In elementary school I had a best friend named Myrth. "It means laughter," she told me. "My big sister's name means beautiful," she added. Her sister's name was Linda. Myrth and Linda lived with their parents on Friends Avenue near the downtown area of our community. I had always wanted Linda and my older sister to become friends too, daydreaming of the tidy arrangement that would make, but they never did.
One day, Myrth came over to my house for the afternoon and we decided to play with our Barbies. We played on the grass in our sunny backyard, dressing the dolls in several outfits and fussing with their hair, leaving our Ken and Midge dolls to fend for themselves. After playing for a while, I suggested that Ken come over to Barbie's house for a sleepover. Myrth covered her mouth in shock. "Ken and Barbie can't sleep together!" she gasped and she leaned in closer. "That's how babies are made," she whispered in my ear.
Thanks to my older siblings, I'd already had some inkling of how babies were made but this was news. I didn't know that it could also happen when a couple slept in the same bed. I was embarrassed at my ignorance and at my inappropriate suggestion, and made Myrth promise that she wouldn't tell anyone. For the next few years, I thought there were two ways babies were made: 1. man and woman having sex, and 2. man and woman sleeping in the same bed.
After that sunny afternoon and all through my "health" classes as I learned about human sexuality, nothing ever disproved Myrth's theory. By the end of my freshman year in high school I was determined to find out the truth. As much as I didn't want to, I knocked on Mom's bedroom door one night and popped the question. "Do two people have to have sex for a woman to get pregnant, or can a woman get pregnant just by sleeping in the same bed with a man?" I wanted to make Mom promise not to tell anyone, like I had made Myrth promise all those years ago, but I felt ignorant and embarrassed, and really just wanted to get out of there.
Mom set me straight and then asked, "Do you have any other questions?"
Hell no! I was thinking to myself as I left, silently closing the door behind me.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Nativity
A friend who has been helping me work on my Spanish skills invited me to assist in giving out food "baskets" at her church last Saturday morning. "They need Spanish speakers," she told me. "You can practice your Spanish."
"Will you be there?" I asked her. My Spanish is functional at best.
She laughed. "Yes, I'll be there. If it gets too uncomfortable for you, just let me know. It's no big deal and you don't have to stay if it doesn't work out."
Saturday morning was chilly and damp, but I was glad it wasn't raining. At 8:00 a.m., dressed in warm layers, I met my friend at the enormous, newly renovated, mission style church. I followed her to a squat, narrow building separated from the church by a parking lot. Inside was a room with six long tables, each lined with dozens of cardboard boxes packed with food and toiletries. Taped to the end of each table was a sheet of paper with a large number written on it. Families had signed up earlier in the month, and the boxes were prepared according to the size of each family. People who were receiving the food would show up at their prescribed time, drive through the parking lot and down the alley stopping next to double doors, where their name was checked off a list as a box of food was loaded into their car.
My friend and I were in charge of the cars entering the parking lot. We talked to the drivers, putting yellow half sheets of paper on car windshields and asking them to unlock trunks or back car doors, wherever they wanted the food to be placed. If they didn't have the yellow paper, we asked them to have some form of identification ready. Then we directed them to drive, a few at a time around the corner and down the alley for their box of food.
As it turned out there weren't many Spanish speaking families but still it was fun chatting with people as they drove up in their vehicles. Almost all of the people were friendly and upbeat. Some were picking up boxes for more than one family and many of those cars were packed with adults and kids. The people thanked us and most said, "Merry Christmas" or "God bless you." A half an hour had gone by when my friend pointed to a young couple standing with a blanket covered baby stroller, next to the building. "There you go, Nancy," she said. "Time to practice."
I walked over to them and said, "Hello." They were both not much more than five feet tall. The woman's plain round face was pale and her eyes were round and dark. Strands of her dark hair peeked out from under a blue scarf. She was wearing a yellow and pink flowered polyester dress under a brown sweater and she had on lime green pants. She smiled briefly but was quiet. She rested her hands on the metal bar of the old stroller. The worn fleece blanket covered whatever was inside. The man's broad face was smooth and tan, and he had black hair and small dark eyes. He was wearing jeans and work boots and he kept his hands in the kangaroo pocket of his navy blue Nike hoodie. He smiled a little. "¿Habla español?" he asked in a barely audible voice.
"Un poco," I said. They stood very still as they responded to my questions with either, "sí" or "no". In my elementary Spanish I asked if they were there to get a box of food and wanted to know if they had their yellow paper, pointing to the sample I had pinned to my day-glo orange safety vest. No, they didn't have the yellow paper but yes, they had identification. They didn't have a car. I pointed to the side of the building and showed them where they could stand on the sidewalk to join the line of vehicles in the alley waiting to get food.
As my friend and I continued to greet people and talk to each other I kept glancing at the young family as they inched along the sidewalk next to the cars in the alley, keeping their place in line. I wondered how long they had lived in the area and how they had found out about the food boxes. I wondered if they'd had to walk very far that morning. I wondered about the child who must be sleeping in the stroller. The church provided one service in Spanish each Sunday so I thought maybe they attended each week. I felt good that there were places like this where families could get some help and I was glad I was there to be a small part of it.
