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Very Busy Few Days

Posted on by Sandy Webster

Marla was here for just a few days and was such a help!! I run all my decorating ideas past her. And if approved, she gets the ladder I no longer can climb and makes the adjustments. This time it was mainly the sunroom. I so wanted that old wire and wood birdcage with the fish. So…

We ordered cafe curtains to block neighbor’s gas tank. They arrived today.

Then she climbed the ladder again to move my good woman sign from the laundry room to the sunroom.

Lee found this sign sitting against a large disposal bin at the dump and thought I might like it. At my old place it hung in my studio. Here I just wanted to see it more often…who spends time in a laundry room! Then a bit more tweaking and the sunroom is perfect!

This garden tool was bought in Australia. The proprietor of the shop asked why I wanted it. I said I like old rusty things. He said, “Don’t you have rusty things at home?”

And the bamboo root face carving got moved. These are no longer that easy to find.

Then we framed and hung a couple of pieces. This one is now right there when I walk past it through the door to my studio.

And the view into the bathroom while sitting on the bed pulling on socks.

And one of the days while we were working around the house, a man came to take my car away to do detailing. Which means he cleaned out dirt, dust, grime from the last fifteen years that accumulated. It looks brand new after he spent five hours on it.

I took Marla out to dinner to give it a test drive. It is fun to try the latest cocktail being tested by the bartender.

It was a basil martini with salads and a full assortment of appetizers.

Afterwards Marla fixed us her favorite drink…a Negroni.

The next day we walked along the river and stopped at RareBird, my favorite coffee shop. But I will show those pictures of a foggy river and total indulgence next time.

While deciding that it was time to put the dictionary away because where I live it is always mistaken for a bible on Lee’s Information Center, I found this old writing from 1993 that is very much a good follow up on my handwriting and loss of cursive writing being taught. It will be an essay in my next book of short stories and poetry.

 

Letters – a journal entry by S. Webster (1993)

 

Letters. We don’t write them very much anymore. Just notes on postcards or a line or two on greeting cards that we choose because it reflects a sentiment we feel but don’t want to commit to handwriting. Then there’s those dreadful computer-generated newsletters. There’s something quite cold and impersonal about them regardless of the intention. Without the personal involvement that handwriting brings, these become less sincere at communications from the heart.

I miss receiving real letters that contain real feelings, observations and opinions. And what’s worse, I miss writing them. Now the urge to record those things is directed to a personal journal. But here, there is no feedback. It’s a one way conversation and I don’t have the accountability. No one will dispute or question or ask to know more. Furthermore writing and recording in a journal seems so much more permanent and unalterable…not like a letter that is stuffed in an envelope, stamped and sent off onto a tenuous journey to anywhere.

The best letters I ever wrote were sent to my mother. I didn’t really think much about them over the years. I liked writing and in a letter my thoughts were not interrupted by, “Yes” and “Really?” as in a phone call. The whole scenario could be played out, complete with punctuation marks to make a point or require a response.

I had known for some time that my mother had always kept my letters in a large box. And as her health failed and she ceased to write back, she would drop my latest letter in the box and pull out others at random to read and re-read.

When she passed away recently the box was sent to me. I knew it was coming and braced myself for a great wave of sadness. There was still so much in my life that I wanted to share with her.

With great trepidation I opened the carton and looked at the piles of envelopes and cards. Everything was there. My whole adult life. From sixteen years of age through twenty-five years of marriage and the rearing of two children. Even the photos of family, friends and artwork were there. She kept it all. I was never so completely hit by who I am and how I got here. It was all documented by my own words.

Rather than sadness as I randomly pulled a letter out, I became lost in my own history. There were very little of my own thoughts and feelings that were not there in that box, recorded exactly as I felt at the time, and shared with the one person who would accept them all unconditionally. And hold them close for years to come.

