Homage to Fred

When my son was young, I found it more convenient and less smelly to take him to the local pet store as opposed to driving to the zoo in Los Angeles.  We had fun looking at all of the lizards, snakes, frogs and fish and playing with puppies after which we did not have to scoop any you-know-what.  On one occasion about 11 years ago, the pet store had on display a large cage filled with a litter of kittens that had been abandoned at their doorstep over night.  They appeared to be about six weeks old.  Two of them (identical!) were soundly beating the tar out of all of the other kitties, purring loud enough to be heard across the store while they cheerfully administered their whooping.  Kevin and I sat on the floor and played with the kitties through the bars for a good 45 minutes.

They were all available for adoption.  I had promised my husband that I would never, ever bring home an animal that we hadn't agreed would be adopted.  He was under an enormous amount of stress at work and I didn't want to make it worse, but I just couldn't see NOT adopting this one adorable orange ball of fluff.  We had two kitties at home, one of which was two years old (Ricky) and always wanted to play; the other (Lucy) clearly never wanted to play and let Ricky know with a sound boxing of his ears daily.  We thought this kitty would make a nice playmate.  I called my husband and provide lengthy details about the divine qualities of this kitty.  He sighed and told me that if I just couldn't leave without the kitty, he understood and that was OK.  That was the day we adopted Fred.  If you already have a Lucy and a Ricky, you MUST name the new boy in the house Fred!

Fred has been a wonderful member of the family.  He was an amazing hunter, able to catch a hummingbird with a tall leap and a clap.  He routinely saved the yard from gophers and saved me from attacking June bugs (all I had to do was call, "Fred! Come get the kitty crouton!" and he'd come running, taking his job as crouton-catcher very seriously).  He was a big, furry bundle of purr and a talker.  He didn't meow as much as chirp and talk.

Last summer we noticed that Fred was rapidly losing weight.  He's a Maine Coon and at his peak, weighed 16.5 lbs.  While dropping weight like mad (and still eating), we found an open sore on a paw that just wouldn't heal after a few rounds of hefty antibiotics.  We finally got the diagnosis of cancer.  Over the last couple of months we watched him lose the vision in one eye and very recently found another of these tumor-like booboos on another paw.  We have cried for a week, knowing our days with him were numbered.  We sprawled on the lawn in the sun together this week while Fred chirped about the birds and lizards and the wild winds.

I was with Fred when they gave him the shot to help him relax, and then the 2nd to help him fall into that deep, deep sleep of no more pain and suffering.  I knelt down and put my nose to his and we looked eye to eye as he dozed off, stroking his fur and asking him to tell Lucy and Ricky to play nice with him up there in kitty heaven.  I'm so sad.  The whole family is so sad.  While I teased early in my blogging days about not writing about my pets, this is about love and loss and compassion of a fuzzy family member, not a cat.  We hope Fred is romping in a field of heavenly catnip with loads of sunshine in which to roll around.  This morning and every morning from now on, I will raise my coffee mug to my lovely Fred and thank him for giving us eleven years of kitty-parenting bliss.

Emotions running high

My mother died 13 years ago next month of Lou Gehrig's disease.  It was a sad and terrible way to end her life much too young.  I am reminded of her as we approach Mothers Day and look into the garden. 

Mom knew that my husband's favourite flower is the iris, and purple irises in particular.  She had a remarkable green thumb, which I was not fortunate enough to inherit. 

About three years before she died, she gave Harold a birthday gift of a single bulb for a dark purple bearded iris .  He happily planted it, and watched the greenery pop up and grow beautifully tall.  Sadly, it just wouldn't flower.  Three springs came and went and he waited patiently for the sign that he might see something other than green, hoping it would sprout a flower.  Then Mom died, only six months after being diagnosed. 

As the anniversary of Mom's passing approached that following spring, we noticed a bud on the top of a stalk.  We had done nothing special to the garden, not adding fertilizer or improving the irrigation...nothing.  Frankly I'm surprised anything survives my thumb-of-plant-demise.  But there it was.  On the anniversary of her passing, the bud opened into a huge, beautiful iris.  It has bloomed every year since.

Finding my way to happy

Boy, have I been hitting "delete" and "backspace" a lot this afternoon!  I should NOT blog when I'm in a funk.  It is just so easy to fuss and grump and think about things I wish were different.  Time to put on my big girl pants, give them a wicked yank and snap out of it.  Good grief.

