"Forest Light"

oil on board, $250 not framed


CAMPING

The camping trip was to get me out of the city. I desperately needed some peace and quiet. I was burnt to a crisp from bartending and stressing with all the people and all the noise.

Three blissful days in the Sangre de Cristo mountains, in a valley with wild flowers, water in a creek and a half-dome tent. Bliss.

The first evening my boyfriend and I sat still and listened to all the quiet! It was actually a little frightening. Not a sound, nothing but the creek. Scary. We put up the tent in the light of the campfire and went to sleep.

The next morning was COLD, COLD! Brushing my teeth in the creek made me scream out from the pain of ice water on my teeth! Brrrrr... not to mention baring my bottom to pee! But OH! the smells and the sounds of the birds in a forest waking up with light! Is there anything better? I felt invigorated!

Oh, and I started my period. I had tampons so it wasn’t a big deal just bad timing.

That first morning my boyfriend snuck up on a fish (that’s what he told me). He reached into the creek and pulled out a trout with his bare hands! We were both surprised and so was the fish! I wouldn’t eat it. I figured it was hurt or sick or something. I never heard of anyone catching a trout barehanded! He cooked it on the little camp stove and giggled as he ate the whole thing. I munched on trail mix and wished the fish had been caught with a line.

That morning I painted and my boyfriend hiked around. He showed me what bear shit looked like. Wow. Who knew? I thought it would have been a 10 lb terd but it looked like pickling spice to me.

We were in an aspen grove so I chose to carve our initials in one of the aspens. It took me over an hour. I didn’t do it too big, just medium sized and out of view. I thought someday I’d come back to that tree and reminisce about “the good old days”. My boyfriend hated that I’d done that to a tree. Oh well.

The day flew by and we built our large campfire right at sundown. My boyfriend told me to toss my used tampons into the fire so bears wouldn’t catch the scent. HUH? He told me we might hear some rustling in the bushes because bears would be able to smell me “in heat”. You can imagine I did not sleep at all that night. I heard every sound for miles and miles and miles. No bears attacked us/me, I’m happy to report. But it made me uneasy.

The next morning, after our chilly awakening and tooth care, we cooked oatmeal on the little stove and planned our hike up the mountains. I was still scared of the bears finding me. My boyfriend said they wouldn’t come after me in broad daylight. They were brown bears. They didn’t do that.

We packed our goods and loaded up the heavy two back packs and took off for our quiet, private hike. We hadn’t gotten far when my boyfriend suggested we rest for a moment and turn to look at the view behind and below us, to soak it in and enjoy the panorama.

We watched in silence and it was really pure bliss.

I noticed some movement down below. Brown bears???

A minute later my boyfriend noted that the movement was coming up the mountain in our vicinity. Oh my, I was so scared. He wore a hunting knife on his hip but that was the only weapon we had.

Just as I was ready to run for it, I saw that the intruder (into our blissful experience) was a human. Still headed our way. The movie, “Deliverance” hadn’t been thought of yet, so a human didn’t scare me at all. But where was he going? He was coming our way but we weren’t on a trail! We were just in the middle of a forest!

Onward came the man. I thought perhaps he knew who we were and was coming to give us a message. There must be an emergency somewhere! My boyfriend agreed with me so we stood on the sloping hill to see where the man would go and wait for him.

When he got closer I could tell he was an American Indian and he even had a long black braid down his back. He had no backpack, no canteen, nothing in his hands. He was dressed in a flannel shirt and jeans.

When he got within 20 feet of us, my boyfriend called out to him,, “hello!”. He did not reply and kept coming to us. I looked at my boyfriend with a question mark! A BIG question mark! WTF?

He said, “hello” another time and suddenly the man was right in front of us. No one said a word. No one moved. We stared at each other, in silence.

After what seemed an eternity, the stranger said, “You’re in my way”, very matter of fact.

My boyfriend and I quickly separated so that he could walk between us. He continued up the hill and never looked back.

We went back to town. I never went camping again.

:Snow Cactus"

acrylic/canvas

DAN’L

Downhill skiing was my love when I was younger. I had a weekday pass and skied those five days each week, religiously. I looked forward to snow storms and cold weather. The more snow, the better. I wasn’t the best skier but I tried my hardest and enjoyed every minute of it. I skied with my usual group of two girlfriends and a few others who would join us, occasionally. It was always nicer to have someone to ski with, but I didn’t mind skiing alone, either.

