“I can’t breathe, call an ambulance”.
“You just hit a flock of ducks!”
“You have mononucleosis.”
Family reunion time when I was a kid could always be counted upon to bestow some crisis, usually involving firemen, diarrhea and/or a hospital stay. I grew up far from my parent’s families, so each summer the doors to the house would be wired shut (to prevent theft of the two ton 1969 console TV), the car would be loaded with my parents’ matching Samsonites crammed with two weeks’ worth of clothes and cross-country we would go. My Dad insisted it take no more than a day and a half to get from Ohio to Colorado. If he could have done it in one and saved the cost of stopping at a hotel at midnight, which he reluctantly agreed to only because my mother was threatening to leap from the car, he would have. Once in Denver, the “visiting” would commence: Mom and Dad going from relative to relative, sitting and chatting about weather and the lawn watering schedules while my sister and I played with rocks and slowly died of boredom. Sometimes the trip would culminate in a huge gathering of my Mom’s aunts, uncles and cousins at a century old lodge that could only charitably be called “rustic”. There was more chatting, great-aunts and uncles my sister and I were sure we had never met, commenting on how much we had grown, no television for miles, and every weekend the lodge held a square dancing night, which was just too dorky to be suffered, even for a geek like me. Given the addition of an aforementioned calamity (the last time I went it was the mono), I could never understand why my parents insisted on the summer ritual.
Fast forward a few years. O.K., more than twenty-five, and I will admit to a new glimmer of understanding. I recently returned from the annual fall party that Highlights for Children throws for its illustrators. There is food, a workshop, more food, a costume party, more food, and, yes, square dancing. It is warm and fuzzy to have such appreciation shown, but for me, even more meaningful is the sense of community the event has fostered. I don’t have to pack two kids along, but many do, and I have watched some grow up, and often comment on how big they have gotten, not minding the “why is this old lady talking to me” looks. There are marriages and divorces, births and sometimes a death, successes and failures, all shared over and over, connecting everyone to everyone else in one big messy family. I am fervently hoping to avoid ever having to be hospitalized or involve the Honesdale fire department in the festivities, but I did board the plane one year heavily medicated for a severe bladder infection, not something you want to have on a five hour, one teeny tiny bathroom flight, and another year left the day after a root canal that required six, that’s right SIX shots of anesthesia to complete. It is THAT wonderful a weekend. A family reunion I don’t want to miss.
SARS, then bird flu, and now the first global pandemic in decades, H1N1. Finally, FINALLY, the germa-phobes of the world are cool. No longer do we need hide behind the turtlenecks we’ve pulled up over our noses, trying our best not to breathe in that giant mucous droplet-filled sneeze you just unleashed. When we glare in disgust at your uncovered, tubercular hack while waiting in line at the airport ticket counter, fervently praying to the gods that you will not be our seatmate for the next five hours, and that you will, in fact, be barred from boarding altogether and possibly walled into your own house, we are not alone. Everyday folks, people who will voluntarily eat from those unattended sample trays at the grocery store, heedless of the two snotty kids who just pawed through them, even they join us in our censorship now. Those of us too long relegated to the “weirdo” category simply because we can SEE the thick, writhing layer of viruses and bacteria that coat each and every object and person we come in contact with during the course of a day, can now squirt our Purell proudly.
As a kid I had several bouts with strep throat, all before entering the third grade. The pediatrician, who would prescribe the orange flavored antibiotic liquid for the whole family as a preventative, and thus took his place among the fathers of drug resistant flesh eating bacteria, told my mother that I probably had picked it up from the drinking fountains at school. As a result, I successfully navigated my entire school career, and yes that includes college, without ever ONCE touching a drinking fountain. I consider it quite the accomplishment.
Like most of the health conscious (we prefer this term to germ-phobic or nutter) I have several at-home, College of Google degrees: medicine, biology, and of course epidemiology. That scratchy throat and runny nose you had three weeks ago? Your co-worker used your telephone, blatantly disregarding the tub of Clorox wipes prominently displayed on your desk. That intestinal distress you experienced two months ago? The barista at Starbucks pressed the lid on your triple chai soy latte with her fresh from the lavatory, yet unwashed fingers right over the mouth hole. The flu you were down for the count with for two whole weeks last winter? The unvaccinated waiter sneezed on the entire bin of mini-muffins before stocking your salad bar at T.G.I.McCrappy’s.
