Doesn't that sound terrible. Not that winter wasn't long enough, cold enough or snowy enough (it never is for me, I love winter! and notoriously hunker down like a well-cared for groundhog.
But every spring there's a disaster, either a stray baby bunny, or a bird that sluggishly forgot to fly in the face of disaster (everything from tumbling prematurely from it's nest to facing up to the neighborhood cats.)
Two nights ago my vegging in from of IDOL was interrupted by what I though was a loud quacking sound. It didn't appear to come closer or move at all for that matter.
"Keep Lily in," I yelled not wanted to complicate matters by adding a nutty dalmation to what was CERTAINLY an injured duck.
I looked behind me; my daughters had followed me with flashlights (bless them, if you announce something loud enough you really can call out the reserves, even on American Idol night!)
"The sound isn't moving,"my youngest added moving the flashlight over the ground from where the sound came. "Oh, no," she murmured scrambling over the chicken wire fence that serves as property boundery all around us.
"There's a dog involved."
"Great," said my eldest. "You're going to be defending an injured duck against a dog?"
My youngest, now in our neighbors pitchblack heavily wooded yard swiftly spanning light over the ground. "I don't see the duck"
"Well what do you see," I called back, now heavily suspicious that we were in proverbial, uh, "wild goose chase".
"Hang on," she called back. "A dog. A little orange dog tied up out here"
"Where's the duck?" my eldest and I called back.
"Do you still hear quacking?"
"Yes, we do!"
"Well guess what. That's the sound this dog makes."
Her beam of light returned to the fence, where she scrambled over as deftly as before, muttering something about "better not tear my last pair of clean jeans."
We all gladly, plowed back into the house for the last five minutes of Idol.

I hate spring.

It followed a blizzard, day of watching the weather, listening to the weather, phone calls about University being closed and did we know. It didn't matter, in 8" of snow and the expressway closed because of jack-knifed trailers, who was going to go anyway?
So, Tuesday, which should have been snuggly, cuddly, hunker down with artwork, didn't happen.
Then Wednesday, ah, beautiful sun making Tuesday's snow sparkle. Today we hunker. Uh uh. Son lost/quit job because Tuesday's snow. Falls asleep late afternoon. Sure I'll eat with you guys, as soon as I wake up. Daughter with 5-8:00 class so dinner about 8:00 is fine. We'll dine. Pretend we're aristocrats (do they still dine at 8:00)Chelsea Clinton spoke at my daughter's college, I should ask her LOL. Think security would let me close enough to ask what time aristocrats eat?
9:00 son wakes up, hasn't eaten but would my oldest daughter go with him to Wal-Mart. At 9:00, I ask? It's bedtime? I guess only for people who have to go to school or work. Or who were up the previous day worrying about the snow for the people who quit/lost their jobs.
They return with movie, about 4 goofy brothers on a train, all after some exotic girl who cries a lot. They haven't spoken in a year, I don't know why and by the end of the movie truly didn't care, but wondered why Bill Murray had a cameo shot in the beginning and never returned. I might have liked the movie better, if I hadn't wondered why Bill Murray, dressed in 30's something clothing was running for the train. The train got lost somewhere. Part of the dopey brothers' itinerary was to locate their mother in a convent at the foot of the Himalayas. Someone mentioned Key Lime pie at this moment, jerking me to partial awakeness, (that along with my educated daughter asking if the Himalayas are in the states) and of course I needed a piece to bring me to full awakeness since the quest for the mother in the convent didn't quite do it.
Then good night everyone, I'm leaving, and son, with his movie, departs for his home a full two blocks away (and mother telling him to drive carefully and put his car in the garage) It might snow.

