Halvsies

Swearing-Hill-Laundry-Line-web

I’m working my way through a mountain of laundry to get Thing-One ready for sleep-away camp.

It’s the first dry sunny morning in days, so I decided to hang my first load outside instead of on the racks in the laundry room.We have a new compact telescoping line. Our old one died in a thunderstorm, and this one cost way too much.  I was sniffing the drying blankets as I hung shirts and shorts and suddenly realized how much more the new laundry line holds than the old one. “Yay,” I said to Katy-the-Wonder-Dog (she does a lot of wondering).  Then to myself, “How empty is my life that a bigger laundry line is a highpoint of my morning?”  Then I wondered did it really main my life is all that empty, or is my life – most of which occurs between the kitchen and the laundry line – so full that I can actually take a minute and be happy about such a little thing.

I decided to take the half-full approach on this one and went in to start another load.

Freedom

sketchylife115-trees

There’s something really liberating about doodling in ball point pen.  You know  you’re gonna make at least one screw up so you might as well enjoy the ride.  I know, I know… the ride is the whole point.

Turn, Turn, Turn

Teacher

Last year Thing2 learned about loss – real loss – when his teacher died of cancer  in the fall.  There were many nights of holding him while he cried – wanting to know what was fair – for the loss of his beloved friend.  Even after the tears subsided, the rest of the school year was not a good one for him.  Thing2’s teacher was a legend, and filling his shoes in a few weeks or even months was impossible.  The year was chaotic and confusing for our little spirit.

Wanting a fresh start, we switched him to a new school with kids his own age (he’d been a year ahead before).  There hasn’t been much excitement this year, but we knew he was happy.  Every Monday he brought home a homework pass – the prize for a perfect spelling test on Friday.  Most nights he had a newly-illustrated, self-published and assembled book to show us.  And on every report card we learned from his teacher that he was getting all A’s but he really likes to talk  (you coulda knocked us over with a feather).

It’s only now at the end of the year that drama develops.  The night before the last day of school, he put himself to bed and summoned me for his goodnight hug and kiss.  We chatted about the day and tomorrow.

“It’s been a great year for you,” I said to him.  Thing2, curled up on the top bunk, nodding solemnly at me through the bars.  Then he turned his head into the pillow, and his body began to shake.

“I don’t wanna leave Ms. Wright,” he sobbed.

I spent the next 25 minutes sitting on the top step of his bunk with his arms wrapped around me in a strangle hold.  I patted his back, trying to convince him he would see his teacher at school next year and that he would love the next teacher too.  Exhaustion fuelled some of the tears, but only the thought of leaving a teacher who had given him a wonderful year – punctuated only by typical first grade diversions of playgrounds and construction paper projects and success – could inspire such sorrow.

I was happy to hold him through his tears, and there wasn’t one part of me that was sad at that moment.  After all, he wasn’t learning about loss this time.  He was learning about love, even if the rest of the lesson won’t become clear to him until a few years from now.

Every Day

something you dont see

Saturday on an ordinary visit to the state capital of Vermont, a father reprimanded a seven-year-old in  a music store and got him to laugh at the same time.

A Mom marched her son into and out of the kitchy-cool art supply store on the corner of Main Street before either of them got into too much trouble.

A group of bicyclists rode altogether in their altogethers through the center of town.

A teenager who swore he wouldn’t have any fun separated from his newly-earned computer was heard to say, “This has been a really great day,”  as a family of four that is too often going in four different directions came together for a meal that turned into a group meditation on how fun it is to spend an afternoon together.

And that’s something you don’t see every day.

An Attic of My Own

DIY in Real Life

For the past year and half, I’ve been searching for a room of my own.  I’ve battled insecurity (am I enough of a writer and artist to need one) and laundry lines looking for a place in our home that I could dedicate to creativity.  Last week I decided to plant my flag in the attic space we use for a guest room and began culling shelves and tables and recycled doo-dads together to make a workspace.

And now it’s mine.

I am surrounded by paper and pencils, and from my new spot, I can see the weeded part of my garden.  I once read a jaded comment by a jaded photobuyer that once you begin taking pictures of flowers, your photography is reaching a dead end (Loving photos of flowers, I had to disagree).  I’m not a photobuyer or a photographer, but I can say that when you’re looking at the glowing green through your studio window (yes, I called it a studio), your drawing life gets a huge jump start and so does your blog.

Saturday morning, however, I ran away from home again.  I had to.  As an exercise in discipline, I set a deadline of this weekend to finish the writing portion of an eBook I’ve been working on.  When I woke, I headed up the stairs to the Attic Studio, automatically reaching for my colored pencil case.

I’d seen a bluebird crash-diving Thing1’s bedroom window. Had to draw that.  There was that gorgeous garden last night.  Had to draw that and write about it.  The raspberry bush is consuming my garden arch – ooh, that would make a great doodle.

In my own space, I suddenly faced a dilemma of too many images and ideas, and it was definitely delicious.  I just hope it doesn’t go to my thighs.

 

Garden Journal – Excuses, Excuses

Porn for Gardeners

So, I know it’s an addiction, but I’m not sure that it really rises to the level of the problem. After all, it’s not as if I don’t produce something useful with my habit. I mean, name any other substance you can abuse all summer, and end up with a bowl full of cherry tomatoes.

Speaking of tomatoes, non-gardeners will say that the one you grow in your backyard has a bigger carbon footprint or costs $64,000 more than the faded orange excuses for tomatoes offered in neat pyramids at the big-box grocers. Well, instead of falling back on a trite “If it’s too fresh, you’re too old” or “If I have to explain the dirt under my fingernails you wouldn’t understand,” I’m conducting a little experiment this summer to see just how expensive my fresh tomato is.

This summer, I’m going to keep a record of how much is spent on seedlings and other garden paraphenalia, as well as time used that could be spent making money on other endeavors. Then I’m going to calculate the returns on my investment.

A disclaimer, I can’t promise not to recruit any other younger people to gardening. It is not my fault they just wander into my garden and start snacking on cherry tomatoes or that they assume the sweet peas are candy.  I do think, when food finicky seven-year-old Thing2 is munching on a chemical free tomato he didn’t have to wash first, my justification will be written all over his face.