Finally, the word is out: disease is not due to going out in the cold without a hat, those mean thoughts you had about your grandmother or a misalignment of your chakras—it is germs, people. GERMS. Wash those hands, cover those coughs and don’t touch any of my stuff. We germaphobes are standing proud, not holding hands or anything because who knows where theirs have been, but standing together, as one.
I broke down and took a Benadryl last night, after a brief back and forth with hubby about whether two nights in a row made me an addict. I felt better after he pointed out that I was taking the age twelve and under recommended dosage. Lying awake long after every other creature is snoring annoyingly is nothing new; neither is waking at three a.m. to jab a sharp stick into the overgrown shrubbery of my psyche until the sun rises. I have been a master worrier since grade school, and bedtime has always been when I really hone my craft. My mom, in an attempt to reassure her bafflingly neurotic kid, would try to offer words of comfort. "Ninety-nine percent of the things we worry about never happen." Aaaaaaaaggggghhhh!" I was no fool! That left a full ONE PERCENT of horrible, awful things that could and in all likelihood WOULD befall me at any moment. This was the early seventies, before anyone knew what anxiety disorders and serotonin re-uptake inhibitors were. All you could do was go to the pediatrician and look on helplessly as he wrote "hypochondriac" in your kid's file and eyed you and your parenting skills suspiciously. At some point I glommed onto the idea that not sleeping put me at risk for untold horrors, no doubt disfiguring and probably deadly. I am sure it was an innocuous statement along the lines of, "go to bed, you need your rest," but it was enough to send me into a panic if I was not in dreamland within .5 seconds of my head touching the pillow. Apparently unable to grasp the concept that staying in bed might be helpful, I would creep from room to room, trying not to look at the glowing digital clock on my dad's desk and confirm the fact that yes, I WAS NOT SLEEPING. I knew how to avoid every creaky floorboard and probably succeeded in giving both of my parents a royal case of the heebies each time I would materialize in the hallway next to the t.v. room during the Rockford Files. "Laura...go back to bed," my dad would order without even looking, alerted to my spectral presence by the hairs standing up on the back of his neck.
Fortunately, not every sleepless night led to haunting the prime time line-up. I have many memories of reading books by the nightlight in the hall. During the summer, I could sometimes be found, had anyone actually been AWAKE besides me, kneeling in front of a window, forehead pressed against the screen watching fireflies in the lawn below, the humid breeze cooling my face. While I will be the first in line to smack the smug off of the person who coined the "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger" platitude, I don't think I would trade any of those nights for the sweet coma of NyQuil on an empty stomach.
I wish I could say that I eventually outgrew that nightly routine, that the guided relaxation exercises, the ocean's relaxing surf tapes, the medicine cabinet of sleep aids finally quieted the clamor of past mistakes made and future disasters awaiting. Hubby wishes I could say it too, instead of sighing loudly and fluffing my pillow furiously and often, disturbing his irritatingly deep and restful sleep. Three a.m. still comes for me, like it does for pretty much everyone I know at this point in life, and while I am much more likely to plot entire novels, and promptly forget them come morning, or plan my weekly schedule down to what I will have for a snack on Wednesday, I still occasionally get up and wander into the backyard, stretch out on a lounge chair under the full moon and try very hard to appreciate being awake.
I live in semi-rural suburbia, and as a member of the Artsy-Fartsy tribe, I am something of an anomaly because I love the 'burbs. Occasionally, I pine for an art store that sells something other than scrapbooking kits, but that's why they invented the Internet and overnight shipping. I'll take the deep quiet of a dark night and easy access to Super Target and all things caffeinated.