It's been one of those years and it probably won't culminate in raucous celebration of the holidays. I was feeling a bit funky about the fact that mid-December, presents hadn't been bought, a tree wasn't up, and yet again my dear spouse and I were in a hospital room with a relative. Nothing serious, but mom needed TLC non-theless, which we were happy to give, grateful that at 80, she hadn't been hospitalized with more than a hip replacement.
So when my daughter invited me to join her and my other daughter for a Christmas program where she volunteers, I chomped at it. This is no ordinary school where my youngest volunteers. Set in a vintage brick Catholic school, run by nuns, most of the students are learning disabled and/or autistic. The auditorium was packed with hopeful parents, younger siblings, and friends who came just because they cared. A more entertaining evening couldn't have been had if I'd paid a ticket for a Broadway Christmas show.
Parents cheered, children waved from their places in the chorus or stage. Lines memorized (probably when Halloween decorations were being put up) were delivered without flaw. I went home a bit teary-eyed and with more Christmas spirit than I'd had all season.
I highly recommend this repast from crowded malls and Discover statements. Finagle anyway you can, an invitation to your local scout troup's, piano teacher's, grade school's, annual Christmas program. It will do your heart good.
Merriest of Christmases, belated Happy Chanukah, Kwanzaa, and Eid to all who celebrate. May they make your homes brighter and warmer and bring your family and friends closer.

It's a heady thing, each new illustration assignment. So why do we illusrators freeze for a moment to take it all in. I almost want to go on a vacation and just let it sink in. I reread the text, imagine all the possibilities, and then stare at the paper. White and intimidating. Rough sketches, they look awful. But they have an energy that will go along with the the new enthusiasm; a month from now I'll be struggling to recreate that enthusiasm.
Whenever I was disappointed in a young male interest, my mother always said, "Someone better will come along." And they did.
But in this industry, I always wonder about those that got away. And what I did wrong.
So now, someone good has come along. Hmmm, I muse, will it be permanent. Am I just on "spec"? Only time will tell.
White paper. It stares back.

Today is our anniversary. 28th in fact. We've nearly made it to my parents 36th before my dad died. Further than my sister's 15th. We'll likely never make it to my husband's parents' anniversary, 60 something. No, we started out to late for that; and really, who needs a gold 50 on a cake. Who really needs cake for that matter.
It causes me to reflect on just what it is by which e measure an anniversary.

Do we just click off the years? Oh, Lord, I hope not. Prisoners do that.
Do we look at what we've acquired financially. Again, I hope not.
Do we reflect on our hopes and dreams when we walked down the aisle, starry eyed, to say our "I do's"? Did we really have dreams? Young people generally live in the moment. I'm sure we were no different.
So that's not a good idea, life happened and many of those plans never materialized.
Or do we treat it like a miniature New Years. Like our birthday's; marking the occasion that we were born and hope to have a new starting place to do what we didn't do last year.

This comes close. So for all the plans that we didn't do and can still do, without reflecting too heavily on those that may never happen, Happy Anniversary, honey. And here's to many more. I wouldn't be in this, however it goes, with anybody else. (and how many 20 somethings can say that!)

"You know," I said, albeit slightly nagging,"I'd love to just once get up REALLY early on a weekday morning, pack a small bag and take off for a destination unknown. Wouldn't that be romantic? Huh? What did you say dear?" I paused waiting for a response. "Nothing spectacular, maybe an overnight." He just looked at me.

I heard him during the night. Mooching; that's pretty typical for one who has always slept with one eye open anyway. maybe getting on the computer. Oh, why does he do that? He'd go back to sleep if he'd just stay in bed.
I returned to my dream. He was probably on the computer. The next sound I heard was wretching. Uh, oh.

"OK, hon?" I holler. Hope above hope that it's just the pepperonia pizza we ate WAY
too late after a family outing to Sandusky and I can go back to bed.

5:00 AM A shadow at the side of the bed tells me it wasn't pepperoni; in my
semi-conscious mind it's reminiscent of my children when they were small, needing mom. But fully awake now, I see it's my husband and it's serious.
"I need to go to emergency." and then adds, "but I can drive myself." My first impulse was to say, "Are you nuts?" But settled for, "I want to go with you. If they admit you for an emergency surgery, I want to be there." Now how did I know Surgery would be in the mix?

