"Whatssamatta ya scared?"

Barbara Stanwyck. I love her old black-and-white films (Lady Eve, hi-larious!) She has a line in a movie that I can't remember the title of (arrgh!), but she said, "Whatsamatta, ya scared?"In a real sassy tough girl way.I always wanted to use that line, but never had a good reason to up 'til now. Eeep! Introducing my bird of prey scarecrow. To all those garden-nibbling rabbits and groundhogs out there: "Whatsamatta, ya scared?" Muahahaha!

BOOM!

Miss Brown

She worked in the city, and would travel home via the train. I used to watch her walk down the street to her house, which was next door to mine.
"Hello, Mrs. Brown!" I shouted.
"Miss Brown!" she would firmly reply. I couldn't get it to stick in my juvenile head that the elderly man she lived with and cared for was her father, not her husband. Miss Brown had a dignified beauty, neat as a pin. I never saw her in anything except dresses, and her red hair was always worn up in a French twist. I don't believe she stood over 5'0 tall, if even that; yet for a brief time, she was a giant in my life.

I once sat on the steps outside our house, crying. Inside, my parents were screaming at each other, loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear. Miss Brown came over and took me by the hand, and, without a word, lead me into her parlor. Handing me a small piece of cloth, some thread, and a needle, she sat beside me and taught me how to do a running stitch. I'll never forget the deep, steady tick of the grandfather clock in that room. To this day, that sound gives me a feeling of calm.

Then there was the sunny afternoon that had suddenly turned to rain. Miss Brown's sun-dried wash was still hanging on the line. I quickly got to work and slipped the full basket through her cellar door (back in the day when a person could leave the door unlocked.) Later that afternoon, there was a knock on my door.
"Did you rescue my laundry?" She asked.
"Yes," I nodded. She smiled and handed me a china figurine. "I've had him ever since I was a child," she said, "he used to have a mate, but she broke years ago. I believe he would like to live with you now. Take care of him."

We were shuffled around a lot as kids, but everywhere I went, he went with me. With every move he was carefully wrapped in newspaper. However, on one journey when I was a teen, his head broke off. I glued it back on with clear nail polish. Hey, it worked. I'm amazed he survived after 48 years. I'm still taking care of him, Miss Brown.

There are many more stories I could tell you about her. When I get to Heaven, I'm going to give that little lady a big kiss, and thank her for being a life-raft when things were horribly stormy. I do believe there is a God Who cares, and Who places the willing in our path throughout our lives. I guess the best thank-you I can give Marion Brown is to live by the example she set.  

I bet all of us, if we tried, could look back on our pasts and remember those who stood like guide posts to Heaven, even when we were yet far off. I don't remember Miss Brown talking much, but her loving actions spoke volumes. She truly did love her neighbor.
         

Say WHAT?

I was backing out of a parking space in a very small lot at a local market, when I noticed a distinguished looking elderly man waiting beside my car to get to his.  For some reason, he was morally outraged that he had to wait for a minute because I was backing out.  He proceeded to drop the f-bomb on me eight times (yes, I counted).  I was completely shocked - stopped in mid-reverse, and stared at him with an expression that said, "Seriously?!?"  He kept at it.  I pushed the button to lower my power window, made a peace sign with my hand, and said, "Peace, my brother".  His head jerked back, as if I had taken my two peace-signing fingers and poked him in the eyes.  He was the one looking stunned now.  Total credit for my response belongs to the Holy Spirit, since it is not in my nature to respond kindly to verbal assault. 

Anyway, this amusing little episode got me to thinking about the power of words, and why I like blogging.  Most times, not always, but most times, people say kind things to one another in the comment sections in Bloglandia.  Whenever I'm having a bad day, I peruse old posts and reread the nice things people have shared,  It's encouraging and healing.  I hope to give back the same when I read your posts or emails or letters.  

And speaking of letters, I found on Pinterest a cool way to keep the snail mail I've received over the years from family, friends, and fellow bloggers (who have become friends).  I'm a lazy letter-writer, but I do cherish the ones that have been sent my way.  This little project helps me to keep these treasures safe.

To make one, you'll need a small ring binder and a hole punch.  I carefully punch holes in the cards and letters where the writing wouldn't be damaged, and decorated the front cover with some old stamps from around the world.  Some of you may recognize cards and letters that you have sent.  If not, please know that they are in there and part of the collection.  In fact, I am starting a second binder :)

The good Word says:  "Out of the abundance of the heart, the mouth speaks".  Thank you for sharing yours with me.  It's done my heart good.

cue Simon and Garfunkel: Slow down, you move too fast

If you've been reading this blog for awhile, you know that I used to work on an 18th century farm doing 18th century labor, where doing things the old-fashioned way takes time.  But there were 21st century time constraints, like each class having to finish their activity in 30 minutes.  For eight years, I have been trained to do slow things fast.

