Did a pastel portrait from my younger days.

Close, but no cigar with this attempt.
My pastel work has much better control than my attempt with acrylics.

Did a pastel portrait from my younger days.

My pastel work has much better control than my attempt with acrylics.

Fear of failure?
Fear of Success?
Lazy? Probably. I always was one of those people that waited til the last minute to kick something out. I was one of those kids that sat up all night before a report was due before I buckled down. I admit to feeling very stifled living in this thin walled apartment. I am easily distracted and if it’s too noisy, that’s my excust not to try. It’s hard to turn out anything decent if your heart’s not in it and sadly I have lost my passion.
I began to feel this way after I got computer software that creates similar results with a push of a few buttons instead of hours with various art mediums. Only fooled around the last few years experimenting and doing some collages but have not done anything Gallery or Show worthy. Used to love oil painting but gave it up due to the turps and then tried the so called oils you can mix with water. Better than acrylic, which I don’t care for in fine art painting, but still not the same. I have never studied watercolor with anyone and I will do that soon for the heck of it. I understand the basics of watercolor from taking it while still in high school but I will see if I can find an artist in the area who gives lessons if I like their style.

Many find their own bedroom a place of sanctuary from the rest of the world. I especially felt this way as a kid still at home with my big family. My family still reminds me of when I used to hide away in there after school, not doing homework but eating fudgesicles and reading what they called “Beatles Magazines” like Teen Beat or 16 magazine.

“I really don’t know clouds at all.” Joni Mitchell (Both Sides, Now)
Soon there may not be a drop to drink.
Something to think about.

I was born in 1951. I was blessed that my parents were not able to maintain a household on their own back then. It was also a curse but that’s a whole nother story that comes out in my book. From the time I was born until about age five, we all lived with my divorced maternal grandmother and her widowed sister, my Aunt Ruth in a tiny bungalow in Detroit Michigan.
I am only addressing the memories I had with my Aunt Ruth who was born in 1899. Obviously she was from a completely different era as well as coming from a good family was taught manners and etiquette that is not practiced by many today. I am thankful that I learned this from her in my short time with her because most of my siblings did not have this privilege and they acted as such.
We were always reminded to act as a little lady or gentleman from both my aunt and grandmother. This is how they were raised. You always said please and thank you and the table was always set every night for dinner, not like the slap dash of busy families nowadays. I remember the teas my aunt would sometimes have for my sister and myself, our grandmother and our other Aunt Lillian that lived nearby when she would visit. This was after we moved out and my sister and I would spend weekends with them to lessen the load for my mother who had two more at home and was expecting her 5th child. The three sisters loved to visit and leisurely sip their tea while eating finger sandwiches of cream cheese and watercress with the crusts cut off. They would always have little cookies or slices of coffee cake that she spread with butter before eating.

Then there were the songs accompanied by the piano or pump organ and my Aunt Ruth took my sister and I with her to Sunday School where she was the organist at Grand River Baptist Church, which was later moved from Detroit to Livonia of all places. We never prayed much at home and I seldom saw any family members pray about anything except sometimes before a meal or that lovely bedtime one that includes the part of “dying before waking” which is always fun for a child to think about before you turn out the lights. When I was old enough I would ask, “am I going to die?” To which whoever was at the light quickly replied “No” and that was it.

We played in the gardens in the yards and freely picked and ate any seasonal fruit on the trees or bushes. I still can’t figure out why more people don’t grow edible plants in their yards anymore. People liked their children to play outside in good weather. If it rained or snowed there was sewing projects or coloring. Sometimes we just sang songs.

Thank God there was not the bad influence that is the modern entertainment industry. It’s like the devil himself has taken everything over. I have a real problem with the violence and negative messages in most if not all movies and network television programming. For many years I have called it “hellywood” and “hellivision” rightly so. We are all little computers so garbage in means garbage out and then when people imitate the car chase they saw a hundred times from a Prius commercial everyone says “why did this happen” on the same network that let them air the bad influence. Yeah, not very bright.
The soldier killed in combat is the epitome of honor. The greatest gift that can be given is your own life to save another. God bless our fallen warriors. Please remember them on this Memorial Day, 2016, especially in light of our country’s current problems and those that endeavor to demean or diminish the role our soldiers play in staying free.

I love the look of fog, but never breath the stuff anymore. Very bad for your lungs. Rule to follow is:

Never breath any air you can see!
I used to love the horror movies back in the day, usually foreign, that had lots of fog added for spooky effect. I cared more for the movie’s atmosphere than the dialog and certainly like shadows and fog much more that buckets of blood, which by the way I think is the name of a horror movie. The Fog was very eerie movie made in the 1980’s very well done. I believe they did a remake years later which I have never bothered to see. I have never seen a remake yet that I have remotely enjoyed. They muck them up with so much needless gore that it’s just a waste of time to those not of a serial killer nature.
Or does your faith allow you to do it anyway.
Is there such a thing as anyone being truly fearless or does love and passion find a way? Even Christ was fearful, but did it anyway because He was obedient to God until His own death.

This I post to celebrate the act of one man sacrificing His life so that over two thousand years later He can still keep saving souls which Christians call Good Friday. The love of my life, Jesus the Christ.






Yesterday I created a post dedicated to all the little birdies out in the storm.
Today I recalled a poem my Great Aunt Ruth used to read to me all the time when I was small. It took me forever to remember what it was called. All I could remember was the line “And hide his head under his wing, poor thing!” I was thinking of this line when the little birds, mostly small robins, were starting to gather around my warm car in the parking lot yesterday. I wished I had brought some kind of food, like bread or crackers, not that it’s good for them, but I don’t carry bird seed and all the berries they were trying to eat were covered in ice. I supposed they just cracked the crystals like they do the hulls of the seeds they eat.
I long to hear my Aunt reading me those nursery rhymes again. She passed on when I was only seven, but I was blessed to live with her from the time I was born until the age of four. At that time, my parents began living in one of the farmhouses that was owned by my father’s step dad. I never called him grandfather and hardly knew the man. I didn’t know my paternal grandmother either. She didn’t have anything to do with us anymore than she did her son, my father. Which helped to create our perfect dysfunctional family.
But I digress. My sister and myself began to spend weekends with my Aunt and Grandmother after we moved way up to Richmond. They lived together in a bungalow in Detroit at the time. I loved that little house and it’s still standing today. I did a drive by and the neighborhood is still very well taken care of by all who still live there. Had a white picket fence, at the time, as well as berry bushes, an apple tree and a sour cherry tree that we kids used to love to climb and eat our fill in the late summer.
I have worried about birds in winter for as long as I can remember and sometimes would leave my garage door up during storms so they could go inside to keep dry. I thought about those words in the Nursery Rhyme about the “poor little robin.” I took it to heart and wondered sometimes when it was cold, how they could even stay alive out there, even in a nest. I think this is part of how humans are taught something called compassion. Something that many adults don’t have to pass on anymore. Hence the necessity for religious training that the modern liberal world mocks every chance they get.
(the way it was told to me)

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