Better Days

"Better Days"

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I confess that I don't actually know what the title of this piece is. Yes...I painted it. But it's in a gallery in Maine, and I'm sure the owner has thought of a much more romantic title to bestow upon it. But I'll give myself a little license (artistic, that is), as the painter of said piece, to confer upon it a title that fits my topic and mood for the day.

It could be a sunset. It could be a sunrise. "Better Days" could imply the hope for an end to a ragged patch, with the prospect of better days to come. Or...as in a sunrise, it could convey that "Better Days" are already in progress, with the expectation of a glorious day. I'm not altogether sure which of these scenarios actually applies to my current disposition. It's probably a little of both.

Things are going pretty well for me in regard to my art. I've had a good month...with (hopefully) the beginnings of a good working relationship with a new gallery. Sunrise, expecting more good things to come. But...

There's always a but. Maybe some people have no buts. No...I don't mean butts, though that is also true. Some people have no butts. But I am not one of them. In either connotation. I suppose that a lot of my current buts are age-related. My remaining parent is, presumably, near the end of her life. A few months? A year? Two years? And it's not a quality life. Sunset. Sunset with remnants of battered and broken fences, but with the hope of better things to come. Heaven is within grasp.

But then, I guess that's just how life is for most of us. There's usually a but or two. I just got a promotion with a big raise!!! But my laptop died. So I suppose if we tap into our inner-Pollyannas, we can just be happy we got a raise...so that we can make a down payment on a new, fancier laptop. Apply example accordingly.

And both views of "Better Days", the painting, or "Better Days", the state of mind, impose a certain hope. Both sunrises and sunsets are beautiful and hopeful. What a gorgeous sunset...it's almost time for Shark Tank! Or What a nice sunrise...time for a nice cup of coffee. I think I'll get dressed and go over to Coffee Love and see who's there.

As for people with no butts...I really don't know what to say to you.

In the Old Days...

Untitled watercolor by Jordan Hortman

Before I begin, let me explain that this is not my work. This is the work of my daughter Jordan. I asked if she would mind if I posted a few of her paintings, and she relented. The words (I think) are from a poem she wrote. If I recall, the poem is a villanelle. Spell check is just certain that I actually mean either Evansville or Neville. So I checked to make sure the spelling was correct. And it is. A villanelle is a short poem of fixed form, written in tercets (spell check thinks I mean intercepts), usually five in number, followed by a final quatrain, all being based on two rhymes. Don't ask me to elaborate on this, because I will be unable to.

I've long since had to accept the fact that my kids are smarter than me. As is my granddaughter...but at least she doesn't know it yet. Well...she probably suspects it, but she can't prove it.

I'm amazed at how much the world has changed since my childhood. I have always explained to my children  that kids in my era were largely ignored by the adult world - at least in comparison to now. There were no blue ribbons for participating...in fact I don't remember that many blue ribbons for winning either.  But then, maybe there were blue ribbons, but I'm unaware because of never having done anything worthy of having received one. Hard to say.

In my day (in my recollection, anyway), parents expected more from sons than daughters. This is especially true of fathers. Yesterday my brother was talking about how angry our dad would get when he (Dad) would pitch balls to him. As my brother put it, "It always made him so mad that I wasn't Ted Williams." True. But then my dad would never have pitched a ball to me in the first place. 

Occasionally, my brother and other little boys would play ball out in a field somewhere (we lived in the country, so fields were not hard to come by). They would always stick me out in the far outfield, where I would proceed to daydream. On one such occasion, a boy hit a ball all the way to the outfield where I was standing...daydreaming with my glove held up in the air. The ball literally fell into my glove. I'm not exaggerating. I was unaware that anyone had even hit the ball, and suddenly the ball was mysteriously in my glove. 

Of course, everyone was shocked (no one more than me), and delighted. They made a big fuss over me (people had to make fusses over cute little girls, you know), and I was at least clever enough to have kept my mouth shut and to let them think that I was as competent as they were. Well...that was probably wishful thinking on my part. I don't think any of these little boys or their dads thought for one moment that I was in any way competent.

