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The Only Thing

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Away-Gameweb

Arlington had barely enough interested nine-year-olds to field a team for the Little League minor’s team this year, so when one of the players couldn’t make it to the first away game, parents and players were relieved that an older player from the Majors  volunteered to play.

I was happy the boys got to play, but the older boy’s good deed bumped T2 from his position behind the plate as catcher. Knowing how much he loves catching, my relief was tempered a bit. However, I knew it made sense for the older boy to catch because, even in the minors, winning isn’t everything, it’s the only thing.

If the change bothered T2, he didn’t show it. He danced on his way out to center field, bopping to the beat of the internal music in his head as he waited for the ball to leave the pitcher’s hand.  In the second and third and fourth inning he danced as he play right field, then center, then right again. He skipped around the bases as he scored a run, sliding into each base for good measure, even when the ball was still in the outfield.

All of the Arlington boys got dirty sliding. The scoreboard was broken, but as our rag-tag team scored one run after another, victory seemed likely.They had faced much older boys for the first two losing games of the season, a win would mean a lot to all of them.

The game ended just after dinner time and shortly before bedtime. Fully revved up, the team began a complex game of skill and strategy that involved racing up and down the bleachers and throwing their gloves at each other. A few dads were talking cars. Moms were talking carpools. The boys were screaming with laughter, making up rules as they played. It was well past official bedtime by the time each boy was buckled in and being chauffeured home.

T2 was sweaty and panting when I asked him if they had won.

“Yeah,” he laughed.

“What was the score?”

“Oh, we weren’t keeping score.  We were just having fun.”

“And the ballgame?”

“I can’t remember the score,” he said after a minute. Then he grinned and pointed to his dirty pants. “But I got to slide three times.  I think that’s a win.”

It was, and it really was everything.

May Astray

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Depot-Road-web

It feels like March outside, but on the first sunny day in weeks, May seems to be rallying.

I’ve been trying to warm to the water pens in anticipation of a trip to Iceland this summer which will require traveling light, but so far I’m not enamored.  I’m determined, though.  I’m doing a mini-painting a day in my moleskin journal to get revved up for summer shows and trips and hoping the weather will give us something inspirational soon.

Color it Clean… or maybe just Sane

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This is Johnny’s room. Color the walls Horrified-Yellow. Color dirty clothes ‘Condemned-Green’. and alternate between ‘Black-Hole Blue-Black’ and ‘Wine Red’* for the rest of the space. *Removing “Whine Red’ color from crayon box strongly recommended prior to contemplating room.

So my post about turning brother against brother to get a room clean, generated a few comments and a bunch of emails, mostly from or about other moms recounting tales of terror inspired by room-cleaning events.  There were stories of discovering new life-forms that had evolved from 3-month-old left overs, of dirty socks that could only be moved to the washer while wearing protective gear, and more than one person admitted to blocking out their kids’ rooms from memory until they flew nest.

The disgusting kids room is the 800 pound load of laundry overflowing the mental-health hamper. So in the furtherance of parental peace and sanity, I created a coloring page in honor of anyone who’s been tempted to do a Joan Crawford on their kid’s room.

Download and Enjoy!

 

Last Day

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This Mother’s Day Sunday, I’m going to Hubbard Hall to see Giles in The Crucible for one last time. It’s kind of a bummer watching your husband get the axe on Mother’s Day-or pressed to death in Giles’s case.

Last week Giles Corey joined us at the diner for breakfast just before the show. I could tell he was thinking about the upcoming performance because he was unusually quiet. Then the food arrived, and we all started smiling. I’m working on a theory that people in Salem, MA could’ve avoided that whole witch trial business if they had just opened a diner. People would’ve been too busy smiling to start pointing fingers.

You Never Need To

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I’ve said it to my kids. I’ll bet you say it to yours, and I’m pretty sure your mom has said it to you, but no matter how sappy it sounds each time, it’s true.

“You don’t need to get me (insert image of your mom talking here) anything for Mother’s Day (or any other day).”

But just in case you feel like getting your mom a little something, A is for All-Nighter is on sale on Amazon prime – to get there in time for next Sunday, or you can order a signed copy with 2-day shipping here by clicking the Pay Pal button below.

