the antithesis of wisdom

I don’t agree with Golding
I believe there is tremendous capacity for Good
innate human Kindness
though Survival is instinctual
education is the bedrock of Peace
Savagery is learned too
but it is the antithesis of wisdom
lord of the fliesin William Golding’s novel, Lord of the Flies, the wild boar’s head symbolizes the devil…
The big son is currently reading this novel in school though he’s read it many times before.
This head was made for a class project.
It’s constructed with a large styrofoam ball, a plastic cup, a partial cat mask, sponge pieces for filler, oodles of duct tape to hold all this crap together then covered in clay and painted…it was quite fun to art direct ūüėČ

Charlie’s Ears

My Friends,
Yesterday’s doll conversations¬†brought back¬†fond memories of a¬†cherished childhood friend. His name was Charlie. He had curled pink fur and bright blue eyes that somehow didn’t seem right, but were.¬†I remember many a¬†dark night when Charlie¬†was my cuddle pal.

I can’t remember why I cut Charlie’s long ears off. They were most¬†likely cropped to better match his eyes. I can’t recall what eventually became of my beloved pink buddy. Maybe he ran away in fear. His little lunatic owner might chop¬†off his balled tail which didn’t look quite right, but was.

Charlie DogIt’s funny how sometimes making new friends can remind us of old lost ones. My blog buddy, Deb has an impossibly adorable dog named Charlie. If you’d like to see precious Charlie along with¬†all his other four-legged house¬†buddies visit C-Dog. Deb is a brilliant wordsmith and a great champion of animals in¬†every conceivable color, even pink. And Fawn of Trigger’s Horse,¬†handles her mom’s cherished doll collection with warmth and pride. Fawn is a volunteer extraordinaire and a multi-talented craftsperson.

Thank you. May you dream of your favorite childhood friend.

Charlie Dog drawn yesterday with misting eyes and markers

Little Shoes to Fill

My Friends,
Long ago I¬†promised myself I wouldn’t morph into¬†a¬†stereotypical mother. That mom¬†wants to shove her¬†big son’s, size 14 feet into¬†toddler shoes¬†again.¬†That mom wants to place a puppy-patterned hat on her sixteen-year-old daughter’s head.
Max and Caroline

Single digit temperatures¬†have forced me and the giant husband indoors.¬†During yesterday’s mall-walk while following orange footprints affixed to tile, a scant tear pooled¬†in the corner of my¬†eye. A¬†beautiful little dress with flowers bursting¬†like a spring garden along its¬†hemline had caught my attention. I imagined the delicate daughter, my¬†Caroline¬†twirling in it. Her toddler cheeks rosy pink and her¬†giggling as pure as the¬†precious white dress.
little dress

Then wouldn’t you know my other eye formed a tiny¬†tear as¬†we passed¬†by the toddler shoes. I remembered¬†the big son ‚Äď my Max ‚Äď running down our old, wood-lined driveway. Back then, his hair stuck straight up as if in perpetual shock and he loved wearing work boots. The work boots gave him¬†a¬†‘thumpy’ gait and made¬†his¬†diapered rear end bounce from side to side. This beloved memory¬†is forever velcroed to¬†my heart.
little shoe

Caroline and Max are no longer small.¬†I’ve had the joy¬†of watching their shoe sizes change. They’ve grown into warm-hearted¬†and gracious¬†teens. Still I pray, when they walk into adulthood¬†they never forget¬†the simple goodness of wearing¬†little shoes.

Okay, I’ll admit it. I’ve become¬†a walking clich√©. ūüôā

Thank you. May you dream of following the footsteps of happiness.

Max and Caroline painted long ago with¬†acrylic craft paint. I plan on¬†redoing this painting someday. It needs more cool colors. I’m not too happy with it, but it worked for the post. Both photos taken yesterday¬†morning at the Newburgh Mall. Sorry – I don’t know who designed the dress or the workboots.

A Crime of Crayons

A Crayon Crime

It seemed in 1973 everyone in school had 64¬†crayons ‚Äď everyone ‚Äď except¬†me. On the day in question, desperation had clouded my judgement. It had corrupted my creative sensibility.¬†I was ten at the time and in dire¬†need of 64 colors. I had Crayola’s¬†24 pack which included colors for growing¬†robust apple trees, fluid blue skies and abstract¬†butterflies. It wasn’t enough. I needed¬†more pigment. I coveted¬†the¬†built-in sharpener too.

