I LOVE TAKING PICTURES AND ENJOY SHARING WHAT I FIND
I’ve been very busy trying to build an inventory for this summer’s art show. The items that sell the best are my notecards. I enjoy doing these; nothing fancy, just a photograph printed on the front of the matte card and a little blurb on the back with information about the picture or about the photography. I crop a lot of my pictures to get close (someday I’d love to buy one of those expensive zoom lenses to get better close-ups of wildlife.) However, in cropping, I often cannot print a larger picture. Still, the notecard will show the delicacy of wings, the deep pool of eyes, or the intricacy of a flower petal.
I’m also doing a greeting card that is a little bigger than the notecards. These are “framed cards” in which a 4x6 glossy photo is inserted. With these, I have to decide between a black or white framed card. Either color adds something to the picture. I put an information label on the backs of these.
There are 5x7 prints, too, mounted and matted as 8x10s. I never know whether to advertise these as 5x7 for the photo size or 8x10 for the frame that would be needed. Occasionally, I’ll do an 8x10 print mounted and matted to fit an 11x14 frame. Again, I put an About the Picture label on the back.
My biggest items are charcoal landscape drawings. These are of a variety of sizes depending on how I cut the paper, but I am finding that my favorite size is under 11x14. These are almost always matted in black with a thin black frame. I like to keep the frame simple so the focus will be on the drawing.
I take pictures of a variety of subjects. It’s hard to say what are the favorites. Old barns are special as I am drawn to the textures in the wood, how it has weathered and decayed. Windows are intriguing because of reflections, distortion in the glass, or missing panes. I like getting angles on doors depending on light and shadow. Flowers are extremely fascinating because of the vibrancy of color and when I can crop close to see tiny details, I am amazed. I’d never looked so close to a flower. Wildlife, birds, pets… so much to see; cute faces, beady eyes, feathers, paws and claws, etc. I also like old, rusty bits and pieces, things that I find on the ground, foggy scenes… basically anything in nature.
I’m not into “posed” photography though I like taking pictures of people, too. The character of a person’s face is beautiful and I especially like to photograph older people. I don’t want someone “smiling for the camera” or even looking at the camera and I won’t keep a picture of someone if it isn’t a good picture. Of course, I enjoy the grandchildren the best. A couple of them are naturals when it comes to having their picture taken. The moment I pick up the camera, they immediately go into a pose. That’s fun. They’re fun.
I love what I do and I never leave home without my camera. I’ll stop often to photograph old abandoned buildings, wildlife, or flowers. Every day is an adventure because I never know what I’m going to find. Life is good!
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Saturday, March 27, 2010
PHOTOGRAPHS IN BLACK AND WHITE
The Hillsborough Area Artisans are hosting a black and white show/contest within the group whose work will be on display at the Gallery at Well Sweep in June. I offered to take pictures of some art work. Janett creates unusual designs in fiber art and she crocheted a beautiful black shawl with white trim and flowers. However, when I downloaded the pictures onto my computer, I found the white flowers came out without any detail.
This reminded me that I have trouble with any pictures of white flowers. Lilies of the valley and the double white lilacs in my yard are not shown in my albums because I am not happy with any photo that I take of them. The pictures end up looking overexposed.
With the purchase of a new computer, my old editing program would not work with Windows 7 and in my research, I found a better one and it was free. PhotoScape. This is a great program and it’s easy to use. One of my favorite features is the back light button and I thought this might be the answer to my white flower problem. It’s not. Back lighting causes the white to turn yellow or brown-ish and adjusting light and contrast further removes detail.
I don’t use an external flash. I seldom use the built-in flash as I try to keep things in natural light and even when I plan a shoot, I still operate on an in-the-moment mode. Most of the time, this works and I am pleased with the results. However, this photographing of white objects is a concern. Perhaps it’s the case of using an external flash—I don’t know.
Any suggestions to photographing white flowers will be appreciated. Thank-you.
Sunday, March 07, 2010
Yesterday I received a phone call from my dentist’s receptionist. “Bonnie is gone.” What? I was in shock and the more Darlene spoke, the more tears fell. Bonnie and I had a lot in common; single post- menopausal women, musicians (she played cello and I, Native American flute,) and artists (she did water colors and I, charcoal landscape drawing, poetry, and photography.) I loved our twice a year conversations and now there is an empty place in my heart.
“We have to clean our garages,” Darlene said that Bonnie told her two days before, “because if something happens to us, ‘they’ will bring in a dumpster. Two days after Bonnie’s passing, a big dumpster was in the yard.”I’ve often thought this very thing as my family hasn’t always been interested in my work and art. I know that much of the stuff that brings me such joy will be trash to others. The years of my life, the heartaches and joys and accomplishments recorded on the pages of my journals will not hold anyone else’s attention. Some of my “unusual” art pieces won’t be of any use. The “someday” project bits lying in wait will certainly make it into a dumpster or burn pile. Books, works in progress, and supplies will also be tossed.
I don’t want to push my beliefs and passions onto those unwilling to enjoy this part of the journey. I can accept that family does not share my interests. They are busy with their own and that’s okay. There are those out there who have bought books or pictures and those who like reading my poems and articles. I always figured that if one person gets something out of one of my pictures or if I touch the heart of another, then I have done my job.
This does not mean that I am giving up. I love what I do and the joy bubbles over. I am excited about my endeavors and every day is an adventure. I experiment with mediums. I explore ways to share my findings. This is Passion, and the drive makes me dance (at least on the inside.) I will continue to do my work with the realization that most of it will probably disappear in time. I will keep on taking pictures and drawing. I’ll write poetry and let my emotions carry my fingers across the keyboard. I’ll play my flutes and watch the birds. My heart is full of joy.
I don’t want to push my beliefs and passions onto those unwilling to enjoy this part of the journey. I can accept that family does not share my interests. They are busy with their own and that’s okay. There are those out there who have bought books or pictures and those who like reading my poems and articles. I always figured that if one person gets something out of one of my pictures or if I touch the heart of another, then I have done my job.
This does not mean that I am giving up. I love what I do and the joy bubbles over. I am excited about my endeavors and every day is an adventure. I experiment with mediums. I explore ways to share my findings. This is Passion, and the drive makes me dance (at least on the inside.) I will continue to do my work with the realization that most of it will probably disappear in time. I will keep on taking pictures and drawing. I’ll write poetry and let my emotions carry my fingers across the keyboard. I’ll play my flutes and watch the birds. My heart is full of joy.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
I am continuing the school theme going back even further. I remember less of grade school but the following comes to forefront:
There were two grades per classroom as the class ahead of mine only had about 6 kids. My class had 10 to 14, I think. Grades 1 and 2 were taught by Mrs. Lambert, grades 3 and 4 by Mrs. Holmstrom, and 5 and 6 by Mrs. Prescott. I got my first pair of glasses while in Mrs. Holmstrom’s classes because I couldn’t see the blackboard clearly. Mrs. Prescott gave me my first poor mark to “take me down a peg because I was too much of a smarty pants.” Or so my mom always said. The other kids didn’t like me much because I was smarter than most of them.
I remember hating recess in the winter. We were all made to go outside and back then, girls weren’t allowed to wear slacks. We had to wear dresses and skirts. Kathie and I would huddle in a corner of the building out of the wind. The boys called Kathie, “Dirty A” and I never knew why. They weren’t very nice to either of us.
Warm weather found us jump roping or playing at horses. I loved horses, wanted to be a horse so I could run free.
Marlene was my best friend. I loved Marlene. She was beautiful. There’s no recollection of Donna, her step sister, who was our age but I remember visiting them at home as our parents were friends. By the end of elementary school, though, Marlene wasn’t much of a friend anymore because she began hanging with the girls who all considered me from the wrong end of town.
One time, Cathy Collins came to school with a coloring book based on a Disney movie. I don’t recall the movie but it was about white horses. Cathy let everyone color in her book but me. I didn’t want to color the horses white.
I remember drawing on the blackboard--- anatomy, astronomy, animals, etc. I’d copy pictures from books.
I got accolades for reading “A Tree Grows In Brooklyn” because it was such an adult book for a child.
I remember having a crush on Tom Henry… only recall his presence for about one year. I hit him with a snowball then was embarrassed for laughing over it.
Looking back, I think even then I was different. Guess everyone else knew it before I because I never knew why others didn’t like me. Then again, I didn’t want to be like them. I didn’t want to play the games everyone else played… too childish for me. I didn’t like to gossip. I didn’t play with dolls nor was I interested in girlish pursuits or conversation (if you can call girl talk conversation, ha ha.)
These are the names I remember: Doug Dunn, Kathie Brown, Marlene Cleeve, Debbie Burdick, Cathy Collins, John Tuthill, Charlie Kimball, Diana Swift (her mother later became the Kindergarten teacher of my sons,) and there were the Lufkin twins… Diane, Donna?? I can’t remember her brother’s name.
Oh yeah, there was David Kuegal. We drew names for the class Christmas party and he got mine. He gave me note paper, the kind old ladies used. I cried. All the other kids got cool kid stuff. He snapped, “At least I gave you something nice!” He was hurt by my tears. Now I can see that as a good gift for someone like me but back then I didn’t realize that although I was much older mentally than others my age there was still that part of me that was a child. (David was killed in an auto accident in high school.)
That’s it for my elementary school memories.
There were two grades per classroom as the class ahead of mine only had about 6 kids. My class had 10 to 14, I think. Grades 1 and 2 were taught by Mrs. Lambert, grades 3 and 4 by Mrs. Holmstrom, and 5 and 6 by Mrs. Prescott. I got my first pair of glasses while in Mrs. Holmstrom’s classes because I couldn’t see the blackboard clearly. Mrs. Prescott gave me my first poor mark to “take me down a peg because I was too much of a smarty pants.” Or so my mom always said. The other kids didn’t like me much because I was smarter than most of them.
I remember hating recess in the winter. We were all made to go outside and back then, girls weren’t allowed to wear slacks. We had to wear dresses and skirts. Kathie and I would huddle in a corner of the building out of the wind. The boys called Kathie, “Dirty A” and I never knew why. They weren’t very nice to either of us.
Warm weather found us jump roping or playing at horses. I loved horses, wanted to be a horse so I could run free.
Marlene was my best friend. I loved Marlene. She was beautiful. There’s no recollection of Donna, her step sister, who was our age but I remember visiting them at home as our parents were friends. By the end of elementary school, though, Marlene wasn’t much of a friend anymore because she began hanging with the girls who all considered me from the wrong end of town.
