An Artist's Life

Today was a good day, I was able to finish a challenging portrait; a graphite, colored pencil and charcoal portrait of a kitty cat. Challenging because I've never drawn a cat before, and I mixed the pencils, it's hard to mix colored pencils with graphite because the colored pencils are waxy, and it's hard to put one over the other without a problem.


Wouldn't you think the life of a pencil artist would be a dream job? A piece of paper, a pencil and an eraser. Yeah, that's it in a nutshell, however, the pencils always seem to need to be sharpened. At least I like them sharp. A rounded pencil can give me a nice smooth roll over the paper, when I need to fill in a lot of negative space. 


But usually, I like em sharp. And last night, I wanted to finish this piece after everyone went to bed.  Then, WHAM...the electric pencil sharpener got jammed, and every pencil I tried to sharpen just came out blunt. 


I turned it over, took out the 3 screws holding the thing together, and jiggled and jostled the sharpener against the counter a few times. Hubby shut the bedroom door rather sharply about that time, and I thought, "How am I gonna finish this if I don't have a sharpened pencil?  


I took the sharpener into the bathroom and shut the door and tried it again. No luck....Tried it again, and I think I've got it. I put it all together again, and stuck a pencil in.The sharpener vibrated so loudly that the windows shook, you'd think the space shuttle was landing, only it wasn't.


Aw, man.....I had to give up and I went to bed rather perturbed, I'd just have to fix the sharpener in the morning, which I did, and it worked like a charm. Who would have figured that the jinx of the pencil sharpener would wear off over night? 


Today I went and picked up my portrait of Annabelle at the King Center. Those of you who have been following my blogs know that I entered my first juried show in November, and they picked the "Earrink", the portrait of Annabelle.  


I was ecstatic that it was chosen, and the day of the awards was a little more than interesting for me, it was anxiety provoking. On one hand I thought it would be wonderful to win the $1000 award, and I imagined myself standing up in front of a whole bunch of people, saying 'Thank you, thank you". 


Then right after that thought came the thought that said, 'Naw, you ain't gonna win, it's a picture of a little girl, with an earring as big as her head.' So, back and forth and back and forth came the thoughts. From one extreme to the other. A winner and a loser. 


I had to really work with my internal dialog and tell myself it didn't matter. It didn't matter if I won or if I didn't win. Winning didn't make me a winner, I make me a winner. If I didn't win I wasn't a loser, I was an artist in a juried show, and I didn't get the award. I also make me a loser, if I'm aware of it.


The awards were kinda peculiar, insofar as the judge was concerned. I mean he had credentials that were equivalent to an American Express Gold Card. He had been to all THE art schools, and had won every award there is...but, the little guy was OLD. 


At first I thought that would work to my advantage, as my graphite portrait had all the elements of a traditional piece. No modern or contemporary abstract portrait. Just a plain old pencil drawing, with a little color for a pop.


But when he was asked up to the podium, he took a good long time getting there, and he was just 3 tables away. I didn't think much about it, as older folks need to watch where they are going, so they don't fall down. 


He was introduced, and then the man in charge was ready to carry on with the program, only the judge didn't get it. He was ready to announce the winner. The man in charge had to ask the judge 3 times to go sit down, finally telling him he was crowding the stage. The judge understood that, and went and sat down.


Then came the time to announce the 1st place winner, the winner of $1000. The judge was asked back up front, and he announced the winner. 


No sooner had the winner said her 'thanks' when the judge announced to the runner up, an award winner by the Art show board, and to the rest of us, that he didn't pick her piece for 1st place, because in his estimation, it had a flaw in it!


I was flabbergasted! It seemed rude and out of place to critique a work after the award was awarded....so, I was glad I did my self awareness preparation before the show because, had I been the runner up, I would have been picking myself up off the floor, or have wanted to elbow the old guy in the Adams apple, for his inappropriate comments.


What a whirlwind...juried art show, juried art gallery acceptance. Cocoa Beach Art Festival...did I mention I went to that? I'm a gonna tell you, there are some talented people in that show. My head got so full of beautiful art, I felt a little dizzy from time to time.  


I went to the show with my friend Jim. Jimmie comes to Florida every year from upstate New York. We met years ago when I was doing the horse workshops, and Jimmie and I have stayed in touch ever since.


While we were walking the show, I saw the artist who I had signed up for his upcoming workshop, and I told Jim. "Oh, look, there's ....., let's go say "Hi". We walked into the booth or tent or hut, whatever you call those things that every artist has to have, to even get into the Art Festival. 


So, I'm chit chatting for a minute or two, and the chit chat is hard because I'm not being chit chatted back to...and then it occurs to me to introduce my friend Jim. And there is no response. No grunt, no hey, no nod.  Nothing.  I mean nothing.  


Well, talk about a pregnant pause. Or more like, "I gotta get the H out of here, before I say something I'll regret"....I mean, it's not like I haven't met that artist before. In fact, he owed me a little kindness, I handed out over 400 of his postcards, advertising one of his recent shows... and he can't even say "Hey" to my friend.


Man, by the time I got home I was fuming! I just couldn't think of one good reason why someone would be so rude. I had to process the whole thing with my daughter, because, if I accepted this rude behavior, and still went to his workshop, I mean, what could I expect? and the workshop wasn't cheap either. Who does this guy think he is?  


It reminded me of a horse trainer I worked with years ago. This guy co-wrote a book, was on TV, flew around the country giving seminars. Had all the girls swooning over him, myself included. But, the guy was a #1 Ass.  Not second rate, or even third rate, a bona fide, first rate Ass.


So, I like to think I'm learning my lessons as life hands them to me, and I withdrew from the artist workshop...and I've got to tell you...it felt good and bad.  I had sooooo wanted to go to that workshop, and I had told all my friends that I was going.


But to think that I would go and be treated badly, or not, he had treated my friend rudely, I would have been doubly mad. People tell you who they are by the way they behave. Why should I expect someone to behave differently just for me?  That has been a problem for me in the past.  I hope I have finally figured it out.


Well, that's just the beginning of catching you up on an artist's life. Reminds me of a "Bugs life", only I don't have the antennae! I've got some more stuff to talk about, only it's gettin late, and I've got a portrait to finish. Stay tuned for more...

All about the Art

Art Art Bo Bart Banana Fana Fo Fart Me My Mo Mart, Art.  Remember that little ditty?  (It's as funny to write as it is to say). I cannot believe it's been a month since my last post. What happened?  It's all Art's fault.  