Domestic Fine Art

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My sister- in-law has the dubious honor of being the first overnight guest to the attic studio since it got a much needed facelift.
It’s much cozier now, but it still has my trademark made-up bed with completely mismatched sheets and linens. You might think this attractive little set up was planned, but between hanging every scrap of laundry on the line for the last 10 years (which creates an interesting rotation for linens and socks) and being a confirmed domestic anti-goddess, any attractive set up in our house is purely accidental.
The one exception to this accident is the quilt on the bed. It’s Maria Wulf creation. She posted on her website as she was making it, and I just knew I had to have it. It wasn’t rational, but knew it was mine.  Looking at it on a bed duct out with four different colors of sheets pillowcase and throw pillows, I realize it was a perfectly rational choice.

  

B is for Black Hole

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So, I just wrapped up the final rhyme for my parent’s alphabet book, “A is for All nighter”, but I had to revisit the letter B tonight. Because, as anyone parenting a tween knows, in addition to standing for Backtalk and Balk, the letter B also stands for Black hole which is the universally accepted euphemism for “The Kids Room”.

I bring this up because in the last few weeks T2’s room passed Def-Con 4 and was in danger of being condemned (It was even too far gone to use for missile testing). Being one of those creative types who sees a future masterpiece in every dust pile and scrap of paper (not sure where he gets that from), T2 refused to believe us when we warned that the room must be cleaned before our town of 300 people formed a health department for the sole purpose of fumigating his room.

He had tried every delaying tactic in the book for the past two weeks, when I stumbled on a strategy that will someday be be written up in parenting guides–it remains to be seen if it will be under the big Do column or if I’m about to be the most hated mom on Facebook.

Now, H.I. McDonnough once said, “Y’all without sin can cast the first stone.”

See, T1 is getting closer and closer to driving (that’ll be harder story for another day), and like all 15-year-olds he has wild fantasies about what type of car he’ll be driving next year. The older he gets the wilder the fantasy, and the bigger the bankroll he needs, so I withdrew my final bribe to T2 of a trip to the dairy bar and extended a new one of cold hard cash to T1 with one rule.

There were no rules

OK, maybe there was one rule. I mean I did want him to try to steer outgrown toys that weren’t pieces to the recycle bin. And I did suggest he wear safety goggles and a hazmat suit (It was a suggestion born of a similar experience that involve a snow shovel and a black contractor bag six years ago when T1 occupied this very room).

So, yes, I am officially the worst mom in the world, but not for the reason you think. You might say it’s because I sent my first born into the toxic waste dump at the end of the hall, but the pangs of guilt I felt were from knowingly turning T1 and T2 against each other to get the room clean.

But as old toys found their way into tag sale boxes and T2’s collection of microscopic paper scraps were dumped into the firebox, the anguished cries of “No, I wanted to save that candy wrapper” were replaced with high-pitched declarations of “I can do it”.

Ultimately T1 did 90% of the cleaning and T2 graciously took 50% of the credit, and the struggle that had begun weeks ago was over.  It took them less than two hours to get the room clean enough to eat in.

And now I’m trying to decide if the ends justify the means and if Mom is just a nice euphemism for “benevolent dictator.”

Saturday in the Park

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 A lot of times I’m a little bit nervous about even mentally claiming credit for creative work I’ve done. Today at the ballpark, however, as I watched T2 revel in his role as catcher — skipping from base to base with every hit or steal — I looked at my little work in progress and puffed up my chest as I whispered, “I helped create that.”

Something New

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Proctor-Homestead-web

I admit it. I have never loved The Crucible.

I read it in high school and then again in college. I went to a few performances and even watched the movie to try to love it. I love history and I love reading about this period, but I never got into this play. When I read or watched the play, I rarely felt invested in any of the characters.  I felt sorry for them, but most of the time, I just wanted this play to be over.

Last Sunday, Thing1 volunteered to babysit Thing2 so I could go to Hubbard Hall in Cambridge, NY and see my husband perform in the Crucible as Giles Corey. I was excited to see him and other actors whose work I’ve come to love, but I was skeptical about the event, even as I climbed the steps to the darkened theater.

