REMEMBER

I love houses. Really. I love being in them, painting them, speculating about them. I even love peeking in the windows of abandoned homes. So when this week's ILLUSTRATION FRIDAY topic, REMEMBER, appeared in my inbox, I was in my element. This is an example of what I'm reasonably sure I'd do on the side, if I were good enough. Houses. I'd illustrate houses. Especially the pre-War 20's something Tudor home with stucco and beams.
I've driven by this home, now owned by the bank, numerous times; it's fodder for my imagination. I picture getting up in the morning here, mowing the long rolling lawn. (With a hand mower, can you imagine that?) Being the lady of the house and entertaining 20's style as my mother might have.
So the sunset is editorial, I guess, a time gone by.

THERE AND THEN

I sat at my drawing table this morning staring, yes, staring at a nearly completed illustration. Wondering. How do we even attempt to illustrate there and then. It's a concept I was told not to even attempt to write about for children under age 9-10 or thereabouts. (Early days of kiddie-lit, and those rules might have changed.)
I love historical fiction and keep hoping the interest could translate well into a PB or atleast a picture storybook. And so I keep plugging away at mine, set in preWWII Europe against the backdrop of KRISTALLNACHT, the night of broken glass. So Ilook at my MC's grandfather, blowing the shofar in a PRE WAR aynagogue. Where would he have stood. In front of the bimah? Are the curtains of the Aron Kodesh (literally holy closet, containing the Torah scrolls). I know European synagogues were beautifully ornate, their destruction yet another travesty of the war, but I have as resource pics only black and white. So I ponder; if I wasn't there, can I illustrate it?
Back to doing research, I came upon an amazing article about the TRIANGLE shirtwaist factory fire. I've read compelling adult fiction written with this subject as it's theme. FOR THE LOVE OF MIKE by Rhyss Bowen, immediately comes to mind. Maybe the key is in research, or love of the subject. And maybe it's being patient.
Whatever it takes, I'm back to the drawing board to poke at it until it feels right.

Today's thoughts and musings

Looked at the calendar and the week is already more frantic than I want it to be. It seems most engagements are frivolous and have very little to do with what I ought to be doing. And the beginnings of nice weather won't work in my favor, I can tell that right now. I'll be pokier, want to be outside, wonder what I should really be working on in the absence of any real assignments.
Did finish submission to ILLUSTRATION FRIDAY, well sort of. The suject wasn't one I'd illustrated in the past, but WANTED TO. Thought it might be a good subject for a PB or card. So kind of a rough is what I submitted for this week. I really wanted to do Aurora Borealis against a polar icecap; and still may. But basically POLAR was play for me this week. Also working of the finish of a spread for a picture STORYBOOK I've been working at for far too long; (not having a print home for it as yet does cut one's enthusiasm.)
The coffee pot is plubbing away and it promised to be at least a warm, if only partly sunny day. Clouds rolling in against the semi-budding trees looks as though the world hasn't yet decided if it's winter or spring.

SPRING IN NW OHIO

Last night my family experienced the truest sign of spring in NW Ohio. The Maumee river Walleye run. The doll fly venders, fishing boats, men lined side by side in chest waders hoping to catch their limit; this is spring for us. The Maumee is so narrow in parts that fishermen facing each other from opposite ends get their lines tangled.It's a beautiful river, albeit pristine, with woods up to its shore in many places.
It brings back memories for me becuse fishing was one of my husband's and my first dates. In fact I received chest waders for a birthday present the first year we dated.
And now we walk, too many years later to recall. We pick up spinners, doll flies, sometimes a few sinkers embedded in the gravel long the road. But mostly we watch for deer, enjoy the Canadian geese, which while many never left, are returning from their winter vacationing grounds. We usually go after dinner, near sunset, giving us all a longing to be in the river.
The park rangers hover predictably near, watching for the occasional offender, snagging, not catching through the mouth, going beyond the present limit of 3 fish.
Most obey the laws, licenses are expensive after all, $20.00 a piece. No one wants his license revoked, because sometimes just the promise of that perfect catch, is worth the hours of standing in the river with nothing. And for me, just once more standing in the river would be worth it all.

PUDDLE OF DROOL

I'm once again sitting in a puddle of drool over another illustrator's work. If you haven't visited the SCBWI site and seen the most frequent Winner, do so. Hannah Harrison's work is not to be missed. If you can imagine whimsical artwork with fine art skills you'd just about have it. But the rich colors and the fresh clean look are beyond description. Her black and white incorporate crosshatch with humor, a combination that gives a bit of a nostalgic feel. In all her site is one to be closely examined.

