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.
by Susan Lobb Porter | Art, Life |
This morning I stood on the concrete slab, surrounded by the ‘bones’ of my new studio.
Ahhhhhhhh… It is a GOOD space. Finished or not, the energy is THERE. The creative vibe.
I could feel it from the tip of my head to the soles of my feet. Like a humm.
My little creative chapel in the woods.
by Susan Lobb Porter | Art, Life |
Hello my sweetums…I’ve got such a treat in store for you! Really, a TREAT. Jump up and down. Get all excited. And then go grab some dark chocolate.
Go ahead, I’ll wait.
And while I’m waiting I’ll gaze adoringly at Precious Man Dog. The real deal is curled up against my thigh, crowding the laptop. But since there isn’t room here for all of you, the photo will have to do.
And yes, he is a cute as he looks.
He also loves me unconditionally. Totally. Worships me, even. And that’s why (ta ta drumroll please) Bean, AKA PMD, is on this week’s bliss list.
Bliss list? Yes, B.L.I.S.S. Everyday things that rock my world and make me smile with appreciation. And gratitude. Because gratitude is a big deal. And, umm…Universe? About that lotto win, the one next week? The one I’d be most grateful for? That would make the list for sure.
Now, back to the chocolate. Break off a small piece. Don’t eat it, savor it. Challenge yourself to experience it with all five senses. Take your time. Take as much time as you need. And when your senses are so full of chocolate goodness you’re about to explode, take a nibble. And let it Melt. On. Your. Tongue.
Ohhhhhhhh…bliss.
And then there’s the tree sweetened oranges. The oh so juicy, oh so sweet, eagerly awaited bring-on-the-first-hard-freeze addition to the produce aisle. The most insane burst of citrus in the world. Oh yeah…these suckers are on my list for sure. My bliss list.
Which is going to be a regular feature here at Arty Life. Because art is all about opening your eyes and SEEING the world. Appreciating the ordinary. Elevating the ordinary.
Why?
Well, Liv Lane, of Choosing Beauty fame, is inviting everyone to participate in the little bliss list. According to Liv, it’s “a chance for all of us to celebrate the little things that brought us hope and happiness this week.” She believes that “when we focus on the sweet stuff of life, the sweet stuff multiplies. And by sharing those small gifts in our lives, we help others notice the gifts in theirs.”
Well, I’m all for that! So every Friday (yes, I KNOW this is Saturday) every Friday I will share a list what was good that week. Of the little things that made me stop and appreciate the moment. And I hope you’ll share your lists in the comments section. And once I get the technical stuff figured out I’ll have links to other blogs who are doing the same thing. Notice the gifts and spread the luuuuuuuv.
But I’m not done yet. There’s still some bliss to share.
Like the satisfaction of a day spent in making art. A WHOLE day!!! These are works in Progress. Time well spent in Studio Grande painting in the zone.
After a day on my feet wielding a brush, a well deserved snuggle with Studio Quat.
And always, Miss Munchkin Fairy Princess. In my thoughts and heart even when she’s not visiting her Grandma.
Okay, now it’s your turn. Bring on your bliss.
by Susan Lobb Porter | Art, Life |
Right around this time last year one of those big Oh! birthdays was barreling towards me. Sucker was coming fast. I had to either jump out of the way or get steamrolled by another decade.
Well hell, I didn’t have time to get old. There were still too many things I had to do. Like breathe. And discover my bliss, much less follow it.
Because I’d spent all my life doing. Not being. I’d put my dreams on hold and taken time out to marry and raise a family. And then took care of my elderly mother. These were all good things and I’ve no regrets, none at all. Well, maybe one…I wanted to live before I died. Live for me.
And then I heard about SmARTist, a seven day telesummit professional development conference for visual artists. Call it a whim, call it a hunch, call it a major leap of faith…I decided to invest in myself. To revive the art career I’d carefully put in boxes and packed away when Firstborn, AKA Baby Marine, went to war.
I scraped together the money, because it wasn’t cheap, took the time off from work, told Mama even though the car was parked in front of the house I WAS NOT HOME and then, for seven days, I sat in front of the computer and filled an ENTIRE notebook with incredible insights and information.
By the time the seminar wrapped up I had booked my first show in seven years. Seven years. I had no current body of work. My mother was living in my studio so I had no place to make art. And worse…no clear vision of what I wanted to do. But I booked the show for November, figuring that gave me time to work things out.
Mama died last spring. Everything was put on hold as I took care of her through her final days. It wasn’t until June that I began making art again. And then there was no stopping me. I developed a strong body of work. Built a website, developed a blog. Been in two shows. Got a new studio under construction. I’ve been expanding my horizons through online classes and international networks of artists and writers.
I’m finding my creative tribe. And my creative vibe.
And it all started with SmARTist.
I’m spread a little thin these days. Got a lot going on, online and off. But when I saw the list of speakers and topics for SmARTist 2012, it was a no-brainer. And it starts today! YAY!!!
Other people my age may be looking forward to retiring but me? No way–I’m just beginning a new career.
And I’m loving EVERY minute of it!
by Susan Lobb Porter | Food, Recipes |
January. You know what that means…soup covers!