I entered a juried art show, first time ever, (I've got more to say about that later) and I was accepted as a member of an art gallery, the Art Gallery of Viera.  Seems like not such a big deal, but it is, to me. One day I'm just sittin' around and writing on my blog and going to art salon meetings every two weeks, and the next thing I know I'm so busy I'm runnin' around with my hair on fire. (Feels like it anyway) 


Oh, and I forgot to mention the little game I downloaded, Zuma. I don't know why I got that game, it's not like I don't have anything else to do but sit here and shoot at these little balls. Red, green, blue, purple...and when I get to the higher levels, which isn't that often, white balls start rolling around. It seems like shooting at these things helps me organize, in the back of my mind, all the other stuff.  Does this happen to anybody else? 


I have my drawings that I'm working on. Three commissions, and one Christmas present. I love drawing, don't get me wrong, it's just that I can only sit and draw for so long and then I have to get up and do something else. I love looking at all the nuances of a nose or lips or eyes, the shapes that make up a face or hair. It's all good stuff. After awhile though my hands just get tired, especially if I'm covering alot of space with the darker shades. I draw on the back porch, or if it's really chilly, I'll sit in the kitchen at the counter because I don't have an official studio.


Then I get the big idea I need to make stuff for Christmas, some for the gallery and some for family and friends. I've got out my felt, and made a couple of ornaments. (One has already sold at the gallery, I'll be able to take that trip to Rio now!) And I got out my sculpey and tried making some ornaments,but they aren't that good. Sometimes I think I've lost the knack for sculpture, I don't know for sure, but I'll keep trying.  


Seems like I do this every Christmas, I get all these ideas and try and hurry to make everything in time. Now that I go to the Gallery and work my 4 shifts a month, it seems like I don't have enough time.  But I do have enough time, I just need to slow down and tell myself it's enough. I mean who's in control here anyway? I've had this niggling thought that I need, I mean HAVE TO make stuff.  


Through the years I've always had some project to work on. Last year I started a tapestry, a cute little puppy. I won't be making another one of those, it about killed me to finish it.  I wonder what it is about taking on a new project, what is it really about. Is it just my nature to challenge myself with something new? What happens when the new thing isn't all it's cracked up to be?  Do projects help me deal with life in some way?  All questions I've been asking myself, ever since I became an official artist.  


Well, I just realized that blogging helps me figure stuff out way better than playing Zuma. It's like talking out loud, sometimes just hearing the thoughts can clarify a situation, or crystallize an issue.  I have been keeping my issues pretty close to the heart lately, guess it's time to take em out and dust them off, what do ya think?  


So, I'll be back soon, to tell you more about the Art. 

Conditions for Success

I haven't posted a blog in awhile, I think maybe a week. How can it be that I had so much time on my hands? That I could sit here at my computer, my blogger dashboard, for days at a time and write to my hearts content and then one day real life sets in; there is laundry to do, grocery shopping, getting the kitchen cleaned up, along with changing the sheets and cleaning the toilets. Did I mention weeding the front walkway?


I've heard it said that 'time flies when you're having fun' but actually time flies regardless of what you're doing. That's how I feel since I've started blogging. I'll bet most of you don't even know why I started blogging. It was because of my Art Salon group. 


Back in June I went to a meeting in Melbourne, at the Brevard Art Museum. I had heard that artists that wanted to market their work should come to this Art Salon meeting. There was a very large assemblage, I'd say about 100 folks and people sat in small groups, and introduced themselves and briefly described their art.

Being the control freak that I am, I volunteered to facilitate a group, and there were initially 9 people in mine. We met about every two weeks and our agenda was outlined in Alyson B. Stanfield's www.artbizconnection.com  and also Alyson's book I'd rather be in the studio, the Artist's No-excuse guide to self-promotion was used as a resource.


These meetings were very enlightening, for me in particular, because up to that point I had been doing artsy things, and wondering why I could never make any money at it. I've done watercolor painting, acrylic painting, beading, felting, stained glass, polymer clay sculpting and drawing. Oh, and my last artsy thing was to buy rings at discount and paint them with enamels, otherwise known as fingernail polish. I actually sold one at an art gallery, Art on 5th, in Indialantic. They are now in the SLOW Gallery, in Downtown Melbourne. I've told alot of my friends that it's a good thing we don't have to live on what I make, because we'd be living under the bridge for sure. 


Doing the homework for the Art Salon got me to looking around the Internet at other artists. That's when I came upon a website with all these graphite artists. Graphite is an artsy name for pencils, and seeing some really nice art out there inspired me to get out my pencils and try my hand at it again. 


I actually learned how to draw back in 1989, with a local artist, Louise Cherwak, who is now deceased.  Louise used the book, Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain, by Betty Edwards, for her class and she also drew these huge pieces, like 5 or 6 feet tall. This style is known as photo realism, or hyper realism in her case. 


I really enjoyed drawing and felt I was quite good at it, so I picked up my pencils and a photo of my granddaughter, Annabelle, and got to work. The finished piece turned out well, by my standards anyway. I showed my Art Salon group and they all liked it too.  My other artist group, a social group, which I've been a part of for about 5 years also liked my work, and my friend, Alice, told me I should enter it in a contest, because she thought it was a winner.


To make this long blog shorter, I entered "Earrink" in a juried show, All That Art, held at the King Center last Monday. I also entered 2 other pieces of art as well.  When I went to retrieve my art, I found that "Earrink" had been accepted, and will hang in the Harris Room from Nov. 16th to Dec. 6th.  An awards ceremony will be held on Nov. 23rd.  First place award is $1000, 2nd is $300, and 3rd is $200


So I'm amazed, and excited to see what will happen next. Could my little drawing actually win? I really hope so.  But even if it doesn't I'm still happy with what I've drawn. I'm happy with myself that I took the chance to stick my neck out, to take a risk and enter a contest. I'm pleased that I went to all the Art Salon meetings and made new friends there too. 


For now I feel like I've met most of the conditions for success, as I've heard it said that "the only place where success comes before work is in a dictionary". P.S. I'm also accepting commissions now, in case any of my readers would like to have a photo of a loved one made into a work of art, just give me a call.

Dreaming of the past

What a journey I've been on this week, a trip all the way back to 1701.  As hard as I try to stay off the computer, I am compelled to read my email daily. The thing is, I sometimes get caught up in the unsolicited emails, like the one from www.Ancestry.com  They offered me a two week 'free' browse around, I could look up all my peeps in that amount of time, right? 


Nope. I am still looking for people on my mother's side, as I think I have exhausted my father's side, for now anyway!


When I sit on my bed, and spread out all these names and dates and places I am just blown away by how many people I am related to. It's mind boggling! I might be related to half my readers, if I only knew who Hoosier mommy and daddy!


My dad told me tonight that he heard Obama was related to Rush Limbaugh! Of course that isn't true, is it?!


