah, not too guilty.  I had a show last week for my HS Class and a Party last night for the Christian artists forum I belong to.  Those two things should never be booked back to back. 

The kids were supposed to help with the matting, etc of their pieces for the show.  Well they changed the schedule and I had to do all 17 pieces by myself.  My studio was a mess of chopped up matt and cardboard.  I turned 4 extra tall narrow doors into a large display board for it and prepared promo materials for the sessions beginning in January.  Then, because the front came through and sat on us for 2 days, the place where we scheduled the event was flooded and it had to be postponed!


Meanwhile, Louis has been emptying and organizing storage and bringing the stuff in and stacking it around for me to deal with.  I sort of understand, but had to deal with that stuff before I could begin cleaning and decorating for the party.  They rescheduled the show for last night (Mon) and so I didn’t even get to go stand around and listen to the comments or answer questions about what, why and what’s next.

I got most of the decorating done by Sunday and though I did have to pick up a little to teach a lesson on Friday, I decided to ignore the Study and Studio and just keep the party in the main part of the house. 

I had about everything done and ready –fresh baked sweet bread, almond cookies, red and green pretzels, wassail, holiday punch, pinon coffee set up in the coffee maker.  The fireplace was ready for a match, the cd player ready to turn on.  But a few hours before the party, a member called to ask if he could have a place to set up slides to show.  Okay.  I’d just have to get in there and clean up the studio for him.  He showed up about 6:30 and nothing was done.  I’d had bunches of phone calls and people in and out.  It was crazy.  I suggested we set it up in the living room.  That wouldn’t work.  So his daughter and I began to clean the studio.  Nothing had been dusted or mopped or vacuumed, but there was no time for that.  I  hauled stuff out to the clay room where I piled it high and then onto the studio porch.  It went okay, but it wasn’t clean and I was so busy with it that the guests came and had to attend each other while I finished.  Sigh.  So much for the reputation I don’t have.

The party was a good humored event.  So much food, so many choices.  What I listed above was just what I contributed.  And I forgot to put out the spinach and roast beef pinwheels.  They were very good and Louis and I are enjoying the fact that they weren't eaten by the guests.  They consumed about a gallon of wassail and about a gallon and a half of holiday punch.  The pinon coffee was all gone and I could have made another pot, but things got busy. 

We played a version of the white elephant gift exchange game equipped with the two or three unwanted and the two or three really wanted gifts.  I gave one of the really wanteds and received one of the unwanteds, but who cares in the end!  One of the unwanteds was a Christmas tree with little black ribbons and little black balls.  It had a little black satin skirt attached and everyone called it the goth tree.  Another was a set of paperbacks and a cd.  The reason it was an unwanted was because it was received initially by a retired divorced lady and the one title that jumped out was something about handling your husband's mid-life crisis.  We all made jokes about our husbands and about her burying hers in the back yard.  The other titles were decent titles as was the cd.  But no one wanted it after that.

We watched the slides and yes they were worth it.  I must admit that even the slide he took while we steamed in the car in Colorado was worth it!  We sang some carols and we waved them off into the cold night, cleaned up the mess and went to bed happy.

So today I took it a little easy.  Tomorrow I'll finish cleaning the clay room and set my studio back up for teaching.  It will be fast and furious.  It's the way I live my life.  But today I lollygagged.

one man show

The picture is one I painted after my previous trip to the Santa Fe area.  It is conte stick on red suede board.


Suppose I give a one man show

Collect the pieces I’ve let go

And rent a space both wide and grand

Pictures in a hall, sculpture on a stand

And I stay and listen to the critics cry

The slams and complements that fly

From the mouths of fools, masters and kings

Would it help or hurt the cause of things?

Or would it only waste my time?



Suppose I gather a one man band

And sit myself by a hotdog stand

In a county fair or festival

And sing and play till the air is full

And wrench the hearts of those who hear

With a song of love, sorrow or fear

Until the day or my voice is gone

With the hope that the crowd stays on and on

Would I only waste their time?



But suppose I offer a friendly hand

To a lonely soul, or a broken man

And stay a bit til the sting subsides

And he wanders off to where he resides

A little stronger for the bit we shared

With a happy tale of someone who cared

And I walked away to a sumptuous spot

To carry on in my spoiled lot

Where I waste much more than time.



Do the things I have and the things I’ve done

Ever last a day, ever change someone?

Are accomplishments worth the energy;

Do I give myself to what’s meant for me?

Will it mean a thing if I reach some goal

and ignore the things put in my control?

In the here and now, in the scope of things

Is success, success if no truth it brings

and I’ve wasted all my time?  DW '06

Room to Grow and Bloom

The last few days have been quite busy.  We went to see my husbands siblings and mother on Thanksgiving day.  We worked around the house and then went out to eat with another daughter on Friday.  I took my grandchildren to see their mother on Saturday.  Today, we did some rearranging and reconfiguring.  I used some discarded doors with rollers on them to make a display board for my fall drawing class, which is coming to a close and will formally end with a show on Thursday night.  I hope to take some pictures.  I also put out a flat of pansies today with the hope that they will get over being transplanted before the cold sets in later this week.

