Hot here. I fear some browsers don’t show a whole picture uploaded from iPhone app (which is what I use) so posting smaller file black and white version below. (Sorry for repetition–I get nasty surprises sometimes when I check a post on a regular computer after posting on a mobile device and find that only half the pic is there! The lady elephant in corner would not like to be cut out! Usually if you click on photo or drawing, whole will show.)
Stay cool!
Below is a little illustrated story I wrote about one of my grandmothers some time ago that I am posting for a dVerse Poets Pub, memoir prompt, hosted by Victoria C. Slotto. I’m sorry the pics are so bad; clearer versions can be found here (where you can see as a slide show). I’ve typed out the text below.
February was a month my grandmother just couldn’t take anymore. She would look out the window and wish away grey.
Sometimes she had a little dog. She wasn’t supposed to have a little dog but she’d make up some excuse.
She loved to look at it perk up by the window. The one I remember had a sharp little tail, perked by definition.
Sometimes, in February, she’d get sick, and we would fly out there, then drive. The hospital was a long straight road away in Minnesota, a curvy one in Iowa.
I watched the shoulders. The twists in Iowa came out of nowhere and the road was edged by a sudden sassy lip like the ones that tortured teacher. My mother was a teacher, and every time we skidded across that gravelly edge she cursed all Republicans who, in her mind, refused to pay for public works.
One February, my grandmother got sick in Washington, D.C., my hometown. She had the most beautiful stark white hair.
I was very brave decisive. Seeing that the hospital stay convinced my grandmother that she was about to die, I got my mom to take her out. Against doctors’ orders.
The next day she was so much better she jumped from bed to a little portable potty then ate a big breakfast, smiling as she stole secret spoonfuls of jam, a sure sign that life will go on.
One February sometime later, she came to me on a school bus. I was careful not to tell her she had died. So fearful was I that she would leave again, I did not speak to her at all.
I sat in a place she might not see, tears streaming. Her cloud of stark white hair looked almost solid.
*********************
(I might edit the text if I were redoing today, but it’s written on the pics.) All art is original; all rights reserved.
One worries that art class may be difficult, even with the hat.
Thanksgiving – you can’t please everyone.
Or maybe you can.
Happy Thanksgiving.
These are old paintings, but they always feel right to me at Thanksgiving, sharing the festive meal, as I seem to, with vegetarians, vegans, the highly-carnivorous, the gluten-free, winedrinkers, tee-totalers, sweet-tooths, salt fanatics – but all (and I’m pretty sure I’m describing many here) extremely thankful.
I count myself among the thankful today. (How did I get so lucky as to be alive right here right now! And with daughters, by the way, who do the cooking!)
I want to send thanks to all of you especially for the incredibly kind company you give me on the lonely journey of trying to write. Pearl and the elephants send thanks too.
Sometimes, when tired or stressed, it’s nice to do something, make something, simple–say, a drawing of an elephant and dog, without even an attempt at particular meaning–hidden or obvious. Just elephant, dog, bowl of fruit, flowers. (I do worry a bit about the dog on that high stool, but am going to dispel those concerns for now.)
Perfection (In a Nutshell) (Thinking of Maurice Sendak)
There once was a little girl who had a grandmother who believed in perfection.
There were good things about having a grandmother who believed in perfection. One was a small diamond birthday tiara–it must have been diamond, it shined so bright–with little comb teeth that the grandmother anchored into the girl’s hair just before that magical moment when she brought out the equally glowing cake she had made, its candles flaming as high as the diamond peaks–
And once the grandmother made a clover crown for the little girl when they sat out in the backyard, which was itself magical, for this was not a grandmother who sat in grass much, and this was not your ordinary clover crown–a row of single flowers knotted from spindly stem to blossom–but was woven out of thick bands of flowers, somehow interlocked–
But this grandmother, who knew so very much about crowns, also wanted things neat and straight and right now and once she went into the little girl’s room, and there was one toy on the floor, she told her that it looked like a hurricane had passed through.
And you could never hang wet laundry out on the Grandmother’s line on anything but a Monday.
And beware of cracker crumbs.
And the little girl had to smile nicely and always in clean clothes, knees as closed as a mouth was supposed to be when eating.
Then one day the grandmother gave the girl a little box of littler books; and each book opened to its own separate story about a boy who looked as if he should be named Max, but was sometimes called Johnny or Pierre. The boy had a slightly devilish but also sometimes worried or sad or bored or haughty or gleeful face–and drank soup while ice-skating and involved himself with alligators and had a knowing white-haired dog, but, most importantly of all, frowned.
And, while frowning, he repeatedly told his parents – who looked concerned (but rather helpless)–that he didn’t care. Not that he was pouring syrup on his hair, or sitting backward in his chair, or was here or there, or….anything.
Not only did the boy tell his parents he didn’t care – he also told a lion. Who then ate him briefly.
This was all very interesting to the girl.
And, when her grandmother laughed at the drawn frowning boy–laughed so hard that she slipped slightly in her own chair—it became even more interesting to the girl. Who noticed that somewhere on these pages was a little gold crown.
That looked
as if it had been made
of paper.
Sad news today – the death of Maurice Sendak (1928-2012), incomparable illustrator and children’s book author. I hope to write more about Sendak – but just wanted to mark the loss that I’m pretty sure must be felt by anyone who loves the fierce, the wistful, the ashamed, the lonely, the disconsolate, the proud, the wild, the adventurer, the kind, the redeemed, the joyful, and wants to know just what they look like. Here’s the link to the NY Times Obit.
Hard to imagine anyone who grew up in this country over the last several decades who can truly say “I don’t care.” If there is such a person, he or she must not have seen the books and pictures (or the zillions that have copied and been influenced by Sendak). They should hurry up and check them out – Sendak’s books, that is. I personally recommend The Nutshell Library.
Yes, it’s silly and incredibly primitive and has, as yet, no audio. But I only got the idea of even trying such an endeavor this morning. (Being an aging perfectionist, I have to disclose my handicap right at the start.)
The app is called Animation Creation HD. (Cost for iPad is 1.99 , quite a bit of time with a little frustration thrown in.)
Warning–it’s really easy to delete (repeatedly) everything you have done. The “undo” button does not work on deleted frames. Other warning, you are supposed to “pad” for youtube which keeps last frame from being cut. I didn’t do that right. (Missing frame is more along the same lines. )
Even so, kind of cool what 1.99 can get you in these hard times. (Yes, I know, you need the basic computer/digital infrastructure, still it’s pretty amazing.)
(Of course, my true favorite elephant is in the wild. And I don’t actually have a big mirror or tap shoes. My downstairs neighbor is quite thankful for that.)
ManicDDaily 
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