by Susan Lobb Porter | Art, Mr. Spouse, Porterosa |
Mr. Spouse builds things. If his attention wanders when I’m talking to him I know he’s calculating the price of lumber or how many sacks of cement he needs the next day. And no, this is not what he does for a living. This is what he does to relax.
Which is fine by me. Especially since his latest project is my new studio. Here are the photos from this weekend–because this is a weekend only project. As long as the La Nina keeps messing with our winter the building will continue. I expect the snow and rain will come eventually, it snowed well into May last year and even a few flurries in June–but if it can hold off just a couple more weeks until he can get it dried in…ah, bliss.
This is taken from where the door will be. The wall on the left faces north and will have no windows. There will be skylights. The wall straight ahead will have two large windows with a counter running the length of the wall. It faces east. The wall to the right will also have a counter. The windows will take up the entire wall. It faces south.
This is the view from the windows on the east wall. The two brown buildings are the hay shed and the barn, more of Mr. Spouse’s handiwork. As is the green building which is his workshop. Or as Missy B says, “Grandpa’s house”.
I’ll be able to look out at the horses while I work. I don’t know where they were when I took the photo, somewhere out there but not in sight of the camera.
This is the view to the south. Umm…I see a garden here someday. Maybe a patch of lavender, a level little patio with a small table and chairs. I will put that idea out into the universe and see what happens. The universe in this case being Mr. Spouse because his other vice is building stone walls. We have a lot of stone walls around here. Matter of fact, the studio will have a stone facade.
This is what you’ll see when you step out the door and look straight up. This is facing west.
So that’s how studio-to-be progressed this week. I worked in Studio Grande today but nothing is ready to show. Maybe tomorrow.
Now I’m going to settle into the comfy chair and read the first draft of my friend Mitzi’s novel. A nice way to spend a Sunday evening.
There will be dogs involved.
by Susan Lobb Porter | Art, Family, Life |
FirstBorn and family came a visitin’ last week. They stayed in the cottage where Mama lived until she died last spring, repurposed now as my studio. Before they arrived I moved everything that could remotely endanger a two year old to the back rooms where I make art. Including Studio Quat and her kitty needs.
She’s an old kitty. I’m sure the peace and quiet of her bed on my worktable was preferable to the attentions of the granddaughter and granddogger. Both of whom are rambunctious, one of whom is rather large.
Then I got those baby proof things that fit over the doorknobs. The ones you have to squeeze a certain way to open the door. Studio Quat was ever so grateful, kitty privacy guaranteed.
I haven’t had the heart to get rid of Mama’s furniture yet so the kids had all the comforts of home. Comfy furniture. Satellite TV. Complete kitchen and laundry. Most of all they had their own place to get away to. Perfect arrangement for family harmony.
But next Christmas someone else will be living in the cottage. Because I came to the conclusion last month that Studio Grande is too valuable as an income property to be trashed as an art studio. Something Mr. Spouse had been pushing for ever since Mama died but I couldn’t see the big picture. It had been my studio before she lived there and I wanted to reclaim it now that she was gone.
I wanted my dreams.
And I wasn’t ready to have someone else living in Mama’s house.
Then one day in late November the universe whacked me upside the head. AHA! Just like that. Clarity. I could design a studio just the way I want it. A wall of windows to the south. Skylights to the north. A vent fan with a hood. Countertops, storage, a layout that works for me. I could pay for the materials with my inheritance and Mr. Spouse would have a project to keep him busy.
He didn’t waste any time. We got the slab poured last week. And once it’s finished and I’m moved in we can rent out the cottage. Rent out Mama’s house.
I’m okay with that now.
After the kids left this morning I went down to reclaim my space. They cleaned up after themselves before they left. Sheets and towels were in the laundry. Dishwasher loaded. Kitchen counter tidied up. Perfect guests.
And then I looked at the counter and saw something was missing. I searched the cabinets and the drawers but it was gone. No doubt thrown out with the trash. Of course, why not–to them it was only another bottle cap.