The picture above is a collage from my sunroom.  My digital camera is, as I've mentioned, getting quite tempermental but I like these anyway.  They are, from top left, a bougainvillea, an angelwing begonia and a Christmas cactus.  These are, of course, common names.  The magnifying glass will enlarge them somewhat.

It's funny how plants you live with take on meaning.  The begonia isn't blooming right now.  It takes a rest every so often.  The plant is one I got from my mother and I know it's at least 30 years old.  For a while, it didn't look well and seldom bloomed.  Now, it's gotten much healthier and blooms frequently: rich heavy drooping clusters of orangey-pink flowers.

The bougey is one I bought about 10 years ago.  It blooms frequently as it is now.  Sometimes it will rest and gather strength for the next go round.

The Christmas cactus was blooming when my daughter brought it home about 15 or 20 years ago, but never would bloom after that.  The last two years, it has been gorgeous.  I don't know what I'm doing right, but I hope I can keep it up.

I have two other bloomers, but they aren't in bloom right now.  They give the sunroom a nice appearance and a feeling of life happening.  I've never been a very good gardener, but I'm learning from both my mistakes and my successes when I can identify them!

I hope everyone who celebrates Thanksgiving had a good day and plenty to give thanks for.  DW

The whole mural

The picture above is of my mosaic mural for the aquarium to sit in front of.  Still need to put the shelf in place, seal it, move the aquarium and install the waterfall.  But the mural is complete.   Granted it's not an awesome picture, but my camera still isn't working right.  I had to take it in 3 shots to get it all in without much distortion.

I feel like I've given birth to something big!  I can say without reservation "It's my art."  I am now an artist.

Having come from the ranks of academia, it's hard to say "I am an artist."  Even now, I think I hear my professor's voice disputing the claim!  But this is a unique piece as far as I know.  It is 5' wide and 8' tall.

The mighty beaver (no perversion here)

Being challenged to use an animal for my avatar, I considered many things.  Then I remembered a personality test I took in a workshop while in the public school system.  I was a beaver, industrious, compulsive, creative.  Okay, then.  Well when I went looking for a beaver picture for my avatar, I ran into some info, so I'm including it just so you'll know.

Beavers are more than intriguing animals with flat tails and lustrous fur. American Indians called the beaver the "sacred center" of the land because this species creates rich habitats for other mammals, fish, turtles, frogs, birds and ducks. Since beavers prefer to dam streams in shallow valleys, much of the flooded area becomes wetlands. Such wetlands are cradles of life with biodiversity that can rival tropical rain forests. Almost half of endangered and threatened species in North America rely upon wetlands.

Besides being a keystone species, beavers reliably and economically maintain wetlands that can sponge up floodwaters (the several dams built by each colony also slows the flow of floodwaters), prevent erosion, raise the water table and act as the "earth's kidneys" to purify water. The latter occurs because several feet of silt collect upstream of older beaver dams, and toxics, such as pesticides, are broken down in the wetlands that beavers create. Thus, water downstream of dams is cleaner and requires less treatment.

Beavers' ability to change the landscape is second only to humans. But that is just one reason why we find the flat-tailed species fascinating. Adults may weigh over 40 pounds, and beavers mate for life during their third year. Both parents care for the kits (usually one to four) that are born in the spring. The young normally stay with their parents for two years, and yearlings act as babysitters for the new litter. While some beaver behavior is instinctive, they also learn by imitation and from experience. Dr. Donald Griffin, the father of animal cognition, has said, "When we think of the kinds of animal behavior that suggest conscious thinking, the beaver comes naturally to mind."

Wildlife rehabilitators find beavers to be gentle, reasoning beings who enjoy playing practical jokes. An Indian word for "beaver-like" also means "affable." Once weaned, their favorite foods include water lily tubers, clover, apples and the leaves and green bark (cambium) from aspen and other fast-growing trees.

November 11, 2006 GOD BLESS THOSE WHO SERVE

Every war must be our last, must be the final test of strength and will

And yet again midst disagreements men still take up arms and mount their hill.

With each new conflict weaponry evolves piling horror upon horror.

And at each ghastly end we reevaluate the loss and senselessness of war.

There are things worthy of the fight.  Each man must settle then his mind and heart

And know beyond a doubt if work and prayer or leaving home and bearing arms should be his part.



Long years ago, my father fought his fight on islands and on foreign ground

While those who history still calls tyrants faced an end that brought their efforts down.

And many of my friends went off to struggle in a war that knew no victory

A number of them struggle still and fight a war within an unkind memory.

Today my nephews live and serve a place of heat and wind and storms of sand

Sometimes the end seems further than it was years past when all of this began.



I read a journal of a man commissioned to record on film the civil war

He joined the fight excited by a job he’d do that never had been done before.

Hist’ry in the making yet so soon he lost his zeal and innocence

The overwhelming conflict fought by friends and brothers came to make no sense.

And though he thought it right to wage and win the battles and the war.

His final entry spoke of hope that man would learn to live in peace and fight no more.  DW'06



One of the most honorable men I have known was my father, a highly decorated soldier from World War II.  As I look at his medals and mementos, I am reminded that he never spoke of the war.  He spoke of the children in that foreign land.  He spoke of the men and their antics aboard ship.  He spoke of his days in basic and his time as a drill sergeant.  He never spoke of what the medals were given for, though at times I saw him looking at them privately with sadness in his eyes.  Only recently have I learned of the horrors he personally had to face in his service.  My heart broke for this man I still love dearly though he had departed this earth.