I'm relearning now.  I'm taking classes in classical drawing and painting.  My teacher's beautiful Russian accent comes over my shoulder as she examines my work.  "Slow down, Jodi.  Slow down."  These instructions are good for me.  There are no shortcuts, no techniques allowed--just the fruit of repetition and the discipline of learning to render what you see.  Learning to tell myself it's okay to take three hours to draw a simple egg. 

The first hour of class is excruciating.  It takes that long for me to warm up, to find my groove.  I love the analogy my instructor used:  "I would never hand you a violin and tell you to play me something.  I would teach to to play and make you practice, practice, practice.  Your pencil and your paintbrush are your violin."

She continues, "You must draw and paint every day, everything you see.  If you are drinking a glass of milk, paint it."  

homework

more homework

learning to conquer the palette

work in progress

first stage - blocking in - still life study

* * *

So that's where I'm at.  S-l-o-w-l-y, exercising lazy muscles, trying to squeeze every bit of goodness from this opportunity I've dreamed about.  Feeling blessed.

"Life I love you, all is groovy

ba da ba da da, da da da da..."

That revolutionary morning

When we were much younger and more energetic, my husband and I would wake before dawn.  I'd make coffee, and he would pop on the album Songs of the Father.  We's sit together on the dining room floor, mugs in hand, and pray in Easter morning.  I'll never forget the sense of peace that would fill the room, and how it made you feel like a sponge, absorbing every bit of it.  It was changing us.  We could feel it.  

This is how we did Easter morning for a few years while the kids were babies. And then like most things, life changes, and our little pre-dawn ritual fell away.  

This morning I remembered that we had a box of albums from long ago stashed away in our garage.  I asked  Mike if he thought there was any chance that we still had the one we used to play on Easter morning twenty-some years ago.  Sure enough, we did!  We've been playing it all morning for our youngest daughter to hear.

It all came flooding back--memories of our budding faith.  It all came back, except the peace.  That has never left.    

Listening to the album, I wondered if my daughter would cringe at the kind of folksy, kum-by-ya sound of the recording that emanated from the record player.  So different from the slick, high-tech recording of today.  "Praise be to God for His blessings and His gifts, and the table that He sets with His hands".  "Oh, I like that," she said, humming along.  Times change, yet the truth and power of the words still carry through, still carry us.

"You have made us for Yourself, O Lord,

and our hearts are restless still,

Until they rest in You, O Lord,

Until they rest in You."

St. Augustine

A good egg

Today was the first day of an intense drawing class. It took me 3 hours to draw this egg, or rather, learn to draw this egg. The teacher would say, "No, do it again. No, do it again. No, do it again." And then finally, "You're getting there." She must've saw my relief, because she said, "I don't mean to torture you." "No, please do," I said, "it's what I"m paying you for." She laughed out loud. I like her. Next Monday, I'll spend 3 hours learning to draw a sphere. 

P.S. The same instructor will be teaching me about color later this week. I'm expecting more, "No, do it again." Suck it up, princess...  

  

"It may be hard for an egg to turn into a bird: it would be a jolly sight harder for it to learn to fly while remaining an egg. We are like eggs at present. And you cannot go on indefinitely being just an ordinary, decent egg. We must be hatched or go bad." --C.S. Lewis 

Adventure Update

"But why do we have color? It seems to serve no practical purpose--at least none that scientists can discern. And why are there photoreceptors in our eyes that enable us to see it?

I believe that God's goodness is the point of His creation. He is 'good to all, and His tender mercies are over all His works' (Psalm 145:9). He colored the world for our childlike delight. He's like that, you know." ~David Roper 

Hi, guys. I just finished up a pre-semester workshop called "Views of Vincent". The idea of the class was to learn to apply paint in the manner of Van Gough, and to learn to see beauty in ordinary objects.  

Since the weather outside was not favorable, we were given photographs of landscapes to work on. We had to work quickly--"in one go," as the instructor told us. So this is my landscape of somewhere in France...or New Hampshire, I can't remember. I think it came out well, but it bores me a wee bit. I like parts of it...I might like the whole of it later.

Next, we had to quickly paint our shoes. These are my Vincent-esque mules. It has some glaring issues, but it's far more interesting to me than the landscape. I'm being stretched and pushed and loving every minute. It's good. Next week, spring semester starts. One class is called "Conquering the Palate." With God's help, I intend to. *Cheesy grin*