by Susan Lobb Porter | Art, Mr. Spouse |
Little studio in the big woods is coming along.
Look at that. Mr. Spouse had a busy weekend. Got to love that man. Oh, I do…imagine that!
Got the windows in. Skylights in a week or two when the roof happens.
The start of the wiring. Now I have to figure out the lay of the under counter cabinets exactly and uber precise so Mr. Spouse knows just where to put the outlet boxes.
I alway love this view from the front door. Now that the gussets are up it looks even more like a little chapel. Because this is a sacred space you know. At least it is for me.
And that’s it for this week’s Construction Update.
by Susan Lobb Porter | Art, Life, Sisters |
I was talking with sister Marjorie Ellen today. On the phone. Her life path took her to Norway after art school. Mine took me to California. Sisters by birth, sisters of the heart and yet for most of our adult lives, sisters by telecommunications. That’s just the way it is.
Fortunately I’ve found an uber cheap phone plan. PennyTalk. At two cents per minute we could talk all day and not break the bank.
Both of us are artists. Of course we talk family, jobs, weather, health, politics, all manner of things…but most of all we talk ART. What we’re working on. What we want to work on. New materials. New ideas. In other words…we talk shop.
Today Margie said something that really hit home for me. She talked about making art from the heart. Being true to what you really want to do. Which is what I’ve been doing ever since I began painting again last summer. Experimenting. Playing. Parking my ego at the door.
But it’s not easy. I have a degree in art. I have training. And an employment history as an illustrator and art teacher. I knows me the rulz. And I know there’s good reason for a lot of them. Like balance. Proportion. Contrast. Fill in the appropriate term here ____.
But…and this is a BIG but…THEY. CAN. BE. BROKEN. Yes indeed! Stretched. Bent. Twisted every which way…if only I’m brave enough.
Which brings up another question. Can I be brave, can I be bold and STILL be financially successful as an artist?
I’m saying yes. In fact, I’m shouting YES!!!
I’m putting my intention out there. I’m putting my heart out there. My big, brave BEAUTIFUL heart that’s willing to take a chance and create the life I want.
Now here’s your assignment. Assignment? Yes, really. Go to Jennifer Richardson’s blog and read her yummy luscious beyond WONDERFUL poem Dear Heart of Mine. And check out her Etsy shop while you’re at it. Because she’s got some good stuff and you should buy it.
Then come back here. Yes, come back here. It’s all part of the assignment, remember. Come back and join in the conversation about being brave hearts. There will be a conversation, right? Because you are the best of the best, my sweetums! Every one of you. And I can’t wait to see where this goes.
by Susan Lobb Porter | Family, Kids, Life |
Got my feet up on the coffee table. Computer on the lap. Dog by my side. One of ’em anyway. One dog. One side.
I left the camera in the studio, no new photos tonight. I could walk on down and fetch it but then I’d get eaten by a bear. Which means you still wouldn’t get any photos. On top of that I’d be blogging from the other side and I’m not so sure I’d care much about blogging over there.
Eternity has it’s privileges, after all. And blogging…that’s soooo early 21st century.
I worked with a woman once who’d had a near death experience. She died from a pulmonary embolism. Not nearly as dramatic as a bear attack but an interesting story none the less. She went through the whole enchilada of witnessing the scene from above her hospital bed. Floating off…the white light. She was able to tell the doctors things that were said after she was supposedly dead. Things she saw. But she came back. I can’t remember why. Maybe for her kids. They were young and hadn’t turned on her yet.
This photo was taken the summer I took the kids to Norway. We spent six weeks running around the woods, clambering over rocky hillsides. Not so much as a skinned knee. A couple days after coming home I took a tumble with the help of a large dog crashing into me at warp speed. My legs went up, head went down. On concrete. Of course I didn’t know any of that. I was just a formless being with other formless beings and I was pissed off. I wanted KIDS. I mean, LOOK at them. Look how CUTE they were. How could I be a mom WITHOUT A BODY??? And then the formless beings said some sort of celestial version of okay, okay, go back to your kids. And JUST LIKE THAT…poof… I re-entered my body. Only it wasn’t a poof, it was more of a crazy spinning round and round the third eye spot until whoosh I was back in my body.
And in an ambulance enroute to the hospital. But I didn’t know any of that. All I knew was I was in pain. Excruciating pain. But that was GOOD. Because pain meant I had a body. It meant I was alive. And I welcomed it.