I suppose that man will always wage war, justly or unjustly.  Sometimes the decisions have nothing to do with the men who fight or loose their lives and yet as soldiers they serve without reserve as they are commissioned.  We must always be proud of the men and women who serve honestly, doing the best job they can under the circumstance they are given. 



God bless those who have served and who still serve our country in the military.

whilst our hamsters process your request

I'm probably not the best blogger in the world.  I certainly haven't been blogging so long as many of you.  My page isn't the most creative, and I don't even care about moblogging!  But dadgummit, I've become a blogger.

At first it was a request: Come look.  Then there was an invite: Be my friend.  Then I started experimenting.  It's a place to dream, a place to care, a place to find people I never knew existed that care whether I have a brother named incognito or not.  People I didn't know started leaving little comments.  I laughed, I interacted, I fumed, I cared.  Wow!  Now I understood the virtual world.  I considered my science def from college. "Virtual: not real."  We'll just send that to the recycle bin and beyond.

Next, I discovered that I had albums, or at least I could make albums.  I could share pictures that revealed another dimention of my "real" world to my virtual friends.  I photographed some things just for my new friends.  I sorted and posted old things and created albums to say, "Here.  This is me.  This is what I know, and what I do, and where I walked today."  I have albums planned, albums prepared and albums I've only begun to imagine.  But alas, the hamsters have been poisoned.

Not only that, but I find that not all the hamsters are sick.  Some people still have healthy hamsters and they continue to roll out those photo albums.  But my hamsters are poisoned.  I can't tell you how that frustrates me.  (See virtual photo above.)  It may be true that I neither knew or cared that I had albums available a year ago, but all that changed when I became a blogger.

I went to 360 with my inner panic, but like all governing agencies, they are ignoring the complaints while they try to figure out what the blazes has happened to the hamsters.  I'm sure they've appointed a committee to try to see who poisoned which hamsters and why that person would do such a thing and what kind of rehabilitation they will need to live a virtually productive life in the future, cohabitating peacefully with hamsters.  They probably haven't touched on the veterinary bills yet or the psychological dammage done to the bloggers.

Growl, snort, sigh.  I just want my friends to see my photo albums.  Somebody let me know when the hamsters come back to work.  Oh my.  They might not have been poisoned; they might be on strike.  Now why would 360 cover something like that up?!

This time of year

This photo was taken by my friend who lost his dad this past week.  I included it, because it's really more about life than death to me.

At this time of year, while I watch,

the trees struggle between life and sleep

through the strongest brilliance they will know,

shedding their coverings for the harsh, brittle

state of winter.  I see that the only way

they can possibly live again is to die –for now. 

Dropping all signs of life through a grand

array, they lie still and bare until,

through the wonder of spring,

they are resurrected to beauty and vibrance.

Such is a picture of our seasons

and of our lives.

Mosaic for my aquarium wall

If only I could get this mural done!

The world is out there waiting with its fun.

I’ve friends to greet and meals to eat

and sweepstakes to be won,

If only I could get this mural done.



If only I could get this mural done,

I’d catch the final romance of the sun.

I’ve leaves to rake and bags to take

to goodwill or some one

If only I could get this mural done.



If only I could get this mural done

I’d finish other projects I’ve begun

I’ve soup to make and bread to bake

And recipes – a ton.

If only I could get this mural done.



If only I could get this mural done!

I’d spend awhile with my aged mum

I’ve tales to spin, art to begin

Ideas that die alone,

While I must work to get this mural done.     DW 2006

This mosaic wall is 5 ft by 8 ft tall and when completed will be composed of glass, rock and shell with a black grout in the glass area.  At about 6 ft it will be broken up by a shelf and hopefully a waterfall.  I must complete it to move my aquarium out of my bathroom where it has resided for a little over a year.  I've played with it for almost a month and have worked seriously since I returned from my trip to the southwest between classes, firing, home, meetings and blogging.  It's moving a little faster now that I'm into the glass phase.

A cat condo and the southwest

We're going to be gone about 9 or 10 days starting in a few hours.  So I planned to create a condo for my kitten so he won't get too bored staying here and just seeing a human once or maybe twice a day.  So that's what you see above.  His tent and his condo in the making and then at it's present mostly finished stage.

So I guess I'll see you guys later, unless one of our reservations should happen to have wi-fi in the room.  Not a likely.  Some of those places don't even have cell phone service.

Peace, grace and don't mess the world up too much while I'm gone.  I'll have pictures and stories when I return.

Jon today

Today we went to another town, to the home of people we don’t know and attended a barbeque in honor of my grandson who will be leaving Wednesday for navy basic training in Michigan.  There he was, standing tall, posing for pictures with bunches of different people.  There he was, sitting with his arm around his girlfriend, laughing and joking in a not quite shy grown up manner.  There he was cutting a huge cake that looked like an American flag.  He hugged me long and hard before we left and I saw a wetness in the big boy eyes. 

