I'm Going to Paint, Dammit!

I met a lady yesterday, who is a graphic artist, and a painter. She was so inspirational to me. She has a little cottage in her back yard, that she goes and paints. No computer or cell phone allowed.

I was jealous.

I talked with my artist friend (that I traveled to Italy with) who was on her way to New Zealand for 3 weeks, to vacation and gather reference for paintings. She told me about her warehouse space in Santa Fe. A place for her to get messy and do her art. All the other studios around her are filled with artists. A real community.

I was really jealous.

so....

I went out to home depot yesterday, and bought supplies to make these boxes. Kinda like a shadow box, that when you are done, there is no need for a frame (which costs more than the painting these days. Good framing is expensive.)

I talked with two other friends....one a financial analyst, and another a photographer. Speak it out to the universe, they keep saying. Manifest it. Speak it out to God, I keep saying. So I am speaking it out. I want to paint. I want my own space. I want to be surrounded by a community of artists. I want a space with no computers or cell phones. I want to not worry about money. I just want to create. I want to give back.....

so....

here i go. Dammit, I've got to start sometime.

Live a Little

"You need to live a little. You need to roll down the windows and stick your head out! You're going to regret it someday, Mom. You just need to loosen up"

I'm a child of the 60's. I used to wear flowers in my hair, and march for peace. I wore tie dye, and beads, and hip huggers and wide belts. I was part of Earth Day, when the earth didn't get much notice. Live a little? I went to Europe with a backpack. I slept in youth hostels and carried my guitar so I could strum and sing on the streets. I was cool then!

Now, I'm a mom. Granted, I spike my hair, and have a nose ring, but I am still a mom. I take my daughter shopping so she can buy tie dye, beads and hip huggers with wide belts. She plays the guitar. She is cool, and I need to loosen up.

I'm not sure where all the years have gone, and how I lost my coolness. Maybe its when I birthed my children, and became responsible. Maybe its when I took my daughter shopping and she didn't like anything I choose. She was 2. I lost some of it, when my kids wanted to sleep in fancy hotels, and I wanted to go camping. I lost even more of it when I got a mortgage on a house, which meant I had to work and pay the bills. It takes a certain kind of seriousness to handle this life I've created. I think I lost most of it, when my dad died, and my mom got diagnosed with cancer....again. The thought of being an orphan scares me, even if I am an adult.

So I'm trying to become more cool. I've got a myspace account. For a few days I was a 17 year old, single, and not interest in children. I'm not sure how those adjectives got attached to my account, but it was disturbing to my daughter when she read "not interested in children." I changed it to be who I am. 53 years old, married with kids.

I will roll down those windows and stick my head out one of these days. Right now, its about 100 degrees outside. I will wait for a cooler day.

CLOWNING AROUND TOWN

Click on title above to go to my new project. Painting a 6 foot clown for Tidewell Hospice & Palliative Care here in Sarasota. All clowns will be auctioned off to raise money for the children's services. It's a great fun project. Join me as I create my clown.

Link: http://web.mac.com/judyrobertson/iWeb/Clowns/Welcome.html

What I've Learned From Trees.

With coffee in hand, I sat as a bump on a log in the middle of Brown County State Park, near Nashville Indiana and listened to the stirrings of a new day. It is moments like this, that helps me shed all the clutter of daily life, and I can take on the issue of the world around me. Trees. Big trees. How would I paint them? What color what I put on my palette? They're everywhere... it shouldn't be hard. Years ago, I signed up for a plein air art class with my friend Linda. Part of plein air painting is standing out in the forest and try to see the trees. My trees were blobs on the canvas. Linda did a much better job of capturing the essence of them. I gave up on trees, and she went on and became a very successful painter.

I haven't thought about trees much lately, until I had a conversation last week, with an art teacher from high school. It was art teachers that changed my life growing up. I found acceptance in those classes. Annette was the best. Not much older than her students, she opened the world and accepted us for who we were. And, she saw something in me, when all I could see was depression and not fitting in. There was a small band of us, that naturally gravitated towards each other. Our artist souls were beckoning to each other, when words couldn't be found. Our creative projects became home for us, as we fed the essence of our being.