My two skiing girlfriends and I worked at the same restaurant in Santa Fe. We skied until a little after 2:00pm and then raced down the hill in our cars to barely make it home, change clothes and be at work promptly at 4:30pm for the evening shift at The Pink Adobe restaurant. I was too young to be tired back then. I worked until after 11:00pm, usually, though occasionally it could be as late as midnight, if customers stayed too long. Then, I went home (if I didn’t say after work and have a glass of wine) and got up early the next morning to be at the ski basin by the time it opened for the first ski run all over again.

Those two Pink Adobe gals were several years younger than I. I was in my early thirties and they were twenty-something. We were always looking for guys and met a great number on the ski slopes. One of those young men was named Dan’l. We three ladies loved skiing with him because he was such a dare devil and made us laugh with his antics. He also skied in a snow suit that looked like something a logger would wear, rather than a guy who was trying to impress, suited up to the nines and unable to ski (as was usually the case). He skied about two or three days a week and we never knew when we would see him, or anything else about him.

Dan’l’s ski suit was a yellow-brown color and heavy canvas fabric. It gathered and tied at his chin. I couldn’t tell anything else about him because he always wore goggles, too. But he was hard to miss on the ski slopes because of that ugly outfit that totally covered him up. I could see him a mile away. We always waved to him and he joined us skiing for the day. I don’t remember when we met him but I do remember calling him “Daniel” and he corrected me by saying it was “Dan’l” and I left it at that.

One day I wasn’t able to make it skiing because I had my once a year appointment for a pap smear. I decided to go to the community clinic instead of my expensive gynecologist, because I was temporarily without funds. I wanted to check the place out anyway in case it was more prudent for me to go there in the future.

The waiting room was poor, with ancient furniture and low lighting in a very humble old adobe building. I read an old magazine and waited patiently for my name to be called. Oh, how I hated that yearly exam. I saw several nurses but only one doctor-looking person and that was a guy. Arrrrgh. I would rather have had a female to give me the exam, but I was there and I had to go through with it.

I was called to the examining room, told to remove my clothes from the waist down and perched myself on the table as the nurse left the room. I put my legs into the freezing cold stirrups that gave me a shiver up my backside. I waited in that totally vulnerable position with my private parts facing the door for what seemed like an hour!

Finally the nurse entered the room, followed by the doctor. He was about my height (though it was hard to tell when I was laying down) with sandy-blond hair in a ponytail, and a beard and moustache the same color. He was skinny and seemed a little embarrassed and awkward when he approached my “vajayjay”.

The doctor small-talked me as he began the exam (with those cold forceps and prying finger), which is what they all did, as if it would break the ice and put you more at ease and it never did. I ignored him as best I could until he looked up and over the sheet that covered me and said, “Hi Polly, it’s me, Dan’l”. I almost fainted.

“Oh!”, I said too loudly, “I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on”. The nurse began to laugh, Dan’l blushed and I couldn’t find the right words to explain to the nurse that I’d never seen Dan’l in anything but his ski suit!! I didn’t even know what he looked like. He knew what I meant but didn’t say anything. It was a very awkward moment! He was finished with the exam, at that point. He told me I could get dressed and the clinic would let me know how my pap smear came out via a letter in the mail.

At a total loss of words, I blurted out, trying to be friendly and polite, “Thanks Dan’l, that was great!”. Both he and the nurse stood, shocked momentarily, at the open door before they burst out laughing. I tried to correct what I just said but it was too late.

I raced to work, found my two skiing buddies and screamed, “You’ll never guess who I just saw!”

Oddly enough, we never saw Dan’l again. I have no idea what happened to him. My friends teased me that I had scared him off........um, er, no pun intended.

"Olde Tired Shoe"

acrylic/canvas 16 x 9"

DINNER WITH THE OUTLAW

My in-laws were made of a different fabric than the bias cut I came from. They were conservative, socially correct, very proper at all times and quiet.

