ALL SOUL'S DAY

After the hype of Halloween and before the hype of Election Day, sits a quiet barely acknowledged day of All Soul's. Traditionally a day of prayers for the dead, it leaves me reflective on individuals who are dearly departed and recently departed. People I thought would be around forever, or, at least until I got around to calling, going to lunch, writing. But they weren't. Three dear friends have passed since August. I have no doubt they're around, chuckling at my stupidity, encouraging me in moments of doubt, and, I hope, forgiving my moments of nastiness, indifference or just plain neglect. Did I dismiss them when I heard they had Alzheimers, figuring they wouldn't know who I was anyway? Did I avoid them when the terrible C word came up, wondering what I'd say? Was I offended when, in a senior moment, they forgot my name or lost my number? Whatever the reason, I'm sure I could have done better. So before the Christmas season is upon us, that's my goal. To do better.

Beautiful Day

I'm trying to enjoy the wonderful fall weather before either rain or snow comes. Today is so gorgeous and cool enough for a good walk. So many birds in the yard (my mom always saw that as a sign of impending doom_ hope that's a wive's tale; don't want anything to mar this great day and the fact that Im at least temporarily remitting.
Great inspiration for artwork. I've had some terrific assignments that lend themselve to my love of history (or at the very least, nostalgia). Working on a conestoga wagon, draft horses in traces, ah, where do all those lines go, LOL! But for the next 40 minutes, I'm going to indulge and get a nice long walk.

Happy New Year

Happy Holidays to all those who celebrate and those who love those who celebrate. May you be inscribed for the New Year.

This Mother's Day

It was an innocent enough search. I remembered a dear friend with whom I'd recently reconnected by way of the internet. I wanted to send her a birthday card, her birthday falling on Mother's Day this year. What I encountered saddened me beyond belief. Her 17 year old son had succumbed to neuroblastoma, a form of children's cancer, this past April. How could I not send condolences, even though time and space had separated us. I found a lovely card, indicative of her spiritual persuasion and emailed it to her. We exchanged a number of emails promising to keep in better touch and I felt I'd regained a friend from my past.
I remember two things about my friend Sue, from our earlier days. She was wonderful around kids, always able to approach them at there level (something I struggled with). And she loved tea and plants. I was always assured that the teapot would be boiling when I went to her apartment. And one birthday of mine, she took me plant shopping; the gift including her gift of time patiently showing me the ins and outs of keeping a plant from becoming "root-bound" as well as a book for the "purple thumb".
I will contemplate those memories this mother's day. I will think of those
mom's whose memories are painful or non-existent. I will hold my nearly grown children a little closer and pray for those mom's whose children are out of reach. And I will remember teachers and other adults who didn't physically bear children that non-the less were capable of mothering over the years.
Happy Mother's Day, everyone!

I HATE SPRING

Doesn't that sound terrible. Not that winter wasn't long enough, cold enough or snowy enough (it never is for me, I love winter! and notoriously hunker down like a well-cared for groundhog.
But every spring there's a disaster, either a stray baby bunny, or a bird that sluggishly forgot to fly in the face of disaster (everything from tumbling prematurely from it's nest to facing up to the neighborhood cats.)
Two nights ago my vegging in from of IDOL was interrupted by what I though was a loud quacking sound. It didn't appear to come closer or move at all for that matter.
"Keep Lily in," I yelled not wanted to complicate matters by adding a nutty dalmation to what was CERTAINLY an injured duck.
I looked behind me; my daughters had followed me with flashlights (bless them, if you announce something loud enough you really can call out the reserves, even on American Idol night!)
"The sound isn't moving,"my youngest added moving the flashlight over the ground from where the sound came. "Oh, no," she murmured scrambling over the chicken wire fence that serves as property boundery all around us.
"There's a dog involved."
"Great," said my eldest. "You're going to be defending an injured duck against a dog?"
My youngest, now in our neighbors pitchblack heavily wooded yard swiftly spanning light over the ground. "I don't see the duck"
"Well what do you see," I called back, now heavily suspicious that we were in proverbial, uh, "wild goose chase".
"Hang on," she called back. "A dog. A little orange dog tied up out here"
"Where's the duck?" my eldest and I called back.
"Do you still hear quacking?"
"Yes, we do!"
"Well guess what. That's the sound this dog makes."
Her beam of light returned to the fence, where she scrambled over as deftly as before, muttering something about "better not tear my last pair of clean jeans."
We all gladly, plowed back into the house for the last five minutes of Idol.

I hate spring.

