Tag Archives: memories

Gifting Pony Love

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Every library Friday, I check or attempt to check-out the illustrated book, Pegasus as retold by Nathaniel Hawthorne. Belephron astride Pegasus, the mighty pair battling the Chimera, the pearl-winged horse nuzzling little children.

Sometimes the school librarian says, “You’re not giving anyone else a chance to read this book. Do you think that’s fair?” And Pegasus is taken from me.

On the days I’m permitted Pegasus, the over-sized book holds steadfast beneath my arm like I imagine Jesus carrying his cross.

One Saturday following a library day that I wasn’t given Pegasus, my little sister’s friend tells me how much she loves horses. I see the pony-love in her eyes. I give her my only two Breyers’ horses because I don’t want them separated.

I love horses more than anyone. And now, I have no horses all over again.

Ah, the memories that long ago made me sad, make me smile today:)

(Black and white drawing of my Breyer’s Paint Pony done when I was 13.
The Pegasus book I lived with as a child, I own at 61.)

A Bony Cat and a Bowl of Milk

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Too many mornings spent waiting. My Converse forever damp from crossing the neighbor’s lawn. Daily curb squatting since noticing the bony cat. Cereal bowl sloshing in my hands.

Finally on this damp morning the bony cat sidles near, laps up the Fruit Loop milk, then she bites me and sprints away.

I’m tiptoeing home to wash the blood off my thumb and to hug our German Shepherd who’s never bitten anyone except the paperboy but that was the day he tossed a Community Life at her head.

(Pictured here: back row left to right- my wise older sister Virginia, my baby sister Dolores sitting on Uncle Robert’s lap (mom’s brother), Grandma Gulli (mom’s mom), my other wise older sister Grace holding onto Tima, our beloved family dog, front row- my little brother Vito, I’m squatting in center. and our baby brother Robert in bouncy seat)

Snorky’s Sandlot

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Snorky’s brown belly and back end are married together by a band of hamster white. His whiskers twitch and his tiny hands fondle food like Play-doh.

This morning I found Snorky curled into a frozen smile.

I will bury him in the sandy cemetery below the clothesline where our underwear already hangs in sad-mouthed shapes.


(Some childhood memories dig in like hamsters on spinning wheels-my siblings and I had quite a sandlot)

Missing Knuckles

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I am thrilled my CNF piece, “Missing Knuckles,” was selected to be part of the amazing anthology, Death Lifespan Vol. 12, published by PURE SLUSH, independent publishers since 2010.

“I was twelve the year I noticed her missing knuckles. My perfect mother was missing the section of her pinky where there would have been ligaments, bone and a knuckle. Her right pinky was noticeably shorter than its left counterpart. And the finger with the diamond I sometimes lost my eyes in, though normal in length, was also missing a knuckle. Mom’s ring finger could only bend using the knuckle closest to the palm of her hand.

What other secrets did my mother have? What else hadn’t I noticed? She laughed when I accused her of not coming clean sooner and was surprised I hadn’t noticed before.” —excerpt from Missing Knuckles

PURE SLUSH has put together an entire LIFEspan series. These remarkable anthologies are worth checking out, and it’s always wonderful to support our independent publishers.

Thank you,
am:)
I hope you’re all managing the heat.

Rock Skipping

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My studio runs parallel to a quiet side road that springs to life when school lets out. Watching the kids leap into summer often makes me think back. Long ago, but ever present, the silly girl who I’d like to smack in the head.

image above – me in my early 20’s – ah, the makeup-less, cover-up less time of long ago:)

hope you’re all managing the heat
am:)

The Bowl of Clavicles

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The Bowl of Clavicles

Late last night, my stocky papa who smiled and made great Italian meals died
This morning my father’s steel face melted into my mother’s collarbone

Early this morning, my fierce father died quietly in his sleep
Moments later my mother’s tear-laden eyes poured into my collarbone


A sad piece of subtle strength and perseverance dedicated to this day of Memorial tribute.

am

1975

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In 1975 and for many years afterward, I wanted nothing more than to look and sing like Bobbie Gentry, and emulate Carl Kolchak, the mildly insane journalist, who investigated supernatural crimes while wearing a goofy smile and a slanted straw hat.