They did not drink alcohol except in times of celebration and then only one glass of Mogan David wine, at the most! That is what they ordered in restaurants. Although I was not quite old enough to drink, I knew their choice of beverage was wrong because it was laughed and snickered over by the waiters who rolled their eyes when they heard the wine order.

My in-laws did not read. My mother-in-law told me, when I asked where her bookshelves were located the first time I visited their house, “Well, I don’t reeeeeeead!” She added, “Other than Vogue magazine”.

She was a stay-at-home housewife who wore pearls, a diamond ring, a dress you would never cook in and 2 ½ inch heels everyday, all day long. She could not walk in any flat-footed shoes because she’d worn heels all her life. She got her hair done once a week and if it got messed up or dirty, she dry-washed it (something I was very perplexed about and am to this day). She owned two pair of trousers and they were 100% silk. The woman never owned a pair of denims. The rest of the wardrobe was dresses, mostly silk.

He ran a trust-fund account for a girl whose parents had died and left her a huge sum of money. Most of the time there apparently was nothing for him to do except report to work everyday in case something came up. The day my young husband and I paid a surprise visit to see him, he was sitting in a huge office with no esoteric furnishings and nothing but a big, empty desk except for one paper in front of him that looked like a prop and a dusty telephone.

Every time I went to their house for dinner, he first grabbed me by the arm in a twisting, burning way and slammed his open hand on my back in a friendly (?) gesture. I learned to duck when he came to grab me. It was always obvious to everyone else in the room, but he never seemed to be offended and he surely didn’t stop. He’d start punching and I’d wriggle out from his grip and keep my distance the rest of the evening. I almost always had a bruise on my arm by the time I got home, from his friendly “horse-play”.

When I was in their house I felt like an elephant, sure that I would knock over the flimsy 1950’s two-tiered table or break one of her inexpensive Oriental vases. I was loud, gangly and reeking of hormones.

She was very cold to me. I don’t think she ever warmed up. Her pink frosted fingernails were carefully and professionally manicured into pointed tips and they looked deadly. I was told to call them Mr. and Mrs. even several years after I married their son.

Going to their house for dinner was an ordeal for me. I started a slow, deadly laugh almost as soon as Mr. grabbed my arm when I walked into the house. I carried that dangerous nose-snort all through dinnertime with the crescendo occurring some time during dessert. And, with everyone at the table pretending I wasn’t doing it made it even funnier to me! My husband would kick and pinch me under the table in exasperation until he finally realized it made me laugh even more.

We began by admiring the dining room table right away. It was always gift-wrapped for the occasion. Birthday dinner? No problem; big, colorful wrapping paper with big wide ribbon criss-crossing into a 6” bow in the middle. Family dinner? Big brown satin wrapping paper with big gold bow. Christmas? You guessed it, green wrapping paper with giant red bow; St. Patrick’s Day, New Years Day, Valentines was a biggie, too!
And the Easter and Christmas tables were sparkly with sequined Styrofoam eggs or round balls. Mrs. spent months and months sticking the sequins into the decorations with straight pins. I always wondered if the decorations would stay on the table next to the mashed potatoes or Iceberg lettuce. I kind of wanted them to. And sometimes they did.

After we were all seated I began my decent into hidden-laughter hell. This was the typical itinerary:

Mr. picked up the yellow, plastic dog bowl that belonged to Bambi, the resident Chihuahua. In the silence of that moment, he cut up food on his plate and put it into the dog bowl that was one inch from his plate. This was a ritual. No one spoke at all and all that time Bambi was whining with expectation! After he handed the bowl to the dog on the floor, he bowed his head, as did we all, and said, every time, “God is great, God is good, thank thee Father, for our food” which sent me into peals of laughter and usually an excuse to use the bathroom where I would recover enough to finish the meal.

When I returned to the table no one would look at me. Everyone would just chew. And chew. And chew. The vegetables were never cooked enough and in that small space of a dining room, the only sound was people eating! There was never any music or chatter.

Mrs. had a teeny-tiny, one inch high dinner bell that she would ring, ting, ting, ting and instantly, the maid, who had been 2 ½ feet away in the dining room appeared and gathered up whatever needed to be gathered up or served whatever needed to be served. That bell would set my laughter off again as my husband had my thigh in a chokehold, under the table. By this time I was wearing a shit-eating grin from ear to ear (no pun intended). I was the outcast, the troublemaker, the outlaw. I couldn’t stop laughing. No one spoke. It was so funny. And, it happened every time.