I spent a second day in the studio working on a new piece and using the glass eyes I bought.  I suck!  Not the kind of suck that has me upset and reworking the piece, but the kind of suck where I can laugh at how terrible my sculpting skills are and how wonky the face of this poor piece looks.  It's really quite amusing.  Surprisingly, I'm not losing my mind about it.  The squishing of the clay and experimenting with scale (OK, I'm not experimenting as much as I just can't get it right) has been very relaxing.   I had hoped to find some of that polymer clay that has fibers in it that give it the look of stone, but have discovered that living in a dusty neighborhood seems to be doing a lovely job of adding fiber to the clay while I work with it.  :-)  

Since I am not going to be able to attend Art and Soul this year with too many (major) family calendar conflicts, I think I'm going to take the leap and take an online course.  Some folks may think it's no big deal, but while I am the class clown in public, I'm the terrified kid in my head when it comes to stuff like this.

Time to put away the blog, clean up the studio and get a glass of wine.  Cheers!

Lowering Defenses

The artist's life: For the longest time, I've moaned and groaned about being mortififed about sharing my work and comparing my skills, either in my head or in cyberspace, to that of artists who really kick booty.  For the last couple of days, I've been looking at my wonderful cyberfriend Debbie's work and, thanks HUGELY to her constant positive feedback and that of my mates on Milliande, I am really, truly enjoying just enjoying.  I'm loving her work, and wishing my sister would put more of hers in cyberspace for others to enjoy (hint, hint Lisa!) and feeling inspired by them instead of whooping myself.  Of course I'm at the studio desk trying to make a new piece and laughing at the face right now, but it's fun chuckling instead of self-berating chuckling.  This is a good feeling.

My wonderful friend Deb has asked me for another couple of pieces for the next annual Boys & Girls Club fundraiser, giving me tons of notice (I have until October).  She shared that this was a personal request of a board member that was outbid by my husband last year.  He is forbidden to participate this year!  He can just write them a check and let me see what happens.  I'm happy to have this much time to work and am eager to get hopping.

I also made a personal commitment to participate in every swap in Paper Cloth Scissors as long as I have the basic skills required to do so.  The next swap is for a holiday project for which I feel infinitely more qualified to participate given my obsession with holiday decor.  This will be fun!

On the Mom front:  It's hard to get studio time in when Kevin has huge projects for school.  He is so lost when it comes to organized thinking and is mentally overwhelmed by the big picture when it comes to these projects.  He had to write an analytical paper, create a PowerPoint presentation on the top that will run simultaneously with a 5 minute oral presentation, followed by a visual presentation (they have a lot of creative options for this), with staggered deadlines.  He sits like a deer in headlights and does nothing if I'm not sitting with him, asking questions and teaching him HOW to do the job (I refuse to be one of those mothers that does the job for their kid) so that he can succeed in college when Mom isn't there to help!  We don't seem to be making much progress.  It's very frustrating and, selfishly, time consuming.  But it takes first priority, so I must get face-making while the time is available.  I have about an hour and a half before I start hauling kids home.  Ugh.

Just a Funny Memory

I was looking through old photos, trying to figure out this stupid Mac (OK, it's user error, but it's my blog and I can get away with blaming it on the computer/software) and iPhoto, when I found this picture of Kevin.  I think we were in Yosemite or Mammoth and waiting for Dad in the store for a few minutes, so I let Kevin sit at the wheel. 

The photo reminded me of a no-school day for Kevin a few years ago.  I must start by saying that this is not a conversation I would have with just anyone.  Kevin has a very good sense of humour.  With that said...

I had promised to take him bowling, but I was really sick.  My exhaustion was at a peak, but I figured I could just sit and cheer him on while I didn't do much myself other than wheeze and blow my nose.  When we went went out to the car in the driveway, I just sat in the front passenger seat, telling Kevin he could drive and handed him the keys.  He got in the driver's seat and just sat there for a minute.  He slowly turned his head toward me and asked, "Are you sure?"  I asked, "You know which pedal makes it go and which makes it stop, right?  You've seen me do it a lot."  He sat silently for another long minute.  Again, he asked very quietly, "Really?  Are you sure?"  I asked, "Can you reach the pedals?"  He slid a little forward on the seat and put his foot to the pedals and answered that yes, he could reach them, but was I really, really sure?  I leaned my head back and pretended to close my eyes and told him, "If you can reach and you think you can do it, I'm ready.  Be sure to buckle up."  He sat quiet for the loooongest time and asked once more, "Are you sure????"  I couldn't take it any more.  I howled with laughter, took the keys and told him, "Are you crazy?  You can't drive!"  He gave the biggest sigh I'd ever heard out of the little guy, and said, "Boy, I'm really glad you weren't going to let me drive.  I don't remember how to get to the bowling alley!"  We laughed for the longest time.