One time, Cathy Collins came to school with a coloring book based on a Disney movie. I don’t recall the movie but it was about white horses. Cathy let everyone color in her book but me. I didn’t want to color the horses white.
I remember drawing on the blackboard--- anatomy, astronomy, animals, etc. I’d copy pictures from books.
I got accolades for reading “A Tree Grows In Brooklyn” because it was such an adult book for a child.
I remember having a crush on Tom Henry… only recall his presence for about one year. I hit him with a snowball then was embarrassed for laughing over it.
Looking back, I think even then I was different. Guess everyone else knew it before I because I never knew why others didn’t like me. Then again, I didn’t want to be like them. I didn’t want to play the games everyone else played… too childish for me. I didn’t like to gossip. I didn’t play with dolls nor was I interested in girlish pursuits or conversation (if you can call girl talk conversation, ha ha.)
These are the names I remember: Doug Dunn, Kathie Brown, Marlene Cleeve, Debbie Burdick, Cathy Collins, John Tuthill, Charlie Kimball, Diana Swift (her mother later became the Kindergarten teacher of my sons,) and there were the Lufkin twins… Diane, Donna?? I can’t remember her brother’s name.
Oh yeah, there was David Kuegal. We drew names for the class Christmas party and he got mine. He gave me note paper, the kind old ladies used. I cried. All the other kids got cool kid stuff. He snapped, “At least I gave you something nice!” He was hurt by my tears. Now I can see that as a good gift for someone like me but back then I didn’t realize that although I was much older mentally than others my age there was still that part of me that was a child. (David was killed in an auto accident in high school.)
That’s it for my elementary school memories.
Monday, January 11, 2010
I made contact with an old high school friend through classmates.com. Now lots of emotions are stirring. I believe high school years should be filled with happy memories but I remember little of those times. Those were not happy years for me. I was fearful and not liked much, ridiculed and ignored. I only remember being invited to one party and it was by a girl in the grade behind mine.
After all these years, can I put some semblance and closure on this? Oh, hey, they all talk about putting closure on things, but is it possible? I seldom talk about my high and junior high years. They run together because that is when I went to the Exeter schools from my small town of Kensington. I was never in the top group of classes but in the second… always second… but those two groups were mostly made up of the more popular, higher classed, more intelligent… though popular I was not.
The first year I was bussed to Exeter, the junior and senior high students were in one building. The old, original building was where most of the seventh and eighth graders had their classes while the high school kids were in the newer rooms. The grades were divided into smaller classes. If I remember correctly, I was in 7E with 7F holding the highest level and most popular. I was never popular, not even popular enough for the rest of the 7E kids. Looking back, I now say I was quite intelligent but socially backward.
What do I remember?
The rooms were darker due to the oldness and architecture style. I remember the boy behind me in English class, Bobby Spoerl, constantly kicking the back of my chair to be mean. Miss Karst finally moved me. I would take an F (E or 0 however they were grading at the time) rather than stand up in front of the class and be ridiculed. One time, though, I remember doing the poem “For a Dead Kitten.” Wait a minute, maybe that was art class because I drew a picture.
The math department was in the newer section of the school and the shorter route from the art class was across the courtyard. One day I wore a shirt that buttoned down the back and a couple of buttons came undone. I could hear the kids laughing behind my back all the way to math class. Finally one girl told me what they were all laughing about and she helped me with my shirt.
Beth Michaud and Theresa Connor befriended me early on. I was still wearing knee socks and they taught me about nylons and make up. My parents brought me to stay over at Beth’s in Newfields and we walked to Theresa’s. Theresa’s family owned Connor Bottling Works. I can’t remember when or why the friendships dissolved.
A new girl moved to Kensington. Vicky Iliffe and I became friends and as she took a different bus, would wait for me in the locker room. Oh yeah, the seventh grade locker room was in the basement while the lockers of the upper classes were along the halls. One day, Vicky wasn’t there and I waited until I was almost late for home room. Later I found her with a bunch of other girls. She didn’t want to be my friend any more. What was wrong with me?
In one class, I think it was geography, we were supposed to read newspaper stories and report the next day. My family did not get a newspaper. It was horrifying to stand up in class not knowing the news. I don’t remember what came of that.
In spite of everything, I made the honor roll every term, (good thing they didn’t count socialization.) The only time I missed was in eighth grade when I failed cooking. It wasn’t that I could not cook, it was not knowing the purpose of yeast or the why of this component, etc.
We were at the new Exeter Area Junior High School down the street. Again, I was in the second to the top class. I vaguely remember art class and studying Manet when others were doing Monet. I suppose that’s one of the reasons why I didn’t have many friends. I didn’t want to do what everyone else was doing. I went to a couple of school dances and the only boys who would dance with me were the “bad” boys of the lower classes. A slow dance would be mostly rocking in place with little movement until it felt like my legs were going to cramp up.
Home Ec was a must for girls while boys got shop. Outside of the cooking failure in eighth grade, there was sewing. My mother did not sew and it was a challenge to pick out material and supplies but I was able to make my first dress--- not a raving accomplishment. There was a fashion show afterwards which I hated because it involved being up in front of others and the chance to be laughed at. I tried to knit a hat but that was a total failure. The teacher tried to help me turn it into a pillow. That failed. I demonstrated making a gum wrapper chain which was my best effort of that class. (In thinking back now, I wonder if I had had the friendship of other girls if my trials at girly things would’ve had better results.)
Ninth grade and we were back to the older building with most of these years, what little I remember, all run together. Art class was foremost although I was never as good as some of the others. One time I actually had the nerve to argue with the teacher, Mrs. Sanborn, over a grade. I believed I deserved an A. For once, I really liked what I did.
Sharon Belanger was a good friend and we shared an English class. (I don’t remember her in any of my other classes.) Mrs. Scaletti handed out “Weekly Readers.” Sharon turned around to ask the date and when I replied, I got in trouble and points were taken away from the mid-term. A “Weekly Reader” was our mid-term? Evidently Sharon and I were talking when Mrs. Scaletti informed us of that. Later, Sharon wanted to go apologize to the teacher. I remember standing outside the door and having Mrs. Scaletti come out… is that right? Ah, faulty memory after all these years. That had to be 1968? Maybe.
The following year, we wanted to sign up for woodworking, which only boys took. I chickened out.
I remember history class and David Millette (who in after school years, with his wife, hung out with Bill and I.) I remember the room. Mr. McKinley was the teacher… I think. I’m not sure why this sticks in my mind but I think there were some good times in this class.
I only wrote one term paper in all those years. History, Mr. Willey. I got a D. I was so disappointed because I’d never worked on anything so hard. School work normally came very easy to me. I’d read something and I’d either know it or didn’t. To this day I don’t know why I got a D.
I studied Latin for three years. I did very well because it was not a spoken language. A two year stint with Spanish wasn’t as successful because other classmates practiced with each other and no one would talk to me.
One highlight was that one year there was an experiment to allow students to leave school grounds during study periods. I signed up for geometry then wanted to drop it after two weeks. The teacher wanted the reason as I was getting A’s on all the tests. I didn’t know why I was getting the correct answers plus I wanted a free period which I used to go down the street to work with handicap children.
I also remember playing cards during study hall in the cafeteria, but that was not with anyone in my classes. Guess I got along better with kids in the “lower” classes.
I remember taking extra gym classes with another girl, Donna George. Donna’s father and mine were good friends so I’d known her forever. I remember doing hand springs and back bends. I did not like the balance beam. We were both small. The only sport I tried to do after school was intramural basketball. I got discouraged because other girls reached over my head to grab the ball but when I did it to them, I’d get called for a foul. Sometimes even the teachers sided against me. As it turned out, I could not do after school events anyway as there wasn’t a way to get home unless I walked--- which I did a few times.
Perhaps this all goes with the “What came first, the chicken or the egg” question. Was I so very insecure before high school or did high school make me hate myself? I think high school simply exacerbated the problem and even with guidance counseling, the situation never resolved. I became an adult believing that I didn’t know how to be a friend, that no one would ever like me, and unfortunately I ended up in marriages that supported that belief. My second husband went so far to tell me that no one would ever love me.
It’s sad that I look back and find few happy memories and yet, I don’t think I had a bad childhood. I was different, I guess. I didn’t want to do things that the popular girls participated in and I fully regret the one time, in eighth grade, I joined in and helped torment a girl in the locker room just because everyone else was doing it. Her name was Cheryl and she came from a… well, let’s just say she had less than… and she wasn’t clean and there was an odor, so girls would leave her bars of soap or throw things. I’m sorry and shamed to have been part of that especially after the ridicule I often received. It certainly didn’t make those other girls like me any more than before.
I got pregnant the summer after my junior year and did not go to school that year. My husband quit school the year before and told me he didn’t want a wife smarter than him. (Too late.) Of course if I had known that a number of other girls got pregnant that same summer, I might have gone back. I didn’t graduate with my class but I did go back the following year. Enough credits were accumulated so I was able to end my studies in January and received my diploma in June. I didn’t attend ceremonies. The class of ‘73 was not my class, though I got along better with them than with those of the previous year. Looking back, it’s ironic that the kids most accepting of me were in the class before mine, ’71 and the class after, ’73.
Yes, there is sadness. I wish I could look back on those years with joy and remembrances of happy events. Sometimes I wish I could return to roam the halls once more but I’d be as invisible now as I was then. Both my children graduated from Exeter High. The teacher who gave me that D on my term paper was principal by then.
In the writing of this article, I dared to return. I feel like a ghost, though. If anyone remembers anything of me, I’m sure it’s just a shadow. With the classmates.com site, there were a couple of initial contacts but little results. One woman and I keep in touch but she was from a different class. I am hoping that Sharon and I will be friends again. The last time I saw her was on my 18th birthday. I don’t know what happened… maybe I’ll find out. One thing is sure and that is I am in a better place inside myself now. I see each day as a joy and an adventure.
Perhaps this is the first step in remembering more. Who knows, good might come of this. If anything, it will help me better understand who and what I am. No regrets. Move forward. Do the best you can.
After all these years, can I put some semblance and closure on this? Oh, hey, they all talk about putting closure on things, but is it possible? I seldom talk about my high and junior high years. They run together because that is when I went to the Exeter schools from my small town of Kensington. I was never in the top group of classes but in the second… always second… but those two groups were mostly made up of the more popular, higher classed, more intelligent… though popular I was not.