Most suburbs where I live are constructed around "green belts" (which for those not in real estate means "storm sewer"), vast swaths of a weed charitably called "grass" that fill up with water when the winter rains arrive. Not only are these places great for the dogs' daily constitutional, they are a gold mine for childhood ephemera. I have logged hundreds of miles channeling my furry kids' ADD and along the way have amassed quite a collection of items from what I consider public domain. Don't get me wrong, I am not snatching pacifiers from the mouths of babes, but if I find a Hot Wheels car or a Nerf ball hidden in the grass on my sojourn, well, finders, keepers. Occasionally, there is a major score, like the Buzz Lightyear kiddie meal prize I found on the horse trail behind my house, the fake rock complete with plastic seaweed in the middle of the street, and the prize of my collection, a pink flip-flop as big as my hand (an early indoctrination into princesses and glitter) from the gutter down by the Walgreen's on the corner. And no, it's not for sale.
As my "learning Painter" saga continues, I have been painting pieces from my collection. This one is entitled "Get That Out of the Driveway." The series also includes "Where is Your Other Shoe," and "If You Lose That, I'm Not Buying You Another One."
The monsoon is back in Arizona.
While it typically means a nasty rise in humidity, which coupled with a hundred degrees plus will cause even the most prudish resident to consider the nudist lifestyle, it is still my favorite time of year. The desert is a harsh environment; something easy to forget for those of us fortunate to have comforts like air conditioning and ice cream sandwiches, but the monsoon makes us sit up and pay attention--immense clouds, thousands of lightning strikes and sudden flooding rains. Plus, every year, despite numerous public service announcements warning against it, some nitwit tries to cross a flooded wash and ends up being rescued off the roof of a car he apparently confused with a pontoon boat. The hours of local news coverage and smug snickering by reporters and viewers alike ensures the guilty party will be forced to relocate under an assumed name.
You can’t buy entertainment like that.
I have been working on writing some children’s book manuscripts, including one about the monsoon here in AZ. Like most illustrators, I have a drawer full of half-baked ideas in various stages of development. I’ve gotten some positive feedback over the years, but was always busy with illustration work. So the stories were put on the back burner, along with the print making, mosaic making, quilting, oil painting, batiking, gourmet cooking, a degree in neuroscience, and losing five pounds. Enter economic downturn, and I find myself with time to revisit and perhaps fully cook to golden crispy perfection some of these ideas. So, when I’m not out snapping photos of the monsoon, I will be writing, and pointing and laughing at the latest doofus to be rescued off his car.
I’ve been out of the loop for a bit, suffering the medieval horror of slow Internet service. Not completely lacking it, but realizing that I do have a price and it is a high speed cable modem. I took a little trip to Colorado, which was beautiful and inspiring and relaxing, all of which was wiped away courtesy of United Airlines Express, a broken plane, a hail storm and eight hours in the Aspen airport. Aspen may be the playground of the rich and famous, but they don’t stop at the airport. Their private jets glide right on by us regular folk, who wait in vain for the one turbo prop plane that still has all its parts, without even a stick of gum to amuse us-that’s right, small, barely pressurized airplanes and the Aspen airport is GUM-FREE.
Upon landing in Denver, I promptly abandoned my seventy-one year old father in the six mile long United “help” line, and high-tailed it to the last plane out for Phoenix. United put my Dad up for the night and gave him breakfast; he was fine, made it home the next day in one piece, WITH his luggage—stop judging me!
I took a lot of pictures on my trip. Breathtaking scenery, quirky small-town details, the occasional slumming celebrity “keeping it real” in the ex-mining towns where I was staying, and I have to say, upon reviewing them, I am an AWFUL photographer. You would think an illustrator would be able to take a reasonably well-composed photo, that light and shadow would be dynamic, that the focal point would be clear. Sadly, for me it is not the case, even with the “couldn't be more simple” point and shoot digital camera I was using. Perhaps it was growing up in the age of the Kodak 110, maybe it was all those years I used a Polaroid to shoot reference photos of hubby posing as whichever character I was illustrating (elderly Asian woman, eight year old child, middle-aged man with rake), not really caring how the photo turned out since I would be changing all but the basic pose in my art. Maybe it is never actually reading the instruction manual that came with the camera. In any case, I have vowed to do better. I will pay more attention and take better photos both for pleasure and for reference. I will put costumes on my models and light them from a single source. I will not just point and shoot without so much as a glance at the viewfinder. And finally, let me just say, thank the gods for Photoshop.
