by Susan Lobb Porter | Family, Growing up |
When Mama was young her father built his family a summer cottage on the Long Island Sound. The cottage was bare bones simple. Rooms were small, walls were thin, kids all slept up the ladder steep stairs in the unfinished attic.
There wasn’t a flush toilet until I was five or six. And the bathroom, when it was finally built, wasn’t inside the house. You had to go out through the back door to the little shed attached to the back of the kitchen. Nothing but the basics, the toilet and a sink, but heaven compared to the two seater at the back of the lot.
I dimly recall an outdoor shower but I don’t remember using it much. We spent most all day at the beach and if I was crusty with salt, well, that was all part of summer. Every summer. Along with sunburns and lazy afternoons reading in the hammock, a big canvas thing strung between a couple of trees. There were card games and coloring books and jig saw puzzles. There was no TV.
It. Was. Heaven.
Four generations of family called it home in the summer. Aunts and uncles, grandparents and cousins. We took turns and overlapped. And when the cousins were quasi adults in college and wanted a private place to…entertain, it became the winter weekend no-tell motel.
It’s a wonder we never bumped into each other.
We went to a family reunion there when FirstBorn was a baby. Flew in from California. By this time my grandparents were long gone. But their children, their grandkids and the great grands were all there.
It was the last time we were all together. People moved away. People died. The cottage was empty most of the year, even in summers. Eventually the decision was made to sell it. The new people tore it down and built their own house. A real house, a year round house.
Sound Beach. Our history grew into our vocabulary. When we liked something we said it reminded us of Sound Beach. Norway reminds us of Sound Beach. The narrow country lanes in my part of California are like the narrow roads we drove there. Wicker chairs. Hammocks. Hot summer nights. We were summer people, we never lived there but it was HOME.
This morning I woke up to an email from my sister, the one in Norway. A friend had been visiting Long Island. Armed with the address and Google Earth, she took pictures of the new place on our old property.
It gave me such great pleasure to see the house they built. A home with flower baskets on the front porch. Painted yellow, almost the same color as the cottage. It sits back from the road, with a lawn in the front. It’s well kept and looks comfortable. Looks like family.
Nana would’ve loved it. Mama would’ve loved it. And me? I could move right in.
I didn’t think I’d ever want to see the new house. But life is about growth and change. Moving forward. My family shares the memories of a magical place. But we have moved on.
And now it’s time for others to make memories of their own.
by Susan Lobb Porter | Art, Dogs, Mr. Spouse, Studio |
Oh. My. So many adventures in Arty Life land the last couple of days. Brace yourself because this post is going to be skipping from one thing to the next, each topic guaranteed to make you more dizzy than the next.
First…and only because it happened minutes ago and I’m still as jumpy as a tweaker from the adrenalin rush…my brush with wildlife. There was a bear rat in the hay shed. Big sucker. But I was BRAVE. Oh, indeed I was, even with flip flops on my feet. No girly screaming like I did with the mouse. No. This time I was brave enough to stomp and shout with a very big voice like a very scary person. And bang a couple metal trash lids together like a one woman marching band. And Mr. Rat was so impressed he fell off one shelf and jumped down from another. The last I saw was his bare naked tail as it disappeared behind the hay.
Begone with you Templeton!
Now that I’ve impressed you with my wildlife management skills…you ARE impressed, aren’t you…now we can move on to Precious Man Dog (AKA Bean, AKA Benny) If you read Friday’s post, you’ll recall PMD was sorely in need of a haircut. Being a poodle mix the hair just grows. And grows. I let it grow over the winter to keep him warm. Dreadlocks happen and matts and clumps of thick, dense felt take over. Then in the spring I take to him with scissors and we start the cycle all over again.
So this was PMD last week.
This is him today, half the size he used to be. But so darn cute I can’t stand it.
Sophie is in the middle of her spring trim. I have to wait until she’s dead asleep before I can get certain spots. Like her chest. Right now she’s sporting a whole lot of chest hair. Throw a couple gold chains around her neck and she’d be a ringer for Burt Reynolds.
Okay, now it’s time to move on from critters, both wild and domestic, and get to art. Got a couple works in progress to show.
This is acrylic, 2’x2′. Don’t have a clue where it’s going but will know when it gets there. Layers and scribbles. Layers and scribbles.
This one is also acrylic, 36″x48″. Still very much a work in progress. Oh crap…as I’m writing this I’m wondering if I put the lid back on the jar of Titan Buff…well, let’s hope I did because it’s dark and I’m not heading back down to Studio Grande.
Speaking of Studio Grande, Mr. Spouse got some sheet rock up in the new! improved! Studio-Grande-to-be.
He was hoping to have it all rocked this weekend but it was slow going. Hard work indeed. But this is how Mr. Spouse relaxes from his desk job, he builds stuff. And I’m not complaining. By the way, this photo was taken after 6PM. Still good natural light, at least at this time of year. Even more when the tarps come off the skylights.
