Aw, for cryin' out loud...

Snow? Really? On tax day??? We've all had quite enough, thank you very much. Everywhere I went, people wore sour expressions with narrowed eyes. The neighbors even went so far as to stage an impromptu protest. Of course, they quickly became distracted by some new, chilled grass niblets... (See photo.)

There's something so wrong about admiring a blooming magnolia tree through a veil of icy flakes. SO wrong.

Alas. It is what it is. I guess I'll give up, put on some socks, and hold my kvetchin' tongue.

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?

Spring painting

This is a recent painting—some cute cows from the fine collection at North Woods Ranch. I love this type of painting. Making it, and gazing at it, can transform my mood.

But painting things to protect and update them, say perhaps a metal porch glider, or an old, beat-up picnic table—that type of painting is amazingly transformational. I love what a clean, fresh coat can do to a worn or unimpressive object. The beautiful weather we've been enjoying has allowed me to give some much-needed makeovers to some of our outdoor furniture, and what a difference! I love the feel of the sun as I'm working, the breeze, even the slight fumes of the paint...and the results, of course.

I guess it reminds me of myself, and how in the right hands, I am being made new. How good to rest in that.

Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come. The old has gone, the new is here!

2 Corinthians 5:17

Scrabbling for spring and clinging to hope

Here's my latest: Robbie Robin. I'm scrabbling for a toehold on springtime, and it's a slippery slope for sure when there's yet more snow falling outside and the heat continues to blast. Goodness, what a tenacious winter.

(Robbie's for sale in my Etsy shop.)

Even if the weather had turned lovely, it would have been a rough few weeks. Not personally, thank goodness—but for friends, former neighbors, church family...

There have been a number of deaths. None of them were a total shock; all involved illness, sometimes a long, drawn-out illness. But as far as I can see, that doesn't make the loss easier.

Yet, while the memorial service I attended yesterday was sad, so sad, it was also uplifting. The one who'd left this earth was painfully young. A lifelong health struggle had finally worn her down. But the celebration of her life was joyful in spite of tears. She had lived well, changed people for the better, and she isn't "lost," the pastor reminded us. We know exactly where she is and Whom she is with. And that made it bearable, even when I hugged the young lady's mother, a strong woman who had suffered with and now mourned her only child.

I am very glad to have that hope. I am praying that if you don't have it, you'll stop reading right now and call out to Jesus, have a little tête-à-tête with Him. It's Holy Week. He bled and died for you and me, so we could have eternal life. What better time to invite Him in and make Him your own savior?

I can say with truth I've never regretted letting Jesus into my heart; I only regret that I didn't do it sooner.

I wish you peace, blessings, health. And warm sunshine!

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.

Sublime stuff

There are certain musical compositions that are able to transport the listener. They stand the test of time, surviving and even flourishing centuries after their creation.

I must be honest: I don't think most music produced today will hold up too well over time. Especially the pop pieces, the flimsy, limpid lyrics sung and accompanied by one-act hacks. How could they hold their own against compositional and technical genius?

(Don't get me wrong; I do find the occasional amazing modern artist, even in the contemporary music world... but it doesn't happen very often. What I see more frequently is that the most talented artists go relatively unnoticed by most of the world.)

However, true musical gifts do still exist. The piece below, to which I've linked, is proof. It doesn't hurt that the musicians featured there are virtuosos in their field, that it's a stringed "supergroup" of sorts.

This wonderful piece takes me to fabulous places in my mind. Why don't you have a listen, and then read below and see if we visited the same location while we listened?

Click here to listen to Attaboy

So, where did I go?

I wandered through a field in springtime, then through budding trees, watched sparrows flitter through the air, stopped by a joyful outdoor picnic and party, then ran with arms outstretched into a sunset over a meadow. And there was sun, not snow, on my shoulders.

Where did you go?

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.

Piney*

A rare, quiet, calm Saturday morning—a chance to ponder one of God's amazing gifts:

Heavy, pink, with sweet perfume
Must be the wondrous peony bloom,
My very favorite petal bearer.

Its heady, old-world scent steals out
To every ant that lurks about
And lures them to that flower fair.

They try to peek in, as do I—
When will its brilliance greet the sky?
We watch, wait on appointed time,

And then, a pale magenta shade!
The very sight for which I'd prayed:
I lean in close, inhale—it's fine.

*My mom tells me this was the preferred pronunciation of my grandmother. She loved them, too.

Happy fruit for a dismal day

I finished a painting recently. Every time I try a subject other than animals, I remember why I prefer animals! They just come more easily to me. Oh well, we all need to step out of our comfort zones and challenge ourselves periodically, right?

It's available for purchase in my Etsy shop.

