The place to be

Last Saturday, I fought the road construction, the latest "fundraising walk of the week" road closures, and the general mayhem and confusion that is driving in downtown Pittsburgh. I fought it because by God, the kid and I had decided we were going to visit the Ft. Pitt museum and learn about old-fashioned Pittsburgh leisure activities.

We headed toward town, ended up being forced off the parkway thanks to lane restrictions, then (thanks to stadium lot closures) found ourselves in a no-way-back trek northward in the HOV lane (no, we did not want or intend to head north), and then finally came back down to town... where we paid too much to park near Point State Park. In addition to Ft. Pitt Museum's throwback leisure day (where I kicked my child's butt at lawn bowling), there was an outdoor festival happening simultaneously—lots of kiosks and stands dedicated to encouraging people and families to get outdoors and climb, hike, ride, explore, etc. It was quite inspiring, and less than stellar weather did not slow anyone down. Youngsters climbed a wall, my son tried out a 3-wheeler intended to rehabilitate folks with lower-body injuries, and we indulged in the most expensive soft pretzel ever. (Luckily, it wasn't bad...)

But we were at the Point. And short of a torrential downpour, floods, tornadoes, or black ice, one simply cannot visit the Point without making the walk to the Big Fountain. It's impossible to resist. The foaming tower of water, the hordes of humans milling around its base, the fantastic scene that unfolds before you in every direction—it's a favorite destination for a reason. Everybody loves it. You feel bigger there, and yet smaller, too. You are surrounded by manmade grandeur, yet also steeped in history. You're not far from that primitive little blockhouse, oldest structure in the 'burgh, but you're also staring across the water at a submarine, a football stadium, the science center cone, and one of the two inclines that crawl up and down the face of Mt. Washington. You're standing where original city settlers stood, where Frenchmen made a stand, where native Americans came aground. You're positioned right in the midst of Lewis and Clark's starting point.

A lot has happened on that piece of property.

And a lot is still happening there, albeit perhaps on a different scale. As we walked toward the fount, a park worker offered to take our photo. (He must have pitied us, as we attempted a somewhat-centered dual selfie while perched on a rock.) We accepted his kindness, posing, then chatted with him. He shared a funny story about a recent visitor to the park. A smallish fellow had come walking on the very same path we were exploring, had struck up a conversation with this gardener. They'd talked about how the fellow was staying uptown near the Consol Center, and eventually the visitor's identity became clear: Kenny G. Yep, the Kenny G. He was strolling anonymously through the park before his big concert performance. How cool is that? Our new friend shared how friendly and unassuming Kenny had been, how'd he'd laughed at the suggestion that he should be exploring the fair city with an entourage.

Even Kenny G likes Point State Park, and wanders through the shady greenery while gazing out at the massive waters that flow past.

If you can make your way around that vast fountain, and observe children giggling in the spray, and watch lovers adoring each other as they whisper sweet nothings in the clamor of the tumbling waters... If you can hear the tugboats alert each other as they pass, and trains send their high-pitched whistle skyward—if you can take all that in without smiling, then you're a rare human being... and quite possibly a joyless one.

A little glimpse of warmer days

These three were clucking around at my sisters' house one day last summer. The sun was warm, the sound of their chatter was soothing, and I snapped a photo in hopes of preserving the moment.

Not quite the same as being there in person, but still powerful enough to evoke a vague essence of balmier days...

It's for sale in my Etsy shop. Now I'm off to start the next one! Carpe diem, right?

I really have done more than paint...

...but all the other stuff I've been doing is ongoing and never "finished" and, hence, there is nothing to show for my labors. Thus, I show you these creations.

Birthdays, yard work, house projects, Mother's Day, etc. have all been sweeping us into a vortex of busy, and I realized yesterday, with speechless awe, that there remain only 4 weeks of school.

Good heavens! I'd better get busy! Lord knows how little I'll get done with that sweet kid at home.

