The Sock Drawer

 

Fred was taking it slow this morning. And why not? He had time and lots of it. Minutes go by so slowly and yet months and years disappear rather quickly. Why is that, he wondered. It must be an age thing. He turned eighty-four just last week and had already shoved the occasion into last year’s and the one before that.

Birthdays were a day to eat cake. A good slice of layered chocolate cake from the bakery. Then sit quietly at a table near the window with a cup of hot black coffee to go with it and look out at the people walking by. How many years of birthday cakes had they had, how many were chocolate, and when did they stop having someone bake one especially for them?

One week later he is standing before the bathroom mirror in his shorts and t-shirt. He looks pretty much the same as last week except now there is a stubbly start of a beard. Fred had decided a few days ago that shaving was no longer a necessary.

He used a straight edge razor for years. The kind with a swivel head that followed the contours of his changing jaw line. He liked lathering up with all that white foam that disappeared with each swipe of the blade, taking away those bits of hair that seemed to only grow while he slept. Then someone, likely his daughter, thought he should try an electric razor, the kind that buzzed along on dry sagging skin, lifting and shoving his face in all directions while sucking the hair into some hidden compartment within.

But shaving that way didn’t do a proper job. Not like his straight edge Gillette razor. So he tried going back to the old razor only to find that he was sticking bits of tissue to tiny cuts that bled even though he wiped some spit onto them. Shit! Why bother? And besides, those pesky hairs that grow on the tops and sides, and often inside the nose and ears don’t show so much with a face full of hair. It was a smart decision.

Back in the bedroom, Fred opens his sock drawer and reaches in. When Emma was alive, she sorted his socks not only by pairs but how worn or discolored the socks being sorted looked. Then she’d lay out one flattened sock with the heel off to the right. When she found another that matched it in size and worn-ness she placed it on top, then folded the two in half to be put aside while she did the same to the next sock to come from the pile. Emma showed Fred how to do this for when he might be faced with the laundry when she went off to help their daughter or just to get a bit of traveling in.

Emma liked going places, especially by herself. An old lady alone invites kindness. Doors are opened, smiles are offered, and extra time is given when she’s trying to decide what to order for lunch. And best of all there is no one else’s wishes that need to be considered. She could go to a movie, a museum, look in the shops, whatever she felt like doing Emma could do. And once back home she could tell Fred all about it, stretching her little adventures even further.

Fred tried, maybe once, to match his socks the way he was shown, but found it easier to simply put two together and make a loose overhand knot with the “pair”. He only had to put his hand in the drawer, and without looking, reach around until he had a fistful of softness. But today there were not any balled up, knotted socks in the drawer. This meant only one thing. It was time to do some laundry. And it also meant that he had more t-shirts and shorts than he had pairs of socks. That just did not seem right. Either he or Emma had not been paying attention to the dwindling number of socks.

One last stretch into the back of the drawer and he felt it! The last pair of socks that Emma had carefully matched up. Good. Once out and separated, Fred laughed out loud and sat down on the bed. This pair of socks were the ones Emma had stitched eyes onto, just an inch or so up from the ends. These were the “say what’s on your mind” socks.

Emma came up with the idea. When they were headed toward harsh words of anger, frustration, hurt feelings, whatever, these socks were for her and Fred to put on with the thumb catching into the heel while the fingers stretched out into the toe of the sock. Two haphazardly stitched eyes were meant to glare at each other while statements were made and acknowledged as the puppet socks opened and closed their silly, complaining mouths or were held tight in a sneer or frown while the other sock talked. And as Emma had intended, they would both end up giggling at the absurdity of such arbitrators of disagreement.

Fred smiled to himself and put a sock on each hand.

“Hi Em. I miss you.”

“Same here, Fred.”

It went like that for the next half hour. Fred and Emma talking to each other as he sat there on the bed in his underwear, elbows resting on his knees.

They caught up on all the news. She told him how surprised she was who was up there with her. Some of them both her and Fred were sure were headed for the other place. But here everyone was kind. It was a nice place.