More cars arrived and we were kept busy talking to drivers, asking for yellow papers and directing them to the line that curved around the building. Eventually I noticed the young couple slowly pushing the stroller back through the parking lot toward the street. They didn't have a box of food with them. "What happened?" I asked my friend.
"They hadn't signed up. Their name wasn't on the list."
"Oh no," I said.
"There might be some food left over when we're finished at noon," my friend said. "Maybe they'll come back."
I watched the couple walk through the parking lot to the sidewalk. They stopped and the man sat down on the small stone wall that edged the lawn of the church. The woman stood facing him, her back straight with her hands on stroller, showing her round sillouette. For the next twenty minutes or so I kept an eye on the young family. They stayed there at the end of the driveway; the man sitting and the woman standing, with the stroller between them. Maybe they were waiting to see if there would be extra food. Eventually I saw the man stand up and follow the woman as she pushed the stroller off of the grass and onto the sidewalk. I watched them walk together along the sidewalk until my view was blocked by the huge church. "There they go," I said to my friend.
"Maybe they'll come back," she said.
"Will you be there?" I asked her. My Spanish is functional at best.
She laughed. "Yes, I'll be there. If it gets too uncomfortable for you, just let me know. It's no big deal and you don't have to stay if it doesn't work out."
Saturday morning was chilly and damp, but I was glad it wasn't raining. At 8:00 a.m., dressed in warm layers, I met my friend at the enormous, newly renovated, mission style church. I followed her to a squat, narrow building separated from the church by a parking lot. Inside was a room with six long tables, each lined with dozens of cardboard boxes packed with food and toiletries. Taped to the end of each table was a sheet of paper with a large number written on it. Families had signed up earlier in the month, and the boxes were prepared according to the size of each family. People who were receiving the food would show up at their prescribed time, drive through the parking lot and down the alley stopping next to double doors, where their name was checked off a list as a box of food was loaded into their car.
My friend and I were in charge of the cars entering the parking lot. We talked to the drivers, putting yellow half sheets of paper on car windshields and asking them to unlock trunks or back car doors, wherever they wanted the food to be placed. If they didn't have the yellow paper, we asked them to have some form of identification ready. Then we directed them to drive, a few at a time around the corner and down the alley for their box of food.
As it turned out there weren't many Spanish speaking families but still it was fun chatting with people as they drove up in their vehicles. Almost all of the people were friendly and upbeat. Some were picking up boxes for more than one family and many of those cars were packed with adults and kids. The people thanked us and most said, "Merry Christmas" or "God bless you." A half an hour had gone by when my friend pointed to a young couple standing with a blanket covered baby stroller, next to the building. "There you go, Nancy," she said. "Time to practice."
I walked over to them and said, "Hello." They were both not much more than five feet tall. The woman's plain round face was pale and her eyes were round and dark. Strands of her dark hair peeked out from under a blue scarf. She was wearing a yellow and pink flowered polyester dress under a brown sweater and she had on lime green pants. She smiled briefly but was quiet. She rested her hands on the metal bar of the old stroller. The worn fleece blanket covered whatever was inside. The man's broad face was smooth and tan, and he had black hair and small dark eyes. He was wearing jeans and work boots and he kept his hands in the kangaroo pocket of his navy blue Nike hoodie. He smiled a little. "¿Habla español?" he asked in a barely audible voice.
"Un poco," I said. They stood very still as they responded to my questions with either, "sí" or "no". In my elementary Spanish I asked if they were there to get a box of food and wanted to know if they had their yellow paper, pointing to the sample I had pinned to my day-glo orange safety vest. No, they didn't have the yellow paper but yes, they had identification. They didn't have a car. I pointed to the side of the building and showed them where they could stand on the sidewalk to join the line of vehicles in the alley waiting to get food.
As my friend and I continued to greet people and talk to each other I kept glancing at the young family as they inched along the sidewalk next to the cars in the alley, keeping their place in line. I wondered how long they had lived in the area and how they had found out about the food boxes. I wondered if they'd had to walk very far that morning. I wondered about the child who must be sleeping in the stroller. The church provided one service in Spanish each Sunday so I thought maybe they attended each week. I felt good that there were places like this where families could get some help and I was glad I was there to be a small part of it.
More cars arrived and we were kept busy talking to drivers, asking for yellow papers and directing them to the line that curved around the building. Eventually I noticed the young couple slowly pushing the stroller back through the parking lot toward the street. They didn't have a box of food with them. "What happened?" I asked my friend.
"They hadn't signed up. Their name wasn't on the list."
"Oh no," I said.
"There might be some food left over when we're finished at noon," my friend said. "Maybe they'll come back."