But it was much more than that to me. I found it on Mama’s patio a few days after her service last April. After the patio had been swept clean and tidied up from the reception where we’d toasted her memory with beer and dark chocolate. Her two favorite food groups. I’d been visiting the oak grove where we buried her ashes and when I walked past the patio I saw it sitting there in plain sight…a bottle cap. One that I swear hadn’t been there before. I bent down to pick it up and almost cried when I saw the words printed inside…Ola Life!
Overlooked trash? A message from my mother? Or something planted by a well meaning friend…who can say? It brought me comfort. I’d left it in a special place on her kitchen counter and looked at it from time to time. Because it made me feel good.
And now it’s gone…
But you know what–I’m alright with that. Like the cottage studio it served its purpose. This is a new year…and it’s time to let go and move on.
by Susan Lobb Porter | All things Chocolate, Family, Life |
Grandbaby, AKA Missy B, came for a visit.
Toddler in the house!
At the park.
In the doctor’s office.
Quick recovery. At the park again.
Walking with Dad (AKA FirstBorn)
Visiting Grandma’s ponies.
Hangin’ upside down.
It’s been an awesome five days. An exhausting five days. Now she’s on her way back home to her own house, her own routine. I will miss her full on the lips sloppy wet kisses. Her tiny little voice and her beautiful smile. Most of all I will miss her sense of style.
Sigh…
And then…JUMP UP AND DOWN because YAY!, it’s the New Year. Fresh start. New intentions. Computer back from the shop and I’m rarin’ to go. Get your seatbelts on, lovies, ’cause it’s going to be quite the ride in artland/blogland this year. Oh yes indeed. I’ll be sharing this all with you shortly so stay tuned.
But first, a look at the final indulgence of 2011 to grace my table. Grace my lips. Keep me up waaay past my bedtime in a carb and saturated fat induced blitz.
Can you say Belgian Chocolate? Can you say White chocolate? Can you say Key Lime? Can you say Tiramisooooooooo I’m in luuuuuuv with you???? Can you say holy crap this is AMAZING???
We split five of these among five adults. Had two and a half left over. They were that rich.
And now, for the month of January, it’s back to green smoothies and eating clean. And you know what? I’m looking forward to it.
by Susan Lobb Porter | Growing up, Life |
When I was growing up, December 24 was all about sister Marjorie Ellen. It was her birthday. My parents did all they could to make that her special day, as a birthday should be. Especially when you’re a kid.
Margie’s birthday had nothing whatsoever to do with Christmas. Even if there was a tree in the living room while she blew out the candles on the cake. Her day was her day.
It was black and white. First came Margie. Next day came baby Jesus. And Santa. Because you couldn’t have one without the other. Bible says so. It’s in there somewhere I’m sure. Three wise men bringing gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh. Stuff the grownups might want (Gold, Mr. Spouse…hint…hint) But what kid in his right mind would put frankincense and myrrh on his list? Dried tree sap? Resin? Even one who would become the ultimate overachiever like baby J?
That’s why they needed Santa. The guy who brings the good stuff to the party. A case of Papyrus Pampers to make life easier for mom and dad. A bottle of Manischewitz to toast the birth. The bobble head Cesar for the back of the donkey. Condoms for the shepherds. And a BC Binkie for the babe.
But I digress. I was talking about Margie and her birthday. Which had nothing to do with Christmas Eve, just Margie, whom I worshipped and idolized because she was my big sister and knew everything. EVERYTHING ABOUT EVERYTHING. In my eyes she was perfect.
Did I ever tell you how bad my eyesight is?
It wasn’t until I was an ADULT, that I discovered people actually celebrate Christmas Eve as a holiday unto itself.
Imagine that….
So we do, sort of. Tonight we’ll have a lovely dinner. It will be our first Christmas Eve without Mama. We’ll raise a glass in her honor, repeat the stories we’ve told countless times about her. We’ll celebrate her life and her passing and be happy that’s she’s in a better place.
Sister Marjorie Ellen is in a better place now too…Norway. Been there her entire adult life–quite possibly because they celebrate Christmas for TWELVE days. I guess her birthday gets lost somewhere in there but that’s okay, there’s enough days of wine to cover that.
But these days Christmas Eve is more than Marjorie Ellen and Jesus. Because someone else in the family was born on December 24.
