PAINTING WITH MIXED EMOTIONS

Day 1 - Sketch for a Painting

          Linda Hamilton recently commissioned me to do a painting of her father and mother and his Stockford Mill, which was situated alongside the Eel River at Kirkland, NB (actually, not too far distant from where I live).  She had been in touch with me earlier, regarding the painting and was understandingly somewhat apprehensive about proceeding with the commission since the painting will be displayed on her father's casket, after his death.  The funeral parlor that gave me the material for the painting wants to use the finished product as a possible alternative to some of the more generic signage that is used during the funeral.  However, Linda just didn't feel comfortable about having it on display while her father was still alive, her mother having already passed away several years earlier.

          Linda's father, Walter, suddenly took a nosedive a very short time ago and is now in the hospital.  At 99.5 years of age, it came as no surprise.  Among other health issues he was diagnosed with pneumonia, which as we all know, especially concerning the elderly, can be very serious and even fatal.  Apparently, when the he was brought into the hospital, he told the doctor, "I'm almost 100 years old.  Try to keep me alive for about another six months, I'd really like to reach 100."  He also said to Linda, being at one time extremely active and an outdoors man, "If I could only get on my 3-wheeler and head out into the woods and collect some firewood, I think everything would be alright."

          I've painted three other paintings concerning people who were dying or already dead, including one (dying from cancer) who watched me the entire time painting a mural in his backyard, the paint barely dry before he passed away.  I realize I should be hurrying with this painting because Linda's father could die at any moment but I've decided to take it a little slow.  You see, I have mixed emotions about this painting, especially after one person (whom I knew quite well) died only 2 days after the mural was completed.  I'm thinking, if I take my time, not so much to do a really good job for Linda but if I can draw out the process just a little longer than usual, it just might help aid old Walter to live another 6 months or even longer.  But then again, if he should die real soon, it would be nice to have finished the painting because he would probably enjoy seeing it, especially since the portrait of him and his wife was most likely taken during one of their very many wedding anniversaries.  Linda and I discussed putting the dates of their births and deaths on the painting but we both came to the same conclusion that the painting wasn't a memorial but something that could be passed down through the generations and didn't signify death in any manner - just two people who loved one another to the end and Stockford Mill, which fulfilled an important portion of their lives.

          I'm working from some old black and white photos, newspaper shots, plus a few colour photos - none of them having a great deal of clarity.  However, I feel as long as I can pull off Linda's parents being recognizable, the painting will be a success.

          Well, time to dig out my brushes, squeeze a little acrylic paint out of the tubes and start splashing some colours on the piece of card - Cheers, eh!  

          

SUNRISES AND SUNSETS; TIME TO GET ON WITH LIFE

Sunrise on the Ridge Behind My Studio

          The last couple of Blogs have been about the final sunsets for a couple of friends but as we all know; life goes on.  So here I sit in my studio while my fingers do a slow dance over the keyboard; the mop of hair, the colour of snow on my head telling me I'm well into the sunset of my years; aint no longer a young Bandito riding off into the sunset on a black stud named Diablo; I am the sunset.  

          The last week has been very cold; going to be experiencing a heat wave today; I do believe the temperature is about to climb to O degrees Celsius.  Not the sort of weather I'd be steppin' out doors wearin' nothing but my Fruit of the Loom undies but at least it should get rid of the frost on the inside of the windows.  The fire is crackling in the wood stove, while a slight breeze is blowing outside; just starting to warm up the studio.  My hands and feet are still feeling the cold but at least I've been able to take off my hat and coat.

  

   Garage Sign for Clayton Farrell

          Although my ambition has dropped like the temperature, I've still managed to be a touch creative; wrote a short story (non-fiction) and lettered a sign for a friend who lives just the other side on the top of Green Mountain.  Clayton is planning to put it on his garage once the weather warms up.  His garage is white and black and although it would have been easier to just punch out a generic white sign with computerized black letters, I still like to retain some of my dinosaur values; picked up the brushes, washed out the oil with paint thinner, dipped them into the enamel IShot paint, then stepped back and watched the magic begin to flow.  There's something relaxing about using a lettering brush, watching the paint flow across a board, a window, a piece of metal or plastic; my eyes still dance with excitement as I watch the letters form with shadows and inlays; using colours that I often mix together rather than using them raw out of the cans.