TURNER MOVIE CHANNEL

I treated myself to a one hour broadcast on TMC. Wednesday's Child; the 1930's version of the child of divorce. Solved of course in one hour. Plot line:
Mother has an affair.
Child sees her (of all things) kissing another man.
Friends see this as well and of course taunt the child.
Parents divorce.
Child goes to court.
Mother remarries and gets custody for most of the year. Father has custody June through Sept.
Of course we see the fleeting months by way of the calendar against the backdrop of seasonal changes and the boy's wishful narrative. Wow! wouldn't that simplify things for writers!Love those flipping calendars.
Child FINALLY gets to go home to father. Enter Father's new love interest.And of course pending marriage will be just the week he'd promised a fishing trip with the boy. (hasn't that been done before!!!)
Child FAINTS. And of course a nurse is called in to stay by his bedside.
What to do, what to do. Doctor advises (despite the fact he doesn't like to talk about these things. MILITARY SCHOOL, the usual solution.
Jump ahead to boy in full military school regalia. Father comes to visit. Brings gift.
Roommate advises that visits will become few and far between and gifts are proof of waning visits.
Father overhears conversation just as mother is arriving for her visit.
Again what to do, what to do.
Father knows just what to do. He'll cancel wedding plans and make a home for the boy.
THE END.
Aside from the frequent, "dahling" and "Golly Dad" the dialogue was believable. And the plot was NO LESS believable than some of the fare offered up in today's cinema. Ah, but try this in a manuscript and see upon whose slush pile lands.
I have to admit, dispite the obvious flaws, it did make for a feel-good hour.

CONTEMPLATIVE DAY

Usually I'm up before the alarm, but this morning I indulged and listened extra appreciatively to those extra house sounds. You know, the ones that say everyone is home, safe and sound. I hate to dwell on the news, in fact I often avoid listening to the 11:00 news, but the Virginia tech slayings and parents receiving that awful news is going to keep cropping up in my mind. Having college age (and a bit older) kids, I wonder where they can go to be safe and enjoy the accroutements of everyday life. So I say a little prayer of gratitude that for this moment, everyone is home. and that will last until they all pull out of the drive.

Chasing myself

I think I'm chasing myself all over the place. If I didn't need a cane occasionally, I think I would. So what's the solution to being all over the place. Wanting to succeed in this industry, and by that I don't mean JUSTthe children's book industry, but illustration in general. I'm finishing a piece for my own PB which I've long since lost genuine interest in. My editor hasn't found children's books to be lucrative and most authors I illustrated for have gone to greener pastures (and not invited me along for the ride LOL)
I think following one's passion is the key, if the passion doesn't constantly change. I was recently commissioned to do wildlife greeting cards for a local vet's office. Oweing them a huge kindness for services rendered in the midst of disaster, I wanted to do this pro bono. It's the second "pro bono" job I've had this year.
So I begin again and settle myself to serious thinking time at the drawing table, because, after all, there's no place I'd rather be.

OLD FRIENDS

We don't think much about them when they're in our lives. And eventually they more often than not make their own direction on their charted path. I'm referring to old friends of course. It's a rare and humbling event if they stay, sharing the ins and outs of your life. So it's indeed a special occasion when one renters your life after 10 or more odd years or so.
An unexpected email from such a friend surprised me. I had actively sought my old friend out, wondering how she'd been. I was hesitant, thinking, maybe we lost touch because of something I said or did. Perhaps something not done, the sins of omission those of us in Catholic school came to understand, or at least claim to understand.
But a pleasant invitation came to "write back" and I hope a new chapter of friendship has been forged.

The snow blankets our yards yet with promise of more Sunday. I hope it doesn't snow everyone in. We have a family party on Sunday, and I'm always reluctant to miss those. I know as we age they will fewer and farther between and subsequent years will find this or that one missing from the table. My nephew turns 18 and while (in his mind at least) he has outgrown the family gatherings, us oldsters, with not quite the social life we all once had, will look forward to gathering.

BLIZZARD

We saw it coming, so though the weatherman compares it to the blizzard of '78 there's not really a strong comparison. I've awakened early to see the damage and search for an unfrosted window through which to look. With the drifting and blowing, it's hard to tell. The picnic table is clear; lawn chairs left out to weather the winter have disappeared under mounds of the white stuff.
The 10 year old in me can't wait to get out in it. The mature (albeit practically senior self) says use your !@#$ head. (I've left the expletives for you to mentally insert.)
So I look at this day, hopefully a day for the creative muses to kick in. I'm working on a midgrade novel which in terms of subject and length, is looking more like a YA all the time. I'm not good at doing my own editing and will bore my grown children to death with requests for reads.And finishing an illustration for publication.
The coffee is perking and I'll shower and dress, treating this like any other work day, although I don't have to warm up a car and leave the house. (There are also no predictable paychecks, perks or benefits) Just a love for what I do and hope that someone will recognize it. And a very generous spouse who fills with with dishes, laundry, and an encouraging pat on the back. Happy Valentines Day, honey.