A gentle reminder that Wednesday is Random Acts of Art. I hope some of you will join me in sharing where you hide your treasures. You can send me photos before Tuesday (like, today) and I’ll post them on the blog. Or you can post the link to your own blog anytime between Wednesday and Saturday.
I’m posting art every day on my FaceBook page. Pop on over and check it out. And while you’re there, do me a GREAT BIG HUMONGOUS favor and click the ‘like’ button (for the page) if you haven’t done so already. And if you’ve already liked my page, pat yourself on the back because you are my BFF and I love you…truly love you… almost as much as I love chocolate!
by Susan Lobb Porter | Art, Life, Parents |
Spent a lot of time in Studio Grande today. Painting. And cleaning the non-studio part of the cottage. The part where Mama lived. Amazing how art stuff can migrate from one room to another. Must do that at night when no one is looking.
And who the hell made all that mess anyway???
I’m not usually into cleaning. Not enough to interrupt a painting frenzy. But this week marks the first anniversary of Mama’s passing. ‘Passing’ being a euphemism for cashing in her one way ticket for Jesusland. I’m sure she’s quite happy there. What’s not to like? Lambies. Angels. Floating around with Daddy on a cloud, feeling no pain with all the heavenly libations.
But best of all, the millions and BILLIONS of souls who haven’t heard her stories yet. OMG, she’s in HEAVEN!
And this, the first anniversary of her passing over to the other side, falls on Passover. What a co-incidence! I mean, how fitting is that?
So I cleaned. Well, not really cleaned. I straightened things up, scooped the kitty poop out of the litter box. Fresh sheets on the bed. That sort of thing. Got some family coming in for the anniversary. We’ll talk about Mama. Have a nice dinner. Eat some chocolate.
I’ll tell you all about it on Monday. Or not.
by Susan Lobb Porter | Life, Mr. Spouse, Studio |
Rain. OMG, winter has FINALLY ARRIVED.
And Studio Grande-in-progress has HALF a roof. Just half. The other side being nekked plywood. The skylights are in, all four of them. But Mr. Spouse wasn’t sure of the flashing, the stuff that makes them water-tight. With the storm door now open and rain/snow predicted all this week and beyond, he tarpped ’em, Danno. Just to be safe.
The side that has the roof, you know, shingles and stuff, did not leak at all in last night’s rain. That side has been the major leaker in the past so we are very pleased.
But the nekked side has two tarps. Because it leaks. This is the view from the back door of our house.
And this is the hobbit door. It will be painted red. And the bungee cord will be replaced with a real door knob.
There are other things to be done inside, less dramatic as far as photos go but enough to keep us busy since all outside work is on hold until the weather clears. Which could be weeks.
I say us but I really mean Mr. Spouse. It’s my studio but his project.
And I’m not complaining at all.
by Susan Lobb Porter | Art, Family, Life, Mr. Spouse |
A view from the other side.
This weekend I was checking out a blog, Living in the Moment. Oh my sweetums…lo and behold, the subject was about…well, if you’re a regular reader of my Wednesday Random Acts of Art posts, you might have an idea of where I’m going with this.
TA TA–and you’d be RIGHT! Kristne Dubuque Ortega discovered, if not a Random Act of Art, a random act of luvvvv. You can read about it here. Go ahead. Read it RIGHT NOW. Really. Do. I’ll wait. And when you come back we’ll have a talk.
And jump up and down waving our arms and doing backflips because now you KNOW, without a doubt, how COOL it is when someone finds an unexpected little treasure. Something hidden but not quite hidden by a stranger.
Our little Random Acts of Art can make a difference in someone’s day. There, that’s our talk. Now on to business…
We’ll start today with a couple of contributions from sister Marjorie Ellen in Norway.
This first one was left in what normal people call a theater but Norwegians call the movie house. Very civilized, look…flowers. I don’t know the name of the movie. Or if sister M.E. had popcorn. I hope she did. With lots of butter and salt.
This one is extra special. She left it in the mailbox of a friend with a broken heart. I would make all sorts of heart emoticons here but I haven’t figured out how to do that.
Now it’s my turn and I have a confession. I didn’t get out much this week. Had a couple of snow days. Some work from home days. And a whole lot of painting going on down in Studio Grande. I did get some heARTs out but I decided to hide right here around the Porterosa. Because my family deserves love too, right?
The first one was a blatant gift for Mr. Spouse, he who is building the new, improved Studio Grande. A token of my appreciation left on the chop saw. He was honored. Well no, he was perplexed. After all, he couldn’t hammer it, chop it or eat it. But he decided to keep it somewhere special among his tools. So he said. He is a most romantic man. I suspect he’ll find it again in a few weeks, scratch is head and wonder where this came from.
