October Nights

Standing in the smoke and watching the flames rise and fall as dad put more leaves on the fire, not letting the flames get too high, we were mesmerized as kids. Racing to the backyard to get more before the fire's final flame died, we squealed with excitement in and out of the black shadows. Who can grab the most leaves was the game. Saturday evenings in October the entire town had tiny fires going. Some people had rusty steel barrels and poles for stirring them, others, like our family, raked the leaves to the street where passing cars would send glowing embers up into the night sky. Light from the full moon revealed more leaves for us to gather up. Few leaves escaped us kids, as long as dad was willing to stand there watching the fire, we found him more leaves. Even racing into the neighbors yard to collect a few. Being they were from our apple tree they were ours for the taking. Little did we know then, the neighbors were more than pleased at this.   

Long past dark mom would call us in to wash up, to get the smell of smoke out of our hair and ready for Sunday mass. Boys in the basement washed up at the basement sink, spraying each other with the hose used for filling the washing machine. Then, wrapped in fresh clean towels, we raced up two flights of stairs to our bedroom where we dressed in pajamas. Once in our pajamas, with robes on, it was down to the kitchen for caramel toast from the oven and mom's hot chocolate.

Mom and dad love questioning us about what we learned that past week in school. We dipped our toast into the hot chocolate and listened to each other tell Mom and Dad what we were most proud of from school. Mom and dad would then tell us stories to further the importance of the things we had learned. While drying dishes, we listened to the radio till bedtime. The radio was strictly a Saturday treat. Weeknights and Sunday nights were for homework and reading. 

Waiting For That Wind

Stripped of bark, the old elm still remains a place of comfort. Squirrels raise young ones in it's hollow trunk,  birds rest on grey slender, leafless branches as the artist finds inspiration within its noble form. Colors reveal themselves to those willing to dream. The wood handle of the paint brush speaks for those limbs that fight the wind of winter and dry heat of the sun. A hundred years of secrets locked in its rings, waiting for the imagination of the artist.  Like old friends, reminiscing through the painting, stories come forth as the elm waits for that wind that will lay it to rest. Some time later the artist bids goodbye and moves onto the next story.  Paintings, like old trees, hold stories and secrets for people willing to look and listen to their hearts. 

Paintings carry two stories, one of the subject, another of the hand of the artist. The tight controlled hand of the painter wishes to release that story of the subject, and then the passionate energetic hand of the artist releases their feelings for the subject with the paints on their palette flying onto the canvas. Colors call, moods listen, and each subject touches the artist in its own way. The artist mixes past with present, through colors, hard edges and lost edges in their language of art. Laying color over color with long graceful strokes, laying side by side with dabs of paint, creating interesting textures and revealing the artist's uncontrolled passion.  

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