ONLINE PORTFOLIO

RITES OF PASSAGE

My youngest passed her driver's test on Thursday. It was a long passage. Not at 16 as you might imagine but as a young adult. Why? you might ask? Why not, I'd reply. You see, I've seen the newly licensed 16 year olds on the phone, speeding, running around by themselves for the sole purpose of running around by themselves. Taking cars the two blocks to school. Disappearing long after they should have been home. No thank you.
Our kids weren't allowed to consider having a set of wheels beneath them until they were 18. For my daughter, this was the year her grandmother died. Followed by a horrific accident for her older sister. Mowed down by a speeding semi on the interstate. Frightened to death as we all were, she postponed her time behind the wheel.
Just last year, a hunch I held was validated by statistics; judgment is the last part of the brain to develop. In 18-25 year olds.
LookSmart's FindArticles - Ready for the road? - car accidents leading cause of teen deaths; states enact graduated drivers' license programs

Current Events, Oct 31, 1997


Hmmm. So my thoughts that teens can't hold their focus were not just the imaginings of an over-protective mother. So we celebrated by daughter's accomplishment. Her first run as a driver? Taking mom to the store.

New avatar for the New Year

My new look courtesy of Yahoo avatar. Now if I could just create my own avatar!

THE GIRLFRIENDS OF 1945

It might have been a final goodbye luncheon; perhaps ladies parting ways as one leaves the workforce for marriage. This photo was found among my mothers photos and adapted to colored pencil and ink. They coyly glance at the camera not knowing what the postwar years will bring. They offered a play on my imagination.

Bunny Love

We said goodbye to beloved bunny last Friday. Very sad long day, complicated by the unexpected arrival of grandparents for a visit. And while we were delighted to see them an unforseen event further complicated things. Grandma lost her balance and down she went. hard. Breaking the joint at the top of the femur. On to hospital where I'm happy to say, one week later she is recovering and in therapy.
Ever have that sinking feeling in your stomach, "uh, -oh?) that's how Friday morning began when I discovered bunny heavily breathing. I'd seen this in humans with congestive heart failure, and his lack of acknowlege of me (after all I bring the food and he being a little boy, was always excited to see hay and pellets coming) gave me a start.
A blessing is always hiddne in these events and no more so than none of us having to make that "final decisio". He passed after seizuring on the way to the vets. It's always too soon. and even thought at 6 we was considered a senior bunny (dwarf rabbits live typically from 5-8 years tops), we had hoped for a little more time.
Rest in peace Sweetie Petie.

BACK TO SCHOOL

The Wal-Marts and Targets tout the age old (well at least as long as I've been around)reverie, BACK TO SCHOOL. I'm sure it has a different significance than it did for me in the 50's. Back then it meant a home perm, arguing about NOT cutting hair that had grown long in the summer. A new plaid school dress with a large "Pilgrim" collar, and saddle oxfords. It also mean a new wool sweater and skirt that it would be much too warm to wear for at least another month and a half. It meant walking up the steps to the school, last year's report card in hand to determine the right room number. Then checking the class list, would a best friend be on it. Or worse, one of the many nemeses that every kid faces until they mark their territory. How long til lunch when we could run home to a waiting mother and share the events of the morning, promises of great things; writing cursive, having geography for the first time, or, in later years, gym without the boys, Home Economics or Shop. But most of all, excitement. We hadn't been in the building all summer. The rooms had been painted, the floors waxed. There was a smell that permeated the entire building. Of course it didn't hurt that Kindergarten through eighth grade were house in the same building. There were new floors to discover, junior high had it's own entrance. Everyone had their space.
There would be orchestra or band for the first time. Brownies or Girl Scouts, and for the VERY lucky, lessons of some kind. Yes, there sure was a reason to shout, BACK TO SCHOOL!

