Theirs; today. They had thirty-eight years and three children together. She lived another twenty-three years without him. Not a single day goes by that I don’t think of their lives, their personalities, and their stories.
Tag: memories
Respect
One day, back at The Compound, I picked up a fresh 4×6-inch canvas and chose my paint colors, only realizing sometime into my painting that I was being influenced by the painting on the wall behind me.
It was a painting my father gave me, which I suppose one might call an unpaid commission, since I said, “Please paint me a city.” I gave him no other parameters, and this is the large canvas he painted and gifted to me. I’m SO, SO glad I gave no input, because nothing I could have said would have been as beautiful and perfect for me as this abstract is. It has traveled and lived with me since, and now it hangs over the fireplace in the library at Houndstooth Hall, where I get to enjoy it every single day.
Recently, when we celebrated my birthday, Rhonda and Lindsey gave me this great coloring book, The Reverse Coloring Book, from Kendra Norton. The colors are there, and the person coloring the page gets to decide how to use the shapes and colors to create their own work of art.
This page made me think of The City, so it’s the one I chose to work on in honor of today’s date. April 18 is when my father died in 1985. I know I’m one of the most fortunate people in the world not only to have endless memories of a good father (and trust me, having endured my teenage years, my father might be surprised at how I always praise him), but also so many tangible memories of his creativity. I never went inside a museum until I was in my thirties, but I’d long been prepared to fall in love with art.
I’ve seen some great versions of that coloring page online with people using pen and inks, adding architectural features to the buildings, and even including some foliage at the ground level. I chose to keep mine simple and make it another homage to my father’s.
Thank you, Daddy.
Writing Wednesday
I actually am not writing today, or haven’t so far. I’m mostly outlining on paper, and mentally, a bunch of possible scenes and plot points that will eventually bring the Neverending Saga to a close. And when I write those words–“to a close”–my brain can’t quite conceive of it. It isn’t that I want to drag this out forever, like a nighttime TV drama where characters go through more jobs and marriages and crises in seven seasons than most people will ever experience in their entire lives. (Or, for that matter, a daytime TV drama, where characters die and return to life on a consistent basis, and sometimes they look very different, and sometimes they’ll die again and return looking like their original version. Soap operas are a delight in that way, and I say that sincerely.)
I’ll be happy when all my deserving characters are happy and doing what they should be, and then I’ll leave them alone for a while. If I rewrite the second and third 1990s novels, many of these characters appear again in supporting roles. Plus I have three strong ideas for completely unrelated novels. I have much I can write, but I’m not anywhere near saying goodbye to this group yet.
I do reflect a lot on what I changed from the 1990s versions, and I’m happy with those choices. I provided backstories where there were none. I changed or let go of certain storylines that I never thought I would, but doing so opened up so many better possibilities. There were people who read those 1990s books and said they loved them, and I have no way of knowing if they would love these.
If I were to tell you some of the ways these seven manuscripts I’ve poured my time and heart and effort into for the last seven years have been a means for a few people to criticize, belittle, or disrespect me, you might wonder why I keep going. It’s okay. The books and I are still standing. The people who respect what I do or who love me are still supportive in a range of ways. The others are either no longer a part of my life or if they are, I mostly stopped talking about writing with them (sort of the way most of us avoided talking about politics, religion, or our problematic relatives before it became a thing to share all that over social media–with words and videos–and now we can’t avoid it by moving to the other side of the globe because our phones will deliver it all to us 24/365. My detractors are safe from this rambling commentary since they also don’t read this blog.).
I had a lovely period of time once when things I wrote were published. Maybe I’ll get to experience that again. Maybe not. Publishing didn’t bring me riches or acclaim or the security that I’d always have a writing career. It brought me happiness, a sense of fulfillment, and the understanding that I’m able to follow through and finish things.
Some day, I hope you’ll come along for the ride with the Neverending Saga.
And remember…
Photo Friday, No. 904
Current Photo Friday theme: Waiting
Houston, April 15, 2008
As long ago as the 1970s in Alabama, I’d drive to local post offices on the last night people could get their tax returns in the mail to get them postmarked by the filing date. Some would be filling out their tax forms; others waited in line to hand over their envelopes. A lobby full of people late at night in a small town has a surreal quality. After I moved to Texas, I discovered that at some Houston post offices, traffic cops and postal employees worked that night to make sure people got in and out efficiently and their envelopes were time-stamped.