Fred asked what she thought of him growing a beard. She approved; said he’d fit right in when the time came. He told her how their daughter and grandchild were getting along. But she already knew that.

Emma asked how his birthday went. He said same as last year and the one before that, dark chocolate cake at the bakery. Emma laughed and said it was hard to get devil’s food cake up there. Most everyone had developed a taste for angel food. They both laughed at that.

She told him it was a good thing he caught her early because soon she was going off by herself for a few days. Yes, it was a nice place to end up, but if talking eternity, a bit boring at times. And it was so easy to just catch a ride to somewhere else for a day or so. Fred made the unnecessary comment to stay safe.

He told Emma he was going to count his shorts and t-shirts before going to the store to make sure that he bought enough new socks to keep the counts even. And promised to only wear these particular socks today. Tonight, he’d wash them carefully by hand and put them together the way she had showed him before sticking them back in the sock drawer. She smiled in approval. They both did.

They said their goodbyes and kissed each other before Fred took the socks off his hands and put them on his feet. Their eyes looked up at him while he put on his shirt and pants, then disappeared into his shoes.

The end

Getting On With It

Isn’t this lovely? The view from the front door the other morning before I set off for my walk. Speaking of which, here are the latest pictures.

The river and then the dam.

I watched this lone bird dive over and over again. It was mesmerizing to watch where he would come up next. A grebe I think.

The birds seen along these walks are inspiring what I draw in the Bird Stories book.

On the heron above I tried to follow the already established marks of patterned paper used. It does not always work out how you plan.  The little grebe will be next I think. Or it could be those pesky turkeys. Just a little while ago we (the cats and I) heard banging downstairs in the studio. The turkeys were taking exception to their reflections.

With help from my new watch cat, we scared them off.

Scary cat isn’t she?

I finished the latest short story and will post it a bit later today. It is a story to start a beer with then think about as you finish the beer. Or maybe a story to start a scotch with. It made me smile….a good thing.

It is hard to describe how these stories come to me. Not long after I have written them, I forget the character’s name but not what they did and how they felt. That part is stuck in there with other fragments of importance. It is like when you are sitting on a long bench and someone you don’t want to stare at takes a seat at the other end. If you look at them, they will disappear. So you sort of soak them up, take them in from a distance and begin to listen…anyway it is something like that.

They stick around just out of clarity until you put them into words. Then they are real. You can see them, hear them, even smell them. You don’t need to know a lot about them, because in those few minutes that you have spent listening and writing them into existence is all that needs to be said about who and what they are. It’s enough without being seen as intrusive to them. It would be so easy to lose them in the fog of too much.

I look at being an artist the same way. Last night I listened for over an hour to a workshop instructor talk about how her workshops will help the student to find their own voice. There will be exercises to complete to help with the discovery. The students will be able to share with others how it is going for them. Eventually, with following along, they will find their own voice, be artists, and then be “successful”. What exactly does that word, “successful”, mean? I assumed monetary gain.  And when the exercises end and they are left alone with a pencil, paintbrush, whatever in hand, do they launch themselves into whatever success is for them? Is this what it takes to be an artist? Do they make lots of work that is their own, stack it up before approaching a gallery for acceptance?

What if they just sat quietly at the end of the bench and thought about what really matters to them and how they would like to say it? And what if they went back to where the materials they know how to use are waiting to help them express it in a visual form? Is that success enough? Or will they just be passing time until another workshop comes along to help them find the artist within? That last question reminds me of what a very dear friend told me years ago, “Sandy, some of us just want to make stuff.”

I like that, and have to wonder if workshop instructors would be wise to refer to their classes as getting together to make stuff. Just a thought.

Anyway, I am going to go read a book, draw, or sit at the end of the bench and wait….

Til later…..

 

Another Dreary Morning

It is dreary looking out there. The walks have been the same.

The Riverwalk showed this last bit of color.

The cats seem fluffier when the skies are grey. They are waiting for some sunlight.

I noticed how the crows wait for the turkeys to finish before going in to feed on whatever is left. I thought crows were more brash, pushy and less considerate than this. But this day they were outnumbered thirteen to five.

It inspired me to draw a crow in the Bird Stories book.