Take care until next time. Carpe diem! And don't forget your jacket!

P.S. The cat painting features one of our neighbors' kitties. Isn't she regal in her repose?

Signs of spring

Here's the latest painting: a hoppity little fellow. Easter's approach always connotes the images of bunnies for me, probably for most of us. After wondering about the origins of the tradition, I read somewhere that Easter's pagan beginnings had a sharp focus on fertility. Heck, what's a better example of that than rabbits? Hence the "Easter Bunny." Weird. The savior of the world was raised from the dead, and we hide eggs (more fertility symbols) and give credit to a long-eared, madly breeding furball.

I have seen a few bunnies scrambling frantically in my evening headlights of late. Guess they're starting to get bored in those burrows, too.

Anyway. The painting is for sale in my Etsy shop.

I'll resume muttering at the stubborn snow now.

Picking up the brush again

Finally, after a hiatus of sorts, I was able to pick up my paint brushes and work on something for an hour or two. It was blissful. This funny little gourd came home with Marcus last week; its green skin had been impaled with eyes, rainbow hair, and various other facial features (craft project for Halloween). I quietly emptied it of its recently added characteristics, and painted it outside in the healing sunshine. It's for sale in my shop on Etsy.

At last, creative outlet

Our busy summer-of-many-changes is winding down.

I'm happy to say that I finally found a free evening to paint. The boyz were canoeing with friends, and I located my easel in the basement (it was glaring at me accusingly from a dim corner) and hauled it up to the back yard.

One fresh, white canvas + a glass of wine + some paints and brushes = a nearly finished painting and a more relaxed Mel.

I completed it in a couple of quick follow-up sittings, and then—I walked away. (It's very important to know when to walk away. I may have mentioned that already in several previous posts.)

It's good to be back in the saddle again.

(This dog belongs to a family friend who has helped us out with some arduous tasks. His name is Sam. Isn't he sweet?)

Random things I am loving

We proceed with caution through the approaching move/home sale/home purchase/chaos. While this all unfolds, we are trying to remember to praise God for every blessing—and there have been many.

I am also praising some other stuff of late. Allow me to share.

Yoplait Greek Yogurt in Coconut flavor

People, if a yogurt could be custom-created for me, it would be this one. Thick, not too sour, with tiny flecks of coconut wonderfulness hiding in its creamy, protein-rich glory. Imagine Homer Simpson making his donut-induced salivation sound right now; yes, that's the sound I make when I indulge in this spectacular, palate-pleasing treat.

Birds, especially baby birds, their parents, and mockingbirds

I kept hearing an insistent chirrup in the back yard. Further investigation revealed a baby robin, tufty and under-developed in tail feathers. He hopped around, occasionally fluttering his fuzzy wings and taking short, unstable flights. His mom or dad was hovering nearby, staying a bit ahead of him, trying to encourage the little one but not making it too easy for him. Now, two days after the initial discovery, the baby has managed to avoid becoming feral cat food, and he's improved sufficiently to fly away from me when I approach. It's a good thing Todd snapped a few photos when the "kid" was still unable to flee; I couldn't get near him earlier this morning.

Mockingbirds have the most amazing vocal talents. I don't know how they manage to imitate so many different birds and their very distinct songs; I just checked on the incredibly non-factual Wikipedia; that ever-evolving virtual tome of fantasy claims that mockingbirds can make over 400 different sounds, songs, and calls. That seems like a lot... Regardless, mockingbirds are large but not scary, attractive, relatively friendly birds who sing up a storm. Like Harper Lee said, they don't do one thing but make music for us to enjoy. I hope you encounter one soon if you haven't already. Delightful.

Being an old hag of a mother

Being an older mom of a 7-year-old has its advantages. Just as being older in general frees me from excessive concern about what others might think of me, being a "mature" mom of a primary-grade son helps me to shuck off any of the silly parenting trends that sweep our confused, under-disciplined nation on a daily basis. Perhaps having a background as a teacher helps, too; nothing but experience with kids could possibly prepare you for the attitudes and trickery employed by that young population. Either way, I can see where extra years bring extra value to parenting.