The first year I was bussed to Exeter, the junior and senior high students were in one building. The old, original building was where most of the seventh and eighth graders had their classes while the high school kids were in the newer rooms. The grades were divided into smaller classes. If I remember correctly, I was in 7E with 7F holding the highest level and most popular. I was never popular, not even popular enough for the rest of the 7E kids. Looking back, I now say I was quite intelligent but socially backward.
What do I remember?
The rooms were darker due to the oldness and architecture style. I remember the boy behind me in English class, Bobby Spoerl, constantly kicking the back of my chair to be mean. Miss Karst finally moved me. I would take an F (E or 0 however they were grading at the time) rather than stand up in front of the class and be ridiculed. One time, though, I remember doing the poem “For a Dead Kitten.” Wait a minute, maybe that was art class because I drew a picture.
The math department was in the newer section of the school and the shorter route from the art class was across the courtyard. One day I wore a shirt that buttoned down the back and a couple of buttons came undone. I could hear the kids laughing behind my back all the way to math class. Finally one girl told me what they were all laughing about and she helped me with my shirt.
Beth Michaud and Theresa Connor befriended me early on. I was still wearing knee socks and they taught me about nylons and make up. My parents brought me to stay over at Beth’s in Newfields and we walked to Theresa’s. Theresa’s family owned Connor Bottling Works. I can’t remember when or why the friendships dissolved.
A new girl moved to Kensington. Vicky Iliffe and I became friends and as she took a different bus, would wait for me in the locker room. Oh yeah, the seventh grade locker room was in the basement while the lockers of the upper classes were along the halls. One day, Vicky wasn’t there and I waited until I was almost late for home room. Later I found her with a bunch of other girls. She didn’t want to be my friend any more. What was wrong with me?
In one class, I think it was geography, we were supposed to read newspaper stories and report the next day. My family did not get a newspaper. It was horrifying to stand up in class not knowing the news. I don’t remember what came of that.
In spite of everything, I made the honor roll every term, (good thing they didn’t count socialization.) The only time I missed was in eighth grade when I failed cooking. It wasn’t that I could not cook, it was not knowing the purpose of yeast or the why of this component, etc.
We were at the new Exeter Area Junior High School down the street. Again, I was in the second to the top class. I vaguely remember art class and studying Manet when others were doing Monet. I suppose that’s one of the reasons why I didn’t have many friends. I didn’t want to do what everyone else was doing. I went to a couple of school dances and the only boys who would dance with me were the “bad” boys of the lower classes. A slow dance would be mostly rocking in place with little movement until it felt like my legs were going to cramp up.
Home Ec was a must for girls while boys got shop. Outside of the cooking failure in eighth grade, there was sewing. My mother did not sew and it was a challenge to pick out material and supplies but I was able to make my first dress--- not a raving accomplishment. There was a fashion show afterwards which I hated because it involved being up in front of others and the chance to be laughed at. I tried to knit a hat but that was a total failure. The teacher tried to help me turn it into a pillow. That failed. I demonstrated making a gum wrapper chain which was my best effort of that class. (In thinking back now, I wonder if I had had the friendship of other girls if my trials at girly things would’ve had better results.)
Ninth grade and we were back to the older building with most of these years, what little I remember, all run together. Art class was foremost although I was never as good as some of the others. One time I actually had the nerve to argue with the teacher, Mrs. Sanborn, over a grade. I believed I deserved an A. For once, I really liked what I did.
Sharon Belanger was a good friend and we shared an English class. (I don’t remember her in any of my other classes.) Mrs. Scaletti handed out “Weekly Readers.” Sharon turned around to ask the date and when I replied, I got in trouble and points were taken away from the mid-term. A “Weekly Reader” was our mid-term? Evidently Sharon and I were talking when Mrs. Scaletti informed us of that. Later, Sharon wanted to go apologize to the teacher. I remember standing outside the door and having Mrs. Scaletti come out… is that right? Ah, faulty memory after all these years. That had to be 1968? Maybe.
The following year, we wanted to sign up for woodworking, which only boys took. I chickened out.
I remember history class and David Millette (who in after school years, with his wife, hung out with Bill and I.) I remember the room. Mr. McKinley was the teacher… I think. I’m not sure why this sticks in my mind but I think there were some good times in this class.
I only wrote one term paper in all those years. History, Mr. Willey. I got a D. I was so disappointed because I’d never worked on anything so hard. School work normally came very easy to me. I’d read something and I’d either know it or didn’t. To this day I don’t know why I got a D.
I studied Latin for three years. I did very well because it was not a spoken language. A two year stint with Spanish wasn’t as successful because other classmates practiced with each other and no one would talk to me.
One highlight was that one year there was an experiment to allow students to leave school grounds during study periods. I signed up for geometry then wanted to drop it after two weeks. The teacher wanted the reason as I was getting A’s on all the tests. I didn’t know why I was getting the correct answers plus I wanted a free period which I used to go down the street to work with handicap children.
I also remember playing cards during study hall in the cafeteria, but that was not with anyone in my classes. Guess I got along better with kids in the “lower” classes.
I remember taking extra gym classes with another girl, Donna George. Donna’s father and mine were good friends so I’d known her forever. I remember doing hand springs and back bends. I did not like the balance beam. We were both small. The only sport I tried to do after school was intramural basketball. I got discouraged because other girls reached over my head to grab the ball but when I did it to them, I’d get called for a foul. Sometimes even the teachers sided against me. As it turned out, I could not do after school events anyway as there wasn’t a way to get home unless I walked--- which I did a few times.
Perhaps this all goes with the “What came first, the chicken or the egg” question. Was I so very insecure before high school or did high school make me hate myself? I think high school simply exacerbated the problem and even with guidance counseling, the situation never resolved. I became an adult believing that I didn’t know how to be a friend, that no one would ever like me, and unfortunately I ended up in marriages that supported that belief. My second husband went so far to tell me that no one would ever love me.
It’s sad that I look back and find few happy memories and yet, I don’t think I had a bad childhood. I was different, I guess. I didn’t want to do things that the popular girls participated in and I fully regret the one time, in eighth grade, I joined in and helped torment a girl in the locker room just because everyone else was doing it. Her name was Cheryl and she came from a… well, let’s just say she had less than… and she wasn’t clean and there was an odor, so girls would leave her bars of soap or throw things. I’m sorry and shamed to have been part of that especially after the ridicule I often received. It certainly didn’t make those other girls like me any more than before.
I got pregnant the summer after my junior year and did not go to school that year. My husband quit school the year before and told me he didn’t want a wife smarter than him. (Too late.) Of course if I had known that a number of other girls got pregnant that same summer, I might have gone back. I didn’t graduate with my class but I did go back the following year. Enough credits were accumulated so I was able to end my studies in January and received my diploma in June. I didn’t attend ceremonies. The class of ‘73 was not my class, though I got along better with them than with those of the previous year. Looking back, it’s ironic that the kids most accepting of me were in the class before mine, ’71 and the class after, ’73.
Yes, there is sadness. I wish I could look back on those years with joy and remembrances of happy events. Sometimes I wish I could return to roam the halls once more but I’d be as invisible now as I was then. Both my children graduated from Exeter High. The teacher who gave me that D on my term paper was principal by then.
In the writing of this article, I dared to return. I feel like a ghost, though. If anyone remembers anything of me, I’m sure it’s just a shadow. With the classmates.com site, there were a couple of initial contacts but little results. One woman and I keep in touch but she was from a different class. I am hoping that Sharon and I will be friends again. The last time I saw her was on my 18th birthday. I don’t know what happened… maybe I’ll find out. One thing is sure and that is I am in a better place inside myself now. I see each day as a joy and an adventure.
Perhaps this is the first step in remembering more. Who knows, good might come of this. If anything, it will help me better understand who and what I am. No regrets. Move forward. Do the best you can.
I made contact with an old high school friend through classmates.com. Now lots of emotions are stirring. I believe high school years should be filled with happy memories but I remember little of those times. Those were not happy years for me. I was fearful and not liked much, ridiculed and ignored. I only remember being invited to one party and it was by a girl in the grade behind mine.
After all these years, can I put some semblance and closure on this? Oh, hey, they all talk about putting closure on things, but is it possible? I seldom talk about my high and junior high years. They run together because that is when I went to the Exeter schools from my small town of Kensington. I was never in the top group of classes but in the second… always second… but those two groups were mostly made up of the more popular, higher classed, more intelligent… though popular I was not.
The first year I was bussed to Exeter, the junior and senior high students were in one building. The old, original building was where most of the seventh and eighth graders had their classes while the high school kids were in the newer rooms. The grades were divided into smaller classes. If I remember correctly, I was in 7E with 7F holding the highest level and most popular. I was never popular, not even popular enough for the rest of the 7E kids. Looking back, I now say I was quite intelligent but socially backward.
What do I remember?
The rooms were darker due to the oldness and architecture style. I remember the boy behind me in English class, Bobby Spoerl, constantly kicking the back of my chair to be mean. Miss Karst finally moved me. I would take an F (E or 0 however they were grading at the time) rather than stand up in front of the class and be ridiculed. One time, though, I remember doing the poem “For a Dead Kitten.” Wait a minute, maybe that was art class because I drew a picture.
The math department was in the newer section of the school and the shorter route from the art class was across the courtyard. One day I wore a shirt that buttoned down the back and a couple of buttons came undone. I could hear the kids laughing behind my back all the way to math class. Finally one girl told me what they were all laughing about and she helped me with my shirt.
Beth Michaud and Theresa Connor befriended me early on. I was still wearing knee socks and they taught me about nylons and make up. My parents brought me to stay over at Beth’s in Newfields and we walked to Theresa’s. Theresa’s family owned Connor Bottling Works. I can’t remember when or why the friendships dissolved.
A new girl moved to Kensington. Vicky Iliffe and I became friends and as she took a different bus, would wait for me in the locker room. Oh yeah, the seventh grade locker room was in the basement while the lockers of the upper classes were along the halls. One day, Vicky wasn’t there and I waited until I was almost late for home room. Later I found her with a bunch of other girls. She didn’t want to be my friend any more. What was wrong with me?
In one class, I think it was geography, we were supposed to read newspaper stories and report the next day. My family did not get a newspaper. It was horrifying to stand up in class not knowing the news. I don’t remember what came of that.