Coffee and a decorated cake were served with fancy china and serving spoons immediately after dinner. The cake always fit the theme of the wrapped dinner table. Everyone was expected to ohhh and ahhh. I chuckled.

Mrs. only poured ½ cups of coffee. I hated that. I put in my 3 tablespoons of sugar and filled the other ½ of the cup with “half and half”. I didn’t see what the big deal was with coffee. It wasn’t anything I ever drank except at their house.

Afterward we went into the cinderblock 6’ x 40’ den. Mrs. Changed her dress to a silk caftan and high heel shoes from India. We watched Ed Sullivan or the likes and then Mr. drifted off to dreamland in his lounger with very unsightly snorts and hoots and jerks and that cued Mrs. to drag me over to the card table for a round or three of gin rummy until she got tired and wanted to go to bed.

That was a typical dinner with the in-laws, for nine years, until the outlaw in me asked and got a divorce from the whole family.

"Red-Tipped Agave" 33 x 50" acrylic/canvas


YOU CAN’T GO BACK

This time last year, I was driving to the airport to pick up “the love of my life” or so I thought. Christmas was just a blur because I wanted December 26th to arrive! We’d recently reconnected via FaceBook and with several phone calls, all seemed too good to be true! The last time I’d seen him was 1980, in Tucson.

Meeting him at the airport was glorious after not seeing him for 28 years. I was shaking with anticipation as he came down the steps toward me. I recognized him right away. Only his hair was greyer over time.

Otherwise, he looked the same... until he smiled an alarming very WHITE, long-of-tooth smile. I later learned these were the "newest teeth" (I didn't pry, no pun intended). I overlooked this. We had sworn our love over the telephone. He called me his “muse”. I told him I’d loved him all this time. Teeth were NOT going to get in the way!

From the very moment after our embrace, he began talking... And talking... and talking... and, you guessed it, talking. I thought perhaps it was the "moment" but he continued all the way to my house, and more. I think he liked my house but by then he was talking about Turkey and Israel so I'm not sure. And he burped, quietly at first, stifling the belch with his fist but that also continued throughout the visit. I have never seen anyone have this much gas.....or should I call it "hot air"?

I gave him his Christmas presents, a very pricey bottle of single malt scotch, a coffee cup that said, "Mr. Right", a little buddha (because he assured me over the long conversations, that we had over the phone when he did all the talking, that he was very Zen - uh, really?), and a "Keep Austin Weird" pricey book. He gave me some Japanese, obscure writer's novel (and talked about him for another hour or three) and a Guide to Paris book (because we thought we would go there together. He talked and talked about how much he reads.

We went to eat Texas Bar-B-Que and had baby back ribs and he talked with Bar-B-Que sauce on his large teeth the whole time, and burped and belched all the way home.

He then suggested we put our “jammies” on. I loved the idea but he didn't leave my bedroom and as I awkwardly stood there with jammies in hand, he pulled his pants off (leaving on his shorts) so I just stripped down; what the heck? He seemed stunned and didn’t say a word. I quickly put on my flannel jammies and that was that.

We watched crime shows and snuggled in my bed until my first hot flash hit.......I jumped up, ripped off those hot flannels and got back in bed.....he didn't move. I told him sleeping with him was just like having a "sleep over". It wasn’t until then I realized he wasn't interested.....and he wasn't.

So the next day I took that rejection hard (no pun here) and felt he didn't like me physically because he has professed such love over the phone. I was hurt. He hadn't yet told me his libido is zilch. So, I took it to be me.

We went to Whole Foods because he wanted to see it and the noise and crowd and his yammering drove me over the edge! When we got to the underground parking lot I asked him to PLEASE be quiet and give me a few minutes....I felt as though I'd been spat out of a hurricane! He gave me about 3 minutes of silence, realizing my angst, but burped and belched as I pulled out of the parking lot. And then he resumed his constant, never-ending chatter all the way home.

We put the groceries (for dinner) up and went to eat Mexican food where I downed three (!) beers! I never drink during the day! I took a longgggggggggggggg nap, alone. I didn't want to get up and face the chatter but I had to.