Annette talked about taking an art class and learning how to paint trees. I smiled thinking of my blobs. "The teacher keeps commenting on how I well I can capture the essence of trees"

I found the secret this morning to painting trees. Its not all the greens, and browns to brush on the canvas. Its the light coming thru that give the contrast. I don't think I had enough in my life years ago to see the light coming thru the branches. I only saw the blobs of my life. They all blended together. Linda, could see it. Her life growing up was such a struggle of conflicts and contrasts. Mine was ordinary. It wasn't until later, when life forced me into the hard parts, and the joy of discovery, that the contrast started to become clearer to me. I can see the light now thru the branches. I can see how to paint those trees. Linda found it right away. Annette is discovering it now.

Its time, to pick up that paint brush again, and paint those trees.

Bad Memories

I've never had a bad experience with ice cream. It's the one food group that is on the top of my food pyramid. Ice cream does not feed my body, except to add poundage, but it certainly feeds my soul. There are flavors I prefer, but none that I hate enough to turn down. Homemade vanilla is tops! You can always judge how good all the flavors of a brand are, by tasting the basics - vanilla.

I can't say the same for pizza. I can remember coming down with the flu after eatting pizza. It's a bad memory. I don't need to go into the details, except to say, it's not a warm, fuzzy memory. But I can remember all the times as a child of making homeade ice cream, with lots of eggs, and fresh peaches or strawberries. Being one of five kids, brought out the best and worst of us, when it came to ice cream. Fighting over who got to turn the handle first, and who got tired of doing it brings a smile to my face even today. As it got harder to turn the crank, our anticipation grew, as we wondered who would get that first taste and declare it the best ever! We'd eat the ice cream in bowls and then fight over who got to lick the paddles, and then fought over who got to scrape the inside of the frosty container.

Our backyard was full of fruit trees and a strawberry patch. Nothing better than waking up in the morning, and picking peaches and strawberries to add to my cereal. 2x4 boards when jimmied under the weakest branches of the peach tree that strained to hold up all the ripening fruit. Our afternoons of playing outside always included snacks at the peach tree as we grabbed one, on our dash through the yard. The fuzz was wiped on our clothes, and the juice dripped all over our faces.

I don't think I've ever turned down a bowl of ice cream. It just doesn't seem right to say no. I can say no to most everything else.

My favorite place to eat ice cream is around the kitchen table. Forget the fancy dining room. Ice cream needs a homey setting. Ice cream doesn't need the trappings of a fancy restaurant or dining room. Ice cream speaks for itself.
Each bite reminds me how much I love ice cream, and floods me with the memories and innocence of being a kid again, watching and waiting for that first bite.

categories: Humor_

Norma

Best friends. I'm convinced that throughout our lifetime, we get just a few "best" friends. They are the ones that go way back in our life. They know our history, because they've been so much a part of it. New friends take a bit of breaking in. It takes time to go over everything to get them up to speed. I've had that same feeling when going to see a new therapist. It took 2 sessions just to get the history of my life out in an understandable timeline sort of fashion. And then years to figure out what happened.

Norma is the reason my mom is still alive. During the darkest days of my mom's life, she always had Norma to talk to. Lunch. Every Thursday. They were both accomplished artists. I have such vivid memories of going to art shows, and seeing my mom's art up on one wall, and then seeing Norma's on another.

My mom just lost her best friend Norma. They have been friends forever. I never had a real aunt, but Norma was everything a real aunt could be. She has become part of our verbal history in our family. Whenever there was any sort of event or celebration, Norma just had to be told. Many, many times at the end of my phone conversations with my mom, I would say "Make sure Norma knows". I will miss her.

Norma. My mom's best friend, and my hero!

Hospice Reject!

Hospice Reject!
Originally uploaded by jrdesigns.

Empty the Trash!

There's nothing quite as intriguing as that little trash can icon on my computer desktop. Its sits there quietly, filling up day by day. The last time I checked I had about 800 pieces of trash. I hesitate to empty it. There have been days, I have dug through that trash, looking for a file, or a note I didn't think I needed anymore. I had to confirm an appointment yesterday, and I couldn't find the email reply. I, in my cleaning mood, emptied my trash.