I watched the couple walk through the parking lot to the sidewalk. They stopped and the man sat down on the small stone wall that edged the lawn of the church. The woman stood facing him, her back straight with her hands on stroller, showing her round sillouette. For the next twenty minutes or so I kept an eye on the young family. They stayed there at the end of the driveway; the man sitting and the woman standing, with the stroller between them. Maybe they were waiting to see if there would be extra food. Eventually I saw the man stand up and follow the woman as she pushed the stroller off of the grass and onto the sidewalk. I watched them walk together along the sidewalk until my view was blocked by the huge church. "There they go," I said to my friend.
"Maybe they'll come back," she said.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Robin's Loom
Several years ago, I went to my first Renaissance Faire and there, amongst the jugglers, turkey legs, and beer booths, was a weaver. I was immediately smitten and at that moment I knew that I was a weaver without a loom.
A short time later Jill called. Her sister-in-law had passed away suddenly. "I have Robin's loom and I'm trying to get rid of it," she said. The loom was beautiful, dusty, and mysterious. It was a tangle of wood and wires, and had turquoise and lavender lengths of yarn attached to it, woven into a small rectangle. It was what Robin had been working on before she passed away.
I was still convinced that I was a weaver at heart, but the loom was large and intimidating. I didn't know where to begin, so I didn't. My loom sat collecting dust day after day, month after month, year after year. I admit there were times I thought about selling the loom and giving my sister the money. Many other times, I forgot about it completely.
Seven years after receiving the loom, I was at a winery that was hosting an event for local artists. I began chatting to one of the vendors and I mentioned my loom. She pointed to the booth next to hers. "You should talk to Linda. She's a weaver and I think she gives lessons."
I talked to Linda, then went home and checked the Internet, and found several weavers in the area. My husband helped me clean out the garage and we lugged the loom from our storage unit to the newly emptied space. A weaver came to the house and gave me the basics. Now the loom is less mysterious and I've begun to work on Robin's long ago project.
A short time later Jill called. Her sister-in-law had passed away suddenly. "I have Robin's loom and I'm trying to get rid of it," she said. The loom was beautiful, dusty, and mysterious. It was a tangle of wood and wires, and had turquoise and lavender lengths of yarn attached to it, woven into a small rectangle. It was what Robin had been working on before she passed away.
I was still convinced that I was a weaver at heart, but the loom was large and intimidating. I didn't know where to begin, so I didn't. My loom sat collecting dust day after day, month after month, year after year. I admit there were times I thought about selling the loom and giving my sister the money. Many other times, I forgot about it completely.
Seven years after receiving the loom, I was at a winery that was hosting an event for local artists. I began chatting to one of the vendors and I mentioned my loom. She pointed to the booth next to hers. "You should talk to Linda. She's a weaver and I think she gives lessons."
I talked to Linda, then went home and checked the Internet, and found several weavers in the area. My husband helped me clean out the garage and we lugged the loom from our storage unit to the newly emptied space. A weaver came to the house and gave me the basics. Now the loom is less mysterious and I've begun to work on Robin's long ago project.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Reduction Printing
I haven't gotten around to finishing the painting I started during my art class at the Senior Center last summer. Actually it was the painting my teacher started, I was sort of her assistant in the whole creative process. My plan was to wait until the course was over, paint over the work with gesso and begin again, but that would be more unpainting than painting and therefore more unfun than fun.
In the meantime, I read in a magazine about Reduction Printing and it sounded right up my alley. I already had paper and acrylic paints so I purchased a brayer, some Easy-Kut rectangles, and a carving tool. Armed with those materials, one magazine article, 3/6 of an acrylic painting course under my belt, and an empty house, I began.
That was three weeks ago. The magazine article suggested producing several copies of each print, so as of today, I have completed three projects resulting in 18 prints.
Experience is the best teacher and here is what she's taught me so far:
1. Nike is correct. Just do it. Once you start you'll have fun and you'll be happy with the results.
3. If you decide to reproduce a national treasure like Mount Rushmore or Justin Bieber you should carve the block in reverse, otherwise it looks funny when you print.
In the meantime, I read in a magazine about Reduction Printing and it sounded right up my alley. I already had paper and acrylic paints so I purchased a brayer, some Easy-Kut rectangles, and a carving tool. Armed with those materials, one magazine article, 3/6 of an acrylic painting course under my belt, and an empty house, I began.
That was three weeks ago. The magazine article suggested producing several copies of each print, so as of today, I have completed three projects resulting in 18 prints.
Experience is the best teacher and here is what she's taught me so far:
(what to do now with six stiletto prints?)
2. Don't use the same colors for your second attempt. You'll get bored and think you lack creativity.
(one of six pomegranates)
3. If you decide to reproduce a national treasure like Mount Rushmore or Justin Bieber you should carve the block in reverse, otherwise it looks funny when you print.
