Fear, faith and conscience ………Lately I have been thinking about good and evil - which leads to my thinking of those who have influenced my thoughts on same…. These vignettes may seem disconnected and for that I apologize….  I did warn of disjointed ramblings and overly analytical diatribes...


When people speak of childhood and how they were brought up I say that I was raised on guilt. It’s true. And my family wasn’t even Catholic. My mother raised six of us by instilling within each of us the persuasive power of a conscience. She couldn’t bring herself to spank or hit us, so when necessary, we were shamed into obedience. This was not due to any “enlightened” child-rearing philosophy (my parents’ child-rearing manual consisted of the Ten Commandments) but rather to a promise made to herself while still a young girl.

My grandfather ruled his wife and 3 daughters with a Bible and a bullwhip. If my mother or one of my aunts was disrespectful in any way, he would get out that whip and crack it through the air all the while berating the guilty party with scripture and commandments. Though my mother insists neither she nor her sisters were ever actually struck with it, she was terrified by the threat of that whip and of course, Hell. She never wanted her children to fear her or my father as she had feared her own. But despite being “spared the rod” my siblings and I turned out quite unspoiled……

My mother’s family is descended from Swedish Pietist immigrants who settled north of Chicago, naming their new home Zion (A place under God’s rule). Perhaps my grandfather was a product of his fanatical ancestors; perhaps he just had issues. But he took it upon himself to be a soldier - more of an MP - in God’s army. My mother loved him, regardless, appearing to justify his outrageous actions as “being strict.” My mother is now 88, in very good health and sharp as ever. She recently visited one of her sisters who shared with her some letters between her parents during WW I. The letters reveal my grandfather as a tyrant to his wife as well as his daughters. My mother didn’t disclose anything specific, but said that her mother must have had a very difficult life, much more so than she had ever realized.

I remember my grandmother as a tiny figure, hovering in the background. She stood less than 5 feet tall, quiet - with a nervous laugh and ready smile. I look a great deal like her and knew I had lost forever the chance to know her when she died of Parkinson’s – not even reaching her 60th birthday.  Meanwhile my ornery grandfather lived on to be 97, becoming more and more religiously fanatical. In later years he actually shunned my Aunt Cecilia for her “sinful ways” after visiting her home and finding dust on the cover of the coffee table edition of the Bible. According to him not reading the Bible daily was a terrible sin in itself – and those who sinned thusly were not to be consorted with…

My own parents were profoundly religious, maintaining a strong “quasi-Christian” ideology throughout the early years of my childhood. I say quasi-Christian, because I have never really known just what constituted the foundation of their beliefs. When I was three, my father accepted a position as pastor (?) Brother Young – of a church in California that, to my knowledge, was some obscure offshoot of the\church of Christian Science. This church did not believe in medical science. Everything was to be brought before God in prayer. His pastoring came to an abrupt end about two years later when my three year old brother Ronnie slipped into a coma. He had been ill with what seemed like a bad cold, and then suddenly he wouldn’t wake up. The church members gathered, my mother sobbed and I remember voices raised in prayer and anger. And then chaos. My little brother was taken away, the church members left and my mother was crying all the time.

My parents decided to go against church doctrine and take my little brother to the emergency room where he was diagnosed with spinal meningitis. He might die or be brain damaged even with hospitalization, but had he remained at home, he would surely have died. The church summarily dismissed my father and for the next few weeks while my brother slowly recovered, there was no money coming in. I can remember my mother tearfully pleading with the serviceman not to shut off our electricity to no avail. And then we were packing and moving – back to Illinois to stay with my Aunt Marie, the eldest of my father’s nine siblings, who had loaned the money to go.