I do the same thing in my office. There sits my rubbermaid trash can. Full. I don't think it holds 800 pieces, but it does hold a lot. And I can recount the many times, I've had to dig in it, looking for some note I wrote myself. I'm a graphic artist. Filing away information in folders does not work for me. Out of site, out of mind. Can't find it. Piles are different that trash. I know what's in my piles most of the time.

I use my trash can also as a tabletop to hold important papers, as I sit at my computer and design intricate brochures for million dollar corporate clients. Haven't lost anything, yet. Another reason, not to empty the trash.

I opened the door to my teenage daughters room. I can't find the trash can. I think her whole room is one. It took my breathe away, and I slowly closed the door and backed away. My son's room is no different. My husbands trash can is the top of his dresser. Its also the place spare change gets tossed. He empties that trash can about twice a year, or when things start falling off the edges. Even my dog, Zoe gets into the trash. She has a different motive though, she is looking for food. She is quite clever in pulling over the metal heavy-duty-dog-proof-trash can. If there is even a little bit of the liner showing, she grips it with her teeth and down it goes. Now, I've never actually seen her do this. I'm just imagining her mischief when I am away. I end up cleaning up after her. I don't mind her mess as much. She's a dog, and lacks opposable thumbs. My family doesn't believe in emptying their trash and they do have opposable thumbs.

Then there's my friend Bernice. I am teaching her how to use a computer. I think she asks me more questions about that icon, than anything else. I have spent some time in her home. And when she needs to find something, she goes to the file, and gets it. Amazing! And it doesn't matter how many times I tell her that she will never fill up that trash can, she insists on opening it, looking inside and throwing things away. She wants to see that empty trash can icon. I sometimes wish I was more like Bernice. But then, when I need to dig through my trash looking for something important, it would be gone.

Six Months Left

What would you do if you only had six months to live? I've asked my kids this in the past. "We'd travel the world and see all sorts of new things." My daughter I'm sure would have on her list "shop til you drop", and my son would make a pilgrimage to Xbox kingdom to play unlimited video games. They are both teenagers, and their lives seem to point inward. I think I would travel to see all my friends and tell them how much they meant to me.

My friend Connie, just got the terrible news from her doctor. Six months. Cancer. Lung. I cried for a week just thinking about it. I can now talk with her without a kleenex, but the tears are just below the surface. I got on my scooter the other day, and went and visited her and her husband. I got the grand tour of their lovely home, and we stopped by each picture, as I heard the history of how so many people all over the country are related to them. Some by blood, but so many others by friendship.

She told me of all the people that are coming to visit. I'm sure everyone of them will ask her how they can help, and they will leaved bless by her. I think Connie will be the one comforting all of us, as we see her health slip away. She is making sure her husband is well taken care of when she's gone. She's cleaning out closets, and replacing windows and doors. Her home will be just the way she likes it when she leaves.

I keep thinking if I knew the end was so near, if it would be a blessing or a curse. I've know people that have literally dropped dead on the spot. And I've know others that linger on. My dear friend Linda, who battled cancer, knew she only had a short time. She, like Connie, got everything taken care of. And that included her friends. She let us know that she was sad of course, but that heaven was just on the other side. I see Connie doing the same thing. I want so much to do something, and yet, everytime I talk with her, I am the one comforted. Comfort is the blessing part of this. Cancer is the curse.

I met her at the gym. The Early Birds are what we call ourselves. I'm the young one of the bunch. Every morning we exercise, and then meet for breakfast. We are a lively, unique bunch of people. And after Connie got the news from her doctor, there she was, not traveling the world to see exciting places, but with her friends, on the stationery bike, next to her husband Ken.

You are an amazing woman!
I will see you someday on the other side.

NOTE: 2 months later....I had breakfast with Connie this morning. The last time she saw her doctor, he was amazed that she was doing so well. She marched in there, and told him, that she didn't want any more predictions, he could keep that info to himself. She was going to wake up and live each day to the fullest.

ANOTHER NOTE: 6 months later....Connie just got kicked out of hospice! She is a walking miracle and still works out at the gym in the morning.

Buying Land in California

"We're going to go buy land" I told my friend on the phone. "We're looking for a place that would be easy to find, near the road. Shade is not important" My brother Chuck, and I were deciding on a place to bury my dad. The serious little lady from the cemetery, carrying her official notebook of available plots, gaves us the ok on potential places. I stood on one, while my brother was standing on the other. We had it narrowed down to two possiblities. "Hows this one" I shouted to him, as he stood on his plot nearby. "Its everything we want. Easy to find, near the road. One could actually just drive by and not get out of the car. We'll take it" The lady wrote the numbers down, and the deal was done.