For the last month, he’s come to see me at least once a week and we have laughed and dreamed and discussed.  He gave me his kitten.  Well, it wasn’t his technically, but he had adopted it out of their cat’s last litter and he knew he couldn’t take it with him.  So, when he learned I wanted a yellow cat, he brought it to me without remorse.  Last week, he sat in the floor playing with the cat and his (the cat’s) Barbie tent while I finished with my art students.

When he was small, he was gramma’s boy.  I have so many memories, so many pictures.  His birthday is 2 years and 2 days after my youngest daughter’s.  When they were little, they were together so much and were so close to the same size, coloring and general appearance that people assumed they were twins.  We always celebrated birthdays together.  My daughter and family came to our house a lot.  Gramma loved her Jonny and Jon loved his gramma.

I took him to his first large art museum when he was 5.  That night he was talking to daddy and told him about the museum with great intellectual excitement.  He finished by saying “Oh, yeah, and I saw a great big statue of a guy who didn’t have any arms, but he had a great big penus.”  We were all shocked, but laughed at the workings of a 5 year old male mind.

On that same trip, he and Amanda loved the hotel swimming pool, which was a little on the cool side, and loved it so much their skinny little bodies both turned a shade of blue.  Noticing this, I called them over to the not quite hot tub I was sitting in to get their body temps up.  Jon stood on the side looking at me in horror refusing to come in.  Amanda a little slow to respond came and got in, dog paddling to my side.  Finally after insisting, Jon came gingerly toward me big tears in his eyes.  He thought it was boiling.

He was in early elementary when, during a family visit, he was helping me in the kitchen.  His brother Josh wanted up on the step.  Mom insisted Jon was there first and gramma worked happily on trying to ignore the squabble.  A couple of times Josh tried to push him aside to no avail.  I’m not sure just why Jon had to leave, maybe the call of a parent, maybe the call of nature, but he ran off promising to be right back.  No sooner had he gone than brother Josh climbed the step to “help”.  Jon returned to see the situation and demanded his spot to which mom replied that he’d left and Josh was on the step now.  Eyes flaming Jon surveyed the room and found an ice pick.  Gramma averted a disaster of Biblical significance by pulling the ice pick from his hands in route and quietly saying “We don’t take up weapons against our brother.”  A short time later, having proved his equality, Josh found other things to occupy his interest while Jonny mounted the step to help again.

As teens he and his brother were proud scouts.  Our family camped a lot and the boys loved to show off their skills and knowledge.  Coming back from a long all day hike tired, cold and wet from a common Rocky Mountain thunderstorm, we saw that the teenagers had made it home ahead of us.  We assumed that anyway, because they always did.  This night long before we reached our base camp, we could see the fire.  Actually, they could have seen the fire from the international space station had it been overhead at that time.  Walking into camp I saw Jon’s big proud smile.  I also noticed that there was not one stick of firewood left for the night or next morning.  Dull and tired I simply said “You guys could make a person hate boy scouts,” and went about my business.  Before the twilight died off, I had a large neat pile of wood gathered, and stacked for the morning.  I did say “Thank you.”

As a child, Jon came to see me at least once or twice a month and the memories are so many.  Some pride and decency will not allow telling, but mostly time and respect for the reader leave them contained only in my heart and memory.  Then there came that business of the teen years when friends and school and work and whatever took their toll and the visits grew seldom and were shallow.  But now: the impending separation.  I faced it sadly at first, missing the joy of the bygone closeness.  I guess I wasn’t the only one who remembered how much we once shared.  So I cherish the sweet little stories and plans and suggestions we’ve known for the past month.  They’ll have to do till Christmas. 

Hurry Christmas.

Home Improvement!

The past month and a half have flown by in a blur.  Since we returned from North Carolina in August, I have worked night and day on this house knowing that the permit would expire while we were gone in October.  I’ve hit it early, usually before daylight, and stopped only for scheduled classes or meetings and then hit it again until I was the only one hitting.  I’ve missed many social opportunities and pulled my blog, more times than not, from past compositions just so I wouldn’t be one of those disappearing bloggers.  I’m going to add a remodel photo album soon that shows the process.  We still have some superficial changes to the old part which we will make in good time.

Last night I used the clay room for the first time.  I put myself on the wheel and slapped a lump of gooey clay onto the turntable.  Though it was a demonstration, it was also a renewal.  I haven’t thrown for over a year, but because I am a teacher and have done this many times before, I found myself talking my way through it so that each step would be clear and make sense, I engaged my conscious mind only enough to be sure that I could be followed when the next person –who had never thrown before last night- would know what to do or maybe what not to do.  Throwing clay is a very sub-conscious act.  It has a releasing effect on the tensions of the body and soul.

When the piece was lifted from the wheel to the bat and the turntable was cleaned and ready for a student, I rose from the table feeling interrupted, but good.  As the student took on her first grapefruit sized ball of soft clay, I shifted back to teacher mode and hovered over her.  She did well and only needed my interference for a couple of short moments.  At first she was nervous and tentative, then slowly, she stuck her hands right into that spinning glop and I reduced my help to squeezing water from the sponge over her hands and clay while she worked.  Then eventually I backed off even that and told her to wrap it up or her clay would take on water.  She finished quickly and we cut the piece off the wheel and onto a bat.  She stopped and exhaled slowly trying to explain how hypnotic the whole thing was.  I smiled.