There is a photograph of me with my two brothers taken on the journey through the Rocky Mountains. We are standing with our backs to a mountain pass, the old car precariously weighed down by the huge trailer we towed. We somehow made it through the mountains and through the desert – both literally and figuratively. Life improved for us; and my parents took my brothers survival as a sign of having obeyed God’s will. Their religious views were dramatically affected, though their faith was not diminished. My father never again accepted a position as pastor, though he sometimes preached as a guest in subsequent years. His was the “fire and brimstone” style – delivered with an escalating intensity calculated to first frighten and then uplift the congregation. He often sang solos – "In The Garden", "The Old Rugged Cross" and my favorite: "Jerusalem (Lift Up Your Gates and Sing)". These comfort me, even now in my disbelief.

I question everything. I don’t follow the religion of my parents, nor am I blessed with their unshakable faith. I say blessed, because I firmly believe that those who have unshakable faith in a hereafter are happier. And it is easier to follow rules and guidelines than to question and analyze everything searching for meaning… The Ten Commandments and the Golden Rule serve well, and I don’t advocate replacing them as guidelines for living. I absolutely believe in good and evil… the why of that is another blog. I am profoundly grateful to my parents for trying to do and be the best they could, and for instilling in me by whatever means, a conscientious mind.

More patterns of my life: silly cat photos

More pattern on pattern - soft gray tabby Madeline on faded florals

Tabby and white Molly on my living room rug... 

Patterns

Like many artists I am drawn to patterns in nature. I particularly love the regular and seemingly random spots, stripes and myriad combinations of the furred and feathered.  Appaloosa horses, tabby cats, black and white spotted Jacob Sheep, giraffe splotches, leopard spots and tiger stripes - all give me a frisson of pleasure.

While browsing a local thrift shop recently, I came upon a wonderful leopard faux fur vest.  The perfect gift for the kitties!  Sure enough, as soon as it was splayed on the couch, kitties claimed it one by one - with a few hissy quarrels over possession.  Generally though, possession rules even in the cat world and nearly every feline has had a turn mushing and posing on the best $2.00 cat accessory ever.

Pattern upon pattern - Garfy on The Vest

Snoochie if full mush mode. More pattern upon pattern.

I once had a harlequin Great Dane and I once had a brindle Great Dane, so when I thought of getting another dog to keep Freda company, I wanted another Dane.  Came up a bit short though, when I spotted Carrie up for adoption.  She's a year old brindle American Bull Terrier (not a pit type) weighing about 45 lbs. nearly the same size as Freda.  I figured it was meant to be as she purportedly got along with cats (very important), other dogs and liked everyone - even toddlers.  (Geez - I don't even like toddlers...)  And she would eat less than another giant dog which was better for my budget.

I met the owner, brought Carrie home and she and Freda hit it off immediately.  By the third evening she was deathly ill.  What started as a bit of coughing the second night became obvious difficulty breathing and a temp of 106.2!  I'd just gotten home from work and saw her trembling and with her eyes all squinted up like she was in pain.  I rushed her to the Vet Saturday night where she was given fluids and meds I.V.  Several tests were done - none conclusive at that point.  I was able to pick her up on Sunday with a tentative diagnosis of pneumonia and oral antibiotics but she went downhill again and had to go back in on Monday for more intravenous treatments - and they kept her for 24 hours before sending her home with I.V.'s and three antibiotics!  (I was once a vet tech so I know how to give I.V. meds and shots.)

I was puzzled when the Vet asked me to find out whether anyone in the previous owner's household had had flu or especially strep throat recently.  He said no - but sounded unsure about recent illnesses.  The Vet said dogs can pick up strep type infections from humans and visa-verse, which was new to me.  I'll never know for sure where it came from - but get this:  I'm sick now.  Within 24 hours of Carrie's onset, I had terrible bronchitis, sore throat, headache, fever, chills and loss of appetite, rather like my new doggie.  Unlike Carrie, at the first sign I hit the Emergen-C, got out my inhaler and prepared for the worst.  I'm coughing so hard I had to buy protection.... (no I'm not explaining this...)

Sympathy illness?  Perhaps.  I could have pick it up anywhere, but a pattern is a pattern - and this looks like a pattern to me.  That frisson I spoke of?  In this case, it must have been the first onset of the chilblains.