He asked to help chop food and cook the Irish Stew I was making for dinner. He talked the whole time about all the books he has read. I asked if he had read any of my short stories on my blog because I'd told him about my writings many times and how it is something I love (if he had written a blog I would have been so interested in it and what he wrote about). He told me he didn't read "blogs" and didn't want to get involved in them! Wha....................? I told him it was just like reading a page in a book, for god's sake. He told me he MIGHT try, "sometime". Again, I was hurt. He was not interested in my writings nor my paintings nor, it seemed, me.

We ate the damn stew and he belched and belched and belched and belched....I suggested he might sleep better on the day bed in the extra room. He jumped at the chance saying "your bed is so small". I reminded him that I'd told him that over the phone and he'd pooh-poohed that! But, we both slept a better night away from each other!

The next day he'd talked me into driving him to San Antonio to see the Alamo. He'd always wanted to see that. He talked the whole way. Arrrrrrrrrgh. I turned on the radio. He turned down the sound. I gave up. I suggested we were NOT going to make it as a couple. He agreed. I also suggested he might want to leave New Year's day (probably not many travelers that day) or earlier (this was December 29th). He'd bothered me many times about making reservations somewhere for New Year's Eve for us but I'd hesitated up to this point because I don't like to drive that night.

Finally we got back to Austin after he'd spoken at least 5,000,000 words. It was a relief to walk my dog and get away from him. He said he wanted to check flights on the internet, anyway.

I got back about 10 minutes later, dreading the chatter I would be facing. We were supposed to meet some of my friends at an art opening at Hyde Park Bar and Grill in another hour. When I walked in the house he was smiling the biggest white tooth smile I'd seen him smile and he announced he would be flying out the next morning at 6:30am. And, could I awaken us at 4:00am to take him to the airport?

I stood with my mouth agape. I was screaming "YEAH!" inside but then thinking how damn impulsive everything had been about this relationship and how I'd let myself get rushed along with it and now here we stood, his complete disregard for my feelings, time, life. My ire surfaced and I said, calmly, "Get your things together and pack them up. Make a reservation at the airport hotel (I was looking up their phone number on the internet for him) for tonight because I am driving you to the airport, right now!”

He said, "Oh, but I thought we were going to the art opening!"

I said, "Get your bags packed, NOW! This bus is LEAVING!"

He said, "Sheesh!" and packed them up, fast.

He small-talked me to death all the way to the airport. It was the beginning of 4:00pm traffic so I sped 80 mph to get there so god forbid, we wouldn't get stalled in traffic and I'd have to kill him to quiet the endless, mindless chatter.

I sped up to the entrance and said a quick good bye and he asked if I would get out of the car and give him a goodbye hug. I said no and the porter was opening his side door. The second he got out I left rubber in my speed to get out of there! I screamed out loud with relief as I approached the first stop sign. Luckily I encountered very little traffic on the way home.
When I got home I stood stunned in my kitchen for an hour wondering "What just happened?" Instead of going to the art opening, I went to bed and slept 15 hours without waking. My energy level was completely empty, sucked out like the wind.

You can't go back. It isn't there anymore.

THE NUTCRACKER

A week before Christmas, 1987, my next-door neighbor asked me to go with him to see the recital of The Nutcracker at a Santa Fe school auditorium. His teenage daughter was dancing in the performance.

While his daughter was sweet and kind to everyone, he was a prissy lawyer, opinionated and very unpredictable. I hesitated over the invitation but accepted it in the Christmas spirit. After all, what could go wrong at a children’s ballet recital? I was going to take my own car but he insisted that I ride with him in his new BMW.

Our seats were a little farther back than I would have liked because we arrived just as The Nutcracker began. We got comfy and settled in for the two hour performance, beginning with the sweet cherubs in tutu’s dancing to Tchaikovsky’s familiar music. It was all so precious. The usual lost little lambs, confused over shouted directions from backstage, caused uproarious laughter from the audience with every single dance performance.

As the evening wore on, the children became a little older with each dance and a little more physically adept. It was absolutely delightful. My neighbor pointed out that his daughter’s performance would be in the second half of the show, after the pre-teens.