A story posted in the website, "How Thomas and Mary Deaton Arrived in the Colonies" was my 'piece de resistance'. It's a short story of how my 7th great grandfather, along with 22 other persons, immigrated from England in 1701. (That is 309 years ago, for those of you who don't do the math.) 


It isn't known why Thomas decided to leave England for America, but maybe he came for the land that was being granted here. Thomas's voyage was paid by an investor, one who was allotted 1081 acres by the Crown in Essex County. Thomas entered the New World when he was about 22 years old.


This story will definitely help me with good dreams tonight. I can dream about the adventurous spirit my 7th great grandfather must have had, to pack up, leave his wife, Mary, and sail to America. It isn't clear when she was able to join him, but she did eventually, and their 11 children are proof. 


I can imaginate about James 'the pioneer' Deaton or Captain William 'the Tory' Deaton, tromping about the wilds of Virginia, in search of lions, and tigers and bears, Oh my! Seriously though, I lived in Virginia for a few years when I was first married to my current hubby, and I loved, loved, loved going to Williamsburg. I could imagine myself living there, and eating at the Kings Arms Tavern was most delightful. I only wished my kids would have loved the peanut soup as much as I did. 


Little did I know that when I lived in Virginia, I was walking on hallowed ground, reliving some kind of DNA. That's muscle memory and then some! Just talking and writing about Williamsburg and the Deatons, and that peanut soup, I can't wait to go to sleep now and dream of the past!

Bridge over troubled water

I haven't had time to blog in awhile. You'd think that staying home and cleaning house would keep me out of trouble, a broom in one hand and a mop in the other. But, oh no! I can get in trouble just taking a little break, sitting here at my computer.


I was sent an email yesterday, a political one at that. It really made me upset and I forwarded it to almost everyone on my mailing list. It wasn't too long after I posted it that this email 'conflict' started.


The first reply stated 'baloney' that the info in the email was false, 'look it up on snopes' was the suggestion and she immediately followed it up with another email, saying she was 'sorry for being so blunt because she gets urban myths from relatives and one friend who is eaten up with right-wing politics, and she thinks he thinks he can brainwash her if he sends enough inflammatory rhetoric, so she has lost her patience with the false forwards'. I really didn't feel like this reply was aggressive or disrespectful, it was honest and assertive.


So, I did go to snopes, www.snopes.com/politics/medical/28thamendment.asp and I was glad I did. I found out most of the original email I had sent was false. I immediately sent out an apology for forwarding a mostly false email. (I am going back to snopes and check out the origins of their documentation, just to make sure snopes is on the level, jeesh.)


I thought that would take care of things. But, oh no! The second reply came on the heels of the 'sorry for being so blunt'. This second reply, came from my friend who just happens to be eaten up with right-wing politics. (I love him, he and his wife are friends for over 20 years, so I've just deleted most of the emails anyway, which he doesn't usually send, but his wife does.) Anyway, he says his piece, implying snopes isn't good enough, original documentation is...but the part that gets me upset is his thinking he was respectful in his reply. Just because he didn't use the F-word? or is sarcasm considered okey dokey in the un-politically correct spouting of ones opinion. I didn't like the tone whatever you want to call it, and feel embarrassed that he used it with my friend, and replied to everyone.


Hey, I'm upset often about things going on in my country. Things are a mess as far as I'm concerned, and it's hard to discern what is really true, what is propaganda and what is rhetoric.  Sometimes I really don't give a damn, we're a country full of angry people, and only God knows how it's all going to turn out. Where is the National Anger Management when ya need it? Even the religious are often found trying to shove it down everyones throat. Don't get me wrong, I'm a born-again Christian, it's the shoving it, shouting it, and demanding that other folks should just do what they say. Grrrrrrr


Now, it would be nice if that were the last email, but oh no! there is one more that comes in defense of the bluntness reply. Yep, and this last one, hopefully it's the last, was right on the money, as far as him 'trying to save everyone by forcing your interpretation of the nations problems on fellow citizens'. But it was the last line, the PS, that sent me over the edge. By quoting John Wayne, my friend called my other friend stupid. Yeppers, 'life is hard, it's harder if you're stupid. This is intended to be blunt'.


All this verbal sparring, calling one out by name, I know better than you attitude, name calling, it's reminiscent of elementary school, sent directly to my inbox...and God only knows what Aunt Audrey is going to say about it. I'm glad it's stopped, and I WILL NOT be forwarding any more emails, I promise!
That's my bridge over troubled waters.

Virtual awareness

Last Tuesday I was taking a virtual tour of the Internet, and then it happened, I got a virus. Not me, but my computer.


It started with reading an article about 'virtual validation' a geosocial networking application on iPhone called Foursquare. It was interesting to find out that people can become virtual mayors if they tag a place where they have been or have dined and they earn badges. Collect enough badges and you can become a virtual mayor. In my day, Foursquare was a game played with a ball.


This Geosocial networking is social networking in which geographic services and capabilities such as geocoding & geotagging are used to enable additional social dynamics. source:Wikipedia


Wow, I got really excited about this and sought out more virtual information. I learned about virtual schools, kids don't have to attend a 'real' school, they receive their grades through this alternative education system. 


I even found out about a virtual hallucination machine, in which folks can see what it might feel like having a hallucination. 


What started out as a virtual field trip, ended up with a malicious virus on my computer. A screen popped up with Security Tool as the name, and for $79.99, I could protect my computer from all kinds of stuff. 


But, I already have McAfee, so when I clicked to decline, it wouldn't let me out. I was thinking, 'this is extortion' and continued doing all sorts of things to get rid of this blue screen. I couldn't go anywhere or do anything with my computer. Pushing ctrl+alt+delete didn't work, and I couldn't even shut down! I virtually had to unplug from the wall.

To make a long story short, with the help of virus removal medication, I got under the hood of my computer and was able to finally delete this maliciousness from my system. And I'm very proud of doing it all by myself! I would like to get ahold of the thug who designed and propagated this prank!


Some might say 'That's what you get from gallivanting around' but I say 'Naw, I'm just more aware now, virtually!'  

Something new everyday

I wake up every morning, have a cup of coffee and sit down at my computer. I don't get the newspaper anymore, for reasons I won't get into today, so, I have to keep up with current events in some way and that's where the Internet comes in. 


I prefer the Internet over television, except for the Weather. The Weather Channel gives me a tiny dose of drama, especially during hurricane season and that's how I like my drama, these days, in small little doses. 


When did the Weather channel get started anyway? Does anybody know? One day there was a channel devoted just to the weather, and you didn't have to wait for the 6 o'clock news to hear a hurricane was coming. Remembering stuff like this makes me feel old sometimes! I mean when I was growing up we only had cartoons on TV on Saturday mornings. Nowadays, there are so many cartoon channels it isn't even funny.