          Besides the short story and the sign, I finally finished the little storage room that's situated directly below where I'm sitting at the computer in the upstairs loft.  Hopefully, if I can just manage to tidy up a bit and bring over the remainder of my paints and other art supplies, my creative juices will begin to flow like the melting snow as soon as spring arrives.  I have all these lofty ideas for creating some paintings, sculptures and writing another story (which is already in the process).  Plus, I want to self publish about 30 short stories I've written and perhaps turn them into E-books and audio books; even have one on the go at the moment.  This all sounds very ambitious for an old man that is tromping around on his ambitions with a pair of gumboots caked in chicken crap; which reminds me; as soon as the coop thaws, I'll have to clean it out.

          Being somewhat of a creative person with very little incentive to do anything; it's not like I sell a lot of paintings, have only one book (Arctic Odyssey) published, I find there's just some weird thing that continually shuffles around inside my head until I finally get tired of the commotion and say, "Alright; alright already.  I'll pick up a brush, start painting and I'll start typing on the keyboard; gimme a break!"

          Only then do I seem to get any satisfaction; the weird little guy stops shuffling about and muttering things like, "Here's an idea for a series of paintings.  How about this for a story, you could even illustrate the book?  Come on you old fart; get with it; you aint dead yet."

          I think it's time for me to end this Blog before I really begin to ramble - us old men really like to chat it up, especially about the good old days - not sure what was so good about them, except that I wasn't old then.  Besides the weirdo in my head is beginning to get on my nerves - ah, it's lunch time, time to head into the house fix me a wee bite and knock back a cold beer - cheers, eh!

A LAST GOOD-BYE

Rest in Peace My Friend

          It's been a long time since I've drawn a caricature, but I have to say, sketching Carsten wasn't very difficult; he just has one of those faces and infectious grins, that after seeing it once, it's a face to remember.

          I haven't lived at the base of Green Mountain, in a place called Fosterville, NB for very long; going on four years now, and since moving here my family and I have made quite a few new friends, really good friends.  The last house I lived in was in Nanaimo, BC and although it was a semi-busy street and we were surrounded by neighbours, I never really got to know any of them, some of which, like the couple across the street, I tried to avoid, even though they were very entertaining.  I remember one afternoon; must have been welfare payday because they were pissed right out of their minds.  There was a big commotion outside just before the police arrived.  I could scarce believe my eyes; they put on quite the show; like a slap-stick comedy.  The woman had the man in a head lock with one arm and was beating his head with a frying pan.  Another woman who had been drinking with them came running across the street to our house, when she was hit by a car and knocked down.  Didn't keep her down though, she just picked herself up and when she arrived, Sarah asked if she should phone for an ambulance.  The woman replied, her breath ripe enough to make an elephant nauseous, "No.  I'm alright.  I've been hit three or four times; it doesn't hurt.

          Hmm, got myself a little distracted for a moment; better get myself on track.  As I was saying about friends, Carsten and his wife Tracy are two people we got to know and they're both very special; they made us feel welcome right from the get-go.  And then again, when I was talking to Carsten, he said, "I don't like people just dropping in for a visit."  

          To which I replied, not feeling quite sure how to take the comment, "I'm glad you told me because I just might have come by to see you."

          "Oh no; that's different.  You can drop by any time," he said with a wry grin.

          Although I didn't get to know Carsten very well, I was always glad to see him and not just because he read my Blog.  He was a great carpenter and must have had an amazing imagination because just like one of the Three Little Pigs, he built his house with straw.  Whenever, we visited Carsten and Tracy, which was usually for a little house-party, I would always look around at his amazing workmanship.  He was definitely a talented man.