There are so many details to dying. People say that the deceased are put to rest. I think the term "rest" should apply to those left behind, that have to decide all the details. My dad died of Alzheimer's and other complications. After he died, we rested. My mom, who cared for him for many many years is resting now. She no longer has to barricade herself in her bedroom at night. She no longer has to care for his every need. She misses him, and she's resting.

When I stood at the casket, and looked at my dad, I rested. I rested in the fact that the journey was over, and I was tired. Tired of seeing my dad go away, over and over again, never to come back whole. He was dressed in his pants with many pockets, his suspenders that had many notes from his family tucked beneath the elastic, and his tshirts. He did look asleep, kinda. The lipstick gave it away, that it really was just a body. My dad never wore lipstick. We had placed other sentimental items in the casket. A bottle of Heinz ketchup. A bottle of beer, vodka and orange juice. The most touching sight was all the notes. I wish I could have read them. I wish I could have peeked.

When my dad was lowered into his final "resting" place, someone noticed that the guy right next to him was a friend of his. A drinking friend from one of the local bars. Just like my dad, to be hanging out with his friends.

Breaking Point vs. Target

I always knew there was a point that I would snap. I didn't know where it was or what it would look like. You can only push me so far, I've always thought, and then look out. I've never reached that point in my life, although I've been pushed pretty hard in lots of directions. Until last week.

The day of my dad's funeral was full of sadness and tension in trying to get all the little details taken care of. There are so many decisions to be made when someone dies. They are laid to rest, for sure, while we scramble to get it all done. At least with weddings, you usually get months to plan. Funerals a few days, if your lucky. We actually had 6 days.

Deciding what to dress him in was easy. My mom, in her daze, suggested his suit. "Do you want us to bury you in a dress?" I asked with loving sarcasm. I've only seen my dad in a suit, and my mom in a dress maybe twice in my life. We buried him in his work pants with lots of pockets, a long sleeve t shirt, with another two t shirts over that. The suspenders finished it off. That's how my dad always looked.

I had met with the grieving ladies at the church rectory to pick out prayers for the mass. It was hard. I had to go generic. Faithful servant of the church just didn't fit my dad. He only went to major events, like baptisms, and weddings. He did volunteer at all the church BarBQs, and pancake breakfasts. I never knew you could add beer to any recipe. It sure made the pancakes fluffy.

We gathered photos for a remembrance table. I had a family portrait that I needed framed. The one I bought at Target was broken, so I asked my mom, if she would exchange it for a flawless one. She needed to get out of the house anyway, and welcomed the excuse to go for a drive. Twenty minutes later, I got a call. "They won't exchange the frame. I don't have the receipt" To which I replied "Where are you standing, right now" "Outside the door" she said. Poor mom. She's had such a tough week. "Don't move, I'll call you right back"

Just as I was dialing the store my son walked by. "You better keep going, you don't want to hear this" My blood was almost to the boiling point. "Customer Service please" I said is a very steady voice. "May I help you" the innocent little checker said. "My mom just tried to return a frame, and I don't understand why you didn't exchange it" "Store policy, we need a receipt" "May I please talk to the manager" I said with all the politeness my Catholic upbringing could muster. I was put on hold for a moment, while my mom was calling in on another line. "Hold tight mom, I'll be right back with you" Click, the manager answers the phone, to which I start screaming "My mother just tried to return a F%#$ing frame that was broken, I don't understand why you aren't exchanging it" "Store Policy" she said. "I don't care what the f%#$ing policy is. We are getting ready for a funeral, and I sent my poor mother on a errand to get her out of the house. What the hell is going on! "It's store policy" she started to say again. "Listen, I spend thousands of dollars in Target each year, I live in Florida. There has NEVER been a problem returning something. I'm not asking for money back! I just want you to exchange the F%#$ frame." By this time, any movement in the house stopped. People were not moving around. Silence. "I will never shop in Target again"..... I think I was breathing fire at this moment. "Will you let me finish? Please send your mother back in and we will make an exception." "It's safe to go back in now mom" People started moving around the house again.