I just received an e-mail from my publisher. It was from the reviews department. They send the authors and illustrators copies of all reviews published about their books. This is something of a double edged sword. One knows that opening such e-mails will result in either warm feelings of appreciation or kicked in the stomach nausea and prompt construction of a reviewer voodoo doll, complete with teeny, tiny laxative pills. One must always brace oneself before clicking "open".
The news was good. In fact, the news was wonderful. A Party in Ramadan, by Asma Mobin-Uddin and illustrated by yours truly, had won a Parent's Choice Award. This gives me that wonderful warm feeling AND renewed hope that kids of all cultures and backgrounds will see their stories told, see those stories shared, and see that it is good. Very, very good.
I am a late bloomer. Warmly cocooned in a thick later of healthy snacks and educational
television, I spent most of childhood and
adolescence blissfully unaware of trends, fads and really any cultural references whatsoever. My husband dies a little bit each time one of his references to seventies Saturday morning cartoon shows goes over my head.
I catch on, but usually only after the bus has pulled away from the curb, and I'm left trailing gym shorts and a decidely uncool Disney lunchbox as I run waving and yelling after it. So here I am, jogging along, trying to catch up to my compatriots with their Cintiques and their animation. My first piece done with Painter, You Have Arrived, is finally finished. All done with a single brush, the Pastel Pencil 3 (I don't know what the 3 stands for), and upon completion I promptly deleted the color set I was using (I have no idea how, but suspect it involved hitting the delete key) and so must now start from scratch on the next one. I am happy with how it turned out; it feels like my style, but also new. I am excited about the possibilites and this tough, stalky plant may be blooming a bit at last.
I’m trying to learn Painter. I love my traditional media, watercolor and pastels, but some disturbing “side effects” have become bothersome, mainly the scratchy throat and rainbow snot, or “Muppet Lung” that days of inhaling the dust produce. I’ve tried masks, but they always go the way of turtlenecks and my nighttime mouth guard (“I’m choking! I’m gagging! Aaccckkk!”), and the offending article hits the wall on the other side of the room. So here I sit in front of the computer.
To understand the enormity of this undertaking, you have to realize that I haven’t yet mastered printing an envelope from Word. I have a love/hate relationship with my computer. E-mail? Complete adoration. Google? Deep, deep affection. Mayo Clinic symptom checker, how did I survive to adulthood without you? Large program requiring, at the very least, a reading of an Oxford English Dictionary-sized manual, and multiple online tutorials, which start to feel uncomfortably like school, and not fun art class school, but “Laura needs to pay attention and stop chatting in the coat racks” school, and well, whoa, this is going a little fast. Let’s just be friends. Lucky for me, I have a live-in IT guy who I rely on to troubleshoot, tutor and frankly, do my homework for me. A typical session usually goes as follows:
Interior: Laura sits in front of her computer, staring blankly at the screen. She moves the mouse, clicks tentatively, clicks again, and clicks again furiously.
“No, no, no! Wait, AAAGGGHHHH, wait! Why are you doing that? AAGGGHHHH!! Crrrrraaaiiiigggg!”
Beleaguered husband enters, stands behind chair.
“What are you doing? Wait, why are you clicking that? Stop clicking. No. STOP CLICKING! O.K. move.” Hubby sits down to untangle mess that is Word envelope tool. Laura exits stage left for another cup of coffee.
Unfortunately, hubby has gotten wise to me, and the day I pulled my new Wacom from the box, made it clear I was on my own. He refuses to become familiar with Painter much in the same way I refuse to learn how to light the grill—do it once and suddenly you’re cooking every night. So here I sit. I know how I want it to look. I am just going to have to work hard (sigh) and practice (groan). I think I need another cup of coffee.
“Craig have you seen the manual?”