P.S. I'm offering free shipping on all items through May! Happy spring!!! See the Etsy store for details.

Late April in my world

I ventured to the nearest Target store earlier today, and was highly entertained by the different outfits that fellow shoppers sported.

I followed a woman from the outer parking lot where we were parked near each other, and I couldn't help noticing that she was wearing her winter coat. A real, quilted, white coat with a hood. The hood was down, not over her head, but still, there it lay in all its fur-edged glory. This made me chuckle to myself because as I followed her in my light jacket, my feet made the telltale slappy-slappy sound of my slip-on plastic sport sandals, which I adore. I proudly donned them without socks this morning. Ah, ex-toe-sure.

It got better: as we neared the entrance, we passed a younger woman who was standing by her mini-van and attempting to wrestle her toddler daughter into a jacket. Which would fit neatly over her sundress with spaghetti straps. The child was fighting the extra layer and insisting it was not necessary—this as a brisk breeze further chilled the air to high-50s. A middle-aged couple scurried past, the woman dressed in heavy hiking boots with thick socks hugging her ankles over some leggings.

There were we all, juxtaposed in the strange and seasonless world of Southwestern Pennsylvania in springtime. Two days ago, it was 82. Two weeks ago, I was pelted first with hail, and then with wet snow. Nature doesn't even know what to do with a month like this. Over-eager daffodils leap out and are often flash-frozen into wilted brown blobs with hanging heads; lilacs take the chance and either amaze or depress admirers, depending on whether or not the buds were adequately shielded by a larger, tougher neighbor. The grass in our yard and most others is a strange blend of brown patches, mad dandelion growth, and tall spindly greens...with a less-than-scenic swamp lurking in every low spot around.

Sometimes I ask myself, Why do we live here? Then I watch the news, and see that we've been spared awful tornadoes thanks to our crazy hills and valleys. I hear of desert droughts and wonder why construction continues there. I remember that farther north, some folks go months without sunshine; I recall giant bugs in tropical places, higher concentrations of poisonous creatures, hurricanes that hurl things, cities that get so cold their sidewalks lie underground...

Southwestern Pennsylvania: my own little chunk of soggy, blowy Heaven.

Climbing out of a funk

The best ways I've found to escape a bleak funk? Painting and singing, without a doubt. Cleaning and organization are also effective methods of escape, but they require infinitely more effort, energy, and motivation to begin. So I've chosen the more artistic outlets of late, and I think I'm finished with the funk now.

This little sheep makes me want to own sheep. Don't worry, that's not an easy impulse purchase to make, so I don't think I'll be picking one up anytime soon. I'll enjoy the pictures of Granny Miller's sheep* (that's who this little lovely belongs to) and I'll find some good music to keep me moving.

I think we're finished with snow... so I am planning to attempt an outdoor cushion retrieval from the attic. Wish me luck, and if I disappear for a few weeks, you'll know I stepped through the floor and into the living room below—thus resulting in traction. I'll be careful.

I hope, at some point, to make the sheep image into some cute items on Zazzle, a reportedly awesome site that lets you place your own images on products like shirts, bags, etc. So far, I'm having no luck getting my items onto the products... but I'll keep trying. Stay tuned.

* I did ask Granny for permission to paint her sheep, which she granted; otherwise, I would not have done so. Thank you, Granny!

This is the end (of winter)

It's almost over, folks. Let me tell you how I know.

I know that winter is waning, because I have officially become my ultimate cranky, coughing, Vicks-scented, mean-girl self...and that happens every year around this time. We're on the cusp, and I am crawling toward that cusp, biting back curse words every time the wind blows my hood right off my head. We're on the cusp, and our entire household is enjoying an intimate relationship with our many boxes of Kleenex with Lotion (hey, I'll scrimp on clothes, furniture, and discount foods, but even I have my standards). We're on the cusp, because if this winter lasts much longer I can pretty much guarantee that injuries will be suffered by some poor person, at my hand, after said person has uttered the phrase (or thereabouts) "Spring is just around the corner!" You see, I am beginning to suspect that the only thing around that corner is a nasty sleet storm. Another nasty storm.

So, all of this means winter is nearly finished.

The only time I averted this horrible yearly phase of my psyche was the year that Todd and I had the good sense to book a long weekend in Florida in mid-March. I can't describe the bliss that came over me as we exited the airport in Tampa, looked around us at palm trees, and breathed the essence of living, green warmth.

I can't bear to think about it. Must plod on.

I have other things I'm planning to post about, but I'm not ready to stop feeling sorry for myself quite yet. Hope you'll check back in a day or two. That's assuming, of course, that the dastardly north wind doesn't blow so hard that it knocks out everyone's power.