You know the little charts of smiley faces, to help patients indicate their pain level?
He had all the earmarks of topping out that chart by the time we reached the hospital.
As we're making our way through the early morning countryside to the local hospital which is located in a somewhat rural area, I say to mayself, "This wasn't quite what I had in mind for an early morning getaway." A word to the wise, when going to emergency and there is pain, emphasize said pain, you'll be treated much faster.
I thought of worst case scenarios as we waited in the small curtain-drawn cubicle. Heart attack? No, location of pain is wrong. An EKG ruled that out. Gall bladder?
Oh, God, stage 4 carcinoma that no one noticed. OK, now I was hedging on the ridiculous.
Down for a CT scan. Nothing significant. Bless our PCP who ordered a CT scan WITH CONTRAST. Aha! Eight hours later we have an answer. Acute apendicitis.
"Sweetheart, you could't have done this when you were 8?" Ready to burst literally, he is whisked away to surgery. Doctor, surgeon, anesthetist, all look young enough to be my kids. Maybe it's the ER lighting. He's in good hands, I tell myself. He's in God's Hands, I tell myself again.

Today he's home resting comfortably. Being watched like a hawk, I might add so he doesn't overdo.
Whosever hands he's in, Thank you thank you.
I'll just shut my mouth about early morning surprise getaways.

For all the buildup I enforced on myself, it didn't last nearly long enough. An email to my inbox indicated a new literary gent. I was sure I had just what she was looking for. My hands literally shook with the promise of contact. How long would I have to wait for a response? A week? Two? Maybe it didn't arrive in her box at all.

I needn't have worried. One hour. One hour for a cursory thank you for considering her and wishing me luck elsewhere. It was a little like being stood up. I had sent only a query. What can you tell from a query? And my query matched what the interview I was forwarded said she was looking for. If you're not looking for that, why put it in an interview? Did she have some magic insight into my writing and illustrating abilities?

And then it got personal; she doesn't like red hair. I'm too fat, too thin, too tall. Silly? Of course; but you do remember junior high, right. And where our work is concerned, aren't we really all still 12?

I said goodbye to my sister on June 3, 2007. It was expected, but not yet. It's always too soon. The pain she experienced shook my faith to it's core. Not only did I lose a sister, but a partner in crime from our younger days, a historian (one whom I could bounce memories off of) and a constant validator of my ever-decreasing memory.
Closing out her life has been difficult, in part because I shared her with an entire community. She was the champion of those who loved the arts, the last of the classical piano teachers in our area. Shoes I could never hope to fill. She was president of the local arts commission, participating in juried shows for youngsters who'd rather paint or draw than play on the soccer field. (Yes, there are some.)
She was generous to a fault; paying for services that every member of my family would have happily done for free. A lunch out was a special delight for all my kids when they were younger, and my girls especially as they got older.
But perhaps most significantly, the last of our family. The name we grew up with, the spelling of which changed with every generation, dies with us. There are no more relatives, parents, aunts and uncles. (Don't let me dismiss my cousins, however; they are numerous and have been albeit by email a constant support system throughout this ordeal.)
But as always, when we say goodbye, our mortality is left dangling by a thread.
Enjoy your most deserved eternity, sis.

I love houses. Really. I love being in them, painting them, speculating about them. I even love peeking in the windows of abandoned homes. So when this week's ILLUSTRATION FRIDAY topic, REMEMBER, appeared in my inbox, I was in my element. This is an example of what I'm reasonably sure I'd do on the side, if I were good enough. Houses. I'd illustrate houses. Especially the pre-War 20's something Tudor home with stucco and beams.
I've driven by this home, now owned by the bank, numerous times; it's fodder for my imagination. I picture getting up in the morning here, mowing the long rolling lawn. (With a hand mower, can you imagine that?) Being the lady of the house and entertaining 20's style as my mother might have.
So the sunset is editorial, I guess, a time gone by.