Meanwhile, Zach-the-dog-who-knocked-me-down, knew he was in BIG trouble and decided what the hell, in for a penny in for a pound…so he ate his girl’s American Girl Doll. Not a cheap Barbie knock off from the dollar store. Oh no, the EXPENSIVE doll. Taking him from bad dog to B.A.D. dog. And while he was doing that, sweet little DaughterDear began whining for ice cream because Mommy promised her some before she fell down. This did not set well with FirstBorn who had been so traumatized from the sight of his most beloved mother being loaded in an ambulance that he had to set her straight. He had to make her feel bad. As bad as he felt. Because that’s what brothers do.
So he told her no ice cream… because Mommy was DEAD.
Her answer… “So? Daddy will get us a NEW Mommy.”
It’s hard to traumatize a four year old, especially one with her sights set on ice cream. She had her priorities. And Mommy’s accident screwed up her trip to Baskin & Robbins. Dead Mommy. Dead goldfish–what’s the difference?
Oh yeah, she cried for the goldfish…
So I don’t really know what happened or where I was during my great adventure to what I call the void. But I’m reading a book right now about a woman who had a remarkable near death experience followed by a miraculous TOTAL healing of stage 4 cancer. Dying to be Me. Anita Moorjani was admitted to the ICU on the brink of death. She was in a coma, her organs were shutting down. She was dying. And she was in that other place, where everything was bliss. She made the choice to come back because she realized “heaven is a state, not a place.” Within weeks of returning to her body she was CANCER FREE. Completely healed. It’s a fascinating book. I’m not going to try to condense her experience in a few sentences here. If it’s something you’re interested in click on the link above and read the reviews.
And she wanted ice cream when she came back.
by Susan Lobb Porter | Art, Life, Mr. Spouse |
Sunday night as I write this. You know what that means–CONSTRUCTION PHOTOS! YAY!!!
Mr. Spouse got all the plywood up on the roof this weekend. And the skylights cut.
I do not like seeing Mr. Spouse on the roof. It’s a long way down, you know. And I don’t like it when he gets cranky up there and gets further distracted swearing at inanimate objects. He swears loudly. But no matter how loud, no matter how choice his vocabulary, the objects can’t hear him. Which is a good thing. Because if they responded and began dancing around like things do in Disney movies, it would distract him even more.
Did I mention it’s a long way down….
When the plywood first went up, it was sad not seeing the trees through the roof.
But I can see them now. This is the north side.
This is the south. This is also the wall with lots of windows.
It’s raining now. Might snow tonight. Everything is buttoned up until next weekend.
To the left you can see one of two wood cribs (AKA Fuel Pavilions) Mr. Spouse built earlier. Notice the stone facing. Mr. Spouse is fond of rocks. That’s because we can trace his lineage back to Fred Flintstone. The two sides of the studio visible here will be rocked. But not until AFTER I’m in it and working.
by Susan Lobb Porter | Dogs, Life, Mr. Spouse |
There is only so much HGTV a body can stand before they willingly–willingly, I say–turn over the TV to the Super Bowl half of the family.
And I reached that point. I believe it was after the ‘is-there-really-any-chicken-in-here’ soup. The stuff that comes in the red and white cans. The stuff no adult eats and I never have in the house. The stuff I CRAVED after a night of violently purging from my system EVERYTHING that was not tied down by ligaments. I swear, even my EARS were puking. And when I came to, when I was remotely conscious, all I wanted was Campbell’s.
And a shock collar for the dogs. I wanted to send them flipping over backwards every time they barked. Which was every three minutes seconds. Because Mom was in bed and they had to guard her. From everything. And my little darlin’s have fierce imaginations when it comes to danger. Squirrels! BARK! BARK! Trees! BARK! BARK! BARK! Mr. Spouse checking to see if I’m still alive! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK!!!
I sent Mr. Spouse on a mercy run. He came home with the soup. Two cans. WHAT was he thinking??? Really, I’ve got a LOT of empty inside me, more than two cans’ worth. And he ignored my suggestion for the dogs. Totally. Like he thought I was kidding or something.
Awww geeze…
But while my day was spent snoozing on the sofa, drifting in and out as people bought apartments in Sweden and Scotland and directing BAD thoughts at my best beloved puppies, Mr. Spouse was outside working on the new studio.
I need to come up with a name for this new studio, by the way. Or I can transfer Studio Grande. I’m open to suggestions.