Even more important, though, is the fact that my surplus birthdays give me an appreciation for the sheer miracle of life: conception, pregnancy, birth, babies, toddlers, first words and steps... if I'd been a fresh-faced, rubber-hipped child myself when I had my boy, I would have missed the wonder of the whole thing. I feel some pity for those slim, energetic moms and dads. Yes, they bounce back into shape, do without amazing amounts of sleep, and can keep up with the newly mobile; yes, they can juggle three at a time in the grocery store (with the help of fancy race-car carts). But do they really grasp just how amazing and awe-inspiring the whole thing is? Even in my late 20s, I don't think I could truly grok this fleeting, fabulous gift we call life. How could I carefully mark those special moments of my child's life if I hadn't even begun to really take note of them in my own existence yet?

I'd better wrap up. There's much to do, and only my hands to do it. What are you loving today? There are little blessings all around us when we remember to adjust our gaze.

Okay, this weekend will not be a washout...

If you live near southwestern PA, that is. I can't speak for the rest of the country. Sorry about that next-to-last post, with all the nicey-nice references to getting outside, partaking of fresh air, basking in the splendor, blah blah blabbity blah. Obviously, last weekend around here was not a good one for spending time outdoors.

But the next couple of days promise to be much more conducive to happy, warm thoughts. Really!

The pictures on these blank notecards were taken in my back yard. The colors this time of year are simply amazing. If you need any autumnal blank notecards, just stop here in my Etsy shop and have at it. (Fellow Pittsburghers can always just email me and we'll figure out a meeting spot—no shipping costs!)

Wishing you a sun-filled, colorful weekend.

Just juicy (NOT couture)

One of the good things about a sagging economy (yes, there are good things) is that a bit of common sense and frugality begins to return to people. Suddenly, it's hip to clip (coupons) and out of the blue, magazines and newspapers begin to feature stories on trading services and bartering for goods. Which makes sense, when you think about it; before money got all standardized, trade was a main form of obtaining your necessary goods. It works even when money isn't worth much, and it works with skills as well.

Take this painting, for example. It came together quickly because it was for a friend, but also because I knew there was something for me on the other end. I make things with paint, you see, but my friend makes things with yarn. Which I can't do, unless you count misshapen pom-poms. So, we decided to trade skills, thus trading a finished product at the end. Fun! And how sensible, isn't it?

By the way, this friend also has an Etsy shop where she sells vintage goods and some handmade items. I highly encourage you to check it out here.

(I can't sell prints of this berry painting, because I don't have permission to sell or reproduce the image that I used as source. However, I can paint originals from all sorts of sources. So, if you have a favorite subject or photo you'd like to have rendered as an original painting, let me know and we'll talk.)

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On another note, my little family spent a most enjoyable, affordable Saturday at a local marching band festival. Delightful! It's so refreshing and inspiring to see young people working hard to make great music, to listen to the awesome melodies, to watch them scurrying around a football field, and just to be outdoors on a lovely day. This weekend promises cooler temps, but plenty of opportunities to get out there and immerse yourself in your community and nature. Support kids, considering buying something from people with hand-lettered signs, and get some fresh air to boot! It's therapeutic!

This IS the something

It's easy to get sucked into the rhythm of our ridiculously high-tech, over-scheduled culture. In summer, so many of our friends are taking multiple vacations, or their children are attending various camps, or they're juggling a busy schedule of work and sitter and grandparent pick-ups. Plus, the weather is nice and warm; no one is stuck at home, staring at a snowstorm. There are festivals galore, crafts and food and ethnicity and music all being featured here or there. The pool beckons, as do museums, and the zoo, and hiking trails, and the library...