I do so love him.
Now this second one has quite a story behind it. I had a rock in my pocket with the intention of driving into town and making an art drop. I was walking down to the barn, mulling over where I would go for the next random art drop. That’s when I felt the humm. It’s a vibration, really. Starts deep in the bones and resonates out through the soft tissue and then you hear it…angel voices in the wind.
The chimes we hung in the oak grove.
I forgot about the barn and headed down the path to the place where the deer bed down. The place where Mama wanted us to bury her ashes, along with those of my Dad. As I approached the circle of moss covered boulders, the hum I was feeling gave way to the soft gong of the chimes. Slowly, one distinct note at a time. As I stood next to the tree that holds the chimes that hang over the rocks where my parents are, the clapper began dancing in the wind-that-was-not and I KNEW that the right and perfect place for the rock in my pocket was right there. In the fork of the tree.
Because Mama was telling me, hey, why drive all the way into town when you can spread some of the luvvvvvvvvv right here.
So I did. Seems I listen to my mom better now that she’s on the other side.
Those were my Random Acts of Art this week. And Margie from Norway. You got any this week? This is a blog hop for those of you who have some Random Acts of Art you want to share. Click below (above the comments) where it says “you are next…click here to enter” and follow the directions to enter your URL. The link list remains open until Saturday 11:59 Pacific Time, USA. Oh, and remember, this week is when daylight savings begins here in the US. If you don’t have a blog and want to join us next week, send me your photos anytime before Tuesday night and I’ll add them to my post.
Help spread the word! Tell your friends. Click the social share buttons down below. We are spreading the luvvvvv around the world, one arty token at a time.
The more the merrier!
by Susan Lobb Porter | Art, Life, Parents |
It’s been almost a year since I brewed a cup of tea in Mama’s house, the cottage that’s been serving as my temporary studio ever since she died. I’d bring my own tea when I came down to paint. And when I finished it I’d walk up the hill to my house and make another cup.
Even though Mama has a complete kitchen. Even though this was a place of countless cups of tea.
It didn’t cross my mind to put the kettle on down here. Until today. Today I decided to be brave.
Well, actually it was the assignment in Bloom True, Flora Bowley’s on-line painting class. Today we were to face our creative fears and paint them anyway. Embrace whatever emotions the process brings up, head on. So I decided to take the horse picture from last week, the one that was in the early stages, and see if I could finish it. Because it’s easy for me to start paintings, much harder to finish them. Especially a painting that challenges me to find it in the marks, to let it be a dance between paint and canvas.
It’s still not finished. But it’s richer. Much richer.
Here’s how it looked last week.
Here’s what I did today. Think the color is off in the photo. It’s not quite this yellow. This gives you the idea.
But this post isn’t about the painting. It’s about being brave. About letting things come up, And facing them when they do.
One of the first things I do when I come down to the studio is put on some music. Music and painting go together. Dancing too. I’m a multi-tasker. Today I chose Glen Miller. Big band stuff. Mama’s music. Just appealed to me for some reason. Then I put the kettle on. Her kettle. Her stove.
I brewed a cup and sipped on it as I painted. Got carried away with the painting and the music. Eventually the tea grew cold. I put the kettle back on to hot up the tea and as I was filling the cup with the boiling water it hit me…the last cup of tea I had with my mom. Or the last one we talked about having.
It was a day, maybe two, before she died. The days were all running into each other by that point and it’s hard to distinguish one from another. One sister was up at my house taking a much needed break, the other was enroute from Norway. All I know is I was alone with my mother and she was dying.
She struggled to get comfortable in the hospital bed we’d set up in her living room. As I helped her adjust her position she asked me why was her body doing this? She looked so perplexed it nearly broke my heart.
Why was her body doing this? Why was it finally giving out after nearly 96 years…
Because you’re so damn old, Mama. I said it lovingly. Jokingly.
But she needed more than that. I needed more than that. Because we had danced around the inevitable for years but never openly discussed it. She’d moved into the cottage seven years earlier so I could take care of her during her final days. It was the elephant in the room. And he was getting bigger every day.
She didn’t need me to give her the church position. She’d had plenty of visits from her priest, the deacon from her church, the spiritual advisor from Hospice. She knew all about the heaven and Jesus thing. But she wanted to know what I thought.
So I told her about an experience I had once when I thought I was dying. When I realized I couldn’t control what was happening to my body but I still had a choice how I could react. When I realized I could embrace the unknown with fear. Or with love. And I chose love.
“Oh, I like that”, she said with a beautiful smile. “Choose love.” And then she told me to put the kettle on. “Make us some tea. And we’ll drink it with love.”
So I did. But by the time it was ready she’d drifted off to sleep. So I sat there on the sofa within arm’s reach of her bed and drank the tea for the two of us. With love.