Sitting in the sunroom this morning, fighting the kitten off my breakfast and discussing the mysteries of faith with my husband, I found the new space, as I have since I introduced the first two chairs there, a natural, inviting place.  Though I recognize it’s newness, it feels familiar, inspiring, comforting. 

I’ve made my share of “home improvement?” jokes as have my friends.  It’s taken us almost one year to complete from the days of the monoveg in the front to the final signing one week ago today.  One friend referred to it as the longest running sit com in history.  Another called it “The Extreme Home Makeover – Woodall Edition” and quipped that it came on at 2AM between two infomercials just before the signal thingy came on.  We who have been up early in the morning knew she has no clue about modern television.  But she had a clue about our makeover.

Yet standing there last night laughing and talking as people left, enjoying the dying fire just off my studio porch, I remembered that there was one ball of clay left from the evenings efforts waiting to be thrown.  Feeling a little mellow and totally comfortable, proud and pleased with the space that I’ve maneuvered around for a year, I realized that it really was home improvement.  And while I still want some time, it will be okay when we decide to improve our home again.

Elementary . .

(The picture is one created by a 5 year old who currently takes private lessons from me.)

 Teaching elementary art came from nowhere.   

I was happily teaching High School Art in a town several miles from my home.  Each day, I’d load up my best intention, whatever supplies I’d procured, my heart, my brain and my vast creative energy and drive it down the highway singing, praying, planning.  Sometime between 5 and 9PM, after meetings, ball games, projects and preparation for the next day, I’d drag my worn out body, mind and spirit humorlessly into the car and take myself home until the next morning.  On weekends, I graded papers and wrote or updated the next week’s or month’s lesson plans. 

My husband was quietly raising our daughter when it all lost sensibility.  A car wreck, physical therapy, disagreement with my principal, and, oh yeah, my teen-age daughter’s raising inspired my resignation.  There was an opening in my own city for an art teacher.  After the resigning, cleaning out, coming home thing was over, I got a sorry, but no thanks letter.  No problem, several High Schools were hiring.  But they  weren’t hiring me. 

Then 2 weeks before school started, I was called in for an interview. It was for an Elementary Art position.  I was about to become an itinerant teacher.  I had 3 schools, 43 classes in all, teaching Kindergarten through sixth grade.  I felt like a traveling salesman.  Not only that, but I had no clue about elementary children.

I’d had children who went through the elementary age thing – 5 of them.  I was educated and certified to teach Kindergarten through grade 12.  But somehow when placed in a room with 20 to 25 elementary children for 30 minute intervals all day 5 days a week, I knew I was clueless.  We’re talking art teacher here.  Paint, glue, scissors, markers, clay and pencils – oh yes, the pencils.

Quickly, I learned the teacher dodge.  When a student as tall as my pelvic bone came running excitedly toward me, arms stretched out, screaming my name, I learned just as they reached me to shift quickly to the side so the darling hit my hip with her brick like skull.  I learned that when I taught a first grader to use sissors, he would probably cut up something valuable like his new sweater.  I learned that when a kindergartener says “I gotta go,” there'll be a puddle if it doesn’t fit my timeframe.  I learned not to give full glue bottles to a group of 11 year olds.  I learned not to leave the unfinished Christmas card entries with the classroom teacher for completion beacause she will come up with copious amounts of glitter.  I learned that Puerto Ricans don’t distinguish between “Crap!” and uumm, -crap.  I learned to take nothing for granted.

Those two years in elementary art make up a funny, fuzzy time in my career.  Each of the afore mentioned events has its own silly long winded story.  My personal art consisted of examples created for my young students: simplified drawings, paintings and sculptures in bold childlike color schemes.  Looking back, I wonder who was doing the teaching and who was learning?  Who was guiding and who was developing?

Carolyn and the Joker

        Carolyn was an advanced art student who had come up with a theme for her semester’s work.  She would do jesters, clowns.  When she started clay, nothing seemed to work right so she postponed it until clay was the only project she had left.  Finally inspiration struck and she began a large curled joker card.  I watched it take form as she worked to complete it on time.  It had to be finished, dried, fired and glazed before the fall semester’s eminent end.  It was almost finished so she left it out on the table covered in a piece of canvas cloth to leather up so she could complete the fine details the next day.

            A boy came into the art room the next morning enraged at what he felt was a total injustice and, before I could stop him, slammed his fist down on a piece of canvas cloth lying on the clay cabinet.  You guessed it: Carolyn’s Joker.  I railed on the student and revealed his handiwork.  He felt bad but could do nothing.

            When Carolyn came in to class I knew he had already told her.  She walked over, pulled back the cloth and looked at it with tears in her eyes.  She sat down and stared at it.  I left her alone for the period.  At the end of the day, she walked in to my room and asked if she could stay and work a little on her clay.  I agreed.

            She went to work with a vengeance.  Channeling all the frustration and disappointment that she had for her crushed piece into creativity, she began again.  After about 15 minutes, she began to chatter about how her plans had improved.  She worked with a zeal seldom seen in high school students.  Two days later, her new and improved piece was on the drying rack.  That spring Carolyn’s “Joker” won first place, overall, in the local art show.