Now in the days of e-filing tax returns, I don’t know if this still happens. I haven’t driven to a post office on tax night in years. I’ll be thinking of those last-minute filers next week, though, and wishing them luck.
Tiny Tuesday!
Just a wee 4×6-inch canvas, painted in acrylics in 2007. I was looking to see if I’d ever done a painting in the One Word Art series with a particular title, and I haven’t. But in looking at all my photos of old paintings, I see a lot that became part of other works and then disappeared into the unknown. I hope some of them found homes where they were wanted.
Every time we share any part of ourselves, whether it’s been channeled into visual arts, words, performing arts, confidences to people we trust, we take a risk. Sometimes we find affirmation. Sometimes we don’t.
However you present yourself–your feelings, your thoughts, your creativity, your dreams–it takes courage. Never let anyone tell you otherwise. People who make you feel small or weak are not your people.
Mood: Monday
Photo previously posted here was Impasto Painting Songbird, oil on canvas, 2020, by artist David Padworny.
Today is Draw A Picture of a Bird Day!
I’ve done this a few times before: first in 2010; again in 2011; once more in 2014; and again in 2018.
In honor of the eclipse which has everyone so worked up, here’s today’s 20-minute drawing. Let me know if you draw a bird. =)
Whirly Pigs
A very sweet friend sent a strand of wooden Whirly Pigs for my birthday. She knew and loved Aaron, making this a perfect addition to Aaron’s Garden.
I forgot to take pictures during the daylight after Tom hung it, so the lighting isn’t great. When the wind blows, the feathers become spinners. I can’t wait to see it in action when we get a good breeze. I’ve collected pigs most of my life, and feathers are a reminder of Aaron that his mother once shared with me.
Thank you so much! ❤️
Tiny Tuesday!
Time to browse the book that inspired this weekly feature, and today I chose this prompt:
I’ve recently taken out my wee keyboard to see if I can still play any of the easy piano music I learned WAY BACK WHEN. Turns out I can (falteringly); it’d probably be a lot easier on an actual piano. The electronic keyboard really is wee, having only 26 white keys (natural music notes) and 18 black keys (sharps and flats). For comparison, a standard piano of 88 keys has 52 white keys and 36 black keys.
Still a lot of fun though, and coincidentally, this favorite old classic my parents liked to dance to is in the music book, so I took a (very slow) run through it.
Sounds better when Ella sings it.
Where would your sentimental journey take you?
Button Sunday
I’ll just trot out my old Easter Beagle button that I’ve used before, along with a new photo of the bunny from the last Easter basket my mother ever gave me (it was in the early 2000s so clearly I was an adult, but you can’t be too old for an Easter basket or a parent’s kindness–and speaking of a parent’s kindness, some of these eggs were gifts from my mother-in-law, many of which she made herself).
Song Challenge: Day 30
Today’s challenge–the last one!–is “a song that reminds you of yourself.” I’ve said Dan Fogelberg’s song “Scarecrow’s Dream” is my theme song since the first time I lay in front of the stereo and listened to the words in the late 1970s. In comments under this video on YouTube, someone says, “Thank you, kind spirit, for all of your wise words.” I will forever now think of Dan Fogelberg as “kind spirit.” And I, too, thank him.
Thank you, too, for sticking with me for the month, especially when/if you commented or shared your own artists and songs for the challenges. If I helped you remember some favorites of your own, I’m glad.
Seldom seen
A scarecrow’s dream
I hang in the hopes of replacement
Castles tall
I built them all
But I dream that I’m trapped in
The basement.
And if you ever hear me calling out
And if you’ve been by paupers crowned
Between the worlds of men and make-believe
I can be found.
Plans I’ve made
A masquerade
Fading in fear of the coming day
Heroes’ tales
Like nightingales
Wrestle the wind as they run away.
And if you ever hear them calling out
And if you’ve been by paupers crowned
Between the worlds of men and make-believe
I can be found.
Garden gate
An empty plate
Waiting for someone to come and fill
Scarecrow’s dreams
Like frozen streams
Thirst for the fall
But they’re running still.
And if you ever hear me calling out
And if you’ve been by paupers crowned
Between the worlds of men and make-believe
I can be found.