We are both doing better - though that vet bill is likely to kill me.  Better photos when we both stop coughing.

Here's Carrie - See her shaved legs and her bandage?  Poor baby.  Apologies for the cacophony of patterns here.  She's a real sweet tiger of a dog.

On being moved...

I spend a great deal of time alone - and I suppose this has led to more than average (whatever average might be) forays into self examination.  These lead to finding and then poking about in ones (mine own) faults and foibles.  One of my odder tendencies is to avoid seeking out many of the things that move me and that I love.  This would appear to be a contradiction - and it is.  So why?  Here's the deal - or parts of it, I think.

I fear loss of control.

I fear my own reactions.

I'm afraid of feeling too much, being overwhelmed - and then frozen into a rather catatonic state of mind.

In the case of viewing others artwork, I sometimes fear being influenced (another sort of loss of control) or by becoming impotent/immobilized by the enormity of creating work that is relevant and relative.

I'm not saying I cannot overcome these tendencies.  Otherwise I'd probably hole up and cut myself off from all media and communication and just make stuff in a vacuum - or never make anything more.  And every time something or someone really moves me, I'm happier and grateful for the experience.

 What moves me? Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah. 

Vertigo

No - not the movie - though it is one of my favorite Hitchcock films.  Like the character Jimmy Stewart played, I suffer from vertigo in high places.  My 1989 visit to a World Trade Center tower and the Empire State Building had me literally clinging to the inside walls.  As long as I looked out and away and did not look down, I was okay, but any glance downward had the world spinning for me. I still enjoyed it - and never experienced the paralyzing panic Stewart portrayed.

Fast forward.  This past year I began experiencing vertigo occasionally while going about everyday tasks.  It always passed quickly and I never came close to falling so I assumed it might be an inner ear infection.  Once before I'd had this, though that episode lasted a week or so with constant symptoms.  I finally had to get some righteous antibiotics to quell the little bugs.

Then one morning I opened my eyes and the room began to spin while I was still lying down.  Now that was new!  Stroke?  Dropsy?  Brain tumor?  Another infection?  I decided to do a bit of online investigation.  I learned that vertigo and dizziness are not the same thing - and there are many causes for both.  When I read symptoms and causes of something called BPPV.  I realized I could be the poster child for Benign Paroxysmal Positional Vertigo.

Never heard of it? Me either.  It seems that if one has had a serious head injury (me), a history of sinus trouble (me), broken ear drums/ear infections (me - as a teen lifeguard), sleep on your stomach (me) - suffer from migraines (I used to), and are over 50 (yeah, me) - you might get BPPV.  It has to do with little calcium "stones" in the inner ear whose movements are essential to balance.  Mine get stuck.

Luckily for me, it's not all that serious - and there are quick and easy treatments/exercises that one can do oneself. I can't seem to stop sleeping on my stomach, so I'll likely be prone to these episodes. 

I keep hearing Arnold say: "It's not a tumor" in that accent of his...

No rabbit hole blog is complete without silly cat photos!

It's a bird!

It's a plane!

It's - it's Super Winkle!

The Flying Siamese!

Winkle "flying" through cyberspace on her vintage monitor....

Who are we, really?

One of my close friends calls me a philosopher, another thinks I am mostly funny and my mother thinks I am "all business."  I'm all of these, but not always at the same time.  Like many people, I am prone to moods - and tend to be reactive to other people's moods and/or personalities as well.  What I am at my core is shy.

I don't think a shy child ever overcomes shyness.  One learns to push past it much of the time; to change behavior, but left to my own devices, I tend to withdraw, avoid confrontation, crowds of strangers, and aggressive people.  I'm still shy on the inside.  I have learned self preservation means saying no - and standing up for myself - and I do feel a bit proud when I do .  But I don't like how I feel while it's happening. It's not comfortable to try to be something I am not.

Gracie is shy, too.