          My wife and I went to Carsten's funeral service this afternoon and although it was held at the Forest City Church; it wasn't a religious ceremony.  And, on saying that, it was one of the nicest funeral services I've ever attended.  People played the piano, guitars and sang wonderful songs celebrating his life.  It was difficult not to shed a tear, so I did, perhaps not so much that I was sad and would never see him again but because so many people attended the service.  The presence of so many people in such a small community, gathering together to say their last good-byes and give their condolences to Tracy and his mother, showed how well respected and liked and how important he was to them.

          At the reception held at the Fosterville Community Hall, I met a man named Christian who had been a childhood friend of Carsten's.  They were both from Berlin, Germany and literally jumped the wall separating the American held city on the west from the Russian east side.  They made quite a daring escape; if seen, they could have been shot and killed on the spot.  Now Carsten was a tall thin man with legs that almost reached his chin, so I was a little surprised to learn that he pole-vaulted over the wall because I'm sure he could have just as easily took a run and leaped over.  It was a scary time to be living in East Berlin at that time; not that they didn't trust their parents; they told no one what they were up to; the secret police had eyes and ears everywhere.

          I wasn't going to write another Blog about Carsten's death (incidentally, he died at age 50 from a massive heart attack) but Tracy, after I gave her one last hug and talked for a moment, she asked me to.  I will miss Carsten, not just because I considered him to be a friend, but because; please humour me; I've been piling the chicken crap just outside the door and used to smile about it, because instead of wheel-barrowing the stuff quite a long way from the coop, Carsten would be hauling it away by the trailer load in the spring for their garden.  The last time I was over at Carsten's and Tracy's, (he collected old clocks) I could still hear them tick-tocking and I thought how sad it is that he'd never hear them chime again.  And then again, maybe he will - Carsten Obenaus, lifting my glass of beer high - cheers, eh!

R. I. P.

          A couple of days ago was a very sad day but then hearing about people dying, who you know and care about, is anything but happy. My friend Glenn Maclean's wife Edna, after 56 years of marriage, died in the hospital after coming down with pneumonia.  And, as if that wasn't bad enough, a friend of mine Carsten, at only age 50, died from a heart attack.  My wife Sarah is took it pretty hard since she has been working for Glenn two days a week for almost 3 years, doing basically home-care and, Carsten was her friend as well.              
         Since there is quite a gap, 25 years in Sarah's and my age, for some time now, we've been discussing having our wills made up, which is probably the sensible thing to do, especially considering my age.  And after what happened, I expect we will have them drawn up very shortly; there's just so much stuff  and I believe it makes things easier when everyone's emotions are strung out at the immediate time of their loss.  It's difficult to think about dying and wills, it seems so permanent and final.  It's odd, even at my age, I feel there are still many things I would like to do and still capable of doing.  However, probably more importantly, just the thought of leaving my wife permanently, never to look into her blue eyes, hear her laughter, hold her in my arms and never again be with her is heart breaking and having all the legal stuff attended to would just be one less thing for her to be concerned with on that day of grieving; perhaps make my passing a little easier.
           As far as I'm concerned, life is just one big crap-shoot and although I've been rolling sevens and elevens for a long time, betting double or nothing on every roll, I don't kid myself, I know that sooner or later, I'm going to roll snake-eyes or boxcars.  So far, I've outlived my dad by five years and about a year from now, I'll be about the same age as my mother when she passed away.  Although there is longevity in my family on both sides, I'm not sure that counts for a whole lot when it comes to dying - some of my family members died quite young.  I had an artist friend named Sharron who died around age 55; she was a firm believer that a hereafter exists.  She had a brain tumor that was inoperable and when she only had a few months remaining to live, she told me she didn't mind because she would be with the Lord.  I have to admit because I could see it in her eyes that she wasn't afraid to die and since I'm not much of a believer, if I have an idea when I'm about to die, I may find it rather scary.
          When I was in my late teens and early twenties, I worked alongside my dad as a stable-boy at the racetrack; he was a very good horse trainer.  When he died, I was living in another province.  The last time I saw him, I was on my honeymoon.  Funny the things a person thinks about, but I can still see him grabbing our heavy suitcase from the train station and carrying it out to his car.  He'd had a heart attack not that long before, and although I told him I'd carry it; he insisted; but that was just the sort of guy my dad was.  My dad has been dead over 44 years and the strange thing is, often when I'm mucking out the chicken coop and the animal's barn, it takes me back to when I worked at the track and mucked out the horse's stalls; at times it almost feels like he's there beside me.  If perhaps heaven does indeed exist and horses and other domestic animals are there, I've worked at a lot of things during my life and out of them all, I wouldn't mind being a stall-mucker again; it would be alright in my books.
          A person doesn't have to be old to die that's for sure.  When I worked at the racetrack, Barb, a pretty blonde 18 year old girl, who I knew quite well, was suddenly diagnosed with cancer and died very soon after.  My best friend at the time, Ken, was killed at age 21, when he was drunk and lost control of his convertible.  Those young years were wild and heady times and I didn't live my life in a shy manner.  I've came close to dying or being maimed many times when I was younger and I don't mean real young either.  I had other friends who were killed or lost their minds to drugs and alcohol and why I was spared, I have no idea.  I suppose we all look for meaning in our lives and now that I'm nearing the end of my life, I wish I could have found some real substantial meaning but perhaps that's not what life is about; we are not meant to know its meaning.  I can remember a time when my life was so screwed up, I had lost almost complete control of it.  My doctor said he could recommend a good psychiatrist but I told him, "I got myself into this mess; I can get myself out."  Not sure if I did or not totally but I did make some major changes, which I'm happy to say made a difference.
          I've watched people take their last rattling breath, even closed my mother's sparkling blue eyes; death is definitely final.  I don't know what happens after that last breath, the eyes are closed for the last time but I do know the person that died still lives on, that is, at least until the last person they knew takes their final breath too.
          Edna's and Carsten's passing has certainly put me in touch with my mortality.  Having people very close to me who have died over the years, gives me a fairly good idea what Glenn and Tracy must be feeling after losing their chosen loves and my heart goes out to them.  I usually end my ramblings with cheers, eh - but somehow those words don't really fit this blog - so instead, I'll end it by saying, "Give your chosen love a big hug and tell him or her that you love them very much."            