In spite of everything, I made the honor roll every term, (good thing they didn’t count socialization.) The only time I missed was in eighth grade when I failed cooking. It wasn’t that I could not cook, it was not knowing the purpose of yeast or the why of this component, etc.
We were at the new Exeter Area Junior High School down the street. Again, I was in the second to the top class. I vaguely remember art class and studying Manet when others were doing Monet. I suppose that’s one of the reasons why I didn’t have many friends. I didn’t want to do what everyone else was doing. I went to a couple of school dances and the only boys who would dance with me were the “bad” boys of the lower classes. A slow dance would be mostly rocking in place with little movement until it felt like my legs were going to cramp up.
Home Ec was a must for girls while boys got shop. Outside of the cooking failure in eighth grade, there was sewing. My mother did not sew and it was a challenge to pick out material and supplies but I was able to make my first dress--- not a raving accomplishment. There was a fashion show afterwards which I hated because it involved being up in front of others and the chance to be laughed at. I tried to knit a hat but that was a total failure. The teacher tried to help me turn it into a pillow. That failed. I demonstrated making a gum wrapper chain which was my best effort of that class. (In thinking back now, I wonder if I had had the friendship of other girls if my trials at girly things would’ve had better results.)
Ninth grade and we were back to the older building with most of these years, what little I remember, all run together. Art class was foremost although I was never as good as some of the others. One time I actually had the nerve to argue with the teacher, Mrs. Sanborn, over a grade. I believed I deserved an A. For once, I really liked what I did.
Sharon Belanger was a good friend and we shared an English class. (I don’t remember her in any of my other classes.) Mrs. Scaletti handed out “Weekly Readers.” Sharon turned around to ask the date and when I replied, I got in trouble and points were taken away from the mid-term. A “Weekly Reader” was our mid-term? Evidently Sharon and I were talking when Mrs. Scaletti informed us of that. Later, Sharon wanted to go apologize to the teacher. I remember standing outside the door and having Mrs. Scaletti come out… is that right? Ah, faulty memory after all these years. That had to be 1968? Maybe.
The following year, we wanted to sign up for woodworking, which only boys took. I chickened out.
I remember history class and David Millette (who in after school years, with his wife, hung out with Bill and I.) I remember the room. Mr. McKinley was the teacher… I think. I’m not sure why this sticks in my mind but I think there were some good times in this class.
I only wrote one term paper in all those years. History, Mr. Willey. I got a D. I was so disappointed because I’d never worked on anything so hard. School work normally came very easy to me. I’d read something and I’d either know it or didn’t. To this day I don’t know why I got a D.
I studied Latin for three years. I did very well because it was not a spoken language. A two year stint with Spanish wasn’t as successful because other classmates practiced with each other and no one would talk to me.
One highlight was that one year there was an experiment to allow students to leave school grounds during study periods. I signed up for geometry then wanted to drop it after two weeks. The teacher wanted the reason as I was getting A’s on all the tests. I didn’t know why I was getting the correct answers plus I wanted a free period which I used to go down the street to work with handicap children.
I also remember playing cards during study hall in the cafeteria, but that was not with anyone in my classes. Guess I got along better with kids in the “lower” classes.
I remember taking extra gym classes with another girl, Donna George. Donna’s father and mine were good friends so I’d known her forever. I remember doing hand springs and back bends. I did not like the balance beam. We were both small. The only sport I tried to do after school was intramural basketball. I got discouraged because other girls reached over my head to grab the ball but when I did it to them, I’d get called for a foul. Sometimes even the teachers sided against me. As it turned out, I could not do after school events anyway as there wasn’t a way to get home unless I walked--- which I did a few times.
Perhaps this all goes with the “What came first, the chicken or the egg” question. Was I so very insecure before high school or did high school make me hate myself? I think high school simply exacerbated the problem and even with guidance counseling, the situation never resolved. I became an adult believing that I didn’t know how to be a friend, that no one would ever like me, and unfortunately I ended up in marriages that supported that belief. My second husband went so far to tell me that no one would ever love me.
It’s sad that I look back and find few happy memories and yet, I don’t think I had a bad childhood. I was different, I guess. I didn’t want to do things that the popular girls participated in and I fully regret the one time, in eighth grade, I joined in and helped torment a girl in the locker room just because everyone else was doing it. Her name was Cheryl and she came from a… well, let’s just say she had less than… and she wasn’t clean and there was an odor, so girls would leave her bars of soap or throw things. I’m sorry and shamed to have been part of that especially after the ridicule I often received. It certainly didn’t make those other girls like me any more than before.
I got pregnant the summer after my junior year and did not go to school that year. My husband quit school the year before and told me he didn’t want a wife smarter than him. (Too late.) Of course if I had known that a number of other girls got pregnant that same summer, I might have gone back. I didn’t graduate with my class but I did go back the following year. Enough credits were accumulated so I was able to end my studies in January and received my diploma in June. I didn’t attend ceremonies. The class of ‘73 was not my class, though I got along better with them than with those of the previous year. Looking back, it’s ironic that the kids most accepting of me were in the class before mine, ’71 and the class after, ’73.
Yes, there is sadness. I wish I could look back on those years with joy and remembrances of happy events. Sometimes I wish I could return to roam the halls once more but I’d be as invisible now as I was then. Both my children graduated from Exeter High. The teacher who gave me that D on my term paper was principal by then.
In the writing of this article, I dared to return. I feel like a ghost, though. If anyone remembers anything of me, I’m sure it’s just a shadow. With the classmates.com site, there were a couple of initial contacts but little results. One woman and I keep in touch but she was from a different class. I am hoping that Sharon and I will be friends again. The last time I saw her was on my 18th birthday. I don’t know what happened… maybe I’ll find out. One thing is sure and that is I am in a better place inside myself now. I see each day as a joy and an adventure.
Perhaps this is the first step in remembering more. Who knows, good might come of this. If anything, it will help me better understand who and what I am. No regrets. Move forward. Do the best you can.
After all these years, can I put some semblance and closure on this? Oh, hey, they all talk about putting closure on things, but is it possible? I seldom talk about my high and junior high years. They run together because that is when I went to the Exeter schools from my small town of Kensington. I was never in the top group of classes but in the second… always second… but those two groups were mostly made up of the more popular, higher classed, more intelligent… though popular I was not.
The first year I was bussed to Exeter, the junior and senior high students were in one building. The old, original building was where most of the seventh and eighth graders had their classes while the high school kids were in the newer rooms. The grades were divided into smaller classes. If I remember correctly, I was in 7E with 7F holding the highest level and most popular. I was never popular, not even popular enough for the rest of the 7E kids. Looking back, I now say I was quite intelligent but socially backward.
What do I remember?
The rooms were darker due to the oldness and architecture style. I remember the boy behind me in English class, Bobby Spoerl, constantly kicking the back of my chair to be mean. Miss Karst finally moved me. I would take an F (E or 0 however they were grading at the time) rather than stand up in front of the class and be ridiculed. One time, though, I remember doing the poem “For a Dead Kitten.” Wait a minute, maybe that was art class because I drew a picture.
The math department was in the newer section of the school and the shorter route from the art class was across the courtyard. One day I wore a shirt that buttoned down the back and a couple of buttons came undone. I could hear the kids laughing behind my back all the way to math class. Finally one girl told me what they were all laughing about and she helped me with my shirt.
Beth Michaud and Theresa Connor befriended me early on. I was still wearing knee socks and they taught me about nylons and make up. My parents brought me to stay over at Beth’s in Newfields and we walked to Theresa’s. Theresa’s family owned Connor Bottling Works. I can’t remember when or why the friendships dissolved.
A new girl moved to Kensington. Vicky Iliffe and I became friends and as she took a different bus, would wait for me in the locker room. Oh yeah, the seventh grade locker room was in the basement while the lockers of the upper classes were along the halls. One day, Vicky wasn’t there and I waited until I was almost late for home room. Later I found her with a bunch of other girls. She didn’t want to be my friend any more. What was wrong with me?
In one class, I think it was geography, we were supposed to read newspaper stories and report the next day. My family did not get a newspaper. It was horrifying to stand up in class not knowing the news. I don’t remember what came of that.
In spite of everything, I made the honor roll every term, (good thing they didn’t count socialization.) The only time I missed was in eighth grade when I failed cooking. It wasn’t that I could not cook, it was not knowing the purpose of yeast or the why of this component, etc.
We were at the new Exeter Area Junior High School down the street. Again, I was in the second to the top class. I vaguely remember art class and studying Manet when others were doing Monet. I suppose that’s one of the reasons why I didn’t have many friends. I didn’t want to do what everyone else was doing. I went to a couple of school dances and the only boys who would dance with me were the “bad” boys of the lower classes. A slow dance would be mostly rocking in place with little movement until it felt like my legs were going to cramp up.
Home Ec was a must for girls while boys got shop. Outside of the cooking failure in eighth grade, there was sewing. My mother did not sew and it was a challenge to pick out material and supplies but I was able to make my first dress--- not a raving accomplishment. There was a fashion show afterwards which I hated because it involved being up in front of others and the chance to be laughed at. I tried to knit a hat but that was a total failure. The teacher tried to help me turn it into a pillow. That failed. I demonstrated making a gum wrapper chain which was my best effort of that class. (In thinking back now, I wonder if I had had the friendship of other girls if my trials at girly things would’ve had better results.)
Ninth grade and we were back to the older building with most of these years, what little I remember, all run together. Art class was foremost although I was never as good as some of the others. One time I actually had the nerve to argue with the teacher, Mrs. Sanborn, over a grade. I believed I deserved an A. For once, I really liked what I did.
Sharon Belanger was a good friend and we shared an English class. (I don’t remember her in any of my other classes.) Mrs. Scaletti handed out “Weekly Readers.” Sharon turned around to ask the date and when I replied, I got in trouble and points were taken away from the mid-term. A “Weekly Reader” was our mid-term? Evidently Sharon and I were talking when Mrs. Scaletti informed us of that. Later, Sharon wanted to go apologize to the teacher. I remember standing outside the door and having Mrs. Scaletti come out… is that right? Ah, faulty memory after all these years. That had to be 1968? Maybe.
The following year, we wanted to sign up for woodworking, which only boys took. I chickened out.
I remember history class and David Millette (who in after school years, with his wife, hung out with Bill and I.) I remember the room. Mr. McKinley was the teacher… I think. I’m not sure why this sticks in my mind but I think there were some good times in this class.