Sometimes, though, I wonder if we didn't - in some ways - get a better overall education back then. I know that school is harder now. Certainly the math is harder. But then...we had no computers. No internet. Research papers had to be typed on a typewriter. An actual typewriter. Or written by hand with no mistakes. 

And back to the issue of "adults largely ignoring kids"...for those of you who grew up in the 50s and 60s...didn't your parents let you roam all over town and (in my case) country with no regard to specifics and no regulations except to "be home by supper"? So we learned a lot of things hands-on.

I will end this rambling "back in my day" post by relaying a conversation along these lines with my cousin Tricia a while back. She reminded me that 1) when she would visit me, we would walk about two miles on a little-traveled road to a gas station on the highway to buy cokes and candy cigarettes. She remembered that one time a couple of men stopped and asked us questions/directions...or something. She's just sure that one of them looked like the serial killer Otis Toole. In hindsight, of course. And 2) she reminded me that she and her siblings/friends used to love it when the truck came by to spray for mosquitoes, because they liked to follow the truck and play in the spray as if they were at a water park. Of course, there were no water parks then. But in theory, it was much like a water park. Except for the toxicity.

I'm surprised we're still alive. All this reminiscing has made me very tired. I think I'm going to go nap for a while. I wouldn't mind in the least if some of you shared your own memories. Including those of you (I know there are a few) from other countries. What are your stories? 

Talk amongst yourselves. I will be napping.

Good Days And Bad Days

"How's your mom?" 

"Oh...she has her good days and her bad days."

I wonder how many times those two sentences are repeated on any given day. "Mom" can be anyone...dad, husband, sister, brother...eventually most of us end up asking that question and/or answering that question. And sometimes we end up as the subject of that short conversation.

But this post is not intended to be a downer. I visit the nursing home at least once a week these days. Yes, sometimes it is a downer, but there's humor there too. My mom has a roommate now. I was fearful that this would not work out. My mom has never really seemed to relish the company of her fellow elderlies. (Yes, spell check...I know that "elderlies" is not a word. And I know that I sometimes write incomplete sentences. I do it for effect. OK????? But I digress...)

Where was I? Oh, yes. My mom has a roommate now. I was concerned, but it seems to be working out. And I think I've figured out why. My mom is not going gently into that good night. Not at all. She complains about everything...at least for the length of time she can remember any given complaint. And then it's on to a new complaint. Apparently very few of the employees at this nursing home are of acceptable repute. And thus she has found a compatriot. A bond has been formed.

Her roommate's name is Thelma. The nurses refer to them as "Thelma and Louise", because every time they check on them, "Thelma and Louise" are - in the nurses' words - "thick as thieves".

That's because they are complaining bitterly to one another about the nurses and other employees. And they both believe that there is an evil doctor who concocts unreasonable rules that everyone must obey. The latest grievance is that the evil doctor will not allow the patients to have fly-swatters.

And they both seem to be under the perpetual misconception that Thelma is about to be shipped out. My mom told me Sunday that they (the evil people who run the nursing home) believe that Thelma is not a citizen. Apparently she may be deported back to Iran at any moment. 

 

Just for clarity...if Thelma is Iranian, she has done a superb job in concealing her true identity. Starting with the fact that her parents named her Thelma. Not a common name for an Iranian. 

 

I'm pretty sure that they occasionally have little spats. But it's okay, because neither of them is going to remember it for longer than a couple of hours.

 

Some of you may be thinking that I'm being insensitive. I just don't think it's right to make light of such things...not right attawl. (that's "at all" for you non-southerners) But I imagine that those of you who have been through this with someone close to you will totally understand. You have to find humor any way that you can. It's how we humans survive, is it not?

And, just for full disclosure...I've had to pull up Thesaurus.com in order to think of a word or two that didn't come to mind right away. So, in a sense (how to you spell sense?)...I'm expressing my own frustration with this issue of aging. I have my good days...and I have my bad days. On a good day, I don't need a Thesaurus. On a bad day...what was I talking about?