Happy Birthday Baby Bean, AKA Precious Man Dog! Happy birthday!
by Susan Lobb Porter | Family, Kids, Life |
Well here it is, the infamous tree from yesterday. the camera/computer connection is still out so I took a picture with my phone and emailed it to myself. Not the best way to do it but it gives you a visual.
Pictures are good. I like pictures. Which is probably why I’m an artist.
So right now the tree is naked. The lights go on tomorrow, along with whatever ornaments DaughterDearest Chooses to put up. We have glitter crusted macaroni angels going back over twenty years, treasures made when my kids were in preschool. And hung on the tree every year since. It sounds sweet but in reality it’s, umm…bordering on pathetic. Because some of them are little more than a single piece of pasta dangling from a tired red ribbon. I believe the originals were more complex examples of preschool art. Ziti bodies, elbow mac arms, bowtie wings. And of course the glitter. Lots of glitter.
They did not age well. Angel crumbs haunt the ornament boxes. Maybe it’s time to let them go. Flush ’em down the toilet or bury in the back yard with the dogs and cats. A couple of rats.
Or we could scatter the angel crumbs out front with my mom and dad. I’m sure they’d like that.
Or I can throw them in the garbage when no one is looking…except Santa. And God. Oh dear…how does one dispose of fallen angels?
Bringing a tree into the house inspires me to clean, something I do as infrequently as possible. I spent the day dusting and polishing. We’re all looking forward to sharing the holiday with the grand baby. She’s two years old, the perfect age for building sofa forts and cutting out sugar cookies with granma, aka moi.
Look at that face. OMG…I’ll be putty in her hands.
by Susan Lobb Porter | Family, Kids, Life |
Warning: Seasonal Blasphemy Alert
DaughterDearest and I went to Farmer Bob’s lot and picked out a Christmas tree today. A Nobel Fir, just like the one Mary and Joseph had–because one of us is a traditionalist, you see, and if oh! tannenbaum was good enough for the holy family then it’s good enough for ours. So says she-who-was-not-paying-for-the-tree. I, on the other hand, thought that maybe when the offspring sprung I wouldn’t have to do this anymore, that I could go back to decorating a few ailing houseplants (my houseplants are always ailing) and call it Happy Holidays.
Because if you want to get Biblical, I’m sure that’s what Mary did. Once her son left home and started hanging with the fishermen (What? No doctors???) I bet she was relieved she didn’t have to bake the birthday fruitcake and hunt down Farmer Bob’s great-great-great-great-a-thousand-times-great grandfather for a tree. Especially at those prices. And Joseph? I bet he didn’t care if they had a tree or not. Hey, wasn’t his kid they were celebrating. And fruitcake? Fuhgeddaboutit.
Who knew?
Fast forward a couple thousand years to now. My hopes of cheering up the dusty dracena with a couple of silver balls were cruelly dashed by my now grownup children. Who would’ve thought they’d want to come home for the holidays…. Go figure. Or move back in after college while wanting nothing more than to move out again. And a tree is part of the deal. Not a tree from the nearly eleven forested acres we live on. Most of them are Ponderosa Pine. Too tall. Unless we had a fifteen story atrium in the house. Which we don’t.
Although I might talk Mr. Spouse into building one when he retires. He likes to build things.
But back to the tree. My children are traditionalists. They want a tree from Farmer Bob.
And so we set out on the great tree adventure. DaughterDearest ran hither and yon through the lot, from one tree to the next. And the next. And the next. Greeting each and every one with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever with a bladder problem. Or a six year old on crack. She wanted this one. No! No! She wanted that one. But…but look over there! And off she’d go again.
While I trotted behind her, discretely checking the prices. Holy crap! Some of those suckers required my banker’s signature.
She totally charmed Farmer Bob. Was it the skinny jeans on the size 2 tiny hiney? Or the long blonde hair tucked under the Cal cap. Cal being short for I’m a freakin’ genius! I went to Berkeley!!! Which is like wearing your IQ on your head. Whatever, she was adorable. And yes, she is SMART.
In the end we picked a tree that met all the criteria.
Hers: It was the most beautiful tree ever!
Mine: Wouldn’t have to take out a second mortgage to pay for it.
The End
PS. Still no photos. One more thing for the fix-it ticket.