(what Half Dome sees each morning when she looks at herself in the mirror)
I'm enjoying my first steps into the world of color, paint drips, and creativity. The work is all mine and I've learned more in my three DIY sessions than in the three sessions at the Senior Center watching someone else paint. Although I've had some missteps, I'm having way more fun than unfun.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
What You Might Not Want to Wear
Although the telephone recording suggests "business casual" and even gives the hint not to wear shorts, tube tops or tank tops some people are still unclear on the proper attire when reporting for jury duty. Here are some specific guidelines of what not to wear:
1. flip flops (the non discriminate colored Wal-Mart .89 cent variety)
2. baggy sweatpants
3. trucker hat, no matter if you're a man or a woman
4. oversized, bright red family reunion t shirt
5. bedroom slippers
6. warm ups
7. Nike black rubber shower shoes
8. a black, windshield repair, screened print t shirt, especially when worn two days in a row
9. waist length top with skin tight black leggings
10. wrinkled white short sleeved t shirt and track pants
1. flip flops (the non discriminate colored Wal-Mart .89 cent variety)
2. baggy sweatpants
3. trucker hat, no matter if you're a man or a woman
4. oversized, bright red family reunion t shirt
5. bedroom slippers
6. warm ups
7. Nike black rubber shower shoes
8. a black, windshield repair, screened print t shirt, especially when worn two days in a row
9. waist length top with skin tight black leggings
10. wrinkled white short sleeved t shirt and track pants
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Revenge
I see that Florida, Kentucky, and Missouri have passed regulation requiring drug testing for people applying for welfare. It's generated quite the buzz on FB, which is where I keep up on current events (who wants to watch smirky Rachel Maddow or crazypants Bill O'Reilly?).
Why the excitement? We're not so obsessed with people playing by the rules. It's not a battle from the War On Drugs, unless those who test positive will be referred for federally funded drug counseling. Although it might create additional jobs for urine analysts, it's won't stimulate the economy because new regulations generate cost.
There is the notion that people on welfare are drug addicts, or mentally ill, or illegal immigrants, or just plain lazy. Guess what? Children make up the largest segment of welfare recipients. Then why the FB post, urging people to spread the good news? It's because whenever the economy goes south we get grumpy and frustrated and we want someone to blame. Children won't fight back.
Go ahead and drug test welfare applicants. It won't affect me personally; I don't spend time worrying that the marginalized members of our society are playing by the rules. I'm more concerned about the wealthiest segment of the population cheating our economy. That definitely affects my day to day life.
Why the excitement? We're not so obsessed with people playing by the rules. It's not a battle from the War On Drugs, unless those who test positive will be referred for federally funded drug counseling. Although it might create additional jobs for urine analysts, it's won't stimulate the economy because new regulations generate cost.
There is the notion that people on welfare are drug addicts, or mentally ill, or illegal immigrants, or just plain lazy. Guess what? Children make up the largest segment of welfare recipients. Then why the FB post, urging people to spread the good news? It's because whenever the economy goes south we get grumpy and frustrated and we want someone to blame. Children won't fight back.
Go ahead and drug test welfare applicants. It won't affect me personally; I don't spend time worrying that the marginalized members of our society are playing by the rules. I'm more concerned about the wealthiest segment of the population cheating our economy. That definitely affects my day to day life.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Growing Pains
Before junior high, life made sense. I wore clean clothes, my hair was always combed (seriously, in an old photo taken while camping at Yellowstone, my hair was braided neatly and I wore a headband that matched my shirt). We lived in a pretty blue house with a swimming pool. We were boy scouts and girl scouts. We went on vacation every summer. My father worked relatively close to home and my mother was a teacher.
I was a good girl and felt sure that my teachers, neighbors, aunts, uncles and grandparents loved me. I did well in school with minimal effort and I won foot races and spelling bees. When I got into trouble it was for mild misbehavior (tattling, not sharing, answering back). If something or someone upset me, I could easily find an adult to give me sympathy along with a warm hug and like a Band-aid on a skinned knee, I felt better. Life was good.
Then I entered seventh grade and everything changed. My parents were divorced and we'd moved to a smaller house in a different neighborhood. It was a nice house and a nice neighborhood, but it was different. Suddenly my clothes didn't fit without the benefit of safety pins. I was too tall and too thin to wear anything off the rack. Mom purchased an enormous box of Wate-On and I was expected to choke down six of the dry, chalky tablets every day. I wore braces that always seemed to have food stuck in them and I began to get pimples.
Now school didn't work the way it was supposed to work. I understood little of what the math teacher was saying (base 12? slide rules?). I couldn't get my locker open and was always late to class. For the first time in my life, I had teachers who seemed annoyed with me. Friends I had had all through elementary school were different. They had grown up over the summer, dressing in a way that was foreign to me. I was still wearing tennis shoes and knee socks but they were wearing kitten heels and stockings.
I had lived a charmed life and without warning, I had fallen from grace. The contrast was stunning. I lost confidence in myself and spent most of my time playing catch up. In those days I blamed it on my parents' divorce, but I now I know it wasn't the divorce. It was adolescence and I wasn't alone.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
The Life of Tracy
I walked into my seventh grade science class and slipped into my chair, plopping my books on my desk. As I leaned onto my elbows and put my chin in my hands, Tracy walked into the room. She smoothed the back of her dress with her hand as she sat in her chair. She smiled as she said, "Hi" to the girl in the desk next to hers. I ran my tongue across my prickly braces. Had I remembered to brush my teeth this morning?