So I sat down and got out my sketchbook, doodling in the dark as we watched girls, caught dancing in the forest, try to assuage their guilt by turning a town upside down.  I sketched a few more vignettes, but soon I realized I was just gripping my pen as sadness over the impending fates of the girls’ victims took over.

I watched John and Elizabeth Proctor (played by David Snyder and Erin Ouellette) tried to repair a damaged marriage even as the world began tearing them to pieces, and suddenly there was more than just pity. There was an irrational hope that history would change, and, as Elizabeth Proctor was torn from her home, all I could do was grip my sketchbook from the end of that second act until John Proctor was led to the gallows at the end of the play.

For the first time since I’ve known about this play, I felt the incredible sadness but also new admiration for victims of the witch hunt who were defiant until their last breaths. I even experienced little momentary pity for the instigator of the chaos – the damaged and deceptive Abigail Williams beautifully played by Catherine Seeley Keister who managed to bring depth to a character that seems to lack dimension on the page.

Abigail-Williams

Each member of the cast brought new life to the characters they portrayed.  Deb Borthwick as Rebecca Nurse had a perfect no-nonsense attitude to the early accusations that only someone who has weathered a host of fussy eaters could muster. Lia Russell-Self as both the trapped Tituba and the pitiless Judge Danforth expertly walked both sides of the mayhem, and Digby Baker-Porazinski (still in high school) was the picture of conflict as he portrayed Reverend Hale, an expert on witchcraft who comes to regret the events he has helped to accelerate.

I know more experienced theater critics will have their opinion of this performance, but this isn’t a critique. It’s a thank you note to Hubbard Hall and places like it that recruit seasoned veterans, up-and-coming actors and talented amateurs to create a community of artists that breathes humanity into something that was once dull and lifeless. It’s gratitude for creating something new.

It’s what great art does, and as I headed home, thinking about the message of the Crucible as if for the first time, I remembered once again why art matters so much not just to those who create it, but to the people they inspire.

The Small Stuff

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 I’m gearing up for a busy spring and summer, finishing a book, participating in an Open Studio Weekend memorial day weekend and a big show at the Spiral Press Café in Manchester Vermont in August. I’m looking forward to the summer, but the busy schedule that’s just starting makes me appreciate these evenings at the park watching Little League practice.  

I’m not looking forward to a summer of politics, but knowing that some of it is unpreventable, makes me more determined to appreciate and save these simple small town pleasures as they happen.  

On Balance

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Evening Practice, 5×7 $25

 
We got to the park just as the sun was moving behind the mountains on the west side of the park. T2’s ragtag team was already scampering around the field practicing pitches and catching. T1 stayed for a bit to yell encouragement and instructions at T1 and then went to meet friends at the nearby golf course.
For the next 45 freezing minutes, I painted the scene in front of me, listening as one of the parents – T1’s history teacher – caught us up on some of the happenings at the high school.  

Arlington, Vermont is a picturesque town, but it is not an affluent one. Almost 2/3 of the kids in our school system are on free or reduced lunches at any time. Despite a lack of wealth, however, Arlington Schools consistently do well academically and socially, and the scene at the ballpark was a clue to its success.

I’ve known many of T1’s teachers for years. I’ve known most of the parents on T2’s team for years. We see each other at the park and at the country store. We trade gossip, we also offer support and help when it is needed.  

It is 1,000,000 miles away from the large affluent high school I attended. Located in a suburb of a large, efficient, Midwestern city, it was easy to fall through the cracks almost unnoticed, as one of my friends did during my junior year and I almost did the following year.

I don’t worry about T1 or T2 slipping through the cracks. I know from experience that if someone at the school senses a problem, they’ll pick up the phone or pull me aside at the ballpark for a quick chat. Those simple acts of kindness cost nothing and mean everything.

Some authors have written powerfully about the decline and even the disappearance of small towns as our society has elevated productivity and profit to a cult that cannot extract enough financial value from the perceived inefficiencies of rural life.

 Last night I was reminded again of those writers who, like me, still see that the value of the small communities is not found on a balance sheet. And, as I watched a carefree T1 disappear with his friends to another part of the park, I didn’t think about the things efficiency could bring us, I thought about how rich we already are.