THE AUCTION - WHO'LL GIVE ME A DOLLAR, A ONE DOLLAR BILL - HOW ABOUT A LOONIE?

          It was a balmy -20C or so this afternoon with a windchill temperature that would freeze the hair in your nostrils, take away your breath and turn your skin blue.  I went to the cattle auction this morning with a couple of friends Clayton Clark and Clayton Farrell.  It was the first auction of the year and the first in a new premises.  I wasn't sure how to dress; I figured either really warm, all bundled up like an Inuit or a little more casual.  Good thing I dressed to be warm as the auction place wasn't heated, and as if that wasn't bad enough, the seating accommodations were fold-up metal chairs.  Even with about 75 people clustered together, it was possible to see one's breath.  My bum was numb and I can tell you in all honesty, if I'd a let go a wet fart, I would have left the auction building with a metal chair frozen to my ass.
          However, despite the coldness, for the first auction of the year, I would have to say there was a good turn out.  I'm hardly a cattleman or a rancher of any type but my main reason for accompanying my friends to the auction was to check out the price of beef on the hoof.  Two small calves, a Holstein and a Charolais, weighing approximately 100 pounds sold for 60 cents a pound.  Several Black Angus heifers weighing between 600 and 800 pounds went from $1.00 to about $1.50 per pound, which was about equal to the price of the dairy cows.  A huge bull weighing about 1,800 pounds, because he caused such a ruckus, even destroyed the weighing scale, was just too wild to bring out into the spectator ring - anyone who was interested in the bull had to go into the barn and make their bids - have no idea how much that great big mean sucker sold for.  A 600 pound pig came up for bid; now let me tell you, that's one hellova lot of bacon but it couldn't be sold for even a measly 20 bucks.  Not sure what the reasoning for that was all about - maybe because the porker was covered in its own manure could have been why - the stink almost knocked a load of us off our chairs.  Besides the cattle and the pig, 3 mallard ducks, a male and 2 females sold for $24.00 and some chickens, mainly roosters went for about $7.50 apiece.  Clayton Clark bought a rooster for $4.00 and then sold it for 5 bucks; a whopping profit of a buck; probably better than taking it home.  I was tempted to bid on the ducks but because I'm not really set up here for ducks and our water supply is always iffy, decided against it.
          Hopefully, with a whole lot or red-nosed people who were sitting near by sneezing and coughing, I won't pick up a cold bug.  Oh, I forgot, I was one of those red-nosed people; hope I didn't pass on my germs to anyone.  Despite the freezing atmosphere and the bone-chilling chairs, I'd have to say that the two Claytons and I thoroughly enjoyed ourselves; we must have, because we're planning to attend the auction next Monday; however, the auctioneer said the building will be heated then - I sure hope so.
          The sun is very low and the top of the ridge is still bathed in sunlight that is quickly diminishing.  Looks like it will be a clear night, so I suspect the temperature will plummet to a bum-numbing minus degree; glad I'll be indoors and snuggled up to my wife - nothing like another body to help keep a person warm.  Although I'm basically warm now, except for my curled up toes, I think a hot toddy will be order when I go into the house for the night - cheers, eh!  