Soup covers? Umm-hmm…check out the women’s magazines. Practically every one of them sports bowls of steaming soup or chili on the cover this month. Because they KNOW a good many of us porked up over the holidays and want nothing more to do with food. Ever. Except comfort food. There’s always room for comfort food.
And what’s more comforting than soup?
Pause here for flashbacks of the Campbell kids. Rosy cheeks. Runny noses. A bowl of tomato soup with a side of grill cheese and that about sums up my childhood memories of winter. That and the tablespoon of wine Mama always gave us when we came in from the cold. “To warm us up.” We did a lot of running in and out of the house during those days.
Now fast forward to the present. Because this is about the soup I made tonight. My I-can-figure-this-recipe-out kale and white bean soup. I will tell you straight up that it was way better than last week’s supper nightmare. The one I talked about here.
Tonight’s soup was quite nice, actually.
First thing I did was admire an onion. Because I’m an artist and can focus in on almost anything. Which annoys Mr. Spouse to no end.
Just look at that texture. At the way the stem twists. And that round little body all covered in paper thin sheets. Luscious, luscious, luscious, I tell you. The artist in me had brief fantasies of forgetting about dinner. Of running off to the studio and having my way with Onion O’Mine and some charcoal.
But Hungry Girl took a deep breath and chopped it up instead. And then threw the bits in some olive oil and browned ’em. Just like that, without flinching even. Because Hungry Girl isn’t into anthropomorphizing vegetables.
Alas, no fresh garlic. Mine had seen better days and needed to go away. So I used garlic powder. How much? I dunno. Enough to fit in the cup of my palm.
The next step was to add one of those big boxes of chicken broth. This is a work night dinner, no homemade stock tonight, no overnight soaking of beans. I used two cans.
And then the spices. Oh my, thyme or rosemary? A search of the spice rack reminded me I’d used the last of the thyme so it became rosemary by default. Another handful measure. And salt and pepper.
And wine. White.
I let it cook for a bit, enough to soften the rosemary leaves. Then I put a bunch of it in the blender. Umm..note to self…the cover must be on securely before operating the blender. And don’t forget to put the laundry in the dryer before going to bed.
After I mopped the counter and the surrounding floor, I poured the pureed soup back into the pan. Gave it the taste test. Sigh…okay but something was missing.
Sausages! Smokey goodness. Of course!
I chopped them up, thinking all the while about a post I wrote earlier in the month. Don’t click on the link, fellas.
Puppies came running when they heard the kale. Yes, they know the sound of those leaves. They cannot get enough of it. By the way, the bean crusted jacket is in the wash right now.
I threw the kale in the soup, covered it and turned off the heat. Then I fed the horses, went down to the studio and fell asleep with Studio Quat on my lap. About an hour later I came back to the house. The soup was still hot and the flavors had had time to blend together just right.
Parmesan cheese on top, some sourdough bread on the side and dinner was delicious.
I ate two bowls.
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by Susan Lobb Porter | Art, Life |
Funny thing happened tonight. Not funny as in haha. Funny as in whack upside the head PAY ATTENTION. Universe does that sometimes.
And when I don’t listen, she does it again. And again and again until FINALLY the message sinks in.
Today’s message was (and you need to say this in your best Forest Gump voice because the Universe thinks it’s amusing), today’s message was your butt’s stuck, Susan.
Seriously, that’s what the Universe said. Because ever since I fell in that pothole a couple months back…fell on my butt, my tush has been getting tighter and tighter. But not in a good way. Not in a she’s-got-a-nice-tight-butt kind of way. Which I would like, really. No, it’s been getting painfully tight, like a certain celebrity’s face. Who I won’t name because that would be mean and would rain bad hiney karma down upon me.
I didn’t know how tight things were until I did an hour of yoga. Yin Yoga. Passive, restorative melt into the posture and hold it forever or until you die from boredom and/or pain yoga.
An hour where I discovered I really AM the age it says on my driver’s license. But not the weight. Or even the height.
Damn…
Yoga that used to come easy did not. But I did what I could, using props and patience and now I feel so much better. Like I’d been hit by a truck and survived. I want to do nothing more than crawl into bed, my new best friend.
But first I have to tell you about the second whack upside the head. That’s right, two in one day. TWO. And I saved the best for last because really, the first was TMI, but this…this is sooooooo cool. This time FaceBook channeled the Universe. FaceBook, without ANY prompting from me, took my timeline photo (which is loaded nowhere else) and put it out for the world to see. Just like that. Without any prompting from me. It’s a photo of one of my paintings from the last show. And in just a few hours tonight it got more likes and comments (and a share!) than anything I’ve ever posted.
And I didn’t even post it. Not officially anyway. I just wanted something that wouldn’t clash with my profile picture.
I get the hint, Universe. I FINALLY get it. There’s more than one way to stretch.
Time for some self promotion yoga.
The pieces from the last show have to be photographed. Real photos. And I have to upload them to my website. With prices and a shopping cart. Matter of fact, I have to put prices on the pieces that are already up. And I have to tell the world.
Because it’s time to come unstuck.