THREE DOPEY BROTHERS ON A TRAIN

It followed a blizzard, day of watching the weather, listening to the weather, phone calls about University being closed and did we know. It didn't matter, in 8" of snow and the expressway closed because of jack-knifed trailers, who was going to go anyway?
So, Tuesday, which should have been snuggly, cuddly, hunker down with artwork, didn't happen.
Then Wednesday, ah, beautiful sun making Tuesday's snow sparkle. Today we hunker. Uh uh. Son lost/quit job because Tuesday's snow. Falls asleep late afternoon. Sure I'll eat with you guys, as soon as I wake up. Daughter with 5-8:00 class so dinner about 8:00 is fine. We'll dine. Pretend we're aristocrats (do they still dine at 8:00)Chelsea Clinton spoke at my daughter's college, I should ask her LOL. Think security would let me close enough to ask what time aristocrats eat?
9:00 son wakes up, hasn't eaten but would my oldest daughter go with him to Wal-Mart. At 9:00, I ask? It's bedtime? I guess only for people who have to go to school or work. Or who were up the previous day worrying about the snow for the people who quit/lost their jobs.
They return with movie, about 4 goofy brothers on a train, all after some exotic girl who cries a lot. They haven't spoken in a year, I don't know why and by the end of the movie truly didn't care, but wondered why Bill Murray had a cameo shot in the beginning and never returned. I might have liked the movie better, if I hadn't wondered why Bill Murray, dressed in 30's something clothing was running for the train. The train got lost somewhere. Part of the dopey brothers' itinerary was to locate their mother in a convent at the foot of the Himalayas. Someone mentioned Key Lime pie at this moment, jerking me to partial awakeness, (that along with my educated daughter asking if the Himalayas are in the states) and of course I needed a piece to bring me to full awakeness since the quest for the mother in the convent didn't quite do it.
Then good night everyone, I'm leaving, and son, with his movie, departs for his home a full two blocks away (and mother telling him to drive carefully and put his car in the garage) It might snow.

Merry Christmas

It's been one of those years and it probably won't culminate in raucous celebration of the holidays. I was feeling a bit funky about the fact that mid-December, presents hadn't been bought, a tree wasn't up, and yet again my dear spouse and I were in a hospital room with a relative. Nothing serious, but mom needed TLC non-theless, which we were happy to give, grateful that at 80, she hadn't been hospitalized with more than a hip replacement.
So when my daughter invited me to join her and my other daughter for a Christmas program where she volunteers, I chomped at it. This is no ordinary school where my youngest volunteers. Set in a vintage brick Catholic school, run by nuns, most of the students are learning disabled and/or autistic. The auditorium was packed with hopeful parents, younger siblings, and friends who came just because they cared. A more entertaining evening couldn't have been had if I'd paid a ticket for a Broadway Christmas show.
Parents cheered, children waved from their places in the chorus or stage. Lines memorized (probably when Halloween decorations were being put up) were delivered without flaw. I went home a bit teary-eyed and with more Christmas spirit than I'd had all season.
I highly recommend this repast from crowded malls and Discover statements. Finagle anyway you can, an invitation to your local scout troup's, piano teacher's, grade school's, annual Christmas program. It will do your heart good.
Merriest of Christmases, belated Happy Chanukah, Kwanzaa, and Eid to all who celebrate. May they make your homes brighter and warmer and bring your family and friends closer.

PROCRASTINATION

It's a heady thing, each new illustration assignment. So why do we illusrators freeze for a moment to take it all in. I almost want to go on a vacation and just let it sink in. I reread the text, imagine all the possibilities, and then stare at the paper. White and intimidating. Rough sketches, they look awful. But they have an energy that will go along with the the new enthusiasm; a month from now I'll be struggling to recreate that enthusiasm.
Whenever I was disappointed in a young male interest, my mother always said, "Someone better will come along." And they did.
But in this industry, I always wonder about those that got away. And what I did wrong.
So now, someone good has come along. Hmmm, I muse, will it be permanent. Am I just on "spec"? Only time will tell.
White paper. It stares back.

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY

Today is our anniversary. 28th in fact. We've nearly made it to my parents 36th before my dad died. Further than my sister's 15th. We'll likely never make it to my husband's parents' anniversary, 60 something. No, we started out to late for that; and really, who needs a gold 50 on a cake. Who really needs cake for that matter.
It causes me to reflect on just what it is by which e measure an anniversary.

Do we just click off the years? Oh, Lord, I hope not. Prisoners do that.
Do we look at what we've acquired financially. Again, I hope not.
Do we reflect on our hopes and dreams when we walked down the aisle, starry eyed, to say our "I do's"? Did we really have dreams? Young people generally live in the moment. I'm sure we were no different.
So that's not a good idea, life happened and many of those plans never materialized.
Or do we treat it like a miniature New Years. Like our birthday's; marking the occasion that we were born and hope to have a new starting place to do what we didn't do last year.