If I were a butterfly or moth, I could just spin a cocoon or chrysalis and emerge as a different "being."  Instead, I weave a cocoon of protection that is intangible.  I am terrible at selling my own work, so I sell through galleries and the internet where face to face sales are rare.  And yet I am enthusiastic and even wonderful at selling the works of artist friends...  Go figure.

Me in another life...  (a black swallowtail to be!!)

It's so hot, and I am too poor right now to afford another air conditioner for my studio room.  When I get home from my "day job", the house is well over 90 degrees, and only the bedroom is cooled, so I make a quick supper, dashing in and out of the "air." I use only the microwave if possible to avoid making more heat.   I can't bring myself to paint unless I can work in the morning on the days I am off - or down in the shop which I can keep cool until about 2pm, when the heat overcomes the small air conditioner there.

This is the hottest summer I've experienced in my 20 years in the south.  I'd move if I could!!!  But September is coming, and any day now, I might have enough extra $$ to get cooler...

Hope everyone out there is keeping cool too. 

A Bee, A Bee!!

All week I've been on the lookout for bee and butterflies...  A few butterflies have been sighted - and lo! Yesterday I finally saw one - just one - honeybee.  I was actually tempted to stake out the clover and follow that bee, but I had places to be myself...  (sorry, couldn't resist...) 

I spent my day off finishing two small paintings for the upcoming Sautee show, and then got a call from a shop that sells my things to come touch up a desk that had sold.  I promptly lost my mind and forgot to photograph the paintings before I delivered them.  What a dolt.

I'm so happy about seeing that bee that I just have to post happy photos.  Here's one of my daylily plantings.

These are near a small pond and very happy.

And here is one very shy Monarch. This was taken with my feeble telephoto before he disappeared.

And for comic relief...  the inimitable Gracie:

First we feeds ourselves....

Then we burps....

Then we grooms...

Then we naps...

Then we really naps...

???  It's Garfy - a real square.  Everybody loves the box!

Where are the butterflies and bees?

Growing up in Illinois, I was privileged to witness not only migratory birds, but migrating Monarch butterflies.  They would literally cover the trees in a small park in Neoga - where I lived from age 6 to age 12. They would fan their wings slowly as they rested - and if it was quiet enough, you could actually hear the soft thrum of hundreds of thousands of fragile wings.  They only stayed for a day or so, then they were gone, on to Mexico and South America.  I'm told there are only a few who pass through now.

Tomorrow is June First.  It's been in the eighties and nineties here for weeks.  No bees.  Has anyone else noticed so few bees or butterflies?  Am I living in a no-fly zone?

I am concerned.  I know things have been blooming early, after the mildest winter in memory, but my flowers - including three large butterfly bushes are covered in colorful spikes of blossoms and yet I have seen not one butterfly.  Actually, I did see a small white sulfur (commonly known as a cabbage butterfly) today - but it was dead, just lying on the soil in my garden.

From last summer -Yellow Sulfur Butterfly on Russian Sage

I know bees are endangered by a disease that has devastated a great percentage of hives, but never before do I remember not seeing even one honeybee on the white clover that covers much of my lawn and pasture.  Last year I saw an increase in the bumblebee population humming and buzzing and defying the laws of physics as they pollinated the pear and plum trees as well as the clover, but I'm not seeing them either.  This is frightening.

This year's lilacs - saw only small insects, no honeybees.

Passion Flower - grows wild as a rather stringy survivor with a small bloom or two, but I've managed a huge mass of vines and flowers with just a bit of encouragement.  It seems to love the climbing rose that shelters it and vice-verso.

I don't use many chemicals - a bit of fire ant dust only on the mounds, and something to fight the borers that get in my lilac tubers. I'm very careful not to use sprays or insecticides that kill in a broad-spectrum manner, and I mostly use soap solutions on the few vegetables I grow and on the few flowers that need a little help. But I'm feeling that I'm not doing enough, so this year I'm going to establish more food and environment for a variety of butterflies. 