Springtime in Mel-ville

It's been a long stretch of sick days here in our house. First the kid, then me, then husband complained of scratchiness in the throat. The others shed the bug a bit earlier than I did; in my relentless stint, a completely unrelated infection cropped up, the meds that were required were strong enough to turn my stomach (and did), and finally my chest cold flirted with the idea of becoming bronchitis or pneumonia or some other debilitating thing. Today, for the first time, I feel human. Hot showers, Vicks Vaporub, and much prayer have helped me crawl out of the abyss that is an unwell February.

As I ran errands (yes, actually ran instead of dragging my exhausted, hacking self from place to place), I began to think about how emerging from a stretch of poor health is sort of like coming into your very own springtime. Suddenly, there is life where once there was nothing. There is energy, light, hope and promise. Just as stepping into a sunny spot on a breezy day can remind you that there really is such a thing as being too warm, waking up and feeling decent can remind you of your own potential, your own plans and dreams. It's hard to dream about anything happy when you feel sick. It's hard to even focus, to deal with everyday chores and necessary tasks. I've found it quite challenging of late simply to climb out of a sleepless, uncomfortable night and face the day.

I am very, very thankful to feel more like myself again. Not 100%, but tremendously improved from a week ago. I feel a little bit reborn. I can think clearly. I can look forward to things. I can stop my ceaseless petition to God for healing, and start to feel genuinely grateful again.

And speaking of spring, I've posted a couple of spring bird note cards at the Etsy shop. If you're looking for a good gift idea, especially for someone who loves birds, these will earn you some points for sure!

Wishing you good health, an early spring, and bright hope for tomorrow.

Good thing I seized the brushes

Thankfully, I did seize the brushes yesterday, and accomplished two painting tasks: finishing this robin painting, and slapping a couple of coats of green paint on a newly acquired (gently used) bench to extend seating at our dining table. It's a good thing I took care of these jobs when I could, because I'm accomplishing nothing today: Marcus came home from school with a flush in his cheeks, and it morphed overnight into a croupy cough. He's home with me, feeling well enough to want to do all the fun things that healthy kids do, but he doesn't sound great, so I'm trying to squelch his activities as much as possible. Not easy on a breezy, spring-like afternoon.

I'm an artist but not a painter; the bench looks terrible, on not-so-close inspection. If you visit us? Please don't check it too carefully. It's slightly better than the stark white coat it recently wore, BUT...

I'm a bit happier with the robin (Robbie). He's for sale at my shop. Next week, I hope to turn him and his sparrow friend into note cards. Stay tuned!

And yes, the lovely sun and less-than-frigid temps are just a ruse; don't fall for it. Keep the boots and salt handy, but rest assured—soon, we'll be seeing much more of my pal Robbie.

I'm a fool

A painting fool, that is. It's my only escape from winter! Doesn't this little feathered pal make you think of spring?

It's in the Etsy shop; I plan to make blank note cards out of it, also—maybe early next week, after the Steelers victory.

Soak up the sun while you can, and look for beauty in the little things around you today. See what you can find to help calm and soothe you when the air is nippy and your mood is chippy!

P.S. "That boy sure is a runnin' fool!" Can you name that movie?!

Can't 'scape the goat

Goat is finally finished! (My trusty canvas-displayer helped me take this photo.)

Prints of the goat painting are available in my Etsy shop.

Also, for you goat-loving Valentine revelers out there, my talented husband helped me turn the goat into two different Valentine's Day cards, which are also for sale at the shop. I hope you'll check them out!

And remember, there will come a day just a few months from now when snow will melt, sun will shine, and goats will once again befriend people holding cameras...just like this goat did.

The true harbingers of spring

Not a springtime dawns without my fondly revisiting memories of Grover C. Hughes.

I can't say I ever really knew Grover, although I might have seen him many times when I was a child. He operated a little farm supply store right next to the railroad tracks in my hometown; the store sat across the street from a big, red brick feed mill.

Grover Hughes's store was a fun place to visit anytime. He had a variety of gardening tools, I believe, and of course he sold seeds; all the merchandise was arranged rather tightly on shelves that ran along the walls of the place. My memories are fuzzy; I know that it always reminded me of an old general store from ages past, sort of dark inside, everything made of wood, and the whole place contained in a long, narrow room that ran the length of the first floor of the building it inhabited. Going there was a fun diversion any time of the year.

But the most delightful part of Grover's little shop arrived with the balmy winds of the vernal equinox: on that breeze came the spring chicks.

Grover's old building featured big, deep windows on either side of the entryway, his shop's display space if you will, and that is where he kept the chicks. Because the windows were so large and level with the sidewalk, a little kid could see right into them with ease. Climbing the steps into the store afforded an equally close view, and once inside? There was no barrier other than the foot-high wooden partition that held the newly hatched babies in safety.