Anyhow, after reading the news I'll go to Facebook and see if anything cool is happening there. Today, I watched a couple of music videos that people had posted.  I really liked this one song called: In the city by a group called Chromatics, and the video for another song, Hands in the dark, was interesting and had vignettes of people and their drama. 


Another music video was called: Got your back by T.I. Feat.Keri Hilson. This songs lyrics said something about gotta keep my swag up. I know I worry about my swag saggin, but I wasn't sure what else swag meant, so I pulled out my Brand new Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary. I had to get a new dictionary because my old one was so old, it didn't even have 'Internet' listed in it. That's pretty old, wouldn't you say? 


See if you can tell which one of the following is a definition of swag.


1.  Something as a decoration that is hanging in a curve between two points, a festoon. Rehang those curtains so the swag don't sag so much.
2.  A suspended cluster of evergreen branches. A Christmas swag smells so good.
3.  Goods acquired by unlawful means. The hag hid her swag in her cauldron.
4.  A depression in the earth. Look out for that swag, you might take a trip next fall.
5.  A pack of personal belongings. Her swag was so immense she really needed a suitcase.
6.  To sway, lurch, sag or droop. This right here is my pretty boy swag.


Did you guess which one? Do you give up?!   They are all definitions of swag! That's what I learned today. How about you? Anything new?

Hoosier daddy?

What a beautiful day it was, the air, finally, was cooler and less humid, it made for a perfect walk around Melbourne's Fall Fest. There are some talented people making and selling cool stuff, and it was a joy to walk with my best man and see all the arts. The artist is not a special kind of man, but every man is a special kind of artist. Ananda Coomaraswamy 


We had to stop by the SLOW gallery, on Municipal, and see if any of my jewelry has sold. It hasn't, but it was fun to chat with Chris Maslow, and look at Frits Van Eeden's work displayed there. When I initially took my hand painted jewelry in there, I was a little nervous, ask Katren, she'll tell you, because it's always a risk to be rejected, and told "Sorry." And, I felt like I talked too loud, I hardly even looked around, I was so relieved he accepted my work, that I practically ran out of there! So today was a do-over, and it was a pleasant one at that.


We walked up one side of the street and then down the other. When we were heading back, we noticed a window with art inside that looked very similar to what we had seen in the SLOW gallery. Lo and behold, it was Frits's studio! I'd never met him before, but it didn't take long to realize the guy with a paint brush in his hand was the Artist. What a pleasant fellow, we chatted a bit about his work and I left his gallery with a smile on my face. I just visited his website while writing this blog and found he is an Internationally known artist! See some of his vibrantly painted work at fritsvaneeden.com


I started writing my blog this morning about how cool it is to see art on the internet. Since I'm always in Blogger, I usually start with my friend, Carmen's blog, she is part of the Daily painters group, and paints beautiful little pieces. CarmenBeecher.blogspot.com and from her favorites I then go to Karin Jurick's blog, Karin has been painting 100 faces from mug shots. She calls it BUST-ED, and even though they are small paintings, they really capture the core of the person. See these at KarinJurick.blogspot.com


Just the other day I watched David Kassan doing a live finger-painting demo with an Apple ipad. That was really impressive, and also time saving because they were able to reduce a 3 hour painting session to about 7 minutes. I loved watching that video as I didn't even know there was such a thing, an ipad, get out! Talk about saving money on paints and art supplies. If you'd like to see it you can go to intherealartworld.blogspot.com 

So blogging and gadding about in the blogosphere is indeed enlightening and free, I told my mom the other day, "Ma, I've been blogging almost every day." and she says, "What kind of shoes do you wear for that?" but I daresay that it can't take the place of standing in front of a real work of art. 


On the walk back to our car, my man says to me, "Knock knock". Of course I had to answer, "Who's there."  He says, "Hoosier."  "Hoosier who?"  "Hoosier daddy!"   

Mama Juana says...

My son came to visit this week, which is a happy occasion because he lives on the West Coast and even though I saw him in June, when I went to visit him and his family, that is a long time for a Mama to wait to see her son.


My son is a husband, father to an almost 2 yr. old baby girl, and a successful chef, who likes, no LOVES to travel. Where he gets his fascination with travelling must be in his paternal genes. I don't travel well, myself. I can travel to familiar destinations, like my hometown, and where my son lives with no problems. But, I have a really hard time travelling outside the US. I've been to the Bahamas, Costa Rica and Panama, that's it. and if I don't get any air-conditioning within a 24 hour period, I get pretty cranky, and if there is no toilet paper, all hell breaks loose!


But my son, well, he travels the world! He's been to Japan, Indonesia, Machu Pichu, Honduras, Nicaragua and Mexico. Before he got married he went to the Virgin Islands, St. Thomas to be exact, on his own, no missionary, no Red Cross itinerary, and worked there, helping rebuild after a hurricane. He lived happily, in a tent. I only sleep in tents if they are air-conditioned!


In one building he was helping to renovate he came upon a place where bats had lived. When I say bats, I mean a whole bunch of 'em, because they left so much doo-doo behind that he was able to scoop up a baggie full of this excrement and mail it home to me. Bat guano, by the way is a very potent, organic fertilizer, and at the time I was growing mesclun greens, and selling them as 'Mrs. Lavender's' home grown salad greens. Isn't guano a prettier name than doo-doo?


Once, he brought home a wooden mortar and pestle, for me, which I have used many times. But I digress, he is a world traveler, and this time he purchased a Jet Blue pass and for $500US he was able to fly to the Dominican Republic, Jamaica and Costa Rica, as well as Orlando and Boston, all within a month.


Like I said earlier, when he comes home to visit, especially from his travels, he always brings something. This time he brought some Mamajuana; please don't confuse this with marijuana.  Mamajuana is a maceration of local Dominican herbs, rum, red wine and honey. It is said to be medicinal, and Wikipedia reports it is an aphrodisiac by those that imbibe it, mostly local Dominicans and it's drunk out of a shot glass. My husband, daughters and I were pleasantly surprised by the taste.


My son is the kind of guy that feels like a stranger is a friend he just hasn't met yet. And we were enthralled by his tales of travel throughout each country, looking for the perfect surf spot.  What impressed me most though was how he started out his travels. He goes with a backpack, and one other bag, a knapsack, that he can sling over his shoulder. His backpack, when he left California was stuffed with baby toys that Anna had outgrown and old clothes of his. 