After intermission, the lights faded to a blackout and an enormous clatter of teenage feet lumbered onto the stage. When all was quiet and settled, the lights came slowly up until a dusk effect was established. The girls were dressed in black tights and long sleeved black tee shirts. They were silhouettes against the dim background lighting.

In unison with the music, the girls twirled in their ballet slippers, did one very loud leap and landing and kicked up one leg, much to everyone’s surprise. An astonished, “Ohhhhhh” and “Ahhhhhh” was uttered by the audience, also in unison, as the white crotchlet in the black tights of each girl literally screamed out an announcement that the costume lady had not checked the tights for such an obvious blunder, beforehand.

The girls did not know their illumined crotches were what the audience could see and no matter how much the parents did not want to focus on that fact, it was all too obvious and the only thing noticed. With each kick of their legs, the audience gasped aloud. There was no stopping it, until the last tawdry thrust.

Unfortunately, I’d never seen anything so funny and I laughed so hard I couldn’t stop. Because my neighbor’s daughter was in the dance, he did not think it was funny, nor did he appreciate my hysterical giggling. The sterner he got with me, the more I laughed and snorted through my nose.

After the bows and applause for the unsuspecting divas had finished, my neighbor angrily grabbed my hand and announced he was taking me home. I gladly went with him and he drove in silence to our compound. I got out of the car and thanked him and he sped off, back to the recital to retrieve his daughter, furious with me.

Whenever I hear “The Nutcracker” or think of it, my mind always goes to those white cotton crotches in the center of those black tights, and I laugh and laugh. I LOVE ballet recitals!

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

"Christmas"

My Christmas

As Christmas nears I find I am very thankful.

I am thankful that I am a thinking, compassionate person, unlike so many others.....

Remindful of a old friend who wrote on FaceBook how she ONLY got jobs that paid good health insurance when her children were young (circa 1980) and was willing to pay anything for health insurance and HOW dare anyone whine about not having health insurance today (keep in mind she never realized the difference in 1980 and 2009 in cost), and screw anyone who doesn’t have health insurance!!!! AND her husband is paying all the insurance so she really has no clue what health insurance costs. She is mostly interested in the fact that they have an RV that is totally outfitted and are building a second home in Mexico...

Then there is a friend from grade school who wrote such sweet things to me at first, as a “Christian”, until I became freaked at her usage of “He” said and in “His” name and I questioned her about it and her response was, “Oh things have never been good enough for you!” and with that, our correspondence was over. How very “Christian” of you! Oh and did I mention that her sister died of cancer many years ago? Turns out she WAS a liberal. She said her sister was unstable. How very “Christian” of you to think that way and to not love her regardless of your opposite viewpoints. My feelings are with the dead sister, not the biased “Christian”. I find I don’t like these kinds of “Christians” anymore.

Oh and then there were the university art students whose focus was on the fact that I turned a painting of a masturbating gerbil to the wall because 1.) the horrible overuse of yellow and 2). the inappropriateness of the ridiculous subject matter and 3.) the horrible rendering of said masturbating gerbil and therefore lost my job because the respected and honored tenured professor made sure I was relegated to a lesser studio (because of his complaints and promise to me, to get even), causing me to lose my eight year job and much aggravation in the fact that the rooms I was relegated to with 15 students didn’t even have tables to lay out art supplies. Did I mention that this professor gave the really awful artwork an “A”? He and the students came after me with pent up anger and rage that was astonishing and really had nothing to do with me turning the painting to the wall so it wouldn't offend people who didn't want that sort of "art" in their face.

I am also thankful that I left a town with SOME people who did not know how to forgive even the slightest transgression. I’ve never seen anything like it. I hope I never do again.

I am thankful to be back in this wonderful environment. I had to leave here before to realize how much I appreciated it. I do not find the bias and two-faced vindictiveness that I experienced every day for nine years before I returned to New Mexico. Oh yes, I am so thankful to be home. I feel safe here. I feel like there is hope in the world. I do not feel judged but accepted, regardless of my non-insurance, my liberalness, my art background, my religious preferences.

Merry Christmas to those who grasp the concept of a Christ teacher who only tried to preach forgiveness and love and to those of you who don’t get it, may you be blessed even in your ignorance.

Nasmaste.

Speaking of Katrina and the lies of the Corps of Engineers and their coverup........

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