I sat at my drawing table this morning staring, yes, staring at a nearly completed illustration. Wondering. How do we even attempt to illustrate there and then. It's a concept I was told not to even attempt to write about for children under age 9-10 or thereabouts. (Early days of kiddie-lit, and those rules might have changed.)
I love historical fiction and keep hoping the interest could translate well into a PB or atleast a picture storybook. And so I keep plugging away at mine, set in preWWII Europe against the backdrop of KRISTALLNACHT, the night of broken glass. So Ilook at my MC's grandfather, blowing the shofar in a PRE WAR aynagogue. Where would he have stood. In front of the bimah? Are the curtains of the Aron Kodesh (literally holy closet, containing the Torah scrolls). I know European synagogues were beautifully ornate, their destruction yet another travesty of the war, but I have as resource pics only black and white. So I ponder; if I wasn't there, can I illustrate it?
Back to doing research, I came upon an amazing article about the TRIANGLE shirtwaist factory fire. I've read compelling adult fiction written with this subject as it's theme. FOR THE LOVE OF MIKE by Rhyss Bowen, immediately comes to mind. Maybe the key is in research, or love of the subject. And maybe it's being patient.
Whatever it takes, I'm back to the drawing board to poke at it until it feels right.

Looked at the calendar and the week is already more frantic than I want it to be. It seems most engagements are frivolous and have very little to do with what I ought to be doing. And the beginnings of nice weather won't work in my favor, I can tell that right now. I'll be pokier, want to be outside, wonder what I should really be working on in the absence of any real assignments.
Did finish submission to ILLUSTRATION FRIDAY, well sort of. The suject wasn't one I'd illustrated in the past, but WANTED TO. Thought it might be a good subject for a PB or card. So kind of a rough is what I submitted for this week. I really wanted to do Aurora Borealis against a polar icecap; and still may. But basically POLAR was play for me this week. Also working of the finish of a spread for a picture STORYBOOK I've been working at for far too long; (not having a print home for it as yet does cut one's enthusiasm.)
The coffee pot is plubbing away and it promised to be at least a warm, if only partly sunny day. Clouds rolling in against the semi-budding trees looks as though the world hasn't yet decided if it's winter or spring.

Last night my family experienced the truest sign of spring in NW Ohio. The Maumee river Walleye run. The doll fly venders, fishing boats, men lined side by side in chest waders hoping to catch their limit; this is spring for us. The Maumee is so narrow in parts that fishermen facing each other from opposite ends get their lines tangled.It's a beautiful river, albeit pristine, with woods up to its shore in many places.
It brings back memories for me becuse fishing was one of my husband's and my first dates. In fact I received chest waders for a birthday present the first year we dated.
And now we walk, too many years later to recall. We pick up spinners, doll flies, sometimes a few sinkers embedded in the gravel long the road. But mostly we watch for deer, enjoy the Canadian geese, which while many never left, are returning from their winter vacationing grounds. We usually go after dinner, near sunset, giving us all a longing to be in the river.
The park rangers hover predictably near, watching for the occasional offender, snagging, not catching through the mouth, going beyond the present limit of 3 fish.
Most obey the laws, licenses are expensive after all, $20.00 a piece. No one wants his license revoked, because sometimes just the promise of that perfect catch, is worth the hours of standing in the river with nothing. And for me, just once more standing in the river would be worth it all.

I'm once again sitting in a puddle of drool over another illustrator's work. If you haven't visited the SCBWI site and seen the most frequent Winner, do so. Hannah Harrison's work is not to be missed. If you can imagine whimsical artwork with fine art skills you'd just about have it. But the rich colors and the fresh clean look are beyond description. Her black and white incorporate crosshatch with humor, a combination that gives a bit of a nostalgic feel. In all her site is one to be closely examined.