Look at that. Got some plywood up. And it’s starting to look real. The little puddle on the concrete lower right? Sophie and Bean saying hello. They don’t realize this is almost an indoor place now. And they sure don’t know that this will be Studio Quat’s domain.
Now that will piss ’em off.
This is the hobbit door. Mr. Spouse REALLY wanted this. And since his labor is free, I agreed. But I’m going to paint it RED.
So that was the weekend around here. Me? Not so much. Mr. Spouse? Good Job!
by Susan Lobb Porter | Family, Life, Parents |
January 31. This marks my parents’ wedding anniversary. Seventy years ago today they tied the knot. Mama was a Girl Scout, Daddy a Marine…they knew their knots. This one may have gotten a little frayed around the edges but still it lasted 58 years. Fifty-eight years…until the day my father died. At home in his own bed with his wife by his side.
Edie and Dick. Yin and Yang. They were a pair. And they were tied tight. Right over left and through, left over right and through. A good old fashioned square knot.
I came along late in the game but I heard the story of their wedding over and over. Mama loved to tell stories, especially if she was involved in them. And I loved all things about weddings. A pretty dress, flowers and cake that’s ten times better than any birthday cake. All that and a handsome man who will love you for EVER.
And don’t forget the PRESENTS!!!
So here’s the story AS I KNEW IT. It was a small do. An intimate gathering of family and close friends. The early afternoon reception was a simple one. Cake and coffee. Maybe some champagne. Because I can’t imagine a wedding without champagne. It was at her sister’s house. The same sister whose dress she wore. The honeymoon was a night in Manhattan. Fancy dinner. Fancy hotel. Fancy that.
Oh, and it rained.
And that’s what I was going to write. They fell in love, got married and did the ’till death do us part’ thing 58 years later. Because that was the STORY. Until I went through the folder labeled Richard. Daddy’s papers. I was looking for the menu from the restaurant. I saw it years ago and thought I’d amuse you with photographic proof of what two bucks could buy you in 1942. If memory serves me right–and these days it doesn’t aways–a full course lobster dinner plus drink.
I didn’t find the menu. But I found some interesting things. And, as I went through them, all sorts of questions began popping up.
It began with the envelope addressed to my father. It was plain white. Unadorned with anything save the simple return address. The White House. The letter inside was on matching stationery. It contained a hastily scrawled note from my father’s brother. Dated January 29. Two days before the wedding. He didn’t know if he could make it. No one was getting any time off.
There was a war going on. The whole damn world was shooting this way and that. And my uncle had a first row seat for the duration. Secret Service. OSS. Army Counter Intelligence.
He never made the wedding. Daddy’s friend stood in as his best man instead. One of the honorary uncles of my childhood. But I never put two and two together, never realized that’s why he was the best man and not my uncle. Not until I read the letter.
And then I realized there were a lot of things I didn’t know. A lot of questions I wanted to ask.
But there’s no one left to answer them.
I’ve always looked at the wedding portrait and seen my parents. Mom-and-Daddy-yin-and-yang-in-their-fancy-best. Young but old, because they came before me.
My uncle’s note sent the story I knew spinning off in another direction.
It was raining that day. Hard. Cold and blustery. Pearl Harbor was a little more than a month in the past. We declared war on Japan. Hitler declared war on us. Shock. Fear. Anger. Rage. Bravado. But happy days? I don’t think so.
I look at that photo now and see a couple of kids, 26 and 28. Just a little older than mine are today. Kids who were striving for normal when the world was going bat shit crazy around them. Kids who pledged their forevers together when there was no guarantee of tomorrow.
I think about the simple reception. Hear the undercurrents of small talk that never made it to the story. People smiling and raising a toast to the happy couple while in the back of their minds wondering….All the men in that room old enough to serve, did. Four uncles. And my Dad. The Army. The Marines. Europe. North Africa. The Pacific.
From the concentration camps to the streets of Nagasaki after the bomb.
They all served. They all came home. And they never, EVER, talked about it.
Mama was the story keeper in our house. She touched on a little of everything and told them over and over again. But like the story of her wedding, they were the bare bones, not the meat. And when I took care of her in her later years I heard them so often I stopped listening.
And I’m sorry I did. I regret they became so familiar I tuned them out. I wish I’d dug deeper.
Because she wanted to tell her story. But she didn’t know how.
And I didn’t know enough to ask the right questions.
