Voices Become Wildflowers

The winter wind coming up the alley to the studio is the fuse I need. It cuts through my knitted face warmer, clearing my mind for the day of work. I'm taken to Arkansas, and to Adrienne, who knitted it for me, as I fumble for my keys. Only met Adrienne once, but in this way she is part of the commute I take each day. She has become a little part of my art, filling my studio with voices from my soul. Little things fuel me for the journey I am about to set out on .  Hot cocoa, fresh colors, my best brushes at hand, apron tied on, Miss Kitty and Festus with me, I'm set for my journey of the day. Color studies and Gunsmoke are today's tickets into the world on my canvas. 

Dad's favorite western, Gunsmoke, guides me through the past to the scene developing before me. A scene from a car window.

The voices from my childhood are the connection to subjects that I need with all my work, to do my best. It isn't about making a painting, it's about sharing feelings. The voices of Matt Dillon and Chester coming from the computer are voices from my Dad in a strange way. I mix the greens for the trees and grass with a smile, not forgetting the tint in the white flowers he picked for Mom. I still remember holding those flowers on the ride home from Uncle Melvin's farm and the ladybug sitting on the petals. The ladybug will have to wait for the next painting when I have a small brush at hand. Now I have just the brush I need.

As the day passes, the scene grows. Faces from the past fade to green and voices become wildflowers. The volume intensifies as the canvas swallows me. Only the brush laying paint can be heard. My mind races from memories, back to the canvas, giving glimpses of my life's past and present as I travel. A brush hitting the floor halts my trip. Looking at the clock, the trip is over, the painting rests, and I am pleased . Rolling up the car window I put things in order for the next day of travel.

Pulling on the face warmer and one last look, I switch off the lights, with a ticket tucked in my pocket for the next day's trip, I head to face the wind in the alley. Thanks, Adrienne.  

Green Apples & Salt Shakers

Tart green apples and a salt shaker were a summer treat. The low hanging branches, heavy with apples, made it tempting for little hands. Salt shakers disappeared from the cupboard when the apples were green. Mom would yell, "Where are the shakers?!", stopping our game of redlight-greenlight. Behind the garage we'd race, finding the shakers among the cores and half eaten apples. "You've been sneaking Mrs. Mathew's Apples?” Even though we had two apple trees of our own, her’s tasted better because of the daring for one of us to rush into her yard to get them. The excitement would get Major, our dog, barking, giving the game away. Mom, taking the shakers in hand, would send one of us over to Mrs. Mathews to apologize for taking her apples. Every time we were called" “little brats” and told she would have the police on us. A week later, it was my brother's turn to apologize. 

Apple crisp was Mom's way of getting us to eat liver, which none of us liked except for dad. He would scoop up the onions and mushrooms while the rest of us just played with our food. “If you eat your liver you will get a slice of crisp,” Mom would say. I liked licking the cake batter from the beater on days she made cakes. It was a treat which required some other little chore, like taking rhubarb to Mrs. Martin. Mrs. Martin was a cheek pincher and a hugger. Sour lemonade and a raisin cookie were my treat there, sitting at her kitchen table, watching her clean up the rhubarb. Answering questions was my part of any conversation we had. She would correct my mispronunciation and tell me where my tongue should be when speaking. Her kitchen windows were full of houseplants. Between the leaves I could see Mr. Schwartz house and his bird houses hanging in her tree. She told me how the songbirds brightened her day. Often she talked about her grandson, Russel, in California. Mom alway told me to visit with the people she sent me to. It was a way of learning, she told us. Mom and Dad were always about us kids learning.