While he was driving the back roads, the roads that regular tourists don't go on, he would stop and give the toys or clothes to people he met on his way. 
Now that just makes me proud, and gives me a perspective of my son that maybe alot of mothers don't get, especially when our sons get older and move out on their own. We don't always get to peek behind the scene. But I did, and I just wanted to share that. Maybe it's true, "He that travels much knows much." Thomas Fuller


As for the Mama Juana, my name in Spanish is Juana! and it is also used by my husband, Michael, as one of his endearing greetings: "Hola, Juana, como esta?" Mama Juana says,"Muy bien, bonito, muy bien!"

Aw, come on you guys...

I asked my daughter this morning, "Should I apologize to everyone, for the public retching I did the other day?" She said, "It is what it is, why do you have to feel sorry about it, or analyze it?"  


So, I'm daring to stick my neck out, and say, Hey, the last 4 posts I've written were an experiment for me. I knew I was entering unchartered territory, at least writing about myself in a public forum, as well as the stream of consciousness writing that I engaged in. I didn't know how I was going to feel after posting, and I didn't know how ya'll were gonna feel about it either. 


But, I risked it, and to tell the truth it was liberating. I shared my truth, as ugly as it was, and I didn't even say the F word. (Well maybe once) I was walking around with this stuff plastered behind a fake smile some of the time anyway. Next time you see me, I know I will be glowing just a little bit brighter.


Nao Bustamente, an artist who was on the Next Great Artist series, which was on TV awhile ago, she said, "I'm not responsible for your experience of my art." and that has kinda stuck with me today.  "I'm not responsible for your experience of reading my blog." I mean that sincerely. Those of you who know me, know that I'm not an unkind person, and I had a dilemma about whether or not to say what I wanted, needed to say. Domestic violence and sexual abuse are not pretty topics. Period.  


A good friend of mine was the only one willing to comment, "This was more than a sneak peak into you. I think I stuck my head down your throat and had a front row seat."  


At first I felt ashamed, Oh my God, what have I done, I've verbally puked on all my readers. Ewwwwww   But, I said to myself, No, I will not be ashamed of showing the world the damage that has been done to me, maybe sometime in the future I will be able to write about it with a little sugar on top, but I don't think so. Maybe with a little more finesse, I hope so.


Now that I have that off my chest, I want to get back to talking about what I love, and that's my art, my family and my friends.  So, if you dare to still be my friend, and continue to read my blog, I can't promise I'll never upchuck again, but I'm in no hurry to do any stream of consciousness writing anytime soon!

10 things I loved about him

I think I'll have to give it a break, this blogging about my past, but not before I tell you about the 10 things I loved about him. They say hate is just perverted love and the opposite of love is indifference, so I guess this makes me a pervert, I don't know, you be the judge.


I have to think back to when we first met, I was a sophomore in High School. If you read my post about Happy? Anniversary, you found out that I married at age 16, and hubby #1 (B) and hubby #2 (J) were best friends, I met them both on my first day of school, when I transfered there because my family had moved. 


I didn't get involved with J until my marriage to B began to sour. You see, choosing to get married because I was pregnant wasn't the right choice, which is hindsight, a precious commodity. B was an abusive husband too, I finally left him the day he kicked me in the crotch, with a booted foot. My mother took me to the hospital, and I remember the humiliation of being examined down there. Nothing they could do really, rest and put ice on it.  


When J found out what B had done to me, he came to visit, and offer his condolences. I wonder now if it was pity, or having heard about my swollen genitals turned him on, I'll never know of course. This was the beginning of our relationship. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways (Elizabeth Barrett Browning)


I loved the color of his eyes. Blue as a cornflower, I thought I saw sweetness, and happiness there. Those blue eyes shone with the brightness only a hero can have. I can still see those blue eyes, every time I look at my daughter's face.

I loved the way he kissed me, when we first met. Long and lingering, soft and sweet. No hurries, no worries. At 18 years old what did I know about sexual addiction? Nothing. I so utterly confused sex with love that I didn't know I would be dominated by his compulsive, coercive, gotta get me some, behavior. Love is, by the way, blind. 

I loved how big he was, 6'2". I felt protected, safe in his presence, nobody was gonna hurt me if he were around. He wore big shirts and big pants and big shoes, he was big all over, if you get my drift.

I loved his sense of adventure. We had only been seeing each other for about a week, when one night he decided we'd go to Florida! He packed a bag, I packed a diaper bag along with my own and off we went, making it to the state line that night and then continuing our journey the next day. Breakfast was a bag of doughnuts and a carton of milk, to be shared between the 3 of us. My son, sitting in the back seat, there were no baby seats back then, had free range. The horrible expression on J's face when he turned and looked at the mess my son had made with his doughnut, well you've heard that one, if looks could kill. He quickly turned off the interstate, bitched me out and forced me to clean up that mess, right then and there. But I didn't mind too much, it was a nice car.

I loved his independence, his rebellious streak. So it didn't occur to me that upon crossing state lines he was in violation of his probation. He had gotten arrested for possession of drugs, busted as we called it, and they let him off with just probation. His arrest happened before we got hooked up, so it didn't really concern me.

I loved that he took me to places I'd never been before. Seeing the ocean for the first time was exhilarating, seeing palm trees was exotic, going to Miami Beach was extravagant in my Midwestern mind. It was eye-gasm blended with my first orgasm, absolute heaven on earth.


I loved the way he could make a quick decision. He ran out of money on the way home from Florida. Me, I didn't have any money to begin with, I was on Welfare. He traded his camera for a tankful of gas somewhere in Georgia. When we were about to run out of gas again, somewhere in Tennessee, he thought I should be the one to pan-handle, beg, bum whatever you want to call it. A couple of the truckers said I could make $5 if I followed them back to their truck. I was starting to get scared! I collected enough money from nice people and we managed to roll into Ohio, with a few fumes to spare.


I loved the way he took care of things. Once we were back in Ohio he wanted us to be together, live together. He didn't like my apartment too much. He used to joke about there being so many roaches in the bathroom, that they were playing football in there. So we moved into the apartment house that his parents owned, and began our life together.


So, you see, there were many things I loved about him. When he got fired from his job, for showing up inebriated, we just started our own business. He was resilient, flexible. I just wish I had known more about the downward spiral of alcoholism, the damage drug abuse would inflict and the real core of domestic violence, the power and control that would erode any love I thought I had. 


I am much older and wiser now. In the years since the death of this man I have learned many things; about myself, about life, about love. I have learned that love is a choice, not just a feeling. That sex is sex, you can love sex, but sex is NOT love. You can love the person you are having sex with, and that is making love. 