I greeted her with a smile when she returned . "I think you need to wash my mouth out with soap", I said. I told her all about my outburst. She took one look at me, and we hi-fived each other.

The lovely Target frame now sits in her home, showcasing a portrait of our family.

Well, Get Going!

Dec. 13, 2005

"It's time", the hospice angle/nurse said. "It's time to call your family and get them here." My head exploded at he rush of adreline. I think I'm having a stroke. I paced and took deep breathes, just trying to get some oxygen to my brain. The drill that my brothers and sisters and I discussed fell to the wayside, as I tried to dial my brother's cel phone. My hands shook, and I couldn't even see the numbers. "I've got to call my brother Chuck", I said over and over as I frantically tried to hit the right numbers. "It's time." The words were hardly understandable with choking voice.

The hospice angle/nurse was the calming voice in all this. My dad just got moved from the hospital to the hospice facility. She took one look at him, and knew the time was near. In fifteen minutes, my mom, siblings and all the grandkids were there. We surrounded his bed, and told him how much we'd miss him, that it was time to go, and that we loved him. The doctor arrived and told us what to expect. "24-48 hours" he said. He would be given medicine to ease the gurgling sounds of his breathing. Morphine for the pain. My poor dad. His battle with alzheimers, was coming to an end.

It was only three weeks before this, that he shuffled over to my sister's house. "Come sit with me, I have to tell you something." He had been telling everyone he saw, that he had to tell them something, but his words were jumbled and no one knew exactly what he wanted to say. Except this day, clarity visited him for a moment. "My brain is dead. My words don't work. my legs don't work. We have room here for everyone." and then he clapped his hands together like a plane taking off.. He spoke of a ring, and them he pointed to his heart..."but its still ticking". He got up and walked off.

When I visited him at Thanksgiving, we took a walk. He kept stopping and telling me he had something to tell me. The words were not there, as with my sister. But I understood. I told him I would keep the secret, whatever it was.

The week after Thanksgiving, the violent man that possess my dad's body lost control. The next day he was in a home for alzheimer's patients. He was dangerous to himself and my mom. He threatened her with a plastic knife, a banana, and then tried to choke her. For 11 days he was in a home. He refused food, and drink and all meds. No one could get near him. No one could touch him. He was checking out. And we let him.

My dad had a 3 day stay at the hospital before he was transported to a hospice care facility. That's when I arrived from out of state. He never regained consciousness. He never spoke again with words. "Its ok to go, Dad." I whispered over and over again. "We'll be ok. We'll miss you, but we'll be ok." I stroked his hair, like I did when I was a child. Even in the midst of dying, treasured memories brought my soul relief.

I had my hand on my dad's wrist and felt his pulse, as the life slowly ebbed from his body. I felt each beat of his heart. Not a struggling heart, but one that just slowed down. We had expected him to last the night. My mom went home to rest for awhile. His doctor even made the comment to my brother David "So, your spending the night" His nurse came by, loving on my dad, and telling him how special he was and that she would miss the dance he always did when he greeted her in the office. My dad loved to flirt and she knew it. It was a touching sight.

Then my niece said "there is no color in his lips" My dad was leaving. Quick, go get mom, as someone dashed home. By now the pulse in his arm could not be felt. I had one hand on his chest, and my fingertips on his neck. The hand on his chest was loving him, but my fingertips would know when he was gone. Please, my soul was screaming, please, don't die before my mom gets here. Please, don't let her feel guilty about this. Please, hold on. And then his heart slowed.. and slowed. The door opened and my mom walked in – my dad had one beat left of his tired heart, and he was gone.

Everyone was there. His wife of 57 years. All five of his kids. Many of his grandchildren, and a few close friends. We all made our peace with the man that gave us life, as we watched his life end.

For the past 10 years, whenever I would visit, I would say goodbye, and hope it wasn't the last time I would see him. This past Thanksgiving I wondered the same thing. The last words I ever heard my dad say to me was "Well, get going". I think what he was trying to tell everyone at Thanksgiving, was that he was going. He said it with words, jumbled and clear. He said it with his actions when her refused to eat and take his medicine. He said it over and over.

I'm going now, dad. I'm going.