Crayola BoxOne day¬†while shopping with my mother and 2 other siblings, fate waxing¬†at my feet, divine intervention struck. On this¬†ominous morning, I glanced¬†down at the beige¬†store tiles. My disbelieving¬†eyes engaged my sleeping¬†brain. My little¬†fingers snatched up the crumpled¬†dollar on the floor. Much to my horror I discovered it was¬†one-half of a paper dollar, and the other¬†half was nowhere in sight.¬†Nothing mattered. My heart¬†was jolting¬†in 64 magnificent colors. My brain was a prism of planning. “Art cannot be stopped,”¬†my greying conscience defended.¬†While¬†Mom busied herself shopping and¬†shepherding my¬†two younger siblings around cans of tomatoes, I¬†cleverly rolled¬†the dollar into a cylinder.

There wasn’t much time. Grocery cart loading¬†for a¬†family of eight was nearly done. I told¬†Mom¬†I needed¬†the bathroom. I¬†flew to the school supply section, grabbed Crayola’s 64 box then¬†sprinted to the register¬†hoping to¬†make an express purchase. I handed the masterfully¬†rolled dollar¬†to¬†a young cashier. I didn’t know how much the crayons cost and I didn’t wait. I¬†grabbed my¬†fabulous box¬†and bolted¬†toward the exit doors.

In hindsight, I should’ve selected¬†the silver-haired cashier. The swift¬†employee¬†ran after me as¬†did my mother.¬†My crime was foiled on the spot. I had to return the crayons. I had to write a letter of apology. And, I was grounded.

So there I was stuck in my room with just 24 crayons and two weeks to think about all the colors I didn’t have.
Crayon Crime

Lying for an Angel

My Friends,
Sadly this tale is not a yarn. It is a true story, one that I’m not proud of. I was nine¬†when hallowed inspiration struck. This¬†creative shining¬†moment in 1972 continues to cause me pangs of guilt. Even now I await delivery of a¬†Time Machine ordered on Amazon, so I might return to the scene of my¬†crime¬†‚Ästthe moment I lied for an angel.

My Grandmother’s Closet
My grandmother had her own bedroom in our home. It was a magical place. There was candy¬†and¬†small treasures wrapped in gift paper in her dresser. In the¬†walk-in closet, she kept packages of Wrigley’s. The gum often called to me. I occasionally answered by sneaking a stick¬†or two hoping it would never be missed. It never was.¬†I thought myself clever.

The Inspiration
It was nearing Christmas – that most magical time in ‘kiddom.’ I can’t recall why I needed gum this particular morning but I did.¬†I tiptoed into Grandma’s room and¬†into the¬†big closet. While borrowing a stick of gum, I heard footsteps¬†and¬†was forced to wait. As I held my breath, I began perusing Grandma’s¬†knitting supplies. This¬†closet was loaded with rainbow¬†balls¬†of wool and oodles of parchment patterns. Some wool was in balls while other threads¬†were wrapped around cardboard cones. With my laser vision, I saw naked cones ‚ÄstI saw angels.
Ice Angel Cone

The Crime
In the blindness of inspired excitement, I threw caution to the wind. I took two large wool¬†skeins¬†and unravelled both until I held two precious cardboard cones in my thieving hands. I was going to make angels. There were swatches of fabric in our attic. One in particular, a beautiful light blue with silver and gold threads would be perfect for my angels’ gowns and the¬†metallic pipe cleaners in my room could be fashioned into¬†halos and wings.

The Lie
I cleverly concealed¬†the heaping wool piles behind Grandma’s shoes. With the¬†evidence camouflaged¬†so was¬†the¬†crime. How did Grandma¬†find the¬†displaced wool so quickly? Hadn’t I been stealth? Hadn’t I swiped gum without a¬†single repercussion ever? With¬†five other siblings, there might be a¬†chance to frame someone else,¬†or I could outright lie when prosecuted. I remember Grandma calling me into her room and pointing to the woolen spaghetti. I remember her asking me if I unravelled the¬†wool. I remember, with Christmas only weeks away, lying for an angel.

The Guilt
I don’t know what became of the first¬†angel. The second, wearing a doily gown (there wasn’t enough blue fabric) remains with me. She hangs in my studio always nearby. I never admitted my crime to Grandma. And whenever I look at my cone angel she whispers, “Grandma knew all along. She kept the first¬†angel, the one with the beautiful gown of blue, because she thought her precious.”
Angel ConeThank you. Dream of being the most honest version of yourself you can be ūüôā