Love is about respect, and self respect must be there first. Respect is not a given, it must be earned. I've learned I cannot change anyone but myself, and it's the hardest job in the world! I've learned that I can be loved, not everyone is out to get me. I've learned to love myself because I'm the only one I've got. And lastly, I've learned that God really does love me, why else would I be here telling you this story?

10 things I hated about him

I watched a movie the other day, 10 things I hate about you. Heath Ledger was in it, and I can't remember who anybody else was. But, I thought hey, this might be a good way to stir things up, this will be a walk in the park, a piece of cake because I've never forgotten. Writing 10 things will be really easy. So, maybe this will help me purge. I will warn you though, it's a treacherous road you are about to embark on.

So, let's see....


I hated the way you bullied me around. Just because you were bigger than me didn't give you the right to block the doorway, so I couldn't get out and away from you. Or pick me up and plunk me down on the couch, just because you didn't want me to go somewhere. Or just because you could.


I hated when you spanked my son, with the bottom of your sandal, and bruised his bottom.


I hated you when I saw you walking down Main Street, with that woman on your arm, headed into the bank. You hadn't been home for days, and never called, and I was due to have our 2nd child any day.


I hated you and your friends, they would come over and drink beer in the kitchen with you and watch pornography on the 8mm, using the refrigerator as the screen.


I hated you when you came home from that drunken bout, the one where I saw you with her walking down Main Street. When you came home, you stunk to high heaven, piss all over your pants, and your wedding ring was missing.


I hated it when later that day you pointed the shot gun at me, and called me a whore. You said that nobody would ever want me or my kids. I hated that I said, "Go ahead and shoot me". I hated that you pulled the trigger, and laughed like the devil, because the gun wasn't even loaded. You just wanted to see the look on my face. Or maybe, even then you were contemplating something else. I really hated you for that.

I hated when you had a hangover, like you did that day, and made me sit on your face while you jerked off. I really, really hated you for that.


I hated that you would never let me have any money, I always had to sneak it. I worked too, the business was run by both of us. I think you were afraid I'd leave you, just like your mama did.


I hated that you hated me. I think you were a coward. I think you hated yourself, and you couldn't find a way out of your misery and self loathing. God only knows why the alcohol and Quaaludes didn't kill you, and you goaded me into doing it for you. Why else would you trap me in the bedroom like that?


I hate, hate, hate you for holding my son in front of you like a shield.




This hate, this loathing and repugnance that poured out of my mind, and from my guts, was like someone took the top off a fire hydrant. Once I got started the images and feelings weren't in any particular order, just jumbled up and tumbling. I was typing as fast as I was thinking and feeling it.

Now, I sit and look at all this crud and wonder: Is there a shelf in my brain where all these hates were just sitting? Waiting for the day when I would take them down and dust them off? Even the word hate, cannot adequately describe the depth or magnitude of what I have just recounted to you, there aren't enough words to describe it, without cussing of course! the only thing I can conjure up that comes close, is a blood curdling, shrieking, penetrating to the bone, primal scream.

I'm still shakin'

I'm still shakin' from writing that 'Letter to Susan' yesterday.  When I finished the last word, I started crying. After I cried for 10 minutes or so, it reminded me of that scene in Romancing the Stone, where Joan Wilder finished writing her story, sobbing with all those tears streaming down her face, that's what I looked like, that's how I felt.


I was crying about the love that I had for my deceased husband. Damn if I didn't still have tender feelings for him...after all that's been said and done.


Having those feelings emerge surprised me, maybe now I can continue with my life and thoughts of him aren't freeze framed at that one spot.  I mean I walked around with the image of him laying on the bedroom floor for a long, long time. After the gun went off he instantly fell to the floor. I screamed, a real blood curdling scream, not like those fake screams you hear at the Halloween store, and I bent down and touched his arm, ready to jump back in case he was gonna grab me or hit me for knockin' him down. He was 6'2", and about 250 lbs. and the only time I'd ever seen him fall down was when he was drunk. 


Nobody really messed with him, because he was so big, even my Dad was afraid of him. My hubby had a fight with a guy at a bar one night, my hubby must have beat the guy up pretty bad, because the next morning this guy shows up at our apartment, with a buddy, and there was a struggle at the door. Next day we had a 25 caliber hand gun in the house.


Well, I knew when I touched his hand that he was dead, but I ran to the phone and called 911 anyway. On the way to the phone, I looked in on my son, as he had been part of the scene just minutes before the gun went off. My hubby had gone into my son's room, got him out of his bed, and held my son in front of him as he stood in the bedroom doorway.  


The realization that I was pointing a gun at my son caused me to back off (this particular image has stayed with me as well, and often feeds my negative self-image as a parent) which caused my hubby to back off. But, the hubby showed up in the doorway again, with the gun still in his hand, and when he took one step, just one step, my survival instincts took over.  I did not rationally pull the trigger, it took me years of therapy to understand the power of my survival instincts. (I didn't know I had them!)


I don't know when I'll quit shakin' and it doesn't really matter. I truly believe that reliving the past, dredging up this stuff that is really, really stinky, (Ha, this stuff gets a 10 on my stink to high heaven scale!) I am feeling what I couldn't, wouldn't, didn't let myself feel back then. I had to get back to normal, get back to work, and get on with it. But now, no censoring, no holding back. It is what it is and I'm gonna get through it.

A letter to Susan

If I were to write a letter today, I would write one to Susan Truitt. I don't know Susan, but I know about her. She's a local artist who lives on Lansing Island, a gated enclave of 'well to do' folks, with her husband and sons.


I learned this about Susan through the news media, when her husband, a local Dr., attempted to murder her by assaulting and hitting her repeatedly on the head and face, with a hammer.  She survived that violence, was able to testify at his bond hearing, and is now a widow because her husband later killed himself, in a local hotel room.


Why, pray tell, would I want to write a letter to Susan?


My reason for writing is because I know how she feels. I can relate.


My late husband didn't have a hammer in his hand, instead he held a Saturday night special, a 25 caliber hand gun. My attacker confronted me face to face, while Susan's attacked her from behind. Or so I've garnered from all the articles I've read.


The shock, utter horror, the sheer terror of realizing this person with whom you've lived with, kissed, hugged, had his babies, cooked for, cleaned for, cared for...okay, disagreed with, argued with - all the things you do with someone you're married to. And one day, THAT day, he hates you so much, that he want to destroy you, er me.


This is an experience no amount of time or therapy will erase. Forever etched in my mind is the rage, the unadulterated hatred, that I saw in his eyes. It's said that the 'eyes are the window of the soul', and I glimpsed an anger so toxic, so dark and reckless.........it was as if the devil himself were standing there preparing to devour me.  (I don't care who you are, THAT is some scary shit!)