 

 

 

 

A Life Well-Lived

I try to write in an entertaining style. Self-deprecating...sometimes snarky. And I think you like it (those who don't enjoy snarkiness have probably long-since stopped reading my posts). 

I don't know how this one will turn out. I'm just going to start writing, and see what happens. It's been difficult at times lately to come up with amusing, anecdotal material...it's hard to be amusing, what with all the funerals. I suppose I'm at that age (no need to disclose that precise number, I don't think). I'm referring to that age whereupon aunts, uncles, parents, and slightly older friends are slipping away.

A couple of months ago, my uncle died. He was 93 (?), so I can't say that it was altogether unexpected, nor can I say that it was a tragedy. In fact, a cousin of mine - while standing at the coffin - said "Boy...talk about a life well-lived". And I looked around and saw scores of grandchildren, nieces, nephews, and countless friends, all of whom he had influenced positively. 

Today I went to the funeral of a friend. I hadn't known him or his awesome wife for a terribly long time. No matter...they are the kind of people to whom you feel an instant connection. You didn't have to know Bill for twenty years to love him. Though I do feel somewhat cheated of those twenty years that came before, to say nothing of the years that might have been. There are still things I want to ask him about (he was a very wise and clever man).

But "Boy...talk about a life well-lived". It leaves me with some melancholy...but it also leaves me inspired. Wouldn't it be great if everyone had such a life. And I know there's a balance of what life gives us to work with, and what we do with that life. And I don't discount luck. Or fate...whatever you want to call it. Some are born with untold assets and others are born with untold challenges, but I think we can all have a life well-lived if we determine to do so.

That was uncharacteristically serious for me, was it not? I don't often try for poignant or insightful. But I suppose I'm thinking of my own life and how well-lived it has been...and will be. I don't know about you, but I'm going to spend a little time this week-end pondering this issue, and how I can aspire to that end. The life well-lived.

The Best Laid Plans

"Miss Maddie"

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This will be a short post. At least I think it will be. I have been very busy this week with my 8-year-old granddaughter. She had the notion that we should write a children's book together. She would provide (for the most part) the story, and I would do the illustrations. And now you know why I've been a little remiss with my posting.

Like many things in life, it seemed such a simple idea. And it started out to be just that. Simple. The story came together pretty quickly. We collaborated. I typed. Then came the illustrations. That started out simple as well. Until my inner perfectionist kicked in. One day last week we drove all the way to the big city (Tyler...not remotely a big city btw, for those of you who don't know) to pick up a few markers of varying values. Yes...of course they were professional grade. But I can use them again. Right?

Even so, I worked on the illustrations off-and-on all week and it came together pretty nicely. She did a couple of illustrations too, but she was smarter about it. She just did simple, child-like sketches and they turned out great.

The problem was putting it all together in order to make copies. It involved - as you can imagine - a lot of cutting and pasting...and printing out each page in order to fit in the illustrations. We went to Office Depot, and I went to work on my cutting and pasting, only to discover that I was missing a page. Back home. Printing out another page, then reconfiguring the rest of the pages in order to accommodate for the change of having added a page. Sigh...followed by bad thoughts and words in my head. Thoughts and words not appropriate for an 8-year-old. 

 

But we finally got it together. She's hocking these things shamelessly to anyone with $5 and a soft spot for 

children.  She's very driven. She's saving money to move to Madagascar when she's grown up. I don't know what that says about her feelings toward her family, including me, but there it is. Madagascar. She's saving up in order to move far, far away. But then, the best laid plans can change.

I guess this wasn't such a short post after all...

Artist Rides, Part 5

"South Dakota Ride"

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I've already confessed that I don't remember the precise order of the numerous and diverse re-enactments of the South Dakota ride, though I remember the scenes themselves with a lot of clarity (especially considering that this happened about 14 years ago). The next event was particularly memorable to me for what may seem like obscure reasons. But some of you will relate.

We were all gathered at the main site of the ride when Don (is that what I called him?...the one who brought the camper filled with a huge variety of booze), in a very excited state, informed us that a few miles away, there were cowboys driving a herd of cattle up and down a steep hill. We all jumped in our cars and followed him, parked, and walked the remainder of the way to the site. 