The teacher took roll and then asked a student to collect last night's homework. That was the first time I had given my homework any thought since class the day before. I heard the smart, "snap" and watched Tracy use the silver end tabs to open the rings of her binder. She removed her homework, refastened the rings and handed the paper to the student collecting homework. When he came to me, I shook my head and began picking dirt out from under three of my fingernails.
I shifted in my chair to relieve the slight poke I felt in my side caused by the safety pin in my waistband holding up my skirt. I checked out Tracy's pastel plaid dress and modest white sandals. I pushed my feet further under my chair. I decided I would wash the Keds I was wearing when I got home.
I rested my chin on top of my two stacked fists and peeked over at Tracy. She sat with her back straight, her hands folded neatly on her books. She crossed her ankles and tucked her feet to one side. She had a dark blonde page boy that never flipped up, but always curled under. I pushed out my lower lip and blew the bangs out of my eyes and thought I might try to trim them after my shower this evening, after I washed my Keds.
I was in seventh grade over forty five years ago, yet I still think about Tracy from time to time. Whenever I have a clean house, folded laundry, completed lesson plans, gas in the car and dinner in the oven I think I am living the life of Tracy, and I like it. Other days I spend hours in my backyard drinking cosmos and working crossword puzzles, while spider webs, weeds, and dust bunnies collect all around me. I am a work in progress, and after all, Tracy had a head start.
The teacher took roll and then asked a student to collect last night's homework. That was the first time I had given my homework any thought since class the day before. I heard the smart, "snap" and watched Tracy use the silver end tabs to open the rings of her binder. She removed her homework, refastened the rings and handed the paper to the student collecting homework. When he came to me, I shook my head and began picking dirt out from under three of my fingernails.
I shifted in my chair to relieve the slight poke I felt in my side caused by the safety pin in my waistband holding up my skirt. I checked out Tracy's pastel plaid dress and modest white sandals. I pushed my feet further under my chair. I decided I would wash the Keds I was wearing when I got home.
I rested my chin on top of my two stacked fists and peeked over at Tracy. She sat with her back straight, her hands folded neatly on her books. She crossed her ankles and tucked her feet to one side. She had a dark blonde page boy that never flipped up, but always curled under. I pushed out my lower lip and blew the bangs out of my eyes and thought I might try to trim them after my shower this evening, after I washed my Keds.
I was in seventh grade over forty five years ago, yet I still think about Tracy from time to time. Whenever I have a clean house, folded laundry, completed lesson plans, gas in the car and dinner in the oven I think I am living the life of Tracy, and I like it. Other days I spend hours in my backyard drinking cosmos and working crossword puzzles, while spider webs, weeds, and dust bunnies collect all around me. I am a work in progress, and after all, Tracy had a head start.
Monday, August 1, 2011
Nothing Special
I was reminded today of some of my early childhood developmental shortcomings. I heard the stories (already told 37,638 times) of my difficulties in learning how to tie my shoes, and in learning how to tell time. Those stories prompted memories of my struggles in math, my inability to find my way out of a paper bag, and my ongoing confusion with left and right.
For the last couple of years, I've suspected that I might be average. Here are the clues I've gathered (in addition to the facts listed above):
1. My husband is much smarter than I am
2. My four children are much smarter than I am
3. My siblings and nieces are much smarter than I am
4. My friends are much smarter than I am
The indisputable evidence of the four points above are varied but include games of Trivial Pursuit, college acceptance letters, bi- (and on occasion tri-) lingualism, on-the-fly math calculations (without benefit of calculator, paper, or pencil), creative writing skills, athleticism, awards, trophies, ribbons, musical ability, people starting sentences with the word, "remember" when speaking to me, and most importantly the use of the word "cute" to describe my thought processes.
My conscientious parents consistently reminded me of how special I was when I was a child. I had believed for much of my 55 years that I was a bundle of untapped genius. As an adult, while I was busy working, child-rearing, cleaning, and wasting time, I was smug in the knowledge that although I hadn't yet done anything spectacular, I was a ticking time-bomb waiting to explode with unsurpassed talent that would be admired by the world, once I took some time to develop my God-given gifts.
When my children were of an age to more or less fend for themselves for a few hours each week, I began to dabble. I took violin lessons. I registered for Spanish classes. I joined a volleyball team. I signed up for a painting class. I pursued a variety of interests, with disappointing results. Hours of lessons, classes, practice, homework, and lectures led to a shocking discovery. I did not possess a hidden talent. My parents had lied. I am unique, it's true. But being unique does not, in fact make me special.