If I were to write a letter to Susan, I would tell her to please grieve her losses. Miriam Greenspan states, "grief is one of the most powerful emotional forces there is - powerful enough to shatter the self we've carefully constructed."
Not only has Susan lost her husband, physically, but also the man she thought she knew.


For a period of time she also lost her privacy, as the whole world stopped and turned to look at her and her life and family. I don't know why tragedy does this to folks, but it does.


The weight of the peering, judging world was more than I could cope with. I cracked. I felt as if my soul was exposed to each and every person I met. At that time in my life I was lugging around an enormous amount of guilt and shame from unresolved incest and strapped to that was dysfunctional issues too numerous to chronicle. In a nutshell: my soul wasn't a pretty sight, it was downright F'UGLY. (excuse my French, but it was fuckin' ugly)


If I were to write a letter to Susan, I would tell her that it will get easier, to live that is.  Take your time and give yourself permission to feel whatever you're feeling and do it without fear, without shame or doubt or condemnation.


It was NOT YOUR FAULT.


You will NEVER 'get over it', but you will get through it.


You will NEVER 'get back to normal', what's happened is too profound. What you will get is a new awareness of yourself, of your family, friends,  and community, of the world, and perhaps even of God.


You'll find joy in the pink glow of dawn's early light, in the ripple of the flowing river.  You'll find gratitude in the budding of flowers and trees on a crisp Spring day and also in the dried and crumpled leaves and petals blowing in an Autumn wind. And happiness, you'll find happiness in the smile of your grandchildren and of the last glimmer of life in the eyes of someone you have loved.


This is what I would write, if I were to write a letter to Susan.

Just a little story

A conversation at dinner last night was funny and I wanted to post it just because.  The music was Jimmy Buffet, the room was crowded and the cacophony was quite loud. My friend sitting next to me began telling me a little story.

Friend: When I was a bouncer at a club in Pompano, this guy would come in who had published one book. He dis'd me once, I guess he thought since he was published he could shit ice cream cones. I would send all the women over to his table by telling them he was Jimmy Buffet, they harassed the hell out of him!

Me: I always wanted to do that.

Friend: What, write a book?

Me: No, shit ice cream cones!

That cracked me up, even today I told that little story 3 times!  I just had to tell you all.  P.S. dis'd is slang for insulted.

A Cathartic Experience

I didn't know my last blog about the Perfume War would cause such a stink, an uproar, a tumultuous disturbance of the public peace. When I posted it, I wasn't aware of the magnitude of emotion that I had. I just wrote it because the pain of my daughter's experience at work was fresh in my mind.

The outpouring of comments on Facebook had me walking around in circles, I mean, I had never incited a riot before. It's heady stuff! I had never garnered such attention before.

At first my replies to comments were still full of indignation, I mean really, can't anybody wear perfume anymore, without it offending some co-worker, or attendee of a bible study?

The generous comments were mostly from those who have reactions to perfumes, hair spray, and lotions. Skull splitting headaches, gut wrenching nausea, 10 times the magnitude of morning sickness. And brain fog, let's not forget about the brain fog.

One comment was about a foreign high school student who did not employ the use of perfume, or deodorant either. The entire school was assaulted by this students B.O. (body odor) and it was left to the guidance counselor to guide the offending student to the use of regular bathing habits, and deodorant. Of course that conversation had me imagining that poor little foreign student at a table in the cafeteria, sitting all alone, and the rest of the assembly had the scowl of the P U on their faces. Not a pretty picture, but I imagined it never the less.

One comment in particular helped me become aware of what this topic was stirring up in me.  I choose to look inward and ask myself, is there something deeper here? Is this more than just righteous indignation? I mean, just the power of sharing my opinion, with anybody and everybody here in cyberspace is a huge thing for me, and when I stayed up till 3 a.m. just so I could publish the post before I went to bed should have told me something else was going on.  I don't think I've ever gone to bed with a chuckle about what I had written, but my little comment about the 'stink to high heaven scale' had me chuckling to my pillow.

While writing my reply to my commenter, it hit me....It was easier to write about my stink scale than it was to feel the hurt I'd felt from my fathers disgust of me AND what I hadn't talked about at all was the reason I wear perfume that way that I do. Because I've believed that I really do smell, and therefore am a stinkin, worthless human being. Who would have thought?!

After crying the tears that real healing, a true catharsis can bring, I feel so thankful. For the courage I had to look at myself. For the friend who brought it to my attention that there was something else going on. For the friend who stayed with the sparring of words long enough to realize I didn't really  like disturbing the peace.

Benjamin Franklin is quoted as saying, "There are three things that are extremely hard: steel, diamonds, and to know thyself." 

Perfume War

Today is a good day because I am not on the front line in the war to end all wars, the perfume war. Now I can just hear you guys saying to yourself, what is the perfume war?  Excuse me just a minute while I do a little war dance. I've got to prepare myself for the gruesome details of this hideous conflict I'm about to share.

Okay, this all started when I was still a girl at home. I would take my babysitting money to the mall, and look in all the stores until I could find a bottle of perfume that I could afford. I thought my wages, 50 cents an hour was pretty good at the time, and after an evening of babysitting I would bring home the bacon, or $2 to $3 was more like it. 

So finding perfume in my price range was a little bit of a challenge, but I hit pay dirt when I found Emeraude on sale. I was elated when I got some Chantilly and the best bargain of all was Jovan's Musk.

I loved my perfume and it loved me. I loved it so much that one spray to my wrist wasn't enough. I had to have more, so I would spray it on my throat, my shoulders and the back of my neck, and I could smell it all day, and evidently so could my dad.  Before I could even get out of the bathroom he'd be yelling "Who's spraying the perfume?" and when I would emerge he would grab it out of my hand, and look at me with that disgusting scowl that P U makes, and say "It's giving me a headache!" 

I mean when was the last time you smelled something really stinky? Did your nose wrinkle up, and your lips get locked in that upper lip curl thing? I know everyone can picture it now, I'll even bet some of you are putting your fingers on your nose, and pinching your nostrils closed just thinking of that trash can you just put the trash bag in, or the mommies that have just gotten a whiff of that dark green baby poop, or smelling the significant others flatulations under the sheets last night. I mean Whew! I don't care who you are, that stuff is stinky!

But my perfume? It shouldn't even get one point on the stink to high heaven scale.

How traumatic for me to have my own flesh and blood, my daddy, look at me with disgust and say that I "smelled" and confiscate my hard earned bottle of perfume. And if that wasn't punishment enough, I was forbidden to spray perfume in the house, ever. I have to admit that my feelings were hurt, more than a little.

While I learned never to spray perfume in my parents house, it didn't stop me from spraying it on the way to the bus stop, or in the girls bathroom at school,
I loved perfume and I was gonna wear it.