WATER, WATER EVERYWHERE AND YET NO WATER

          The Farmer's Almanac said January would be snow free; hah, I beg to differ.  While these words are appearing on the monitor, the snow is falling quite heavily; I've already cleared out the walkways and the driveway once.  I have to admit, with all the satellites orbiting the globe, the weather is often times quite accurate, but those big, soft, white snow flakes that are casually floating down from the heavens are beginning to add up as they hit the ground, when it wasn't exactly called for.  Oh well, like when I was sailing through the North West Passage, the weather forecasts would often call for no ice and there we'd be, stuck in the ice on some ice-packed forlorn shore where nary a human sole has ever trod.
          It's not that weather is or isn't cooperating with us; for New Brunswick, this is just a typical winter.  But for a bunch of spoiled city-folk like us, we're not used to having the water pipes freeze or the well run dry, which was most likely caused by one of the water lines bursting and then pumping all the water out of the well into the crawl space at the back of the house.  Coming from Vancouver Island, which is basically the Hawaii of Canada, we just have to learn to come to terms with the maritime weather.  It's either hot or cold and when it's not, why hell, the bugs are so big and plentiful, they can pick a person up and dine on him at their leisure down by one of the lakes.
          I'm not sure if it was foolish for us to move out of an environment that we were accustomed to but for the most part, if I wasn't so danged old and achy, I do believe I would thoroughly enjoy myself here at the base of Green Mountain.  Sarah seems to be adapting fairly well but then she isn't much of an outdoors sort of person, so as long as everything is fine inside the house, she quite enjoys it.  The youngest daughter Jessica seems to be coping with the weather conditions but the oldest daughter Rachel is like a fish out of water; if complaints were dollar bills, she'd have enough money to buy her own bank.
          When the water lines froze and the well went dry, our friend who lives at the top of Green Mountain, Clayton Clark and his son Gary came to our rescue.  The fire department didn't want to fill our well and after a lot of major arguing by the sounds of it, Clayton managed to persuade them that it was an emergency and it was the right thing to do.  And if that wasn't enough, let me explain a little about the sort of man Clayton is; he's a man with a heart of gold and willing to help anyone out in a time of need and at 78 years old, after suffering a serious heart attack several months ago, he wriggled into our tight little crawl space that would give a claustrophobic spider a case of the shivering willies and managed to repair the cold water line.  He'd thought he'd soldered the hot water line properly too but you gotta love water, it managed to spray itself out of a hole the size of a skinny whisker.  At the end of about 6 hours struggling with out plumbing problems, as he stood by our wood stove trying to get warm and dry his water-drenched clothes, steam steadily rising up to the ceiling, he said, "I'm feeling a little tired.  But I'll be back to finish the job on Tuesday."  Sunday is his day off and the first cattle auction of the year in a new facility takes place on Monday; hoping to go there myself as I'm considering on going into partners with a young fellow on a couple of beef cows - one to feed our families and the other to help with the costs.  Clayton is definitely a man to be admired and I'm so glad to have him as a friend.
          Seems the wood stove has finally kicked in, just took off my hat and coat - couldn't type wearing a pair of gloves and the snow fall has quit.  Nothing like being warm, because then I get to thinking how good a cold bottle of beer would taste.  And on that note, before I head into the house to grab me a cold bottle of Moosehead Pale Ale, I'll bid anyone that has reached this far reading my ramblings a good day - cheers, eh!
                