It takes so much lead to do these these dark birds. So next was a nuthatch.

Today seems like a good day to draw and write. When the sun comes out later I will go for my walk….too drizzly now.

A while back I heard a journalist on public radio talk about the “news” of the day. She pronounced “news” like one would pronounce “noose” or “moose”, or “goose”. Why didn’t she say “news” like “lose”?  Or more closely related, “screws”? Why is it that the words with more of the vowel, “o”, get a shorter “o” sound? My junior high English teacher would have had the answer. She knew everything. That woman would make us recite the prologue to The Canterbury Tales in the language it was written! I can still recite the first few lines and sometimes do, out loud, to myself, just to remember how learning used to be. Miss Willis would rap her ruler on her desk and make us start again if the pronunciation was off even a little bit. One had to recite not only correctly but with feeling! She wore dresses with hems well below the knee and her dark brown hair was in ripple-like waves going away from her face. I never knew where those waves ended up because she was careful to never take her eyes off of us.

Do junior high English teachers know that some of their students will remember sixty odd years later what and how they were teaching?

And for those wondering what the prologue was, here is just the beginning:

 

Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote,
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licóur
Of which vertú engendred is the flour;
Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne,
And smale foweles maken melodye,
That slepen al the nyght with open ye,
So priketh hem Natúre in hir corages,
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,
And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes,
To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;
And specially, from every shires ende
Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende,
The hooly blisful martir for to seke,
That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke.
Spell check just had a field day with that!
Anyway it is just now a bit past nine-thirty a.m. I think it is time to draw, or write or maybe just read through the above prologue, out loud, with feeling.
Til later

Filling My Days By Making Old Habits New Again

There are few pastimes that are as relaxing as drawing. Last week I found four books that had not been bound and a whole pad of watercolor paper that could be cut into folios for two landscape format sketchbooks with lots of blank pages just waiting to be filled. Now they are all ready to go.

The morning walks clear my head so I can think things through. I go by myself because it is early and few people are around. I also go alone to avoid hearing anything but bird song, rippling waters and my own thoughts. Once in awhile I hear myself sighing with relief that it is just us, me thinking and me agreeing that whatever is so.

The walks have been cold. Along the dam a few days ago.

And then the river yesterday and this morning further downstream.

And this tiny surprise along the way.

I treated myself to a skim milk lavender latte at the coffee shop on the way back this morning and opened one of the small journals to practice pen drawing again. This will become easier and better with practice. But it is a start. My old friend, Gwen, and I used to sit and sketch together years ago. She kept it up and I dropped off.  Between her posts and another facebook friend from down under, I am inspired to take it up again. The small book and pen will stay in my purse and I will take the few minutes each time I am in a coffee shop or similar place to just do it.

The turkeys, all fourteen of them have taken to coming back in the afternoons to wander around the front door.

I have made some final decisions on the new house. Do I want to step over a three inch wall into the shower or simply step down three inches to a recessed shower floor? I am stepping down not over. What color shingles do you want on the roof? Does it matter? Yes, you have to choose from over ten possibilities. I chose medium grey. The windows for my house have arrived. This is good news as the ones for another house are still being held up. I asked for exact finished measurements of some interior walls that will determine where furniture goes. The more I figure out here the less I have to ponder over later. I want to spend as little time as possible sitting among boxes and rearranging furniture.

Half of the garage will be used for studio space. Carving and printmaking will be done there but all the papers need a dry interior space. Large flat corrugated cardboard sleeves can be labeled and tucked under the guest room bed. Smaller papers and supplies can fill dresser drawers in that same room. If guests require more than a couple of drawers perhaps they are staying too long.

As for the artwork, I have found which walls most of it will go on in the new house.

I am also thinking that I might even have pale colored walls in the bedrooms and den. I can’t remember the last time there was anything but off-white on my walls. A soft pale sage green in the guest room would be nice with al that pine furniture. My bedroom a pale graphite, the den maybe the same or something like a hot chocolate with extra milk. It will be fun to just look at what is out there in paint colors.

Speaking of fun. This one is very good company!

Til later….