Thoughts about Time

Harvey and Wilma

Harvey and Wilma were born in 1890. They married when Harvey was released from serving in WWI as a supply train supervisor (mule division), and started having children at the start of The Great Depression when they were around 40 years old.  They are pictured here in 1952 at the age of 62 in the backyard of their home in South Bend, Indiana.  The home that my mind still travels to so frequently...  the repository of so many memories...  the embodiment of love.  Flashes of an orange painted basement floor upon which sat the old Maytag washer replete with wringer; a brick of yellow cheddar on the kitchen counter with a sleeve of saltines beside it always ready to stave off hunger; the wide front porch we kids played endless games on during the day and slept on when nights were hot and muggy - when we weren't catching fireflies. 

Harvey and Wilma were my grandparents and my heroes.  They still are.  Dignified and classy, they also knew how to make a child feel loved and appreciated.  They accepted me, my sisters, and cousins  "as is" and of all the homes I lived in growing up, it was their home that I thought of as Home.

I always thought of my grandparents as Old.  Throughout my life with them, they had gray hair, unglamorous figures, and inelegant clothing (with the exception of Grandpa's fedora and overcoat).  I found myself wondering just how old they really were.  Sorting through some old photos (I've been doing that a lot lately), I found this one with a clear date on the back written in a strong hand.  I was surprised when I did the math and realized they were only 62 in this picture.  Perhaps it's because I live in an affluent resort town where people ski, run, hike, and swim until they are in their 80's or just can't do it anymore.  But I do not know any 62 year old  (and many of my friends are approaching this age or have surpassed it) that looks like my grandparents do in this photo.

I offer no conclusion, but do offer a few observations:  My grandparents did not work out nor were they athletic in any way.  Their clothing was of the time and, never wealthy, they wore the same clothes for years.  They did not dye their hair, hide, disguise, or alter their aging bodies in any way.  Grandpa worked for Studebaker until he could retire with a gold watch and a pension.  His company did not fire him right before retirement or try to get out of paying him for his long years of service.  Of simple means, they had a garden in the summer, read books (Rex Stout and Zane Grey for Grandpa, crossword puzzles for Grandma), and listened to ball games.  There was a lot of conversation and many family meals together.  They lived until they were in their mid-eighties and their looks never changed.   

Quail Tracks

In this complicated time of burgeoning uncertainty, I look to my grandparents once again for direction and guidance.

Mountain Quail

In my yard today:

Crabapple Tree Today

In my town today:

Ponderosa Pine Log

Don't squander your energies on anything you are lukewarm about.  Passion adds power and strength - Jean Ray Laury

Sacred Spaces

Keeping Vigil

Do you have places that are sacred to you?  Places that cause you to exhale when you are there and feel at peace?  Being fairly reclusive, my "sacred places" are mostly in my home or - like this one - in my yard.  As I sit typing this at my desk, I am looking out the window directly at this small island of peace that has, in recent years, also become a memorial.  The stones encircling the glass insulators mark the grave of a beloved old dog.  The insulators are part of a treasured collection put together by my late husband.  St. Francis was given to me by my mother who crossed over several years ago.  So while this space has always been special to me, it is now also sacred.  These spaces (my studio being one of them) help me center my thoughts and feelings; remind me to breathe and think fully... mindfully.  A moment spent quietly centering myself prepares me to draw on my inner "sacred spaces" where my art work comes from.

Lovely Crabapple

My frequently photographed crabapple tree (this photo is from 2 days ago) is another cherished place valued for its dreamy sky and mountain views framed by branches that change with the seasons from snowy blossoms, to bright red and gold, to ice encrusted black lace.  This tree also provides me with sacred ritual - each fall, I pick a neon red apple and place it on my white kitchen windowsill.  There, it reminds me of growing things throughout the long winter and slowly shrivels until I replace it the following fall. 

Tundra Fire

I like my work to reflect thoughts, feelings, and places that are sacred to me.  I have not been able to get into my studio yet, but have been furiously making collages on poster board using a box of photographs and magazines I keep for this purpose.  Limiting myself to these materials has freed me to work quickly and spontaneously and just have a lot of fun.  Tundra and all things ice are especially close to my heart which is interesting given my enormous struggle each alpine winter (45 degrees latitude, 5,300 feet altitude) to keep my good humor.  I am reflecting on this dichotomy and pondering how I might incorporate my collage technique in my art work


Wishing you peace and enjoyment of your own sacred spaces.

Recovery Ramblings

October Crabapple

Yes, I'm afraid so.  Can you believe this is the same cheerful crabapple I photographed in my last post?  This is the early morning scene off my back porch.  Checking my journals from previous years, this is a mite early for a sticking snow even for us.  Hunters and skiers are jumping for joy.  Me... well, I'm sure this is a passing anomaly and I'm so close to real studio time...

I am one week post-op today and, though frequently tired, am doing extremely well.  My "swelly belly" is slowly diminishing and as of yesterday, I can walk upright without too much mincing.  I was feeling and looking like Yoda there for awhile, but I rapidly improve and am enjoying catching up on a few things that are couch friendly...  like FINALLY putting those 1998 pictures of my trip to visit my sister who happened to live in France at the time in a photo album.  With narration.  Of course.  Words, words, words, I love and live for words.  I think about them all the time.  Running narratives populate my mind constantly.  I was writing this blog in my shower this morning while gazing out the bathroom window which has returned to it's winter state of reflecting dappled gray and silver light.  See what I mean?

Oh Happy Day

My good recovery is aided greatly by my wonderful friends and family who have sent care packages, brought meals, and dropped by to visit.  Thank you thank you.  One such friend drove my car (and me) out to the woods on Monday where she sat me in this chair and took my picture then went off to harvest Valerian.  I was in heaven even without my book..

Cousin Jon:  If you are reading this from your fancy phone and you are still in Michigan, would you please pick up a Petosky stone for me?  I lost my brown paper sack of them when I moved from there to here years ago and it has always grieved me.  Thanks!