So what do I do with this new discovery? What is wrong with being average? I can't answer those questions, and it's been difficult for me to accept my place at the top of the bell curve. I've always suspected that not everyone is born with a spectacular talent. Some are born to clean the house and prepare the meals while those who are special, change the world. I always thought that I would be the flower and someone else would be the stem. It's time for me to feel the glory of the stem.
For the last couple of years, I've suspected that I might be average. Here are the clues I've gathered (in addition to the facts listed above):
1. My husband is much smarter than I am
2. My four children are much smarter than I am
3. My siblings and nieces are much smarter than I am
4. My friends are much smarter than I am
The indisputable evidence of the four points above are varied but include games of Trivial Pursuit, college acceptance letters, bi- (and on occasion tri-) lingualism, on-the-fly math calculations (without benefit of calculator, paper, or pencil), creative writing skills, athleticism, awards, trophies, ribbons, musical ability, people starting sentences with the word, "remember" when speaking to me, and most importantly the use of the word "cute" to describe my thought processes.
My conscientious parents consistently reminded me of how special I was when I was a child. I had believed for much of my 55 years that I was a bundle of untapped genius. As an adult, while I was busy working, child-rearing, cleaning, and wasting time, I was smug in the knowledge that although I hadn't yet done anything spectacular, I was a ticking time-bomb waiting to explode with unsurpassed talent that would be admired by the world, once I took some time to develop my God-given gifts.
When my children were of an age to more or less fend for themselves for a few hours each week, I began to dabble. I took violin lessons. I registered for Spanish classes. I joined a volleyball team. I signed up for a painting class. I pursued a variety of interests, with disappointing results. Hours of lessons, classes, practice, homework, and lectures led to a shocking discovery. I did not possess a hidden talent. My parents had lied. I am unique, it's true. But being unique does not, in fact make me special.
So what do I do with this new discovery? What is wrong with being average? I can't answer those questions, and it's been difficult for me to accept my place at the top of the bell curve. I've always suspected that not everyone is born with a spectacular talent. Some are born to clean the house and prepare the meals while those who are special, change the world. I always thought that I would be the flower and someone else would be the stem. It's time for me to feel the glory of the stem.
God is Love
Is love genderless?
Is love exclusive?
Can love hate?
Does love kill?
Does love seek revenge?
Is love selfish?
Is love an imposing?
Is love judgmental?
Is love powerful?
Is love stronger than hate?
Can love change the world?
Is love forgiving?
Is love joyful?
Is love hopeful?
Does love take sides?
Is love generous?
Is love exclusive?
Can love hate?
Does love kill?
Does love seek revenge?
Is love selfish?
Is love an imposing?
Is love judgmental?
Is love powerful?
Is love stronger than hate?
Can love change the world?
Is love forgiving?
Is love joyful?
Is love hopeful?
Does love take sides?
Is love generous?
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Art Class
I arrived early at the senior center for the first day of my Painting with Acrylics class. The Materials List had instructed me to "dress comfortably" so I wore cropped sweatpants, old, dirty running shoes and a wrinkled HRC tee shirt. I admit it; I hadn't had time to shower. The teacher, dressed in a green floral blouse, dark slacks and sparkly earrings smiled when I entered the bright room. With a slight accent, she introduced herself. When I mispronounced her name, she patiently told me it was the same as the name 'Marvin' but with a different first letter. Within seconds I forgot what letter her name began with and only knew that it rhymed with Marvin.
I put my white Michael's bag on the table in front of us and showed ?arvin the brushes I had bought. She slid the bristles back and forth across her her fingers. "These brushes are for oil paint," she said. "You need brushes for acrylics." She said she had some brushes I could borrow. "Did you bring something you wanted to paint?" she asked. I told her I hadn't, so she brought a Costco envelope stuffed with photographs, as well as some brushes over to my table.
I browsed through the photos of postcards, posters and paintings from the Costco envelope. I found a photo that I liked of several colorful leaves on a green and brown background. ?arvin began mixing my paints to match one of the background colors, then she showed me how to paint the canvas (zig zag strokes, not horizontal). She handed me the brush and I was on my way.
Later, ?arvin mixed the brown paint for the rest of my background and I finished covering the canvas. ?arvin returned and looked over my shoulder. "Very good," she said. Then she picked up the brush and said, "You can use water to blend the color like this." She began brushing more paint over my canvas. She continued to paint, mixing more green and then brown, pausing to slide my canvas closer to where she leaned. By the time she was finished, ?arvin had repainted my entire canvas. Every stroke was hers.
I spent the rest of the class time drawing and painting leaves. ?arvin spent the rest of the class time painting over much of my work. Initially, I felt confusion, frustration, and disappointment. But by the end of class I was able to relax and even smile a little at her teaching technique. I realized that even though I would end up with a painting that was hers instead of mine, I was learning how to mix, blend, and paint with acrylics on canvas.
When class was over ?arvin asked, "Do you have time to paint at home?" I told her that I did. "Good," she said. "You work on it at home, then bring it in and we fix it."