I only wrote one term paper in all those years. History, Mr. Willey. I got a D. I was so disappointed because I’d never worked on anything so hard. School work normally came very easy to me. I’d read something and I’d either know it or didn’t. To this day I don’t know why I got a D.
I studied Latin for three years. I did very well because it was not a spoken language. A two year stint with Spanish wasn’t as successful because other classmates practiced with each other and no one would talk to me.
One highlight was that one year there was an experiment to allow students to leave school grounds during study periods. I signed up for geometry then wanted to drop it after two weeks. The teacher wanted the reason as I was getting A’s on all the tests. I didn’t know why I was getting the correct answers plus I wanted a free period which I used to go down the street to work with handicap children.
I also remember playing cards during study hall in the cafeteria, but that was not with anyone in my classes. Guess I got along better with kids in the “lower” classes.
I remember taking extra gym classes with another girl, Donna George. Donna’s father and mine were good friends so I’d known her forever. I remember doing hand springs and back bends. I did not like the balance beam. We were both small. The only sport I tried to do after school was intramural basketball. I got discouraged because other girls reached over my head to grab the ball but when I did it to them, I’d get called for a foul. Sometimes even the teachers sided against me. As it turned out, I could not do after school events anyway as there wasn’t a way to get home unless I walked--- which I did a few times.
Perhaps this all goes with the “What came first, the chicken or the egg” question. Was I so very insecure before high school or did high school make me hate myself? I think high school simply exacerbated the problem and even with guidance counseling, the situation never resolved. I became an adult believing that I didn’t know how to be a friend, that no one would ever like me, and unfortunately I ended up in marriages that supported that belief. My second husband went so far to tell me that no one would ever love me.
It’s sad that I look back and find few happy memories and yet, I don’t think I had a bad childhood. I was different, I guess. I didn’t want to do things that the popular girls participated in and I fully regret the one time, in eighth grade, I joined in and helped torment a girl in the locker room just because everyone else was doing it. Her name was Cheryl and she came from a… well, let’s just say she had less than… and she wasn’t clean and there was an odor, so girls would leave her bars of soap or throw things. I’m sorry and shamed to have been part of that especially after the ridicule I often received. It certainly didn’t make those other girls like me any more than before.
I got pregnant the summer after my junior year and did not go to school that year. My husband quit school the year before and told me he didn’t want a wife smarter than him. (Too late.) Of course if I had known that a number of other girls got pregnant that same summer, I might have gone back. I didn’t graduate with my class but I did go back the following year. Enough credits were accumulated so I was able to end my studies in January and received my diploma in June. I didn’t attend ceremonies. The class of ‘73 was not my class, though I got along better with them than with those of the previous year. Looking back, it’s ironic that the kids most accepting of me were in the class before mine, ’71 and the class after, ’73.
Yes, there is sadness. I wish I could look back on those years with joy and remembrances of happy events. Sometimes I wish I could return to roam the halls once more but I’d be as invisible now as I was then. Both my children graduated from Exeter High. The teacher who gave me that D on my term paper was principal by then.
In the writing of this article, I dared to return. I feel like a ghost, though. If anyone remembers anything of me, I’m sure it’s just a shadow. With the classmates.com site, there were a couple of initial contacts but little results. One woman and I keep in touch but she was from a different class. I am hoping that Sharon and I will be friends again. The last time I saw her was on my 18th birthday. I don’t know what happened… maybe I’ll find out. One thing is sure and that is I am in a better place inside myself now. I see each day as a joy and an adventure.
Perhaps this is the first step in remembering more. Who knows, good might come of this. If anything, it will help me better understand who and what I am. No regrets. Move forward. Do the best you can.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
One thing about having so many “hobbies” is that it is hard to choose which to work on, and when I bounce from one project to another, some things get left by the wayside or undone. I operate on feeling, what I feel like doing and today I may do charcoal drawing but tomorrow the feelings may lead me to work on photos. I have many unfinished projects.
I don’t want to give anything up, though. I enjoy different mediums. For me, it’s an adventure. I never know where it’s going to lead me. Be it writing a poem or drawing, the end result is always a surprise. I find this fascinating. What leads me? Because, surely, the moment I stop trying for a specific effect something else moves. The poem will take a twist or the drawing will take on a life of its own.
It’s not exactly the same for each project. Poems are usually quick and my writing style is one of letting myself go to the words. Once I start a line or two, the poem will write itself. I’m along for the ride. The last lines sometimes make me giddy with its revelation. I had no idea it would go there.
Charcoal landscape drawing is more time consuming. I lay the foundation in about an hour to an hour and a half. I put in detail. Some is okay, some is not. I go through a period where I don’t like it much at all. I get frustrated and walk away. Days or weeks will go by before I am called back. There are times when I will take a drawing off the easel and tape it to the wall so I can work on another. Eventually, I go back and when I surrender myself to the drawing, the picture comes alive. It will still resemble the photograph from which I am working, but the picture itself decides the finish.
A similarity between poetry and drawing is that I get a distinct message when done. I hear a commanding, “Done,” in my head. “Done,” and writing anything more lessens the poem or adding to the picture doesn’t work. When I am finished, I am finished. No ifs, ands, or buts.
Time of day and place also play a part in my artistic endeavors. Poetry is written anywhere, often when I am not at home. I always carry notebook and pens. I never leave home without camera, either. I want to be prepared for whatever will catch my eye when I am out in the world. Other writing, editing photos and printing note cards are done in the mornings. I like to get up around 4 a.m. to be at my desk by 5. Journaling will come first before turning on the computer.
Drawing is done in the afternoons when the light is better in the studio. Plus it is here where I’ll mat photographs and do framing. The studio is also the place where I work on multi-media combo pieces and jewelry making, although I haven’t done either of those in awhile. The sewing machine is downstairs, too. There are plans running amok in my head.
The most important aspect of my art is to surrender to the moment when I can, when I remember to let go. Sometimes I try to fight it to remain in control or do what I think needs to be done. However I end up in frustration. It’s only when I give myself over to the moment of creation that the magic happens and I am pleased with the outcome.
When the muse comes, you have to listen.
I don’t want to give anything up, though. I enjoy different mediums. For me, it’s an adventure. I never know where it’s going to lead me. Be it writing a poem or drawing, the end result is always a surprise. I find this fascinating. What leads me? Because, surely, the moment I stop trying for a specific effect something else moves. The poem will take a twist or the drawing will take on a life of its own.
It’s not exactly the same for each project. Poems are usually quick and my writing style is one of letting myself go to the words. Once I start a line or two, the poem will write itself. I’m along for the ride. The last lines sometimes make me giddy with its revelation. I had no idea it would go there.
Charcoal landscape drawing is more time consuming. I lay the foundation in about an hour to an hour and a half. I put in detail. Some is okay, some is not. I go through a period where I don’t like it much at all. I get frustrated and walk away. Days or weeks will go by before I am called back. There are times when I will take a drawing off the easel and tape it to the wall so I can work on another. Eventually, I go back and when I surrender myself to the drawing, the picture comes alive. It will still resemble the photograph from which I am working, but the picture itself decides the finish.
A similarity between poetry and drawing is that I get a distinct message when done. I hear a commanding, “Done,” in my head. “Done,” and writing anything more lessens the poem or adding to the picture doesn’t work. When I am finished, I am finished. No ifs, ands, or buts.
Time of day and place also play a part in my artistic endeavors. Poetry is written anywhere, often when I am not at home. I always carry notebook and pens. I never leave home without camera, either. I want to be prepared for whatever will catch my eye when I am out in the world. Other writing, editing photos and printing note cards are done in the mornings. I like to get up around 4 a.m. to be at my desk by 5. Journaling will come first before turning on the computer.
Drawing is done in the afternoons when the light is better in the studio. Plus it is here where I’ll mat photographs and do framing. The studio is also the place where I work on multi-media combo pieces and jewelry making, although I haven’t done either of those in awhile. The sewing machine is downstairs, too. There are plans running amok in my head.
The most important aspect of my art is to surrender to the moment when I can, when I remember to let go. Sometimes I try to fight it to remain in control or do what I think needs to be done. However I end up in frustration. It’s only when I give myself over to the moment of creation that the magic happens and I am pleased with the outcome.
When the muse comes, you have to listen.
Saturday, January 09, 2010
Sometimes I wonder if it is possible to be a writer and an artist. For awhile my writing was on hold outside of an occasional article and daily journaling. I needed to concentrate on the art work and build an inventory. The summer months turned to fall and now it is winter and it’s a struggle to find my writing feet. The spark isn’t here.
I never thought I’d stop writing and I won’t. I’m simply enjoying a bit of writer’s block. I don’t intend to choose between writing and other art mediums. I don’t intend to stick to one art form. I cannot limit myself when there are so many avenues to explore… and in the exploring, the writing about my findings. See, it’ll tie in.
Perhaps I should let out my secret… I’m not doing much art these days either. A wrench was thrown in the works when in the beginning of December; I not only came down sick, but injured my back at the same time. My back is fine now and I am feeling much better however, I make all these plans in my head in the morning but not much is accomplished by end of day.
Too easily I get discouraged. A wrong word will send me in a tailspin. A question will topple my coping abilities. I collapse in front of computer or tv or take naps to numb the mind but this is not the road to make 2010 more of a success than 2009.
I am the one that holds the key to that success. I am the one to “make it happen.” I cannot be successful participating in mind numbing activities. Great advice is given and I want to act on that good counsel. I do realize that the psyche can be affected during the cold, dark months and it is up to me to push beyond. Yes, it is work. It’s much easier to give in and take naps.
Maybe I am discouraged in the work that I have done lately. Oh, I am pleased with the articles I have written for the newsletters but I admit that it’s not exactly my style of writing. I am an emotional being and my joy in writing usually comes from feelings and what I discover about myself regarding a subject. Newsletter writing is not about the writer but the subjects and even if I am passionate about the topic, I hold myself apart in the story-telling.
I am thankful for these opportunities to write outside myself and the experience is beneficial in honing writing skills. However, I am making the decision to bring personal-ness back into my articles. I want to talk in the “I” position and let readers know how I feel about the subject. I believe that makes a connectedness. Even if someone doesn’t agree with me, the story will elicit a response. When I block of my feelings, I become hard inside.