I remember a line in a movie where one of the characters said she had to go and write a letter to her father. When asked, “Why don’t you just call?”, the response was, “Because when I hang up, he has nothing to hold onto.”

My mother held these letters for years and now I have them back to read and laugh and cry as I hold them close and remember. I am going to miss writing letters to her.

Marla also helped me sort out the work space in the garage and took loads more things home for her various art groups to use. The rest of my teaching workshops books, ie. Content and Containment of Intimate Spaces. That was such a fun full week workshop! She also took many, many more book samples of various bindings and alternative materials. Plus three pedestals for the shops she helps out with. So happy to see these efforts continue to be useful!

Better go…need to refresh my wine and Marla should be checking in soon that she reached her destination for the day in Ohio.

Til later….

Some Details Around the Yard

Posted on by Sandy Webster

This nest of house sparrow eggs is in a bush right outside my studio window. I love their colors. If the nest was still not being used I was going to borrow it long enough to draw it…then saw this!

Also in the front yard are the two blue aspen cedars. One tall next to the house…base detail here.

The new growth is stunning in that yellowy green that turns blue. And my ball-shaped rocks from the glacier turns that formed them in Michigan nestle at the base. And the weeping blue aspen cedar detail. Not much growth last year after we planted it but this year it is really taking off.

It was shaped at the nursery in a serpentine climb upwards.

In the tallish white pots along the entryway to the front door are ferns that can survive shade only along with a nice happy little ground cover that blooms purple all season.

I place smooth rocks everywhere…something about holding them as I pick them up.

Then there is this succulent out the back door that has seeded itself all through the small stones. Yesterday I pulled them all up to stick in these pots that were sitting empty in the back and needed a purpose…so now they sit on each side of the door off the sunroom.

And finally one of the two pine trees that my yardman gave me to put on each side of the gas tank. I am proud of how well they are doing under my care.

I am going to take my hummingbird feeder down. At my old place they stayed around all through the summer and had lots of babies. I forgot that here there are no tall trees for nesting, so they only stop by during migrations south to north and north to south. I will put it back up later this year.

Marla is due here in another hour or so. Scotch for both of us. A nice smoky one for her and a Balvenie for me. She will only stay a couple days or so before heading back home. Hopefully she will help me clean up the last little bit of the garage so Patrick can hang my punching bag next month. I also want to donate lots of art supplies to her for her art groups. They really like my teaching samples books and there is one I found for classes that has ways to build in hidden spaces when making books. It was so much fun watching students see new ways to hide text and imagery. And I have SO MUCH paper that I thought I would surely use, but no, it needs to be passed on. I will keep what I need for the board game, but that’s enough.

Just talked to Marla and she is an hour and a half out driving through the last of the hills in Tennessee.

I delivered all the invitations to the open house here on the 13th June. Most of the food will be catered because I don’t want to bother, nor do I want my neighbors bothering.

Not much else new….more next week after the open house here.

Til then…

Just a Short Story

Posted on by Sandy Webster

I don’t have pictures of exciting things or new artwork.

But there is a board game I am working on titled, Sustainable Gullibility. It is the advancing on a path to a goal of “Ignorance is Bliss”.  The players advance spaces along the path or are “marginalized” for a period of turns. With today’s America in mind, I began to think of the irony of beliefs. So a toss of the dice determines the color card you will have to obey. Politics and religion are what require a sustainable gullibility to flourish….and both are flourishing in America right now. Only six can play the game and each advances, or sidesteps into marginalization, with his chosen token. Tokens are objects of where we Americans get our beliefs…neighbor’s fence, TV, radio, cell phone, remote control and of course, a tin hat. Examples of instructions are ie. “You have a fish symbol on your car – advance 2 spaces” vs “Your fish has feet – step into marginalization for two turns”. The player never knows what card he will choose. There are some other opportunities to get to that state of bliss, like someone getting a card that says “Church Pancake Dinner! take three marginalized players along with you back on track 3 spaces.”  Who can resist those church socials?  Anyway, you get the idea….