Fast forward ten years....and I'm working in a shop, beachside. When I first started working there I was the only female employee. Then the boss got a girlfriend and she started working there.  One day she comes to me and she says, "Would you please not wear perfume to work anymore, it gives me a headache." I stammered and stuttered, "I don't know if I can do that."

I went home madder than hell. Who does she think she is, my father? I called in the next day, and told them I quit.

Fast forward another 10 years or so. I'm in California, for a month, helping my son and daughter-in-law await the birth of their first child. I'd been there 2 weeks, and one morning I stepped into the kitchen and my daughter-in-law turns and looks at me with that scrunched up facial expression that I've seen a few other times in my life and says, "Could you please not wear your perfume anymore, it's giving me a headache."  I felt as if I had just been slapped in the face.

I did leave their home that night, and stayed in a motel a few blocks away. I mean, I cried and cried and cried some more. I went back to their house the next morning and we patched things up, and I didn't wear my perfume for the next two weeks. I considered this as another casualty from this blasted war.

Recently my daughter took a day off from work. We were sitting and talking about stuff, the way that mothers and daughters do, and she began to tell me about two women she works with. These women have been holding their nose when my daughter walks by them, and exclaiming loud enough for my daughter to hear "Pshew". 

These women also have little desk fans that they have put up on the dividing cubicle wall, pointing down on my daughters head. (My sweet little baby girl doesn't even put perfume on her body, she sprays it on her clothes AND she doesn't douse herself in it like I do.) My daughter got so upset the next day when she went back to work and the "Pshewing" started up first thing. She exclaimed "Maybe it's your 'stinkin' attitude" and called them into the managers office.

I would like to report that the manager was able to stop the perfume war right then and there, but he didn't.

I now realize that I am not the only soldier in this heated battle and however long it takes, I'm not giving up. I'll never give up wearing my perfume! and so the Perfume war will continue..........

Bittersweet

One of my nieces called last night, she's gonna come visit, (I think it's interesting that my two sisters and myself all had baby girls in the same year)
and during the course of our conversation she asked about Tinga.

Tinga bird, as she is affectionately called, is our sun conure. Sun conures, are originally from Central America and their plummage is very vivid, from bright yellow on the top of the head to yellow-orange on the back and belly and olive green and blue on the wings. They aren't very big, maybe 6 or 7 inches tall. Conures also have a beak like a Macaw, very sharp, for peeling the skin off of grapes and other skin, human included. My friend Alice did a watercolor of Tinga last year, because of the beautiful colors, and I save her feathers in a box and use them from time to time in my art projects.  I might add that some family members think Tinga is pretty, pretty mean. She has drawn blood from every one in the family, and a huge number of friends. Not that she's vicious, just temperamental.

Anyway, we've had Tinga since she was a baby, born in captivity in 1991, and my husband has trained Tinga to fly to him. When we lived on the ranch he used to let her fly free on the property. She would fly into the barn and find him and sit on his head or shoulder. When we moved here to Rockledge, my husband continued to let Tinga fly free whenever he went outside.

Last December, we were walking around the house, as my hubby had recently had hip-replacement surgery and needed to walk for his therapy, and Tinga was with him, right there on his shoulder.  Tinga decided to fly up to a low hanging branch in the Magnolia tree we have out front. Little did we know that a red-tailed hawk was sitting on a branch just above her. Tinga wasn't on her branch for more than 30 seconds when that hawk swooped down and grabbed her! and started flying away with her. Not straight up in the sky, but down the street.

I let out a blood-curdling scream. I don't know about you all, but a scream like that comes right up out of the bowels, and immediately activates the adrenaline system, and we started running down the street, after the two birds.  I mean, what were we thinking? We could out run a bird? I don't think so, Opal. The sight of that hawk with our beloved birdie in it's claws flying away was the source of a few nightmares for me.

However, run we did, and to our utter amazement the hawk dropped Tinga right in front of our neighbors house, and kept on flying. Now here is where Tinga's mean temperament really worked to her advantage, she bit the hawk! I will never know exactly where she bit it, but I do know she bit it hard enough for it to let her loose. Tinga didn't hit the ground, she just bounced up and flew into the tree of our next door neighbor.

Unbelievable, ecstatic and overwhelmed with joy, I turned around to high-five my hubby, only to find him splatted on the pavement. As it turns out, when he began to run, hobble is more like it, his first step off the curb wasn't balanced, and he fell onto the asphalt. He tried to break his fall with his right hand, and in doing so broke his arm. The asphalt left some skid marks on his knees and shoulders too.

After retrieving Tinga from the neighbors tree, which took quite alot of time as I think she was in shock, I know we were, we got her down and took her back to her aviary on our back porch. 

Where she has been ever since. She doesn't want to go outside with my hubby anymore, and we are glad she doesn't.  My hubby sits down with her every evening and preens her before she gets her dinner, and that's how Tinga bird is.

Happy? Anniversary

I woke up this morning remembering that 38 years ago I got married, for the first time. 16 years old and I walked down the isle with my high school boyfriend, 3 months pregnant, in a lavendar dress.

These days it's no biggie if a 16 year old gets pregnant, from what I read/hear she isn't even coersed into marriage, at least here in America. She may be counseled to terminate, or if she decides to keep her baby she can continue attending school with the baby.

Back in my day, in my family, my choices were 2. Get married, if the schmuck was willing, or get shipped off to the unwed mothers home. (I wonder if they still have unwed mothers homes anymore.)

So marriage seemed like the smart choice, but remembering how things turned out I wonder...
Attending high school in 1972, married and pregnant, put me in a category that wasn't well received, kinda like the scarlet letter. I was ostrasized by my peers, banished, excluded from social exceptance. What a way to start a marriage, a pregnancy, and senior year. Living in the attic of my in-laws house didn't give me warm fuzzies either.

It was painful enough that I had disappointed my parents, and they turned me over to a young, immature pot smokin man, but going to school in the middle of de-segregation    (It was like someone put us all in a mason jar, black and white, shook the jar up and down a few times and watched while blacks buzzed on one side of the jar and the whites on the other side. Sounds like a Gary Larson cartoon, eh?)   and nobody would talk to me, the girls especially would avoid speaking to me. It seemed as if I were invisible and that was indeed cruel and unusual punishment.

38 years later and I can still remember it, like it was yesterday. Time is certainly misrepresented, whoever said "time heals all" was full of c***, in my humble opinion.

Well, that is about all the reminising I'm gonna do today, and I've gotta say it really is a Happy Anniversary, because I'm not that forsaken girl anymore, and I'm not married to that man anymore, and thank heavens I'm not in high school anymore.