Every now and again, I toss Kevin the keys and ask him, "Are you gonna drive?" and he just cracks up and tells me that I'm evil.  Of course now that he's 15, he's beginning to hound me about when he can get his permit.  The tables have turned.

What a cutie.

Living in the Past

A couple of weeks ago, I was surprised to be looking at a friend's Facebook page and noticed one of her friends, one of my teachers in high school.  I was immediately reminded of something he said and did that was wicked and unprofessional, the target of his action was me.  I sent him a message asking if he was the same (name) that taught at (the last high school I attended), and he confirmed with an immediatly cheery, "Yes that's me.  Were you in one of my classes?"  I responded that yes, I had been in his class.  Then I proceeded to remind him of what he had done, noting that it was not one of my fonder memories of high school.  I tossed in another little 2 cent shot that was not uncalled for or over the top rude, but made my point.  I got an instant apology.

I felt so much better!  How silly to let the nastiness of someone else bug me for quite literally decades, but I did a clapping happy dance after I hit, "Send" and feel SO much better for it!  I was not wicked or rude, just stated the facts.  Wow, it was liberating.

Still, I have to spend less time thinking about the unpleasantries of my early years, the mistakes I've made, and the pain caused by other people and focus more on the happy times.

Yesterday I opened my old cedar chest and started digging through the contents.  There were a lot of things I'd forgotten about.  I found letters from my now deceased mother and in-laws dating back to when I was a newlywed.  I found Christmas cards from friends in middle school with whom I only recently reconnected (and am loving it!).  There is a TON of artwork and school papers from my kids, my own report cards, my silly Roller Gear (the dopey outfit I wore to Bay City Roller concerts that has an unimaginably small waistline), and journals dating back to age 12.  Another wow.  It has been a fun reminder of time long past and, thankfully, a reminder that there was fun and good stuff mixed in with the craziness of my parents at their worst.  It will be another day or two before I've completed the organizing and purging process (time to toss the extra wedding invitations).  For now, I'll enjoy reminiscing but resist the habit of living in the past.

Breaking the Rules

The Mom stuff: Kevin is home safe and sound. He didn't leave anything behind (so he tells me ;-) and has wonderful stories and photos to share about his first trip abroad. As a mom, I laugh at myself that the thing I was most excited about was the fact that he ate soup. My super picky eater that I was sure would come home malnourished ate something I've not been able to get him to eat his entire life. He brought home a "Deutchland" scarf and refrigerator magnet (the one silly thing we all bring each other when we travel) for me, and a couple of beer steins for Dad. He bought himself a Swiss military watch, insisting that it just isn't reasonable to go to Switzerland and NOT come home with a Swiss watch. His buddy came home with $62 dollars worth of Swiss chocolate. Ah, to be 15 again and have such simple priorities. Hahaha. We are just happy to have him home.

The artist stuff: While my son was in Europe, my husband and I decided to play grownup. Among all of the silly fun stuff (including winning $3,200 on slots at the casino - woohoo!) and an adult dinner with our daughter and boyfriend, we also enjoyed a great visit to LACMA. There was an absolutely amazing Renoir collection on view, with a bit of Magritte and Picasso thrown in here and there. I must admit to breaking the cardinal rule about not crapping on other artist's work. I couldn't help it. I'm just going to say it. The work was idiotic garbage. How can someone stick a few carpet cleaners and a vacuum cleaner in acrylic boxes and seriously call it art? I get that there are people who love the stuff that Andy Warhol did like the stacks of cardboard boxes marked "Kellogg." My opinion differs, but I still get it. But this stuff? I asked one of the security guards if he could stand there all day looking at it and go home thinking it was great art, or could he just say it was the crap that it is, and he stammered for a while before giving me the "Well, it evokes conversation so it must be art" blah blah talk. I pointed out that the conversation is about just how nutbag the artist really is in my opinion. It doesn't make the guy an artist. It makes him a nutbag and the guy who bought the crap a fool. I am SOOOO over feeling timid about my work. There are a million people who won't like it for everyone that does, but I doubt seriously that anyone would call me a nutbag for calling it art.