I treated myself to a one hour broadcast on TMC. Wednesday's Child; the 1930's version of the child of divorce. Solved of course in one hour. Plot line:
Mother has an affair.
Child sees her (of all things) kissing another man.
Friends see this as well and of course taunt the child.
Parents divorce.
Child goes to court.
Mother remarries and gets custody for most of the year. Father has custody June through Sept.
Of course we see the fleeting months by way of the calendar against the backdrop of seasonal changes and the boy's wishful narrative. Wow! wouldn't that simplify things for writers!Love those flipping calendars.
Child FINALLY gets to go home to father. Enter Father's new love interest.And of course pending marriage will be just the week he'd promised a fishing trip with the boy. (hasn't that been done before!!!)
Child FAINTS. And of course a nurse is called in to stay by his bedside.
What to do, what to do. Doctor advises (despite the fact he doesn't like to talk about these things. MILITARY SCHOOL, the usual solution.
Jump ahead to boy in full military school regalia. Father comes to visit. Brings gift.
Roommate advises that visits will become few and far between and gifts are proof of waning visits.
Father overhears conversation just as mother is arriving for her visit.
Again what to do, what to do.
Father knows just what to do. He'll cancel wedding plans and make a home for the boy.
THE END.
Aside from the frequent, "dahling" and "Golly Dad" the dialogue was believable. And the plot was NO LESS believable than some of the fare offered up in today's cinema. Ah, but try this in a manuscript and see upon whose slush pile lands.
I have to admit, dispite the obvious flaws, it did make for a feel-good hour.

Usually I'm up before the alarm, but this morning I indulged and listened extra appreciatively to those extra house sounds. You know, the ones that say everyone is home, safe and sound. I hate to dwell on the news, in fact I often avoid listening to the 11:00 news, but the Virginia tech slayings and parents receiving that awful news is going to keep cropping up in my mind. Having college age (and a bit older) kids, I wonder where they can go to be safe and enjoy the accroutements of everyday life. So I say a little prayer of gratitude that for this moment, everyone is home. and that will last until they all pull out of the drive.

I think I'm chasing myself all over the place. If I didn't need a cane occasionally, I think I would. So what's the solution to being all over the place. Wanting to succeed in this industry, and by that I don't mean JUSTthe children's book industry, but illustration in general. I'm finishing a piece for my own PB which I've long since lost genuine interest in. My editor hasn't found children's books to be lucrative and most authors I illustrated for have gone to greener pastures (and not invited me along for the ride LOL)
I think following one's passion is the key, if the passion doesn't constantly change. I was recently commissioned to do wildlife greeting cards for a local vet's office. Oweing them a huge kindness for services rendered in the midst of disaster, I wanted to do this pro bono. It's the second "pro bono" job I've had this year.
So I begin again and settle myself to serious thinking time at the drawing table, because, after all, there's no place I'd rather be.

We don't think much about them when they're in our lives. And eventually they more often than not make their own direction on their charted path. I'm referring to old friends of course. It's a rare and humbling event if they stay, sharing the ins and outs of your life. So it's indeed a special occasion when one renters your life after 10 or more odd years or so.
An unexpected email from such a friend surprised me. I had actively sought my old friend out, wondering how she'd been. I was hesitant, thinking, maybe we lost touch because of something I said or did. Perhaps something not done, the sins of omission those of us in Catholic school came to understand, or at least claim to understand.
But a pleasant invitation came to "write back" and I hope a new chapter of friendship has been forged.

The snow blankets our yards yet with promise of more Sunday. I hope it doesn't snow everyone in. We have a family party on Sunday, and I'm always reluctant to miss those. I know as we age they will fewer and farther between and subsequent years will find this or that one missing from the table. My nephew turns 18 and while (in his mind at least) he has outgrown the family gatherings, us oldsters, with not quite the social life we all once had, will look forward to gathering.

We saw it coming, so though the weatherman compares it to the blizzard of '78 there's not really a strong comparison. I've awakened early to see the damage and search for an unfrosted window through which to look. With the drifting and blowing, it's hard to tell. The picnic table is clear; lawn chairs left out to weather the winter have disappeared under mounds of the white stuff.
The 10 year old in me can't wait to get out in it. The mature (albeit practically senior self) says use your !@#$ head. (I've left the expletives for you to mentally insert.)
So I look at this day, hopefully a day for the creative muses to kick in. I'm working on a midgrade novel which in terms of subject and length, is looking more like a YA all the time. I'm not good at doing my own editing and will bore my grown children to death with requests for reads.And finishing an illustration for publication.
The coffee is perking and I'll shower and dress, treating this like any other work day, although I don't have to warm up a car and leave the house. (There are also no predictable paychecks, perks or benefits) Just a love for what I do and hope that someone will recognize it. And a very generous spouse who fills with with dishes, laundry, and an encouraging pat on the back. Happy Valentines Day, honey.