HAPPY NEW YEARS - 2013

          I don't know how many New Year's eves I've chimed in, and while doing so, I have no idea the copious amounts of alcohol I've toasted, the sweet lips of many women I've kissed, the pots I've dented or the cherished family gatherings I've attended on that day of resolution.  And as far as resolutions go, I can't remember making any New Year's Day resolutions or if I did, it must have been during an alcoholic haze because broken promises has been, for me at times, a long twisted trail of regrets.  I've witnessed 71 New Year's and I don't know if this is good or not, because not one of those eves when the bells and whistles sounded, the fireworks roared and flashed, when I was gathered around the TV yelling out the countdowns and singing Auld Lang Syne stands out as being very memorable - even the ones I spent alone.
          I know last night's New Year's eve was pretty mellow and tame compared to a lot of the other ones I've attended.  Sarah, her 11 year old daughter Jessica, her friend Jamie and me were the only ones in attendance but it was still fun to lift our wine glasses, filled to the brim with ginger ale, up high and yell out in unison the New Year's eve countdown, "10, 9, 8, 7..." as we were gathered around the TV set.  And unfortunately, since Sarah loves to sing most any song, the small band that was singing their own rendition of Auld Lang Syne, she was unable to accompany them very well, although she did make a valiant stab at it.  And since, I've been fighting off a cold or some other nagging malady these days and my left eye wouldn't stop tearing up because it felt dry and sore, I wasn't too much in the partying mood.  My daughter Paula phoned and chatted with me up to a couple of minutes before the countdown and since we didn't get to talk to one another over Christmas, it was really great to hear from her.  And as funny as it may seem, the age thing being that my oldest daughter Iona is a few years older than my wife, she must have phoned about 4 times during the night to wish us a Happy New Year, so I had some difficulty trying to get to sleep - seemed as soon as I began to nod off, the phone rang and went directly to 'messages'.
          Bringing in the New Year over the years, and 2013 is no exception, has always been a good time for me (at least I can't remember any bad or sad ones) because most of the people I have been with were either family or friends or a combination of both.  Besides the joviality, cheering, toasting and revelry there has always been a sense or ambiance of well-wishing and love in the air.  Like last night for instance, although I was somewhat bleary-eyed, hardly in a party mood, I couldn't stop smiling as my wife danced and sang rather comically around the kitchen.  My Sarah is good for my soul; she lifts my spirits when their deflated, puts gladness and a smile on my face, even when I don't feel so happy.  She asked me last night, "Will you be here for 2014?"
          And I answered, feeling my age a little more than usual these winter days, "I don't know."      
          Sarah replied somewhat admonishingly, "Wrong answer.  You're supposed to say, of course."
          I'm hoping to survive that long, bring in next New Year and longer but there's one thing for sure and you don't need any writing on the wall to tell you; my years are limited.  So many people, very good friends and family loved ones. I've hugged and kissed on New Year's eve are no longer here.  Don't get me wrong, they're passing on doesn't fill me with sadness; it's just a fact of life.  But hey, my heart is still pounding, the blood is still coursing through my veins, I haven't lost my mind yet and I'm still able, despite the aches and pains to accomplish some of the goals that I set before me.  Life is good; death I don't know about.  However, while I'm still alive, I plan on living my life to it's fullest or at least within my reach.  I don't kid myself; I'm never going to climb a high mountain, skydive, surf or go see the world but that doesn't mean that I still can't enjoy going for a long walk, enjoy the excitement of watching a skydiver or surfer and I'm content with my part of the world; I just have to do things within my limit or push myself to go a little further; it's that extra mile that always seems the best and on saying that, to all the people, some who are friends but mostly strangers that read my ramblings, I'd like to wish you a Happy New Year, a Healthy 2013 and hopefully Many, Many More - cheers, eh!