This is the crux of the matter, for sure. All artistic endeavors come through emotions. When I look at a scene or a picture, it is the feeling I get that catapults me into creativity. If there is not feeling, there is no life. Mind and heart must remain open to possibility and any put down, criticism (real or imagined,) doubt or problems with equipment can close the door. It is my choice to keep the door open and persevere. I can choose joy over depression. I can even use frustration and anger to inspire an interesting bit of writing.
The pot cannot sit and stagnate. It needs to be stirred. It’s time to blow on the ashes and ignite the flames.
I never thought I’d stop writing and I won’t. I’m simply enjoying a bit of writer’s block. I don’t intend to choose between writing and other art mediums. I don’t intend to stick to one art form. I cannot limit myself when there are so many avenues to explore… and in the exploring, the writing about my findings. See, it’ll tie in.
Perhaps I should let out my secret… I’m not doing much art these days either. A wrench was thrown in the works when in the beginning of December; I not only came down sick, but injured my back at the same time. My back is fine now and I am feeling much better however, I make all these plans in my head in the morning but not much is accomplished by end of day.
Too easily I get discouraged. A wrong word will send me in a tailspin. A question will topple my coping abilities. I collapse in front of computer or tv or take naps to numb the mind but this is not the road to make 2010 more of a success than 2009.
I am the one that holds the key to that success. I am the one to “make it happen.” I cannot be successful participating in mind numbing activities. Great advice is given and I want to act on that good counsel. I do realize that the psyche can be affected during the cold, dark months and it is up to me to push beyond. Yes, it is work. It’s much easier to give in and take naps.
Maybe I am discouraged in the work that I have done lately. Oh, I am pleased with the articles I have written for the newsletters but I admit that it’s not exactly my style of writing. I am an emotional being and my joy in writing usually comes from feelings and what I discover about myself regarding a subject. Newsletter writing is not about the writer but the subjects and even if I am passionate about the topic, I hold myself apart in the story-telling.
I am thankful for these opportunities to write outside myself and the experience is beneficial in honing writing skills. However, I am making the decision to bring personal-ness back into my articles. I want to talk in the “I” position and let readers know how I feel about the subject. I believe that makes a connectedness. Even if someone doesn’t agree with me, the story will elicit a response. When I block of my feelings, I become hard inside.
This is the crux of the matter, for sure. All artistic endeavors come through emotions. When I look at a scene or a picture, it is the feeling I get that catapults me into creativity. If there is not feeling, there is no life. Mind and heart must remain open to possibility and any put down, criticism (real or imagined,) doubt or problems with equipment can close the door. It is my choice to keep the door open and persevere. I can choose joy over depression. I can even use frustration and anger to inspire an interesting bit of writing.
The pot cannot sit and stagnate. It needs to be stirred. It’s time to blow on the ashes and ignite the flames.
Friday, January 08, 2010
I accomplished a few things yesterday. I ordered a supply of bags from clearbags.com. I use them to protect note cards, photo greeting cards, and poetry cards. The site also offers a 50 piece pack of 5x7 matte photo paper for $3 which I thought was a very good deal. I also ordered yarn. The last time I checked Michaels and Wal-Mart, they were limited in their colors and there’s a particular brand of yarn I like to use for the scarves I knit. I checked the website and found 60 colors.
This is a start in getting back to doing art. I knit off and on while watching tv in the evenings. Takes me a couple weeks to do one scarf but I love the material and colors. I even talked Ma into trying it again so she doesn’t sit there doing nothing all day. She knits in the afternoon. I start the first couple rows for her and do the finish when she’s done. She likes shorter scarves and I like to be able to wrap them a couple times.
Betty told me Christmas week that I have a following at Wild Women Studio in Laconia, that people are buying my books and reading the poems. That’s inspiring to hear. I need to make up some new inventory to bring over to keep things fresh. I always say that it’s important to hear feedback. I don’t hear anything from the store in Laconia, nor from the new one in Sunapee.
Another recent accomplishment is with getting a new computer. The photo programs I worked with do not work with Windows 7. After spending a few days searching a lot of different options and going through trial periods, I was able to find a free download that pleases me and enables me more photo editing.
I’ve also gone through another round of issues with printers. This summer I had problems with HP and horizontal lines. I finally bought a Canon which didn’t have lines, but the vibrancy of color is not present without adding saturation. When I purchased the new computer, an HP, I got a great deal on a printer and I figured an HP printer will work better with an HP computer. All was well when I print on glossy paper but when I tried to print on matte paper, I got horizontal lines. Oh no, not again!
I re-hooked up the Canon printer to now have 2 printers. The HP works great with glossy pictures and everything on matte is done on the Canon (which is mostly note cards and albums pages.) The guy who installed my computer had told me that HP works better with HP papers and I tend to use Staples brand. I’ll re-think my strategies when I make my next paper purchases but for now, the two printers will do. One good thing about it is that I don’t need to keep changing paper.
This last week I worked on photos for collages. I was given a few collage frames and wanted to see how they would work with pictures other than family photos. One was done a year ago with sunflowers which I really like and I am wondering if something like that is saleable. I’ve done two. One was a white frame in which I used cherry blossom pictures and the black frame is done with farm machinery photos. I always prefer black.
I am slowly getting back on the horse. December was a long dry month art wise. I couldn’t get out of my own way. This is a new year and I am going to make it a better. I will concentrate on keeping up with the paperwork part of the business, too.
Joining NH Made was a boon and receiving e-mails makes me realize that as I am now selling my work, I have to think of myself as a business. Feels funny. The words in my head always said that I am not a good business woman. Time to change that. Last year was a tip of the iceberg and this coming year, I am going to be better prepared.
In closing, I would like to say thanks for this last year. It was a jumping off point. I published a book. I was invited to show my charcoal landscape drawings and photography at the library. I became a juried member of the Hillsborough Area Artisans in two mediums. I participated in the Open Studio Tour and NH Open Doors. My work is currently in three shops. After all these years of playing artist and writer, I can now finally say that I AM an accomplished writer and artist.
This is a start in getting back to doing art. I knit off and on while watching tv in the evenings. Takes me a couple weeks to do one scarf but I love the material and colors. I even talked Ma into trying it again so she doesn’t sit there doing nothing all day. She knits in the afternoon. I start the first couple rows for her and do the finish when she’s done. She likes shorter scarves and I like to be able to wrap them a couple times.
Betty told me Christmas week that I have a following at Wild Women Studio in Laconia, that people are buying my books and reading the poems. That’s inspiring to hear. I need to make up some new inventory to bring over to keep things fresh. I always say that it’s important to hear feedback. I don’t hear anything from the store in Laconia, nor from the new one in Sunapee.
Another recent accomplishment is with getting a new computer. The photo programs I worked with do not work with Windows 7. After spending a few days searching a lot of different options and going through trial periods, I was able to find a free download that pleases me and enables me more photo editing.
I’ve also gone through another round of issues with printers. This summer I had problems with HP and horizontal lines. I finally bought a Canon which didn’t have lines, but the vibrancy of color is not present without adding saturation. When I purchased the new computer, an HP, I got a great deal on a printer and I figured an HP printer will work better with an HP computer. All was well when I print on glossy paper but when I tried to print on matte paper, I got horizontal lines. Oh no, not again!
I re-hooked up the Canon printer to now have 2 printers. The HP works great with glossy pictures and everything on matte is done on the Canon (which is mostly note cards and albums pages.) The guy who installed my computer had told me that HP works better with HP papers and I tend to use Staples brand. I’ll re-think my strategies when I make my next paper purchases but for now, the two printers will do. One good thing about it is that I don’t need to keep changing paper.
This last week I worked on photos for collages. I was given a few collage frames and wanted to see how they would work with pictures other than family photos. One was done a year ago with sunflowers which I really like and I am wondering if something like that is saleable. I’ve done two. One was a white frame in which I used cherry blossom pictures and the black frame is done with farm machinery photos. I always prefer black.
I am slowly getting back on the horse. December was a long dry month art wise. I couldn’t get out of my own way. This is a new year and I am going to make it a better. I will concentrate on keeping up with the paperwork part of the business, too.
Joining NH Made was a boon and receiving e-mails makes me realize that as I am now selling my work, I have to think of myself as a business. Feels funny. The words in my head always said that I am not a good business woman. Time to change that. Last year was a tip of the iceberg and this coming year, I am going to be better prepared.
In closing, I would like to say thanks for this last year. It was a jumping off point. I published a book. I was invited to show my charcoal landscape drawings and photography at the library. I became a juried member of the Hillsborough Area Artisans in two mediums. I participated in the Open Studio Tour and NH Open Doors. My work is currently in three shops. After all these years of playing artist and writer, I can now finally say that I AM an accomplished writer and artist.
Thursday, January 07, 2010
Somehow I have lost a connection within myself. For a person who had to write in order to feel alive, I am dry as of late. I still journal every day but that is only two pages these past few weeks. Oh, I still do some articles as I write for the snowmobile club and submit an article or two to sunacom.com e-newsletter, but the more creative writing style of mine fell asleep.
I promised my writing group that I’d be back on board after the summer and fall of doing a few art shows but I’ve not come up with anything and now another week is over and group meets on Saturday and there’s not even an inkling of stirring in my writer’s soul.
Talked to a friend yesterday who said she checked my blog and was surprised to find no recent writings, which makes me wonder about what’s going on within me. If I let myself think and sink down into my feelings, I realize I put up barriers to block feeling. With all the drama around my mother’s failing health, I am trying very hard to keep myself in check. My emotions run rampant in worry, despair, anger, and depression. The only way to keep any semblance of sanity and not lose myself in negativity is to block feeling… and I can’t write if I don’t feel.
That doesn’t mean I’m successful at this ploy. I’m not writing nor am I doing other artwork besides a few photographs. My belief system holds that to be alive, you must be creative and I’ve shut the creative side down. Creativity comes from feelings and if I am blocking feelings, I am unable to ignite the spark and right now I don’t know if I am willing to blow on the ashes.
If I fan the flames and the creative fires roar within, then I’ll be susceptible to the pain. It’s an immense struggle to maintain calm and I often do not do very well. I give in to the anger when it roars and then I despair fearing I will never find compassion for my mother. That’s not fair to her, nor is it fair to me.
I shut down. The entire month of December, I gave in to the depression. That’s why I got sick. It was a wake-up call and even in this moment, I am not sure what I’m going to do about it. I’ve always felt I had to block myself off from my mother and I realize that the years of living together went well while my aunt was present to run interference. I remember my mother trying to run my aunt’s life and I was glad I could get away. With my aunt in a home, I am the one being run and I fight it tooth and nail even though I give in more often than not.