There's a bit of pressure to make the most of the couple of months you have: where should we go today? What's in season? What's on the agenda? Have we been to this place yet? Or should we go to that place? Which is closer? More expensive? Do you friends like this one? I heard this one is fun.

By mid-summer, our steam is beginning to run thin. By August? It's pretty much gone, without even a whistle. It's canning season, there's harvesting to be done, and we're running low on both personal fuel and family budgets. August, I suppose, is the month when you come to appreciate the back yard most of all. It's the month when you truly embrace, out of both weariness and comfort, the beckoning sway of the glider. The very glider where you once read stories to your child is where he now reads them to you. The same glider where you witnessed the first hummingbird of the season will be your seat when you soon bid farewell to those hummers. The glider where you've watched the chipmunks run madly to cover, where you saw the hawk swoop down for a defenseless animal. The very glider where you've welcomed countless mornings and evenings, with their rosy pink skies and array of either chirping birds or prowling bats.

That same patio, that glider, that backyard garden, all of them will provide company when you welcome autumn, and a new classroom teacher for your child. All those yard factors will be present, sitting still, while life moves forward without ceasing. They will comfort you with their sameness even as you mourn the loss of other places, people, traditions.

I'm realizing anew that I don't need to keep telling myself we should be "doing something." Sometimes it's good enough to just sit, and talk, and think. That familiar patio and yard are the setting for my son's most imaginative games, for our best and deepest discussions about what he wants to be and do someday. Yes, we reminisce about Kennywood and the beach. But we also share thoughts, and dreams, and secrets. The baring of hearts happens on that familiar (dare I say boring?) concrete and turf. Those are the places where we permit vulnerability, where we face some frightening and honest truths. Those worn seats and paths bring out what is hidden and real and true.

We don't need to always be "doing something." This is the something, this sharing of selves. It can't happen when we're constantly busy. It must be coaxed by languid minds, into the light of well-known, well-loved territories.

It's not too late. Stop doing something. Start letting out the real.

Ancestry—avian, and otherwise

I was outside earlier today, enjoying the late morning sunshine and comfortable temperatures. I took some paperwork onto the patio, to try to lighten the load of record-keeping by surrounding myself with nature.

It worked. The load was quite manageable and even rather pleasant. Of course, I was not as productive as I likely would have been in the darkness of the dining room. I became rather distracted by the many birds who flew in and out of my midst to dine at the feeders I'd filled yesterday.

The chickadees are definitely the most bold. They swoop in without apology, lighting nearby and chirping insistently. A titmouse showed up, more timid, and didn't stay long. A few sparrows stopped by, some munching right there, others taking a seed in their beak and fluttering back to some safer locale. Lately, we've even been graced by a big, pileated woodpecker. Nuthatches visit the suet feeder, and the funny mourning doves with bobbing heads trip around beneath the feeders, feasting on what would have been wasted.

I clearly recall my youthful days at home, when my mom would address the birds. "Hello, Birds," she'd say. Sometimes she spoke to the sky on a particularly beautiful day, or her many flowers, and I think I may have heard her recognize the big maples in the backyard. I can't tell you how many times I giggled at her when she did this, gently poking fun at her fascination with nature and all its winged beauties. I was oh-so-worldly, you see, and much too cool to participate in such silliness. I would never speak to birds and plants.

And now, sitting out back of my own home, some 30-plus years later, I see how you always come back to your heritage. You can deny it, you can run from it, you can try to train it right out of yourself, but it's there. It's in you. Maybe it's in your face, when you look into the mirror and one of your parents stares back at you, or an aunt or uncle. You might hear it in your voice, when you pronounce a certain word, or speak a turn of phrase you swore you'd never repeat, such as, "I'll give you something to cry about." (That was my uncle's phrase. It still makes me chuckle.) Perhaps you'll recognize the way your thighs look in jeans, or the bump on your foot just under the big toe (that's from my grandma, Ma-Ma).