Sometimes - actually, most of the time - no photograph can really capture the color, light and energy of a particular moment. This was such an episode. There was something amazing about the cattle, the cowboys, the scenery...it did feel like stepping back in time. I found that the photos I took simply couldn't capture the scope of it all. I suppose that's the appeal of an IMAX...it comes the closest to reality that you could hope for without actually being there. And the IMAX is air-conditioned...but I digress.

I will meander a bit here and disclose to you that prior to moving to Arizona in 1999, I was the quintessential stay-at-home mom. I always say that my kids would rather have been put before a firing squad than to have played soccer, but I can relate to the term. I was a soccer mom. Without the soccer. Though the incongruity of that statement does not escape me. It's somewhat a state of mind. Your life revolves around your kids and their activities...whatever they may be. Even though I was always painting during these years, my identity was mostly that of a soccer-less soccer mom.

Back to the cattle drive. In the short span of about a year-and-a-half, I had gone through a fairly drastic metamorphosis, culminating in this moment in which I was literally standing in the midst of a cattle drive in South Dakota, taking photographs and enjoying the moment. I had re-invented my life.

Before I get too poignant, I will assure you that the moment didn't last for too long. Soon I was back on the plane with my sulking, sniffing (she had acquired a cold somehow) daughter and the topic turned quickly back to reality. Sometimes reality blows. But I suppose without reality, you don't enjoy the escape from it.

Thus ends the saga (the condensed version, anyway) of my first - but not last - Artist Ride. The memory of it, though sometimes out of order, is tucked away in one of those recesses in my mind...it's stored in a beautifully decorated box, easy to open and close again, on which is marked "Priceless". Oh...and it's written in calligraphy. It needed to be fancy.

 

 

 

Artist Rides, Part 4

"Celebration Dance"

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So where did I leave you? Oh, yes...I had narrowly escaped being trodden by horses. As I recall...next came the noon til mid-afternoon hours of sitting around. For the non-artists among you, most artists don't like the hours around noon for taking photos, because we like cast shadows, etc. And the lighting at noon is just too harsh. And it was lunch time, and artists - much like people - get hungry and tired.

I was invited (or perhaps I invited myself...I don't remember) to join my friends "John", "Ted", and "Don" for the noon/early afternoon dalliance. Or...for some, drink-fest. My friend Don had brought his camper to the ride, and it was stocked with a variety of booze. I believe that I had my usual little sissy Chardonnay. There were several models there, as well as we four artists. There were no Native Americans, though. I don't think they wanted to associate with the likes of us.

Anyway...one of the attendees was a "cowboy" (that is to say...a cowboy model, and not remotely a real cowboy) named Garrett (not his real name, though surely he's no longer among the living). Garrett had begun drinking well before the dallying started. In fact, he was quite well-lit. He seemed to take a fancy to me, as drunks are wont to do. I was sitting there with my shoes off, and I had my feet propped up, resting...minding my own business. He suddenly decided that I might enjoy a foot massage. Which I did.

If only it had remained so innocuous. He shortly thereafter determined that I would enjoy having my calves massaged even more. Which I really did not. My gallant friends John, Ted, and Don thought that this whole episode was riotous. Hilarious. Fortunately, it didn't take much to dissuade Romeo. He was more interested in drinkin' than he was in romancin', as it turned out.

Later that afternoon, the Native Americans returned (where did they go?), and further scenes were enacted and re-enacted. One was of a skirmish between "cowboys" and "Indians". The cowboys were on horseback...the Indians hiding behind a big log, with their tomahawks and rifles in tow. And thus the skirmish began. It was interesting to observe the dialogue between the stunt men - who clearly knew one another - between scenes. I remember distinctly a "cowboy" addressing an "Indian", "Hey...Greg...hand me my hat, would ya?" A Sioux named Greg...why not?