A couple of years ago, I asked one of my sisters to send me milkweed pods so that I might try to sustain a patch here.  So far, the plants haven't attained much size or flowered, and it may be too hot for it here, but I'll keep trying.  I know Monarch caterpillars love dill - so I'll grow that, too. Tulip Poplar is important for Tiger Swallowtails who also love Purple Loosestrife and Ironweed. All butterflies seem to love the bright orange Butterfly Weed that grows along roads.  I noticed that the highway department actually skips mowing these endangered wild flowers.  How cool - and unusual is that?

Russian sage - I'm hopeful this year's blooms will have visitors from the air.

And for comic relief - Elvis in his box...

It was a virus!  Yay..  Three days dealing with "the public" and I am sick.  But that's the good news!

Well, not really yay - but it seems I was coming down with a cold when I posted last.  Bummer - but better than depression in general.  After three days of high doses of Emergen-C and lots of sleep, I am feeling more myself.  This cold comes with earaches and blocked Eustachian tubes. Ouchy.  Have you ever heard and felt your heartbeat in you ear canal?  Very weird.

Gracie the undignified...  This is just how I looked the past three days...

And now for a mystery.  Can anyone identify this plant?

Closeup of new shoot showing more color variation.

This is a plant I bought several years ago (on clearance, of course - I'm always buying plants that need rescuing.)  It's deciduous, and flowers in May or June.  You can see the small floral spikes forming here.  The leaf pattern is what attracted me to what was then a tiny little sprout.  It seems to thrive in the part shade by one of my sheds. 

Yeah, okay - I fess up.

I think I might be depressed.  Not clinically gone.  Not even close to needing a shrink.  Definitely not in need of meds.  (Though a generic loritab - left over from my knee surgery - might offer a brief respite of I can clean the house in ten minutes kind of relief.)  Speaking of meds, what is it with narcotics anyhow?  I can't take codeine unless I want to vomit until I dry heave, I don't tolerate aspirin or ibuprofen or anti-inflammatories, so the only choice left for me in "painkillers" are narcotics.  Addictive!  And since I object to taking drugs due to logical, moral and health reasoning, it's ironic that I should enjoy those narcs so much that I have saved a few even though it meant toughing out some pretty bad leg pain.  I mean: I never even took acid or speed cause I like to be in control (of myself).  Given the proper excuse (head injury, broken bones, etc.,) drugs are, uh, okay.

I built this funky fence out of chair parts, wood turnings and left-over board and such.

I have a bit of fun adding seasonal decorations... do ya like my giant carrot headed bunny?

I'm stoic.  I tolerate pain very well.  I'm tough and I'm a survivor of four emergency room dashes, one of which included a speeding ambulance ride (fractured skull) to get there.  Another time I drove myself there with a broken shoulder - and I had a five speed stick shift!  One time I had keep from passing out long enough to prevent the hospital folk from cutting my custom made field boots off before I went for x-rays.   But that was all back when I rode fearlessly on unpredictable horses - and I was, of course, many years younger.  I bounced back.

Now I don't bounce so well.  The fall I took last September has permanently damaged my left knee, which was my best one (a horse having fallen on the right one - and I was once dragged by that right leg too on a horse named Lucky, of all things).  In a riding "accident,"  there is a kind of glory. There is pride in the retelling. Falling in a puddle of water on a cement floor is without glory.  There's only the mortification of knowing several people witnessed it and it was caught on video.  After seven months, surgery, cortisone shots and some kind of lubricant injections, not to mention crutches, cane and limping - and several weeks of physical therapy, my right knee and my right hip are now inflamed.   When I walk, I can't decide whether to limp right or left or just shuffle - kind of like Tim Conway as the old geezer.

Sigh.  I return to the awful part time job this week on "light duty".  This is literally adding insult to injury.

Spring.  Bloom.  Leaf.  Grow.

So, as my lack of postings here where I am normally wont to revel, wax poetic (about my kittehs) and philosophize  illustrates: I am rather down.  (Now that was a hard-to-read sentence!)