I need to fight the despair. Ma’s personal issues don’t have to drag me down. She chose the isolation and although I value privacy and solitude, I also recognize the importance of going out in the world. It’s easy to stay home if I don’t have to go anywhere but it’s necessary to push myself to go out. A lot of inspiration comes from being off on an adventure… even if it’s just going to get groceries.
Yes, I know I can blame my mother for a lot of things, but the reality is that I am also the one who chooses. I chose to be here with her in her decline. I decide to stay home or go out. I am the one who makes my decisions and it is time to become more active in my personal and art life.
Let the New Year begin!
Monday, November 09, 2009
The NH Open Doors Tour is over for this year. Naturally, I wanted more people to stop by but I am pleased with those who did come to see what I offer. I get much joy from the work that I do and when someone appreciates the photographs and drawings, I am even more pleased.
The sale of pieces is important, too, and not just because of the money. One reason is that it is crucial to keep a flow of goods. Life is ever changing and inventories need to move. It’s keeping a freshness to the work and allows positive energy to envelop the creativity. When my stock piles, I become less motivated.
Another reason that I like to keep things moving is because of my fascination of the life around me. I am excited by many subjects and I love sharing the joy that I feel; be it the intricacies of flowers, rusted metals buried in weeds, bits and pieces washed up on the shoreline, birds and critters and the natural beauty of the earth. Sharing the art is showing everyone how I find joy in every day.
I may be a bit crazy, but I want everyone to experience this part of life as I see it. I want others to feel the happiness that runs through me. I get up each morning wondering what joys I will find during the day and every time I look out the window or ride down the street, I am amazed at what my eyes observe. Beauty runs through my soul.
The sale of pieces is important, too, and not just because of the money. One reason is that it is crucial to keep a flow of goods. Life is ever changing and inventories need to move. It’s keeping a freshness to the work and allows positive energy to envelop the creativity. When my stock piles, I become less motivated.
Another reason that I like to keep things moving is because of my fascination of the life around me. I am excited by many subjects and I love sharing the joy that I feel; be it the intricacies of flowers, rusted metals buried in weeds, bits and pieces washed up on the shoreline, birds and critters and the natural beauty of the earth. Sharing the art is showing everyone how I find joy in every day.
I may be a bit crazy, but I want everyone to experience this part of life as I see it. I want others to feel the happiness that runs through me. I get up each morning wondering what joys I will find during the day and every time I look out the window or ride down the street, I am amazed at what my eyes observe. Beauty runs through my soul.
Friday, October 30, 2009
PLAYING BY THE RULES
It’s interesting how things come back around. I thought I knew what I was in for when I took on the “job” of caring for my mother but as she declines and becomes an invalid, I find dealing with these issues very difficult. I am frustrated, angry, and filled with despair. In spite of all my training in dealing with emotions, I am not handling this well.
It’s funny how something will come along to give another perspective. I recently made contact with people I worked with years ago. I’d been out of touch for about ten years as I carried a lot of issues from those factory days. I left full of frustration and anger and I couldn’t bear to face those with whom I once worked. It took a year of healing before I was able to move on with my life, yet I still did not want any contact with those old acquaintances.
In this morning’s journal writing, I realized that the bare emotions from those early days are similar to what I am experiencing now. I asked myself how that could be. The situations are totally different but as I delved deeper, I looked back on my childhood.
My mother wasn’t typical. She’d be out playing hide and seek or kick the can instead of baking cookies. She’d be walking wooded trails and teaching us about plants instead of having coffee with the neighbors. As I grew older, my mother would be making up quiz games for us kids and not going to PTA meetings or making us go out for school sports. She and my aunt would take regular games like Parcheesi and change the game around by adding more “men” and adjusting the rules.
Questions arise. Does this mean that my mother never taught me social skills? I was much more at home in the woods than on the playground. I’d rather be out in the fields than participating in “girl” talk with others my age. I was a social outcast and it didn’t get better as I grew older.
Now, as I am slowly re-acquainting with old co-workers, I am reminded of the on-going struggle of trying to fit in and wondering why I never could. Why have these people come back in my life to remind me of that past anger at a time when the frustrations are resurfacing? Is it my fault that I never had a lot of friends or couldn’t seem to get along with anyone?
Perhaps I want everyone to act in a certain way and when they don’t live up to my expectations, I don’t want to be around them. Yes, I try to accept people for who they are, but the underlying fact is I get frustrated when people won’t behave as I’d have them. It’s like I don’t want to play their game.
That’s it! The light bulb goes off. I don’t want to play by anyone else’s rules… if I don’t like those rules… and today, as in years ago, when I don’t like the game, I stop playing. I often say, “I refuse to play their game” and that’s true with jobs, affiliations, the government (as much as one can) and anything else.
This is what makes me frustrated and angry. If I don’t believe in the rules of the game and I’m still forced to play, then I fall apart. The politics of the old job, the corporate atmosphere of the work place, and the current situation in health care and the decline of a parent are situations that drive me crazy. There are all those “not fairs” in the world and I don’t want to participate.
I cannot always have it “my way” though. There are times when I have to “suck it up” and get the job done. I can’t always re-write the rules to suit me. My mother is getting worse and I cannot change that.
What’s that old saying about “Accepting what you cannot change?” Maybe I can stop feeling so put upon, let go the anger, and accept what is with an open heart.
These old contacts resurfacing are a wake up call and remind me that if issues are buried without being resolved, they will come back. Then again, perhaps seeing the similarity between past and present might shed a new light on this journey of self discovery. Let’s hope so. I am looking forward to catching up with people who were once part of my life…
It’s interesting how things come back around. I thought I knew what I was in for when I took on the “job” of caring for my mother but as she declines and becomes an invalid, I find dealing with these issues very difficult. I am frustrated, angry, and filled with despair. In spite of all my training in dealing with emotions, I am not handling this well.
It’s funny how something will come along to give another perspective. I recently made contact with people I worked with years ago. I’d been out of touch for about ten years as I carried a lot of issues from those factory days. I left full of frustration and anger and I couldn’t bear to face those with whom I once worked. It took a year of healing before I was able to move on with my life, yet I still did not want any contact with those old acquaintances.
In this morning’s journal writing, I realized that the bare emotions from those early days are similar to what I am experiencing now. I asked myself how that could be. The situations are totally different but as I delved deeper, I looked back on my childhood.
My mother wasn’t typical. She’d be out playing hide and seek or kick the can instead of baking cookies. She’d be walking wooded trails and teaching us about plants instead of having coffee with the neighbors. As I grew older, my mother would be making up quiz games for us kids and not going to PTA meetings or making us go out for school sports. She and my aunt would take regular games like Parcheesi and change the game around by adding more “men” and adjusting the rules.
Questions arise. Does this mean that my mother never taught me social skills? I was much more at home in the woods than on the playground. I’d rather be out in the fields than participating in “girl” talk with others my age. I was a social outcast and it didn’t get better as I grew older.
Now, as I am slowly re-acquainting with old co-workers, I am reminded of the on-going struggle of trying to fit in and wondering why I never could. Why have these people come back in my life to remind me of that past anger at a time when the frustrations are resurfacing? Is it my fault that I never had a lot of friends or couldn’t seem to get along with anyone?
Perhaps I want everyone to act in a certain way and when they don’t live up to my expectations, I don’t want to be around them. Yes, I try to accept people for who they are, but the underlying fact is I get frustrated when people won’t behave as I’d have them. It’s like I don’t want to play their game.
That’s it! The light bulb goes off. I don’t want to play by anyone else’s rules… if I don’t like those rules… and today, as in years ago, when I don’t like the game, I stop playing. I often say, “I refuse to play their game” and that’s true with jobs, affiliations, the government (as much as one can) and anything else.
This is what makes me frustrated and angry. If I don’t believe in the rules of the game and I’m still forced to play, then I fall apart. The politics of the old job, the corporate atmosphere of the work place, and the current situation in health care and the decline of a parent are situations that drive me crazy. There are all those “not fairs” in the world and I don’t want to participate.
I cannot always have it “my way” though. There are times when I have to “suck it up” and get the job done. I can’t always re-write the rules to suit me. My mother is getting worse and I cannot change that.
What’s that old saying about “Accepting what you cannot change?” Maybe I can stop feeling so put upon, let go the anger, and accept what is with an open heart.
These old contacts resurfacing are a wake up call and remind me that if issues are buried without being resolved, they will come back. Then again, perhaps seeing the similarity between past and present might shed a new light on this journey of self discovery. Let’s hope so. I am looking forward to catching up with people who were once part of my life…
Saturday, October 24, 2009
DECLINE AND COPING
I pull in, isolate myself from family and focus on art work and those who support those artistic endeavors. I try to avoid the pain that often comes with love. Once more I harden my heart and refuse to hurt….which is not easy with an ailing parent and I go back and forth between moments of despair and frenetic creativity.
Sometimes I feel my training is letting me down. All the studies on handling emotion has not stopped me from giving in to frustration as I watch my mother decline. Her needs are so different from mine. Her fears weigh heavy beside my own. She is a dominating force in my life and I’m afraid that if I don’t keep up barriers, she will overcome me and I will come to be just like her.
I try to keep the rest of the family from knowing all the petty details, all that I put up with on a daily basis. They have their own lives and struggles to deal with and I agreed to be here for Ma. Yes, I am well-paid for this choice but I do wonder about the consequences in the end. I worry how I will ever re-join the work force and what wounds I cause in this separation from family. I am not confident in the quality of my future.
I also fear no one understands and might think I am horrible. I am surprised when others do relate to this plight. Hey, I am not the only one to care for an aging parent. I do not have to do this alone, however I cannot help but wonder how much of this trial is for me to bear. Right now, this is my “job” and I don’t feel I’m putting on a good face. Inside I throw a little tantrum. I don’t want it to be this way--- and I feel like kicking something.
I pull back farther and yet, there is always that part of me that does reach out for help. I sit in meditation and the training does come back. I breathe in, breathe out, and relax. I’m able to see how to be better for the next round. There are friends who stop in to visit to relieve some of the pressures and give me time to slip away without worrying about what I’ll find when I return.
Then there is my writing and art work. Writing is my salvation; the place I go when I can no longer cope. I pour my heart out onto pages with some kept private while other is shared. Those thoughts and feelings are the release of pent up frustrations and responses reach out to me through the darkness.