There was also a cavalry battle scene enacted down at the river. This time, I was  little more judicious as to choosing my spot. Around the same time, there was an impressive action scene in which a man dressed in Cavalry attire galloped (for clarification...his horse galloped. A Cavalry officer would look ridiculous galloping, would he not?) across a field, and jumped his horse over the same big log as was used in the previous cowboy/Indian scene. He was holding a rifle and firing blanks at some imaginary bad guy, while jumping over the log without holding onto the reins. I thought it was quite impressive. He repeated the same scene again and again, each time jumping the log while firing blanks, in perfect choreographic precision.

And this was just day 1. Not really. I think I combined a couple of days. Hard to say. I will leave you with "to be continued" one more time, but the next part will be the end of this series. I promise...there IS an eventual end to this Artist Ride. Stay with me...

Artist Rides, Part 3

"Summer Tree"

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So...I finally arrived at the site. While I was overwhelmed, my daughter was quite underwhelmed (yawning in complete disinterest, as I recall). We got there early so that we could have the "chuck wagon" experience. Which was not great. But I didn't care. I was on a great adventure. In contrast, my daughter might as well have been in after-school detention. 

I soon spotted several artists I knew from the Artists' Breakfast in Scottsdale. This was of comfort to me as the day wore on. I will give them fictitious names, since I don't actually have their permission to use their real names. I'll call them John, Ted, and Don. I know. It's memorable.

As to the way the Artist Rides work, the artists make requests of the models for certain types of scenes. For example, a cowboy sitting by his horse with a contemplative look. Or several "chiefs" seated in front of a tepee looking as if they've just come to a peace accord (probably after a round of peyote). There are always multiple scenes being played out at different parts of the ranch. There is no lack of space...it's truly in the middle of nowhere on what I presume is an enormous ranch.

So you can imagine that at times it's difficult to choose which scenes to photograph. The first scene I chose to photograph was a beautiful Native American model by the name of Stormy. I would guess that Stormy was around 40 years old, but as John remarked to me, "time has been kind to her". The scene was supposed to be of a Native American mother interacting with a small child. Only the child wasn't altogether on board with this set up. In fact, he clearly didn't fancy Stormy. So I moved on to another scene.

This one was of the aforementioned cowboy sitting contemplatively by his faithful horse. But this did not really appeal to me. Plus, he kept giving me dirty looks (as though I might stiff him). Which brings me to another way in which Artist Rides work. The models are to be tipped by the artists photographing them.

The organizer of this particular ride works in the movie industry in various capacities...mostly stunt work, or as an extra. I think. Anyway...some of the models are stunt people. Others...I'm not sure. Perhaps "John" can elaborate on this if/when he reads this (you know who you are). Among the artists, it's understood that you are to tip the models when you photograph them. There's no set amount, but it's understood that you tip as well as you can afford. Since multiple artists are taking pictures, and they're all tipping fairly well...the models do pretty well.

I will end Part 3 with my third photo-op, because it was quite memorable to me. There was a stream (or perhaps a small river) nearby across which horses were to be driven by some cowboys...or was it Indians? I don't remember. All of the male artists had gotten there before me and had taken up the best - and safest - spots. For this particular scene, the artists competed heavily for the best locations from which to photograph. In my book (my ebook) I compare them to "Lindsay Lohan and the Olsen twins fighting over a bottle of Ipecac". 

Anyway, I thought I had a safe spot off to the side of the path the horses were taking (scenes are re-enacted again and again in order for the artists to get multiple shots). I was seated on the ground. But this time when the horses started across the stream, three of them decided - possibly as a break from the monotony - to break off and head my way. I saw them in the viewfinder of my camera and thought, "Oh, dear". Actually, I think the words I was thinking were a little stronger than that, but I'll spare details in deference to the faint-of-heart among you. I scrambled as quickly as I could as a then-49-year-old, and barely made it out of the way. If it happened now, I suppose I would just have to roll up in a ball, be trampled, and hope for the best. 

Horses just have no regard for artists, as it turns out.

To be continued...

p.s. - the parents among you won't need this, but..."Ipecac - the dried root of a South American plant used to induce vomiting". Most parents keep it on hand in case Little Lord Fauntleroy ingests something he shouldn't.