Today, I continue to play my favorite Gentry album Ode to Billy Joe while the guitar sitting in the corner of my studio listens along. And I strive to pile my hair higher than is normal.

As for becoming a boots-on-the-ground monster-chasing reporter, I daily arm myself with art supplies to track down creatures, and I type prose on a typewriter keyboard. The wide-brimmed straw hat resting on a pile of books in my studio sees action when the sun is out.

Maybe, I did become who I wanted to be all along. Maybe…


Pencil sketch of Bobbie Gentry done about two months ago. I continue to use a giant Ticonderoga pencil. I’m not allowing myself to get into details using sharpened points and varieties of leads in the hopes of focusing on shape and form.

I’ve not done much writing these last few months. I’ve been madly creating monster collage mini-paintings like Shunka Warakin (below) for the upcoming UFO Fair in Pine Bush, NY. Such fun:)

I hope you are all doing well.
am:)

“to live”

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A March 2024 sketch done with a ridiculously large Ticonderoga preschooler pencil
“Little Karole” would blossom into a six-foot-tall, gorgeous woman who’d live an amazing life as a stained glass artist. And much later, she’d become my beautiful mother-in-law.

perhaps it is my 60 years of age inspiring the words below, it could be that the majority of my new friends, most in their 70’s and 80’s, continue to open my eyes in every direction but down

“to live”

I don’t believe the phrase “to live” means escaping our burdens

I don’t believe “to live” means transforming ourselves or collecting accolades

I don’t believe “to live” includes acquiring wealth or building empires  

I don’t believe “to live” means ignoring the past or focusing on the remaining years as we age

I never believe “to live” is expressed through curated media or grinning images

I do believe “to live” creates dubious comparisons of one against the other

I do believe the phrase “what it means to live” suffocates dreams before they begin

I do believe “to live” finding strength in our efforts amid others indifference

“to live” brave in our ‘individualness’ while accepting others in theirs

“to live” caring for ourselves so we can care for others

 “to live” stepping forward when we’ve lost someone behind us

And I always believe “to live for today” when it is tomorrow

am:)

Yes, Thinking about Millie Again

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Another recent sketch – I call this one, Movie Star Millie, drawn from a 3″ photo taken in Atlantic City when my mom’s life was opened to an ocean of possibilities

To keep my focus on the spirit of an image and not become mired in details, “My First Ticonderoga” #2 HB lead pencil is the only art implement I use. This pencil is a cumbersome preschooler one. Many times while sketching, this ginormous lead pencil really pisses me off, but I persevere, because I need the practice.


Why Millie this morning –

While reorganizing my studio desk, I opened the box tucked in the far back of the top drawer. In the small box, a Metropolitan Museum angel ornament Millie had given me years back, plus, other keepsakes added along the way. One such keepsake, another gift from Millie, was a poem printed on ‘parchment’ and its accompanying angel pin whose wings had broken off and disappeared.

I got to thinking how missing wings don’t matter. Missing wings will never matter.
Millie’s angel will always lift me up.

xo
am:)
Happy April Flowers

A Post-Holiday Post

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Apologies for the post-holiday posting of this. It somehow landed in drafts when I imagined tapping the “publish” button.

A merry montage for my family that I share with you this Christmas.

May you, your family and friends, near and far, enjoy a peaceful and joyous holiday.

Love, am

Nero the Cane Corso, friend and muse to my sister, Grace; Honey the Pit mix, adopted this year, crazy companion to my sister, Dolores; Cormac/Mac-mac the Malamute, snow-lover and liege to my sister, Virginia; Mojo the Dachshund, long-bodied, big-hearted buddy to my family; and last but never least, Kiwi the Testudo tortoise, roommate and foil to my daughter, Caroline❤️🎄🌟