Search for a Suitable Name FE

The search for a suitable name has ended.  Meet Hobbs.  %^/  He's already a member of the household and he now has a bonifide name. :]

I decided that Hobbs will have sufficient dignity if he outgrows the creative ornery streak which links him in our minds to Calvin.  Besides it's a name Louis likes.  We don't know if he answers to it yet or not.  We've been gone for a couple days, and if we move or speak at all he's on top of us.  ; }  The only other name I really liked was Hannibal, and that is a reference to an ancient tyranical diety.

I'm not sure why the following event brought out the name, but it did. 

Thursday evening while doing clay, a lady working in my studio kept saying "oh, let him stay."  I told her I didn't let him stay in my studio, because I have a couple of students during the week that have cat allergies.  He was undoing her shoelaces and she was laughing and moving her feet about to tease him.  Then he grabbed her ankle and began to gnaw on it.  ):O  She said "No you can't do that,"  but he was convinced she wanted him to stay no matter what and kept chewing her leg.  I caught him and put him in the living room and closed the door to the study/studio area.  Wide eyed she expressed surprise that something so cute could be so determined to cause pain.  I wasn't surprised.

Later, I went in to turn on the fan to bring a little fresh air into the room and as soon as I opened the door, he raced into the studio and, could you guess, grabbed the lady's ankle again and began trying to rip her flesh off the bone.  I caught him quickly and put him in the sunroom this time to spend the rest of the evening alone - in exile. 

She didn't suggest I bring him back.

Entry for September 22, 2006

Yeah.  It's over.  It's ours.  We can do as we please again!  Yippee!  Hooray!

It's Only Clay

It’s only Clay!

The best clay pieces are a result of pushing the clay as far as its nature will allow.  A good potter knows when to push and when to say enough.

The only way to understand clay is to get your hands dirty.

If you don’t spend time with a lump of clay, it will have no character or strength.

Clay has stages of development; the key is knowing what part of the design is optimal to which stage.

Clay doesn’t hurry.

The prettiest pieces I’ve made are the least useful.

Its only Clay!

When the clay breaks or falls in, you fix it or start over.  Screaming and such seems appropriate, but then you have to go on.

Most things can be fixed.

Clay is nobody’s fault!

To make pottery and loose it to fire or weakness is still better than to have never loved at all.

Some clays can’t take a hot fire without becoming warped.

Some clays will do whatever you want, while others have a mind of their own.

Only Clay

When I was going to college, I brought a lump of clay home to work on over the weekend.  I had an idea and wanted to make it take form before it went away.  Throughout the weekend I worked, shaped, altered, examined, adjusted, until I had it just the way I had envisioned it.  It was really a grand piece.  It was extremely abstract, resembling tangled water pipes or ice skaters or something in-between.  I called it briefly “The Ice Dancer.”  When finished, I wrapped the clay, now well-past-leather) in paper and supported it on all sides for the ride back to the University.  I was ecstatic.

When I got to the clay room, I unwrapped it, set it on the table and admired it for a moment before picking it up to take it to the drying shelf.  Then in my hands, without warning, without reason, it broke.  It didn’t just break apart; it disintegrated.  It lay in a lifeless, formless pile of dirt on the floor.  I stood stunned for a moment and then wailed loud and long.

From the second floor of the building I heard my instructor’s voice.  He understood the wail without seeing the occurrence. “It’s only clay,” he yelled down. 

His insensitivity to my loss infuriated me.  Finally, I gained enough strength to cry back, “But it was my clay.”

Just loud enough to make out I heard him reply.  “Maybe not.”

The picture is of my studio porch wall.  The relief is one that blew apart in the kiln.  I was going to scatter the pieces in one of my little gardens and as I lay them out, they all fit together so I fixed it -sort of and mounted it in my stucco wall.  I still have to paint and age the stucco and paint the trim and ceiling.

As soon as

I'm so tired of saying "As soon as we get the house done. . . "  but there it is.  That is my life right now.  I didn't get much done yesterday because it rained all day.  Thankfully, I had been able to put the first paint and so seal the stucco on the front porch.  I didn't get it on the front corner and that stucco is quite wet.  Hopefully it will dry out and allow me to get it painted and aged before the rains come again later this week. 

I have a section of rock about 1 foot by 7 feet and a section of stucco about 18 inches square.  I also have a small kneewall to build to resolve a potential water issue and some painting and sealing.  It's raining lightly, but on the radar, it looks like this is the last band of rain for this go 'round.  I can seal and paint on the studio porch when the stucco dries completely seeing that it's all covered, but the rock has to be done when it's dry.  Louis finished all the soffits and trim and it looks great.  Now I must complete the surfaces.  We hope to have it inspected by Friday afternoon.  That would be a good thing.

Search for a Suitable Name Cont.

Why is it so hard to name the cat?  He's already wiggled, jumped, batted, chewed and purred his way into our hearts.  Little Cat isn't a suitable name at all.  There seems to be an acceptance window here that we may be exausting.