TEA TOAST AND BREAKFAST IN BED

It was a huge thing, stuck on top of my grandmother's secretary. Neither really belong in a bedroom but space in our story and a half being at a premium, and I the preservationist extraordinaire, leave little choice. It is a huge gray aluminum tray; tole-hand painted with lemon-yellow flowers, no particular genre. Bright with orangy-red centers. In my sisters and my growing up years, it came out of hiding, rather predictably at every recovery from flu or childhood diseases. Often it was the first sign that a doctor would be called to the house, and no, you wouldn't be going to school.
Wobbly, since it was circular and had no fold-out legs, it balanced precariously on top of the bedcovers, offering, as hot dishes conducted their heat through the metal, additional warmth to the recovering child.
Predictable as well were it's offerings. It began with tea, Lipton of course, it's orange tinged waters betraying the actual flavors, as no sugar would be offered. Tea, to see if you'd "keep it down". Then dry toast. so dark it looked like it would break before it reached your mouth.
The morning the tray held milque-toast you were assured that later, a simple toy or book might be brought and you'd be sitting up amonst a mound of pillows; that is if you ate the soggy crumb infested mixture, and "kept it down". By the time a baked potato, ginger ale and jello were served, your time to play amonst the blankets was numbered.
By then, it was a treat to move to the living room where you could recouperate on the davenport and watch a little TV.
Such were the days of recovery in the 1950's. I miss them. But I still have the tray.

Music Under the Stars

What a beautiful evening. My daughters and I ventured to the Marina at the end of town, fully intending to take the launch by river to the Zoo. We are so fortunate to have a zoo on the opposite side of the river. For whatever reason, the launch never appeared and we went by car.
I have such wonderful memories of being a small child and hearing the symphony orchestra at this very ampitheatre.A WPA project, the ampitheatre has been around for years and the free events are popular among young families and seniors alike. The sit among the trees and listen to the music, birds and ducks flying overhead, was like a vacation for us. It's the kind of thing you see on billboards advertising a wonderful summer evening in distant cities.

WHAT DREAMS ARE MADE OF

A weird night to say the least. I began rushing to class in a University. (My mother at 98, STILL dreamed of missing class.) The class was to begin at 9:40 and in my dream there were not two clocks that had the same time. Rushing to what should have been the second floor, a maintainance man stopped me and said the stairwells to the west wing had been closed because the floors were wet. Groups of students were herded to another stairwell and I herded along with them. A couple of them I seemed to know and tried to engage in conversation about the whereabouts of the class. To no avail.
I found myself in the most elaborate of lab schools, I guessed kindergarten by the areas designated for housekeeping, blocks and climbing. Security was very tight and I inadvertantly emerged through the curtains of a puppet stage. Someone kindly directed me back through the curtains and into the main hallway where I was certain by this time it would make more sense to go back home than to try to make that class.
I was startled to see my sister as directress of the lab school; primly dressed in a smart navy skirt and vest, and crisp white blouse. She was hurriedly giving directions to a secretary and her arms were loaded with books, binders and the all important clipboard. She waved to me and seemed less surprised to see me than I was to see her. After a cursory wave I meandered to a ladies room where I thought I should change clothes. Two girls whispering and pointing in my direction led me to stop and ask if I knew them.
It seemed they were upset that I had sold school sponsorships to people they had promised (you know, the ads students are always asked to sell) I assured them that I only sold to family and friends. That seemed to satisfy them and I went on my merry way. (Remember this is a DREAM, not an actual event.)
At home I sent to cleaning the kitchen floor, tackling with a vengeance a small corner where rice had spilled, buggy rice, no less, so I needed to sweep tiny bugs along with the rice. I remember thinking I wanted to get the house to it's pristine origins, whatever that might be.
Glancing up I saw my children (now young adults) at about 4 or 5 years old.They were dressed in those wonderful blanket sleepers of the 80's. I remember how wonderful it was to hug their little selves and as I did so, felt deeply sad that they really weren't that little any more. I asked my mother standing in the room if they looked little to her, and she assured me that they were really grown up. It bothered me, in my dream state, that only I could see them as little children.
The house looked like a family getting ready for Christmas and there was a large glass walk-in cabinet in the living room filled to the brim with rotating Christmas ornaments. It resembled a samll version of Frankenmuth. My daughter was reaching up to touch one of the whirling ornaments. As she turned to smile at me, I woke up feeling like I'd been somewhere "other-earthly."
The feelings of that dream have stayed with me most of the day.

Happy 4th of July

Was it a storm or are we in the middle of a war zone. For a while it was hard to tell as flashes of white light grazed the side of our house and the air rumbled. A bit of both as the evenings "neighborly celebrations" that blissfully ignored warnings about amateurs setting off fireworks merged with scattered thunderstorms. We glanced above our roof and wondered if the next flare would render us "roof-less." I can see celebrating our country's independence, I encourage it. Flags flying from porches, rising at the sound of our National Anthem, attending a service given by the vets. But the risk of life and limb (not to mention the trip to emergency) escapes me. So with my family, I huddled inside, escaped the mosquitos, and commemorated our country's independence with national celebrations on cable tv.