The written words are also a protection. With others, reading protects them from my projected emotions and body language, and for me, because I am emptying myself of the pain, I am protected from my own despair. In re-reading, there is enough distance that I can objectively look at my process. When I am physically in the presence of anyone else, I do not control my emotions well when I am overly distraught.
Doing anything creative is important when dealing with raw emotion, however, at those times, there cannot be interruptions. Time is essential to work the feelings out and regain a more peaceful heart. Solitude is necessary for me to get hold of myself when I have one of my “breakdowns.”
Family checks in. Even though they are busy with their own lives, they let me know they care and that I do not have to isolate myself from them.
I am ready to step up to the plate again.
I pull in, isolate myself from family and focus on art work and those who support those artistic endeavors. I try to avoid the pain that often comes with love. Once more I harden my heart and refuse to hurt….which is not easy with an ailing parent and I go back and forth between moments of despair and frenetic creativity.
Sometimes I feel my training is letting me down. All the studies on handling emotion has not stopped me from giving in to frustration as I watch my mother decline. Her needs are so different from mine. Her fears weigh heavy beside my own. She is a dominating force in my life and I’m afraid that if I don’t keep up barriers, she will overcome me and I will come to be just like her.
I try to keep the rest of the family from knowing all the petty details, all that I put up with on a daily basis. They have their own lives and struggles to deal with and I agreed to be here for Ma. Yes, I am well-paid for this choice but I do wonder about the consequences in the end. I worry how I will ever re-join the work force and what wounds I cause in this separation from family. I am not confident in the quality of my future.
I also fear no one understands and might think I am horrible. I am surprised when others do relate to this plight. Hey, I am not the only one to care for an aging parent. I do not have to do this alone, however I cannot help but wonder how much of this trial is for me to bear. Right now, this is my “job” and I don’t feel I’m putting on a good face. Inside I throw a little tantrum. I don’t want it to be this way--- and I feel like kicking something.
I pull back farther and yet, there is always that part of me that does reach out for help. I sit in meditation and the training does come back. I breathe in, breathe out, and relax. I’m able to see how to be better for the next round. There are friends who stop in to visit to relieve some of the pressures and give me time to slip away without worrying about what I’ll find when I return.
Then there is my writing and art work. Writing is my salvation; the place I go when I can no longer cope. I pour my heart out onto pages with some kept private while other is shared. Those thoughts and feelings are the release of pent up frustrations and responses reach out to me through the darkness.
The written words are also a protection. With others, reading protects them from my projected emotions and body language, and for me, because I am emptying myself of the pain, I am protected from my own despair. In re-reading, there is enough distance that I can objectively look at my process. When I am physically in the presence of anyone else, I do not control my emotions well when I am overly distraught.
Doing anything creative is important when dealing with raw emotion, however, at those times, there cannot be interruptions. Time is essential to work the feelings out and regain a more peaceful heart. Solitude is necessary for me to get hold of myself when I have one of my “breakdowns.”
Family checks in. Even though they are busy with their own lives, they let me know they care and that I do not have to isolate myself from them.
I am ready to step up to the plate again.
Thursday, October 08, 2009
The leaves are coming down with all the wind and rain. More of the mountains can be seen and the colors are awesome. The sky is alive with cloud formations and different shades of blues and grays. I love the mornings when I can sit up here and look over the golden field grasses.
I’ve got lots to do but with Ma being sick again, I am pulled down. Those who know her know she does little to help herself. It’s sad. Her goal right now is to lie in bed and have people gather around to talk to her and wait on her. I worry when I go off what I will find when I return. Sometimes she is fun and other times she has anxiety attacks and works herself into further illness.
I have to keep moving forward. There’s an art show to get ready for and the house needs to be cleaned up. The living room, dining room and kitchen are turned into a gallery.
One exciting bit of news is that my first Sunacom.com article has been published along with photos that I took last Sunday at Muster Field Farm. Yea!
I made an etsy.com store front and now need to list items for sale. I’ll try to get to that today.
So, to work, to work, to work…
I’ve got lots to do but with Ma being sick again, I am pulled down. Those who know her know she does little to help herself. It’s sad. Her goal right now is to lie in bed and have people gather around to talk to her and wait on her. I worry when I go off what I will find when I return. Sometimes she is fun and other times she has anxiety attacks and works herself into further illness.
I have to keep moving forward. There’s an art show to get ready for and the house needs to be cleaned up. The living room, dining room and kitchen are turned into a gallery.
One exciting bit of news is that my first Sunacom.com article has been published along with photos that I took last Sunday at Muster Field Farm. Yea!
I made an etsy.com store front and now need to list items for sale. I’ll try to get to that today.
So, to work, to work, to work…
Sunday, October 04, 2009
MESSAGE FROM A SKUNK
My friend, Holly, gave me a pretty pink hydrangea plant to use as a table decoration for the upcoming art show. My mother and I both felt the leaves and flowers of the plant and thought it a fake. Three days later, I loaded it in the back of the truck with all my art paraphernalia and headed off to set up.
The plant fell over as I was unloading and a few drops of water dribbled out. I looked closer. The flowers were all wilted and drooping down over the edge of the pot. Oh, my gosh, it’s a live plant! What will Holly say when she sees that I’ve killed the flower she gave me?
Luckily I had water and in half an hour, the plant revived. The weekend was a success and two days later, I glanced at the plant. The flowers drooped down over the edge of the pot again. Oh, no. Guess I’d better get it planted in the ground.
I chose a spot where it would get morning sun and placed it in the ground giving it plenty of water. The next morning, my senses were assailed by the rankest smelling skunk odor I’ve ever come across. I looked out the window. The hydrangea was lying on its side.
I rushed out. There were two tiny footprints pressed into the bone dry, soft dirt where I’d planted the hydrangea. It looked like the plant was carefully pulled up and put aside and the hole filled in. How odd. The plant didn’t look chewed upon nor was the root ball damaged. I re-dug the hole adding Miracle Gro soil, placed the plant, packed in dirt, and watered.
There was a frost that night. The hydrangea, from my distant window, was looking a little weathered with the flowers being more brown than pink. Another night passed. I looked out. The hydrangea was lying on its side. What? Not again.
I went out with the shovel. There was a faint skunk odor in the air. The hydrangea was again two feet away from the hole. Was there a reason the skunk did not want the plant in that spot?
I considered moving the plant and looked at the tag where I read, “Zones 7-9.” We are considered zone 4. The hydrangea would never survive the winter outside. Was the skunk trying to tell me?
I got a pot and made a new home for the hydrangea. I cut back the now dead flowers. It’s happy in its sunny place with my other indoor plants.
As for the skunk, he’s been around these past few nights but none of my other plants are dug up and in the air, the fresh smells of autumn and rain.
My friend, Holly, gave me a pretty pink hydrangea plant to use as a table decoration for the upcoming art show. My mother and I both felt the leaves and flowers of the plant and thought it a fake. Three days later, I loaded it in the back of the truck with all my art paraphernalia and headed off to set up.
The plant fell over as I was unloading and a few drops of water dribbled out. I looked closer. The flowers were all wilted and drooping down over the edge of the pot. Oh, my gosh, it’s a live plant! What will Holly say when she sees that I’ve killed the flower she gave me?
Luckily I had water and in half an hour, the plant revived. The weekend was a success and two days later, I glanced at the plant. The flowers drooped down over the edge of the pot again. Oh, no. Guess I’d better get it planted in the ground.
I chose a spot where it would get morning sun and placed it in the ground giving it plenty of water. The next morning, my senses were assailed by the rankest smelling skunk odor I’ve ever come across. I looked out the window. The hydrangea was lying on its side.
I rushed out. There were two tiny footprints pressed into the bone dry, soft dirt where I’d planted the hydrangea. It looked like the plant was carefully pulled up and put aside and the hole filled in. How odd. The plant didn’t look chewed upon nor was the root ball damaged. I re-dug the hole adding Miracle Gro soil, placed the plant, packed in dirt, and watered.
There was a frost that night. The hydrangea, from my distant window, was looking a little weathered with the flowers being more brown than pink. Another night passed. I looked out. The hydrangea was lying on its side. What? Not again.
I went out with the shovel. There was a faint skunk odor in the air. The hydrangea was again two feet away from the hole. Was there a reason the skunk did not want the plant in that spot?
I considered moving the plant and looked at the tag where I read, “Zones 7-9.” We are considered zone 4. The hydrangea would never survive the winter outside. Was the skunk trying to tell me?
I got a pot and made a new home for the hydrangea. I cut back the now dead flowers. It’s happy in its sunny place with my other indoor plants.
As for the skunk, he’s been around these past few nights but none of my other plants are dug up and in the air, the fresh smells of autumn and rain.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Wow, it’s been awhile since I’ve blogged. The summer was incredibly busy with five Tai Chi classes a week and getting ready to do the Hillsborough Area Artisans Open Studio Tour. I enjoyed the journey and was honored to get juried in two mediums--- charcoal drawing and photography.
Two Tai Chi classes were over with the coming of September and this past weekend was the Open Studio Tour. I enjoyed myself, though there were some frantic last minute preparations. I’m pleased with the sales and was excited by the number of people who viewed my work. I received a lot of positive feedback.
My goal for this year was to put myself and my art work “out there” and I am accomplishing that as my next venture is to do the NH Open Doors Studio Tour the first weekend in November. This time I will open my home to the public and will do readings from my book, “My Life Isn’t Flowers…a journey through poetry and pictures,” plus I will demonstrate charcoal drawing.
In the meantime, my plans include on-line selling. Hopefully, I will get to setting that up next week although I have to fit in writing time as I decided to do some articles for Sunacom, a local e-newsletter.
Two Tai Chi classes were over with the coming of September and this past weekend was the Open Studio Tour. I enjoyed myself, though there were some frantic last minute preparations. I’m pleased with the sales and was excited by the number of people who viewed my work. I received a lot of positive feedback.
My goal for this year was to put myself and my art work “out there” and I am accomplishing that as my next venture is to do the NH Open Doors Studio Tour the first weekend in November. This time I will open my home to the public and will do readings from my book, “My Life Isn’t Flowers…a journey through poetry and pictures,” plus I will demonstrate charcoal drawing.
In the meantime, my plans include on-line selling. Hopefully, I will get to setting that up next week although I have to fit in writing time as I decided to do some articles for Sunacom, a local e-newsletter.
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