If he were grey, I'd name him shadow, for he certainly is attached to me at the feet.  Everywhere I go he follows, sometimes charging ahead if he can guess correctly.  But he never gets far enough ahead that he can't turn around and bat at my feet and trip me up.  I've stepped on him a couple dozen times already but never hard enough to really injure him - until Tuesday.  He cried repeatedly and ran to hide under the buffet where he continued to complain for awhile.  Eventually he made his way out again as a wiser, more cautious, yet no less clingy kitten. 

As stomach problems sent me flying into the bathroom with a hasty push on the door to keep the room to myself, he flew down the hall like a toddler, pressing himself against the door until he knocked it open enough to join me.  Like a toddler, "Go away" means nothing.  If I sit down for a moment anywhere but the dining table, he's in my lap unless he's in Louis' lap biting and licking and rubbing and purring.  Yet somehow shadow seems all wrong for a yellow cat.

It somehow surfaced that foot fungus tends to yellow and clings to the feet as well.  But that's a bad name for a cat.

Home Improvement?

My plan was to wake early, get everything ready, and head to the store for glue all or a reasonable substitute so I could get back busy on the stucco job.  I have the sunporch and front done and lack only the studio porch to be "free".

I had some other things I needed -cat dish that he can't carry all over the house, paint, something suitable for my standing rolls and rulers in the studio - so I thought I'd just buy a couple quarts of glue from the Supercenter until Lowes got some gallons back in.  After a few minutes of looking for an employee, I learned that they don't carry anything but the little project size of white polymer glue anymore.  "We have contact cement and liquid nails."

As I headed for the car after getting the other items I thought I'd just go home, but I realized I can't do any more stucco until I get the glue.  So I headed to Home Depot the "We can find it; you can help," people.  The helpful guy tried to convince me wood glue was the same thing.  No, it's not.  "I'm sorry, we can't help."

I headed over to Sutherland.  This nice man came right to my aid.  "Well, there's carpenter glue."  Looks like there's a space for glue-all, but no glue.  "This isn't my department.  The paint guy will know.  I don't see him right now.  We have these little bottles."  I need LOTS of glue.  "Well the paint guy is around here somewhere.  He's wearing a red shirt and shorts."  I smiled as sincerely as I could and headed out.

Yeagers is on the way home, so I pulled in.  Low and behold among their tight, cluttered isles is Elmer's Glue All in gallons and beside it sits Elmers Masonry Glue in gallons.  After reading both labels, I decide to stick with what I know and buy 2 gallons of Glue-All, all they had for now.  Squealing "Yea - -"  I hurry to my car. 

I got the car unloaded by 11:30.  I have a class at 3.  I fed the little nameless cat climbing my leg, put away the groceries and scarfed a little food.  It's noon.  I'm beginning to feel cornered, claustrophobic.  By the time I change clothes and make up the muck I might not have enough time to spread it before I must get ready for my class.  I head for the back porch and see the cleaning job I began yesterday in my studio.  Sigh.  I put together the frame I bought to hold the stuff I piled on the tables.  It's close to 1 PM.

I had a plan.  Really I did.  It was not my intention to blow a whole morning.  This is home improvement!?

to an awesome guy

I am married to an awesome guy.

Last Valentines Day he came in after his post work shower to find me slaving over a graphic job in my studio.  "Do you have time to stop for a while?"

I growled that the job had grown and the person was coming later that evening to pick it up.  Kindly, he said "What can I do?" and got to work helping me.

Later, after the person told me she'd forgotten that this was Valentines Day and she'd just get it tomorrow, I learned that Louis had bought tickets to a special dinner for us.  He was kind about it as I ranted.  I felt horrible - on all counts.  I sat by my computer feeling sad, ashamed, frustrated, tired and began to write.  I thought I'd share it here.

While I serve others, you come up short

as I neglect so many things

But you are always a good sport

and take with patience what life brings.

I love you so and never mean

to slight, ignore or turn away

And still I take on more it seems

Each time we face a special day.

So thank you for the grace you give

While I complete just one more thing

And in the future as we live

Perhaps some joy for you I’ll bring

So for today, I work and wish

That I was freer for some task-

Brownies, meatloaf, chocolate gifts-

To give you more while less I ask.

The picture was taken in North Carolina by one of my daughters.  I cropped it.

Kingly names for a cutie

There are kings I would not name my cat after for a variety of reasons.

Alexander - between the dying young thing and the rabbit, no.

Ceasar - he was an emporer.   He was a substance abuser who tried to say his seisures were devine trances.   Anyway, it fits a dog better.

David - for the sake of honor, no.

Ahab - coward, unmanly, wicked, no.

Soloman - the cat is smart, but wise?  I hope to have a name before I know.

Caligula - hard to say and a despicable, cruel character.

Peter the Great - just not a cat name.

George - - - - - no!



I would consider Hamurabi, Abimelek, Ivan, Asherbanipal.

Shirkhan is another thought -tiger speaking.

I just can't make up my mind.

Search for a Suitable Name

  I got a kitten a week ago Wednesday.  We haven’t named him yet.  I thought about Simba because of the whole yellow kitten playful sassy thing:  “I just can’t wait to be King.”  Eh!  Maybe not.  It’s really cute.  My 21 year old said it fit him, but not me.