I used to love sculpting old men using plaster and worn tool parts donated by men who tried to understand and contribute to my artwork.  Almost every one of the patriarch sculptures are gone now. Only three stay with me.

Inspired by the men I see most mornings and the old patriarchs who stay in view on a shelf, a story came to me via an old fellow I call Harold. It is a story only two pages long, not because I tired of Harold, but likely he just wanted me out of his hair. I am happy he showed up one day to let me watch a bit of his life. (I like reading this story aloud).

Harold  –  a short story by S. Webster

He sits there near the end of a table, drinking coffee with about five other men.

Takes a sip and mumbles something.

“You talking to me?” asks the man closest to him.

“No.”

Ten minutes ago, he wanted to talk to someone. Anyone who noticed him. Anyone who would make eye contact. But not now. They were too late to hear him tell his story.

Too late because he already forgot half of it and needed too many words to fill in all the blanks that forgetting lets in.

He pushes his coffee away to stand. Fuck growing old! Fuck memories with not enough words. Come to think of it, fuck everything! And he walks out the door.

Here I thought of writing, “walks out the door, across the sidewalk and into traffic.”  But I don’t. Something about him makes me want to know why.

With the slightest of pauses, he turns left. Hands in his pockets, keeping his gaze just enough ahead to make sure he doesn’t bump into anyone. He has no “sorrys” or “excuse mes” left. Everything about him is used up.

I think I heard someone call him Harold last year. So, let’s use his name from now on. There’s a bit of dignity in that – using his name.

Harold walks to the corner and waits for the light to change before crossing. He’s pulled his hat lower on his face to shut out those around him, grateful it is not a MAGA hat that openly begs for comment – cheers or sneers. No, his hat only says, “Ernie’s”,  giving no location.

In the next block, Harold goes into a deli and points to a sandwich in the case. He pays for it and a can of coke that are put in a bag to take with him.

He jaywalks across the street and makes his way to the park. His usual bench beneath a large oak is empty. Once seated, he tries to remember if today is Tuesday. He used to only come here on Tuesday, but for the life of him, can’t remember why. So, just to be safe, he now comes every day. One of them is bound to be Tuesday, right?

Harold opens the bag to take out the sandwich and can of coke to put on the bench beside him. Pressing the bag flat, he places it across his knees. Then he picks up the can to study how he will get it open, remembering to lift each side of the tab with his gnarly fingers until he hears it make a sizzing sound that lets him know he pulled in the right direction. He takes a slow drink to wet a dried throat from breathing through his mouth for the last four blocks. He opens his sandwich and pulls back a slice of bread to remove the lettuce, which he tosses under the bench.

Harold bites into what is left and tries to guess what kind of sandwich it is. Chicken? Tuna? Egg salad? It’s not ham. He knows this because he is not chewing enough for it to be ham.

The next several minutes are spent thinking about what he is eating. Tuna, by the smell of it. The rubbery crunch of celery and onion can’t hide the fishiness of a sandwich that smells like cat food. Can he remember not to get one tomorrow when he goes back to the deli? Probably not.

After putting his empty can in the bag with the uneaten part of the sandwich, he stands and heads toward the closest trash can.

Once back on the sidewalk, Harold starts his two laps around the park before walking over to the library.

They know him here. “Hello Harold, do you need any help?”

“No.”

He only comes here because he remembers it is a quiet place. No talking. Here he can sit at a table, shade his face as he looks down at pictures in a magazine.

But not today. The doors are locked. A sign says, “Closed” and the reason why, that Harold doesn’t read.

He grips the rail as he walks back down the steps and goes home. Four blocks with three right turns.

In the front room Harold sits at the piano and plays the few melodies he can remember before going up to bed.

 

It will be a few days before someone notices he has stopped coming around. No longer coming in for coffee, buying a sandwich, walking in the park.