I put my white Michael's bag on the table in front of us and showed ?arvin the brushes I had bought. She slid the bristles back and forth across her her fingers. "These brushes are for oil paint," she said. "You need brushes for acrylics." She said she had some brushes I could borrow. "Did you bring something you wanted to paint?" she asked. I told her I hadn't, so she brought a Costco envelope stuffed with photographs, as well as some brushes over to my table.
I browsed through the photos of postcards, posters and paintings from the Costco envelope. I found a photo that I liked of several colorful leaves on a green and brown background. ?arvin began mixing my paints to match one of the background colors, then she showed me how to paint the canvas (zig zag strokes, not horizontal). She handed me the brush and I was on my way.
Later, ?arvin mixed the brown paint for the rest of my background and I finished covering the canvas. ?arvin returned and looked over my shoulder. "Very good," she said. Then she picked up the brush and said, "You can use water to blend the color like this." She began brushing more paint over my canvas. She continued to paint, mixing more green and then brown, pausing to slide my canvas closer to where she leaned. By the time she was finished, ?arvin had repainted my entire canvas. Every stroke was hers.
I spent the rest of the class time drawing and painting leaves. ?arvin spent the rest of the class time painting over much of my work. Initially, I felt confusion, frustration, and disappointment. But by the end of class I was able to relax and even smile a little at her teaching technique. I realized that even though I would end up with a painting that was hers instead of mine, I was learning how to mix, blend, and paint with acrylics on canvas.
When class was over ?arvin asked, "Do you have time to paint at home?" I told her that I did. "Good," she said. "You work on it at home, then bring it in and we fix it."
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Materials
"Discover your creative talent and learn techniques such as design, composition and color." I begin my artist's life tomorrow morning at the local senior center with a class called, "Painting with Acrylics" for participants age 50+ ("If space is available, 14 - 49 year old(s) may register."). The class is for beginners and intermediates. I hope to sit next to a beginner, age 50+.
Today I print out the materials list for the class and drive over to Michael's. My experience at Michael's, by the way, is that it's better to find your own items than to ask someone who works there to help you. I stroll over to the paint aisle and find the shelf with the least expensive paints (Kevin is with me) and check my list: ACRYLIC PAINTS (YELLOW, BLUE, RED, WHITE AND BLACK). I select cadmium yellow medium hue, cobalt blue hue, cadmium red hue, mixing white, and mars black.
Next on the list: BRUSHES (ACRYLIC) 3 DIFFERENT SIZES and CANVAS (any size you want to work with). I don't like choices. I pick out three brushes that are the least expensive and a 14" x 11" canvas. I'm beginning to regret not purchasing the paintbrush with bristles shaped like a fan (it wasn't on sale), and I think my canvas is too big. I wonder what time Michael's opens in the morning.
I'm also supposed to bring a TABLECOVERING (3 x 3 feet), PLASTIC CONTAINER and a TOWEL OR PAPER TOWEL. Kevin says he can bring a vinyl tablecloth home from work, and says he has a small tool box in the garage that he can let me use. I worry that the tablecloth won't be 3 x 3 feet and hope I will have enough time to cut it before class in the morning. I also worry that it will have red checks. I'm hoping the small toolbox will fit my new paintbrushes which have extraordinarily long handles.
I'm nervous about my first day tomorrow morning; walking into a room full of strangers (some of whom are intermediate artists). I think of the last line on the materials list: DRESS COMFORTABLY AND WEAR A SMOCK OR APRON TO PROTECT YOUR CLOTHES. I relax a bit. The instructor wants me to be comfortable. I think that's a good sign.
Today I print out the materials list for the class and drive over to Michael's. My experience at Michael's, by the way, is that it's better to find your own items than to ask someone who works there to help you. I stroll over to the paint aisle and find the shelf with the least expensive paints (Kevin is with me) and check my list: ACRYLIC PAINTS (YELLOW, BLUE, RED, WHITE AND BLACK). I select cadmium yellow medium hue, cobalt blue hue, cadmium red hue, mixing white, and mars black.
Next on the list: BRUSHES (ACRYLIC) 3 DIFFERENT SIZES and CANVAS (any size you want to work with). I don't like choices. I pick out three brushes that are the least expensive and a 14" x 11" canvas. I'm beginning to regret not purchasing the paintbrush with bristles shaped like a fan (it wasn't on sale), and I think my canvas is too big. I wonder what time Michael's opens in the morning.
I'm also supposed to bring a TABLECOVERING (3 x 3 feet), PLASTIC CONTAINER and a TOWEL OR PAPER TOWEL. Kevin says he can bring a vinyl tablecloth home from work, and says he has a small tool box in the garage that he can let me use. I worry that the tablecloth won't be 3 x 3 feet and hope I will have enough time to cut it before class in the morning. I also worry that it will have red checks. I'm hoping the small toolbox will fit my new paintbrushes which have extraordinarily long handles.