My youngest passed her driver's test on Thursday. It was a long passage. Not at 16 as you might imagine but as a young adult. Why? you might ask? Why not, I'd reply. You see, I've seen the newly licensed 16 year olds on the phone, speeding, running around by themselves for the sole purpose of running around by themselves. Taking cars the two blocks to school. Disappearing long after they should have been home. No thank you.
Our kids weren't allowed to consider having a set of wheels beneath them until they were 18. For my daughter, this was the year her grandmother died. Followed by a horrific accident for her older sister. Mowed down by a speeding semi on the interstate. Frightened to death as we all were, she postponed her time behind the wheel.
Just last year, a hunch I held was validated by statistics; judgment is the last part of the brain to develop. In 18-25 year olds.
LookSmart's FindArticles - Ready for the road? - car accidents leading cause of teen deaths; states enact graduated drivers' license programs

Current Events, Oct 31, 1997


Hmmm. So my thoughts that teens can't hold their focus were not just the imaginings of an over-protective mother. So we celebrated by daughter's accomplishment. Her first run as a driver? Taking mom to the store.

My new look courtesy of Yahoo avatar. Now if I could just create my own avatar!

It might have been a final goodbye luncheon; perhaps ladies parting ways as one leaves the workforce for marriage. This photo was found among my mothers photos and adapted to colored pencil and ink. They coyly glance at the camera not knowing what the postwar years will bring. They offered a play on my imagination.

We said goodbye to beloved bunny last Friday. Very sad long day, complicated by the unexpected arrival of grandparents for a visit. And while we were delighted to see them an unforseen event further complicated things. Grandma lost her balance and down she went. hard. Breaking the joint at the top of the femur. On to hospital where I'm happy to say, one week later she is recovering and in therapy.
Ever have that sinking feeling in your stomach, "uh, -oh?) that's how Friday morning began when I discovered bunny heavily breathing. I'd seen this in humans with congestive heart failure, and his lack of acknowlege of me (after all I bring the food and he being a little boy, was always excited to see hay and pellets coming) gave me a start.
A blessing is always hiddne in these events and no more so than none of us having to make that "final decisio". He passed after seizuring on the way to the vets. It's always too soon. and even thought at 6 we was considered a senior bunny (dwarf rabbits live typically from 5-8 years tops), we had hoped for a little more time.
Rest in peace Sweetie Petie.

The Wal-Marts and Targets tout the age old (well at least as long as I've been around)reverie, BACK TO SCHOOL. I'm sure it has a different significance than it did for me in the 50's. Back then it meant a home perm, arguing about NOT cutting hair that had grown long in the summer. A new plaid school dress with a large "Pilgrim" collar, and saddle oxfords. It also mean a new wool sweater and skirt that it would be much too warm to wear for at least another month and a half. It meant walking up the steps to the school, last year's report card in hand to determine the right room number. Then checking the class list, would a best friend be on it. Or worse, one of the many nemeses that every kid faces until they mark their territory. How long til lunch when we could run home to a waiting mother and share the events of the morning, promises of great things; writing cursive, having geography for the first time, or, in later years, gym without the boys, Home Economics or Shop. But most of all, excitement. We hadn't been in the building all summer. The rooms had been painted, the floors waxed. There was a smell that permeated the entire building. Of course it didn't hurt that Kindergarten through eighth grade were house in the same building. There were new floors to discover, junior high had it's own entrance. Everyone had their space.
There would be orchestra or band for the first time. Brownies or Girl Scouts, and for the VERY lucky, lessons of some kind. Yes, there sure was a reason to shout, BACK TO SCHOOL!