The lettuces in the bales are loving this weather. Look at how fat and happy they look.
There's another patty pan squash and it's two-toned. I'm looking forward to picking and sauteing one soon.
I spied one blueberry just about ready to pick and a few more that are still green. I've had the bushes nearly 10 years and they still look like I just planted them but they make a couple handfuls of berries every year and I'm happy with that. A couple years ago the harvest was the best yet. I was picking blueberries and OJ's little hand kept creeping into the pail and a little voice said "tat-too" (which in tiny OJ-speak meant "thank you") as he withdrew pudgy handfuls of berries. I think I got to eat about five berries that day but I didn't begrudge him the snack. He was just so polite.
My new medicine makes me sleepy but I think it might help me feel better. I dozed off for a bit after lunch but then hauled up the pile of fabric and patterns and started cutting. I got four pairs of leggings cut out and one Dress no. 3 cut out of knit. I shortened the pattern about 6 inches in the body because it's a full-length pattern and one of those seems like enough. I also flipped through the patterns downstairs to find a pocket pattern piece so I can cut out in-seam pockets for that dress. Dresses need pockets. Yes, yes, they do.
The western sky was a brilliant orange when I took out the trash. I couldn't maneuver to a spot where I could see it more clearly but I kind of like it as seen through the neighbors' trees.
16 July--Barbara Malcolm, Horizon.
Sitting at my kitchen
window, hands cupped around my mug of tea, I watched a blizzard turn the yard
into an arctic wonderland. Howling winds
sculpted the snow into tortured banks that carved their way around the
black-green cedars. Winter-bare trees
flung themselves in frenzy before the wind and surrendered to the force of
nature, sacrificing twigs that rolled across the icy crust.
March is my
least favorite month. Christmas with its
parties and festive decorations is long gone; we have survived the sharp,
sub-zero cold of January. By March I
always feel like winter should start wrapping up. Every once in a while there’s a warmth, a
softness about the sun and breeze that teases me into thinking that spring’s
just around the next corner, coming with the next turn of the calendar’s page. March is when I feel most tired of winter,
longing to get my hands into the sun-warmed soil in my garden. I get to thinking about Bert and my pop, who
both died in March. Seems like this
month isn’t the healthiest for farmers.
Sitting
there bundled in an old plaid wool bathrobe I bought at an estate sale years
ago, watching frost creep to cover the glass like the closing aperture of a
camera, I thought about the six months since my birthday in September. I had always liked whatever age I was. Once I’d passed my teen years, I’d been
happy, not wishing to be older or younger.
But turning fifty-seven had left me feeling in a precarious
position. All the things that had
anchored me in my life were gone.
I
eagerly embraced the changes I was making but sometimes the pace of my new
life, added to the interesting hormonal changes inherent at my age, left me
feeling like I was circling the edge and, frequently, in danger of going over
it.
It didn’t help
that the boys were upset about the changes I’ve made. They were thrown by the changed I’d made,
but I couldn’t tell if they were envious, worried, or irritated by it. That tantrum Clara threw in the Ladies’ room
at Walmart before Christmas was just about the end of our friendship. She apologized and I forgave her, but I had
to admit I hadn’t felt the same about her since. I didn’t share my new experiences and
frustrations with her as readily as I had before and I found myself censoring
what I talked to her about. It was a
real blow when she admitted that she was sick of hearing about my painting; and
I thought she’d think my confusion over Abel’s attentions were funny, or at
least interesting. Though we’d talked it
out, I couldn’t forget that she thought I was bragging about how my life is so
interesting and hers is not. I
remembered standing in that cold bathroom with the florescent lights glaring
off the white tiles thinking that, if not for our gray hair, we could be in
junior high.
I
realized that sitting brooding over my now-cold mug of tea was doing nothing to
improve my mood. I was never a very good
pity-party hostess, so I rinsed my mug and headed into the bathroom for a nice
hot shower. Dressing myself in the
brightest, loudest-colored sweater I owned and my softest jeans and comfortable
shoes, I turned on all the lights in my studio and put a fresh piece of paper
on my board, a big one.
Listening
to the wind howl and the pellets of snow tap on the windows, I felt like doing
something different. Digging in the back
of the dresser drawer, I pulled out a little set of oil paints and a handful of
brushes I bought at a rummage sale last fall for two bucks. I was perfectly happy with watercolors and
seemed to have a knack for them, but the oils were so cheap and so tempting I
couldn’t resist. I had gotten a little
bottle of odor-free turpentine and some linseed oil on my last trip to the
craft store. All the Old Masters I
really admired painted in oils and I wanted to try them.
I
put aside my painting board with the paper taped onto it and pulled out the
easel Merry had sent me for Christmas. I
dug in the back of the closet for a canvas board I’d gotten on sale at the
craft store and put it on the easel. I
squeezed tiny bits of paint onto a fresh palette, and took the rubber band off
the brushes. My heart beat faster as I
dipped the brush into the red and made a slash on the canvas. I smeared it around and made a kind of flower
shape. Another dip into the paint and
more splashes, more flowers (tulips maybe?) appeared. It was fun.
The paint had a rich, earthy smell that watercolors lacked.
Time
passed quickly as I cleaned my brushes in the turpentine between each color and
squeezed more and more paint out of the tubes.
I finally got frustrated that I couldn’t move more paint with my brush
and squeezed it right onto the canvas.
While I painted
I found myself talking, to myself… “I’m in charge of my own life.”
… to Jake the
painting Nazi… “I can paint the way I want.”
… to my boys
and Clara... “I don’t need you to approve of me.”
I ended up with
a brush in each hand, panting with the excitement of going crazy with
paint. I stepped back from my easel and
looked at what I’d done. The canvas was
a riot of color and vague forms. The
paint hadn’t acted like watercolors at all.
Because oil paints take so much longer to dry, the colors had blended
where they touched, where I’d smeared them together, and in other areas lay
bright on the surface.
“Looks a bit
like a Pollock,” I said to the empty studio.
“Now I know what color my emotions are, and I kind of like it.”
I carefully cleaned the brushes
and capped the tubes of paint. I took
the canvas off the easel and, turning its face to the wall, set it on the floor
behind the door where no one would see it.
I wasn’t ready to let anyone get a look at emotions that raw. But maybe, just maybe, letting off steam in
oil paints every once in a while would keep me circling the edge and not going
over.
Tomorrow I'll meet ACJ down at The Attic to write the afternoon away (fingers crossed that the a/c is fixed) and then grief group is at 4:30. I have higher hopes for the writing part than the sharing your troubles part since spilling my sadness in a group just isn't my style. Too much Germanic stoicism, I guess.
--Barbara
1 comment:
It's too darn hot! Isn't that a song from some musical? Sounds like you could be singing it. Glad you can stay indoors. Rainy down here. Nearly every afternoon a downpour -- but it doesn't last. Everything on the lanai is growing so we like that. So glad you're in better spirits. Looking at that lettuce gave me a little lift. So lush!
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