  I’ve never been one to pick pet type names for my animals.  I’d never name a cat fluffy even if it was the fluffiest cat in the world.  I’d never name a dog spot or duke.  My last cat was named Dustin and was called Dusty all his life.  People thought it was because his long hair carried dust.  I’m not that shallow, though as a kitten he did have a grey spot atop his head that seemed like dirt of some kind.

  We toyed with the name “Spud.”  The kitty loves laying on the couch and watching TV.  But Spud seemed more of a dogs name or something you’d call your brother when you weren’t convinced he had proper parentage.  Tater was related, but seemed too country cute.  I don’t care for country style, so I haven’t really given it a chance.

  Louis flips cereal at him and he chases it and eats it, I haven’t ruled out Cheerio, but it reminds me of when I named my Dog 'Phizgig' because of her resemblance to a creature in a movie “The Dark Crystal.”  My grandchildren called her “Biscuit” and everyone said “How cute, does she like biscuits or is it because of her size.”  I’m thinking “Who would name a dog Bisquit?”  But then, my friend named hers Muffin.

  Boomer: short for boomerang, seems somewhat appropriate.  But it’s so localized.  Most yellow cats I’ve known are energetic, inquisitive kittens but mellow extremely upon adulthood.  So while he bounds back when you throw him now (off the couch, off the table, off the bed, out of the room), he probably won’t be so inclined when he’s mature (fat).

  So I listen to myself and watch the crazy little thing and think, ‘How long will we say “Little Cat, commeer”?’ 

  A visitor to my studio this week told Louis we should call him “Taco.”  Taco?  I turned my head to cough politely as my eyes and nostrils flared and almost coughed up a hairball.

  The whole "king" thing still has me intrigued.  Elvis?  Louie? (Not there!) Henry?  Hannibal?  Nabopilasser?  Ludwig? (Yeah: hey Lude cat.)  Ferdinand?  That’s not a bad one but how do you shorten it. (Here Ferdi, Ferdi)  Sargon the Great seems cool, but then there is a close resemblance to the bad guys in Lord of the Rings.  Of course, Sargon’s related identity might be good.  Nimrod.  “Nim witt” “Hot rod”  I could do this if I knew he’d make it to “mighty hunter” stage.  He does toss and chase the play mice with rattles inside.

  Sigh!  "Here, here, Little Cat."

Let it happen

Most times it's hard for me to change.  I have my set of ideas and experiences and they're great as they are, but often I find myself trying to put the present into yesterday's jars.  It doesn't fit.

We planned to go to the lake as we often do, but there were so many obstacles.  Friday night meeting, Saturday ball game, responsibilities at church Sunday morning.  It looked like we'd be running back and forth all weekend.  But we went ahead with the plans thinking "We can do it."

Finally Rhonda, whose family was going with us and who had her own set of complications, said "I just don't see it working," so we traded Friday through Monday bumping around at the lake for Sunday and Monday at the river, a cave and a hike to a place called "Glory Hole." 

We got to the Buffalo National River, where we camped, later than we hoped.  Visitors, phone calls, building a cat cage all took time.  When we got there it was time to fix supper, put the babies to bed and go to the cave.  I skipped the cave due to sore joints and a little stomach upset.  Gas in the forest is not much of an issue, gas in a cave?  No.  So after a little clean up, I took my kitten and Jacob whose lack of body mass won't allow him to cave much and went to my tent.  The kitten was so glad to be out of the cage, he entertained us mightily.  I dosed off with Jacob and the kitten playing happily.  I awakened breifly when the others got back from the cave and helped secure the site.

I woke before dawn.  The cavers got back 2ish and were not appreciative of the event.  I made coffee, a fire and pancake batter.  The kids began to wake up and come out of their tents.  The younger kids had gone to bed 8:30 - 9ish and weren't real tired. 

We were supposed to be packed and out by 11.  It wasn't going to happen.  Finally Louis stumbled out of our tent.  The babies began awakening and Rhonda appeared.  The middle group of kids had begun breakfast, helping the young ones with hot cakes, bacon and syrup.  We got it cleaned up and were out about 12:30.  Phil made arrangements with Ranger Billy.

I've always heard of Glory Hole and thought someday I'd go there.  Well, this was the day.  After a 40 minute drive, we ate lunch at the trail head and headed out in a variety of groups.  Sarah and her friend were at the front as were Cody and Daniel.  If I'd known what was there and how quickly they'd reach it, I'd have been concerned.  Ignorance is bliss.

Not too far into the hike, I began seeing the mushrooms.  Colors and  shapes I'd never seen before were all so conveniently placed along the path.  I took up disk after disk of pictures.  I even took a few of my people!  Jacob and Jessica were happy to hunt the sides of the trail for specie we might miss.

I've wanted to try a technique I've seen on another page and so I took several of what I hoped would become stereo pictures.  I came up with 5 sets that worked out of 7 tries.  Eventually we caught up to Rhonda and Hannah doing the same thing: photographing the mushrooms just up trail from the main attraction.

Glory Hole is a large funnel cut in the rock.  It had no water running through it that day, but you could see the force the water had held through time.  I took one stereo set there and am pleased with the result.  Then we took the trail to the bottom.  Looking up was almost as awesome.  We've discussed going back during the high color and in the spring when the water would be running.

Once more, the familiar was replaced with an awesome present.  New things always surprise you if you let them happen.