I don’t know exactly what happened to Harold. I only know he caught my eye one day while tossing lettuce leaves under his bench. We never spoke because he seemed a man of few words. His last might well have been, “Fuck this!”

 

The end

 

So maybe next week I will have something better to share…though, personally, I think an ornery old man is an okay bit of sharing.

Marla comes for a couple days’ visit next week. We will go through the last of what I thought was important to save – just in case that is not going to happen.

The few things left are firmly in the “what was I thinking” category.

Til later….

 

 

Saturday!

Posted on by Sandy Webster

I treated myself to new sunflowers and a few other blooms the other day. Flowers like roses simply don’t fit in my house. Besides that, Sadie eats any plants and then chooses to lose them in pieces on the floor. This table is a place she will not jump up on…so they are safe. It seems sunflowers are much more expensive this year, but not surprising, as everyone is adding up the cost for consumers. I could not resist taking a Memorial Day bouquet to a neighbor just because she always makes me smile. Plus I pawned off a red glass vase (her favorite color). I wish there was a flower shop here in town instead of just the slim pickings of the grocery store. When I lived in the north, the florist would let me pick my own assortment from her cooler, charged me per bloom, and then wrap them in a brown parchment paper with a thin ribbon holding them all together. Now I am stuck with the pre-bundled choices someone in the grocery store arranges in ugly, poorly designed vases. All looking like they are headed to a hospital room or neglected mother.

BUT, the other evening a couple came by to share a nice red and brought more flowers with them. A simple bunch that I could put up away from Sadie.

I met them out front while sitting on this bench amid some very healthy, full shade loving ferns.

It was such a good visit. Virginia and I would occasionally have lunch together but got out of the habit. Now we will plan to do it more often. Her husband had not been to this house but loved seeing the artwork again. I so appreciate anyone who just stands in front of my large bird head image in the bedroom to stare at all the imagery and hidden text-like markings. Each one of them gets something different from what they see in it.

That got me thinking about what I catch myself staring at in the house:

Always Robert Hughes definitive book on Australia’s settling with convicts and consequences of a harsh land. And beside it on the same chest is my rock collection bowl.

details of work hung with the large bird head painting mentioned before.

Several have parts of my poetry included and always want to whisk me off to other times and passions needing expression. I love waking up each day to these reminders.

And this grouping that rounds the corner in the bedroom to more of the series of imagined specimens water colored onto gesso surfaces. Does anyone even make their own gesso anymore or do they just use premixed acrylics that are labeled “gesso”?

And next to the door to my bedroom are some other favorites to stare at.

And on the bed is always Sadie and Dilly coaxing me back for a warm cuddle.

My yardman came this week to do a bit of tending. He brought me another potted pine tree from his woods since I have not killed the previous one. Plus a new piece of bamboo for the water spout into the little pond. I promised him I would not buy any more plants and will keep showy flowers away from the aesthetic of my Japanese-looking exterior.

Sparrows come and have a shower here. Their nest is in one of the thick bushes by the pond. In the front yard there is an empty nest tucked into a bush. And when I am sure it has been abandoned, I will bring it in long enough to draw.

Some time back when a landscaper redid my front yard, I carved wood blocks to make a stage-like book presentation.

There were other detail images carved to be cut out and placed a bit away from the behind full image. the one on the far right had a lotus plant in front of the waterfall with fish image. Those same old iron fish came with me here to be part of my garden here. Anyway, I only made two of these books. they were a bit fiddly getting measurements cooperating with my idea. One was for me and the other for the landscaper, Tim Ryan, who sadly passed away recently. While landscaping my place he taught me how to trim Japanese maples…”always be aware of their bones.” He will be very missed in his town.

That particular wood cut of the fish and water is the image on my invitation card for a neighborhood open house.

Now I am going to go get some lunch, do my exercises, a bit of boxing, before settling into writing. That poor old man with limited speaking skills has so much more to tell me.

Til later…..