But I still have my sense of humor, my kitties and kittehs still amuse me, and my geriatric dogs and horses are doing tolerably well.  I'm even growing a bit of a garden. Soon there'll be tomatoes and sweet corn, potatoes and squash - and I picked my own greens grown from seed last eve for a stupendous salad. One needs things to look forward to even if one must create them.

My salad?

Black seeded simpson lettuce
bibb or buttercrunch lettuce
red leaf lettuce
spinach
black olives sliced
red seedless grapes
tomatoes
thin sliced baby carrots
celery bits (cause I need to use it up)
Vidalia onion (just a bit)

Balsamic vinegar (just a drizzle) and then ranch dressing on top...  Yum.

If you haven't tried grapes in your salad as a replacement for - or in addition to - tomatoes, please do so!

I feel better now.  Thanks for listening.  I think I'll plant some nasturtiums for a zesty salad addition!

Gracie.  Just look at her perfect eyeliner...

My Shop: Cottage Chic

 Doncha' just love turquoise?

 Last year, my friend Carol and I decided to stop renting space and go for low overhead.  We turned my derelict workshop into an actual shop/studio/gallery where we display items for sale.  The main reason for having a shop open to the public is to promote the re-furbishing aspect of our services.  We rejuvenate and update good pieces of furniture and accessories found at thrift shops and yard sales - and display both fine and folk art for sale. 

The place was a mess - mostly just full of all the stuff I collect from which to make something else - or something better. 

These are the "befores."

 
 The building is a circa 1920's house now weathered by the passing decades to a nearly uniform silvery gray.  I added  French doors, larger windows and a deck for working and sitting outside. All the way up the .2 mi. drive there are signs (think Burma Shave) to entice clientele to the shop.  Signs include "Bunny Crossing" (very true), Watch for Armadillo followed by Just Kidding, and Keep Going! and Slow: Skunk Area (so that people really will go slow).  And of course, we paint and sell signs, too.

 It's a work in progress.!!  The window in the attic space has now been replaced and I've plans to landscape and create paths and gardens all around.

 This is the old well house - now a funky gazebo of sorts.  Unfortunately the well is dry.  I've even removed the slab to look down there.  Very, very dry... 

 Some of the pet portraits painted on old wooden bowls.  I refer to them as "bowlies."  Fun and inexpensive... we'll paint your pet or portrait from your photo for $35.

 More refurbished goods - a funky mirror and commode painted with texture paint, glazed and aged for a fresco look.  Also a selection of mirrors and architectural reliefs.  Red walls really set these off!

The newest space - not yet filled up, but you can see a selection of furniture (that's a vintage Lane cedar chest circa 1950's), a 1930's glass front cabinet, teapots, paintings and one of my pedestals made from old shutters.  Merchandise is cottage, artsy, funky and fun - with lots of color.

More to come!

Introducing Molly Flopover

There is no cat more beautiful than a tabby, especially a classic tabby like Molly.  Molly came to me as a kitten, the last of three siblings born in the warehouse of my local feed store.  She should have been wild, but instead she was fearless and gregarious, which is how I ended up taking her home.  The young man who loaded feed said she would run if I tried to pet her, but instead she purred and rubbed her head on my hand.  How could I resist?  I was still saying "no more cats.." as I drove away with my 200 lbs of feed and one tiny tabby kitten.

Molly helping out in the studio.

Her tabby daddy ruled that feed store for years, perching on the counter for all the customers to admire .  Even for a tom cat he was heavily built; a stocky cat - and Molly takes after him.  She's chunky; kind of square, and when she walks ahead of me during chores I always notice her unusual build.

Contemplating global warming...  or perhaps listening for the sound of kibble

Molly has a talent, too.  She holds the Small Meadows Farm record for the most flop-overs completed between the house and the feed shed - a total of eight!  If only I had a video camera...  

Molly is eleven this year - a noble age for a noble cat.  Molly is a loner -mostly aloof from the other cats.  She comes in for lengthy naps and one-on-one attention from me, and she is happiest lying in the sun on one of her many perches.

 My favorite Molly photo...