This comes close. So for all the plans that we didn't do and can still do, without reflecting too heavily on those that may never happen, Happy Anniversary, honey. And here's to many more. I wouldn't be in this, however it goes, with anybody else. (and how many 20 somethings can say that!)

Candace Hardy's Watercolor Illustrations

YOU GET WHAT YOU ASK FOR

"You know," I said, albeit slightly nagging,"I'd love to just once get up REALLY early on a weekday morning, pack a small bag and take off for a destination unknown. Wouldn't that be romantic? Huh? What did you say dear?" I paused waiting for a response. "Nothing spectacular, maybe an overnight." He just looked at me.

I heard him during the night. Mooching; that's pretty typical for one who has always slept with one eye open anyway. maybe getting on the computer. Oh, why does he do that? He'd go back to sleep if he'd just stay in bed.
I returned to my dream. He was probably on the computer. The next sound I heard was wretching. Uh, oh.

"OK, hon?" I holler. Hope above hope that it's just the pepperonia pizza we ate WAY
too late after a family outing to Sandusky and I can go back to bed.

5:00 AM A shadow at the side of the bed tells me it wasn't pepperoni; in my
semi-conscious mind it's reminiscent of my children when they were small, needing mom. But fully awake now, I see it's my husband and it's serious.
"I need to go to emergency." and then adds, "but I can drive myself." My first impulse was to say, "Are you nuts?" But settled for, "I want to go with you. If they admit you for an emergency surgery, I want to be there." Now how did I know Surgery would be in the mix?

You know the little charts of smiley faces, to help patients indicate their pain level?
He had all the earmarks of topping out that chart by the time we reached the hospital.
As we're making our way through the early morning countryside to the local hospital which is located in a somewhat rural area, I say to mayself, "This wasn't quite what I had in mind for an early morning getaway." A word to the wise, when going to emergency and there is pain, emphasize said pain, you'll be treated much faster.
I thought of worst case scenarios as we waited in the small curtain-drawn cubicle. Heart attack? No, location of pain is wrong. An EKG ruled that out. Gall bladder?
Oh, God, stage 4 carcinoma that no one noticed. OK, now I was hedging on the ridiculous.
Down for a CT scan. Nothing significant. Bless our PCP who ordered a CT scan WITH CONTRAST. Aha! Eight hours later we have an answer. Acute apendicitis.
"Sweetheart, you could't have done this when you were 8?" Ready to burst literally, he is whisked away to surgery. Doctor, surgeon, anesthetist, all look young enough to be my kids. Maybe it's the ER lighting. He's in good hands, I tell myself. He's in God's Hands, I tell myself again.

Today he's home resting comfortably. Being watched like a hawk, I might add so he doesn't overdo.
Whosever hands he's in, Thank you thank you.
I'll just shut my mouth about early morning surprise getaways.

Still 12 after all these years

For all the buildup I enforced on myself, it didn't last nearly long enough. An email to my inbox indicated a new literary gent. I was sure I had just what she was looking for. My hands literally shook with the promise of contact. How long would I have to wait for a response? A week? Two? Maybe it didn't arrive in her box at all.

I needn't have worried. One hour. One hour for a cursory thank you for considering her and wishing me luck elsewhere. It was a little like being stood up. I had sent only a query. What can you tell from a query? And my query matched what the interview I was forwarded said she was looking for. If you're not looking for that, why put it in an interview? Did she have some magic insight into my writing and illustrating abilities?

And then it got personal; she doesn't like red hair. I'm too fat, too thin, too tall. Silly? Of course; but you do remember junior high, right. And where our work is concerned, aren't we really all still 12?

Goodbye

I said goodbye to my sister on June 3, 2007. It was expected, but not yet. It's always too soon. The pain she experienced shook my faith to it's core. Not only did I lose a sister, but a partner in crime from our younger days, a historian (one whom I could bounce memories off of) and a constant validator of my ever-decreasing memory.
Closing out her life has been difficult, in part because I shared her with an entire community. She was the champion of those who loved the arts, the last of the classical piano teachers in our area. Shoes I could never hope to fill. She was president of the local arts commission, participating in juried shows for youngsters who'd rather paint or draw than play on the soccer field. (Yes, there are some.)
She was generous to a fault; paying for services that every member of my family would have happily done for free. A lunch out was a special delight for all my kids when they were younger, and my girls especially as they got older.
But perhaps most significantly, the last of our family. The name we grew up with, the spelling of which changed with every generation, dies with us. There are no more relatives, parents, aunts and uncles. (Don't let me dismiss my cousins, however; they are numerous and have been albeit by email a constant support system throughout this ordeal.)
But as always, when we say goodbye, our mortality is left dangling by a thread.
Enjoy your most deserved eternity, sis.

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.