No one will ever confuse me with Martha Stewart. I don’t understand people who make their own soap when there are Targets, and organizing my closet means shutting the door. I have two dogs whose missions in life are to shed as much hair as possible and slobber on anything not covered by an old bath towel. If the house doesn’t smell like a disreputable pet store, I’m happy. Unfortunately, this attitude can clash with a favorite social activity, the dinner party. Given my blasé approach to housecleaning, such occasions require several days of intensive preparation. I’m O.K. with hubby lint rolling dog hair tumbleweeds off his clothes after five minutes on the couch, but I prefer maintaining the House Beautiful illusion for guests. This is especially important if the guests aren’t the typical assortment of artistic neurotics usually found drinking my Three Buck Chuck, but are guests I want to impress, guests more along the lines of Ted and Betsy Lewin, Caldecott award winners.
Mary Wong, a librarian and children’s art collector, asked if I’d escort the Lewins to one of their school visits and have them over for dinner while they were in town. Mary knows everyone in the biz and frequently throws dinner parties involving multiple courses for visiting authors and illustrators at her dog-free, and thus immaculate, house. Mary sets the bar high, and Thursday, my day with the Lewins, was fast approaching.
Tuesday evening, I surveyed the scene. I needed to run the vacuum, but decided to wait so that the dogs would have the minimum amount of time to strew hair and assorted vegetation from the yard all over the house. The floor resembled a stuffed toy killing field, with the recently purchased three pack of migratory birds plucked and disemboweled across the living room. I had begun setting the table, spending a long time first locating the cloth napkins that only saw the light of day on major holidays, and then deciding whether the odd marks on them were stains or part of the pattern.
I had worked out that afternoon, and figured that was more than enough license to make the chocolate hazelnut brownies I was planning for desert on Thursday, and employ my tried and true baking technique of two thirds batter in the pan, one third in me. I debated over tackling the three week pile of ironing over the back of the dining room chair, or giving my full attention to Wheel of Fortune. The ironing had just won out when the door bell rang.
“Six-thirty on a Tuesday, who the…aarrgghh, I bet its Jehovah’s Witnesses, they are always bugging us, ringing the doorbell…” I usually try to be polite to the peddlers of salvation that show up on my front porch, I mean it can’t hurt, covering one’s proverbial butt, but tonight I was sweaty, covered in dog hair and most likely sporting a chocolate mustache, the elastic in my workout duds was threatening to give way at any moment, and I still had fifteen Post- It notes worth of preparations to do. I was in NO MOOD to smile and pretend I could ever conceivably join a religion that didn’t celebrate birthdays.
“Could you answer that?” I asked hubby, who was wrestling the little dog, shearing off the three months worth of coat that had turned an English Cocker into something resembling a dust mop with eyes. Hubby looked at me and then down at the giant clumps of hair that covered him from crotch to neck like a Sasquatch with mange, and that pretty much gave me my answer.
I stalked off, scraping my stringy hair back with a headband that doubled as a dog chew and flung the front door open, ready to send some unsuspecting Witnesses scurrying back down my driveway.
Except it wasn’t the Jehov
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Its so YOU! There's some Mary in there, but it's YOU and that's wonderful.
:-) I love that you are inspired by me.......and i LOVE this sister illustration.
How cool to get to work with the amazing Dan. Jealous.......
Made me laugh,...it is YOU!...with a touch of Mary,...and are ready for this,...there's just something about this sketch that says TSH,...yes, that TSH,...(Trina Shart Hyman)! Looking forward to MORE! I'm gonna need a Sandat workshop,...one of these years! Thanks for the encouragement,...Linda Weller
Still beautifully drawn so it's "you" but with a great dose of whimsy added. You've made a breakthrough, girl!
A career reinvention...how exciting, and I'm wishing you the best of luck. I'm glad that you likey the funny. Me too! Who knows, maybe we'll end up collaborating some day.
Love this direction! But then, you know, I've always been a huge fan of your work - especially when you add levity. ¡Muy bueno!
I can't tell you how much I like this. I love the new blog masthead as well. Your sketching has become delightfully whimsical!