I'm nervous about my first day tomorrow morning; walking into a room full of strangers (some of whom are intermediate artists). I think of the last line on the materials list: DRESS COMFORTABLY AND WEAR A SMOCK OR APRON TO PROTECT YOUR CLOTHES. I relax a bit. The instructor wants me to be comfortable. I think that's a good sign.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Appearances
Mom had her hair done every week at Blaine's. The beauty parlor was linear: a row of hair wash sinks, a line of hair dryer bonnets, and hundreds of chairs reflected in a wall of mirrors. Mom and Blaine chatted while he washed, combed, and trimmed her hair. The talking stopped while Mom sat under a hairdryer and read a book as her hair dried.
Mom returned to the chair and the gossip continued as Blaine removed the bobby pins and rows of plastic curlers. He teased Mom's hair by sections until it radiated around her head like the rays of a black sun. Blaine carefully smoothed the top layer of hair into waves and sprayed it with hairspray. Mom's hair was like a quilt: the pretty black waves were the quilt top, the teased hair underneath was the quilt batting, and her scalp was the quilt back.
Before going to bed at night, Mom wrapped toilet paper around her hairline and placed a large plastic bonnet on her head. In the morning she used the end of a rat tail comb to fluff up the flattened areas, then she combed the top layer into place and sprayed it with hairspray.
Mom's hair is white now and she continues to get it done every week. At 86 she still looks great. On a cruise five years ago Mom was playing the slots, wearing a white and blue outfit with a nautical hat (a stylish version of the one Skipper wore on Gilligan's Island). I overheard a young couple talking about how cute she looked. Liz Taylor would be jealous.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
The Artist
"I'm an artist." I envied the woman who had just spoken those words.
Okay, I admit I was watching an episode of Hoarding: Buried Alive on television (actually it was a HBA marathon) and the woman had just spent weeks clearing out an enormous pile of clutter from her living room. I wondered how she could be an artist when it probably took her five minutes to climb through her belongings traveling from the kitchen to the bathroom. When did the art happen?
Nevertheless, I was impressed. I want to be an artist. Exactly when did this woman's path and mine diverge? How did it happen that she ended up being an artist and I ended up being...well, me?
I grew up watching my father (who, like most artists was left handed) draw pictures and paint landscapes in his spare time. It's possible that although I'm right handed, I have the genetic makeup to be an artist. I loved to draw when I was a kid. My sister and I spent hours drawing pictures of horses, and although Daddy said mine looked more like cows, he was very encouraging.
Maybe there's still time.
I wouldn't expect to be famous or anything, I would just be a local artist wearing lots of silver bracelets and rings, including two or three toe rings (note to self: get a pedicure). I definitely don't have the right hair, but I do have several pair of cute sandals and I like to sew and could easily make myself some flowy cotton skirts and peasant blouses.
What about talent? After reflecting on the talent that I've seen during my visits to various art museums, shows, and exhibits, I find that my reactions can generally be sorted into four groups:
1. Enroll in art classes
2. Practice everyday
3. Allow people to see my work without being embarrassed
4. Publicly post my art
5. Sell a piece of art
I will begin with step one, always a good plan. I think the senior center is offering drawing classes this summer. Coincidentally, summer is the perfect weather for cute sandals.
Okay, I admit I was watching an episode of Hoarding: Buried Alive on television (actually it was a HBA marathon) and the woman had just spent weeks clearing out an enormous pile of clutter from her living room. I wondered how she could be an artist when it probably took her five minutes to climb through her belongings traveling from the kitchen to the bathroom. When did the art happen?
Nevertheless, I was impressed. I want to be an artist. Exactly when did this woman's path and mine diverge? How did it happen that she ended up being an artist and I ended up being...well, me?
I grew up watching my father (who, like most artists was left handed) draw pictures and paint landscapes in his spare time. It's possible that although I'm right handed, I have the genetic makeup to be an artist. I loved to draw when I was a kid. My sister and I spent hours drawing pictures of horses, and although Daddy said mine looked more like cows, he was very encouraging.
Maybe there's still time.
I wouldn't expect to be famous or anything, I would just be a local artist wearing lots of silver bracelets and rings, including two or three toe rings (note to self: get a pedicure). I definitely don't have the right hair, but I do have several pair of cute sandals and I like to sew and could easily make myself some flowy cotton skirts and peasant blouses.
What about talent? After reflecting on the talent that I've seen during my visits to various art museums, shows, and exhibits, I find that my reactions can generally be sorted into four groups:
1. Beautiful
2. I Don't Get It
3. I Could Do That
4. Ugh
So what have I learned? First of all, based on the categories above, talent may be negotiable. Also I'm being way too superficial about my hair.
I've decided that a legitimate artist is someone who has actually sold a piece of artwork. So using backward chaining, I've come up with five steps to becoming an artist:
1. Enroll in art classes
2. Practice everyday
3. Allow people to see my work without being embarrassed
4. Publicly post my art
5. Sell a piece of art
I will begin with step one, always a good plan. I think the senior center is offering drawing classes this summer. Coincidentally, summer is the perfect weather for cute sandals.
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