We had a clear view into those front window compartments, even from our family car as we drove past, and each spring we would watch for the telltale fluffy yellow window-dwellers. Then, we'd park the car and hurry in to gawk and pet.

I think I recall a few little ducklings mixed in there, too. I can't remember if we ever bought any; I don't believe we did, although I'm certain my sisters and I begged relentlessly each new hatch season. It was enough, really, just to be that close: to hear the sweet peep-peep sound those tiny creatures issued forth, to pet a tiny fluffball, to watch the beady-eyed cuties scurry around their sunlit window home.

I'm sad to say that Grover's store has stood empty for many years now, that the feed mill across the street burned to the ground some time ago; the rebuilt structure is so stubby, plain, and functional, it doesn't hold a candle to the stalwart beauty that stood in its place when I was small. Things change. Fires happen. Store owners grow old and close their doors forever.

But I still steal a glance at Grover's empty windows with a spark of hope every time I drive by that place.

Chippy’s triumphant return

I was really starting to worry; on all those warm, luscious mornings this region enjoyed recently, the kid and I would feed the birds, pull some weeds, draw with chalk on the patio…and the entire time, I found myself scanning our “rock garden” (I use this term quite loosely) for the diminutive chipmunk that had charmed us almost daily last year.

I looked in vain; Chippy was nowhere. Birds came and went, all his fat dove friends perusing the dropped birdseed under the feeders, the sun shone brightly, the first butterflies of the season flapped about with abandon… but no Chippy. Where could he be? Had he found another yard in which to dwell? Had he become the unfortunate landing place for a car tire? Had a hungry hawk and his ravenous pals relished my sweet little striped-back critter? I couldn’t bear the thought.

I tried to put it out of my head. I gave up, at least on the surface. Chipmunks come and go. They have no loyalty. They’re wild, shy, covert. Of course our little guy had found a quieter place to forage. There we were, riding Big Wheels and talking loudly and moving things constantly and tramping through the rocks around the feeders. It was only natural that such a timid creature would come to his senses and begin a new season in a new locale. I tried to be content with a new finch, a great number of buds on the peonies, amazing growth from the clematis. I tried. But inside, I never stopped hungering for a glimpse of that little brown streak of fur.

And then, he was there. Yesterday morning, after a spring shower. Rummaging among the birds for dropped niger seed. He moved just as quickly as I remembered, stuffed his little chippy cheeks to near-bursting, sat as still as a stone with his mouth full when he detected my motion from the doorway. I called for my son, who hurried into the kitchen to see if I were teasing him. We watched with delight, then Marcus said, “Mommy, take his picture.” I snagged the camera from the dining room and we tiptoed at a crawl out the door and down the four steps—and Chippy saw us advancing and ran for his life.

But he stopped just inside the neighbor’s yard, allowed me to snap a photo, then scrambled out of sight. I saw him later that day, as well. He’ll be a regular again, if we’re lucky.

It made my day.

Haiku for you

Our sun, working harder every day to actually have a presence among us!

Courtesy of Wikipedia:
Haiku is a kind of Japanese poetry. It was given this name in the late 19th century by a man named Masaoka Shiki by a combination of the older hokku (発句?) and the haikai (or verses) in haikai no renga. Haiku, when known as hokku were the opening verses of a linked verse form, haikai no renga. In Japanese, hokku and haiku are traditionally printed in one vertical line (though in handwritten form they may be in any reasonable number of lines). In English, haiku are written in three lines to equate to the three parts of a haiku in Japanese that traditionally consist of five, seven, and then five on (the Japanese count sounds, not syllables; for example, the word "haiku" itself counts as three sounds in Japanese, but two syllables in English, and writing seventeen syllables in English produces a poem that is actually quite a bit longer, with more content, than a haiku in Japanese). The kireji (cutting word or pause) usually comes at the end of either the first or second line. A haiku traditionally contains a kigo (season word) representative of the season in which the poem is set, or a reference to the natural world.

And now, hopefully for your entertainment, I present late-winter haiku, in the English tradition, by Mel:

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Mean, wonderful day.
Tease me with such warmth and shine,
Then yank them away.

Wet, wet, falling rain,
Puddles, lakes where there were none.
What shall flood today?

Weary of cooking,
Pondering yet one more meal…
Ugh—what can I make?

Had tomatoes, but
They were store-bought, hence no taste.
How I miss homegrown!

There sits the yard/swamp,
Melted igloo, dead brown muck.
We used to play there.

I know it is true—
To be grateful, one must miss
The *star we so love.

*the sun, of course!

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It’s coming, people! Hang in there! And please remind me of the same!!!