All those people who made you, are in you. They shaped you, and eventually, they will emerge from you in all sorts of ways.

It'll happen. It's happening to me. Now, I speak to the birds. The wonderful thing, though, is that now I understand the other side of the quotient: my mother was only holding up her end of the conversation.

Thanks, Mom.

The great (if somewhat “dandy”) outdoors

A few weeks before Christmas, the kid and I ventured to the new L. L. Bean store at the mall nearby. (Yes, the same increasingly upscale mall I wrote about here.) We went in search of a very handy, utterly pragmatic wind-up flashlight for Todd/Daddy.

The store was beautiful, lots and lots of wood but not all of it spotless; there were a few carefully chosen pieces with wear and character. It was huge, two stories, with a giant staircase in the middle, incredibly high ceilings (so as to easily accommodate standing kayaks, of course), little training areas and small classrooms tucked away, and lots of trademark pine and sage greens, perhaps to fool the shopper into feeling as if he or she is actually in the great outdoors.

The entire staff was impeccably mannered, eager to assist but never fawning or stalking the customer. Everything was so neat, so tidy, so utterly organized and shiny. We wandered for a few minutes, found what we’d been seeking, looked around at the overpriced clothes upstairs, and picked out some adorable doggy slippers for my boy to purchase with some early Christmas money he’d received.

It was lovely, and just a little bit intimidating. I tried to figure out my discomfort as we left the store, bag in hand, and were bid farewell by the friendly and courteous greeter who was stationed at the door. I love the outdoors, love fresh air and sunshine and stretching my legs on a grassy slope while the breeze blows my hair. I should feel at ease in a place that sells all this gear. I don’t ski, or kayak, but it shouldn’t matter—Bean has always been about fun and practicality outside.

And it still is. It’s a great company. The stuff is high quality, and works, and lasts. I want no beef with Bean.

But it’s this whole outdoorsy “lifestyle” that’s turning me off. With all the giant outdoor stores springing up—Cabela’s, Gander Mountain, Sportsman’s Warehouse—it feels as if I am being sold a shopping experience, a whole package deal in which I buy the stuff and then live the life. And that smacks of lies to me.

I remember hearing about the original Bean store in New England from a friend who had the pleasure of visiting it yearly while visiting family up north. Her descriptions of the place didn’t ring true while I walked through this newest store. Where were the real woodsmen and women? Why wasn’t anyone wearing a coat that didn’t match the rest of the outfit? How come no one was clumping around in work boots? I wonder what would happen at that pretty, spotless store if a guy who owned a couple of those infamous Labs came in and had dog poo on his shoe… Would he be asked to leave? Would the other customers be offended? And are people who love the outdoors always so well-heeled? I thought they could be gruff, perhaps even sloppy. I didn’t know they all were clean shaven and colored their hair. Not ones shopper even raised his or her voice. Aren't people who love being outside ever loud? The true outdoorsmen and women I’ve known didn’t look like any of those shoppers, at Bean or at many of the other stores.

And the stores themselves: must they be so ginormous? Cabela’s alone must take up such a huge chunk of acreage that many of the animals the place claims to love and protect were likely put out of their homes. The parking lot alone is the size of a huge meadow. Bean wasn’t a store of that scale, but still…

I wonder what has become of all the real outdoor people. I know Orvis and Bass Pro and the like have been appealing to the upper crust of sportsmen for many years, but it feels like a wave of falsification is taking place in this world that I hold dear. The Great Outdoors is great—it doesn’t need to be billed as an amusement park so that every yuppie within driving range can visit it, be impressed, and mark it off their list of “to-do’s in this lifetime.” I am sad that even the natural realm has become yet another mark of materialism in our messed-up world.

Yes, the stores are interesting and amazing—but not nearly as much so as the real thing. The shopping for gadgets and garments shouldn’t be the experience; the outdoor experience itself should be the experience. Perhaps someday, if we keep building these monstrosities, the shopping experience will be the only one that remains.