This Summer

I’m sure that every single childhood summer day was not as perfect as those that live on in my memory. I know there must have been times when the heat seemed too much, or the days seemed too long. I have vague memories of begging to come inside out of the heat, of complaining that there was nothing to do, and of anxiously wishing for school to start back up. Mostly, though, the impressions that I hold are of long, lazy, sunshiny days, with fields to explore and the ever-present shade of the big willow tree.

Summer was playing in the sprinkler and wandering barefoot around the yard. It was reading for hours with my feet in the sand. Walks to the store for ice cream, and to the beach for the cool water. It was green fruit from the orchard, fresh peas from the garden, and bunches of grapes plucked from the vines. It was vacations on Beaver Island and all the perfect white-sand-blue-sky-warm-days-cool-nights magic it offered. In my memory, summer lives on as a perfect time.

Those memories – faulty though they may be – are what fuel all of my present-day hopes for summer, in the same way that anticipation for Christmas is fed by an impression of that perfect holiday, that may not have ever truly existed. Because of my high hopes, summers are often a bit of a disappointment.

I take care of my own yard and garden. That has managed, most years, to take up much of my spare time while still constantly frustrating me. The garden was always lacking something; I was constantly behind schedule, whether for planting or harvesting; the grass was always overgrown; the weeds continually got the better of me. Housework, studio time, and other projects had to be squeezed in around other obligations.

This is the busiest time of year here on Beaver Island; it’s when I work the hardest, and the longest hours at my job, whatever that job is. It’s also the time when  family and friends come here. Of course, I want to find time to see them! Many summers, the only time I get to the beach, to the shore to watch a sunset, or visit any of the wonderful sites that Beaver Island has to offer, is when I go with visitors.

Not this year! Because I was stuck (most pleasantly, but still…) on vacation due to travel restrictions caused by the pandemic, then had two weeks of mandatory self-quarantine before I could go back to work…I was replaced in my job. I should be concerned, but I’m not. I’m too busy, frankly, enjoying myself. For the first time since I moved to Beaver Island (in 1978!), I am not working this summer!

I wake up every morning to the rooster crowing with a smile on my face, knowing I have this time. I’m doing a little volunteer work. I’m making art. I have a whole routine of meditation, gratitude, reading, drawing, writing and yoga that I enjoy immensely. I’m growing my garden. I’m mowing my lawn before the grass is knee high. I take the dogs for walks morning and evening. Today, I’m contemplating a drive with them down to Fox Lake. I’ll bring my book. I had an ice cream cone for lunch. This is the summer I’ve been dreaming of!

Thanks, Dad…

 

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It is Father’s Day. My Dad would be on my mind today for that reason alone. This time of year, though, there are many things that make me think of him. The weeks of spring and early summer were Dad’s time, when he brought his expertise at farming and gardening into practice for his large family, and when he showed tremendous patience in sharing that knowledge.

It was in the spring when Dad would bargain and trade for truckloads of manure, often delivered in steaming mounds when he was at the shop, where he worked second shift as an electrician for Chevrolet. Mom would direct the driver to dump it at the edge of the garden, and downwind from the house. In the spring, Dad would be up at the crack of dawn, and out on the tractor early, to till and enrich the stubborn clay soil. Spring, he’d plot out the garden, and start pounding in stakes, running twine down the rows, and putting in plants and seeds.

The peas can be planted as early as Mother’s Day, and replanted every two weeks for a longer harvest. When planting corn, your hand, stretched out from thumb to pinkie finger, can be used to space the kernels down the row. After planting a hill of squash or pumpkins, run both hands through the surrounding earth to make a circular depression, to hold the water there. A thick mulch around squash, melons and tomatoes will hold the moisture, and keep the weeds at bay. Some things I learned because Dad taught me; others I picked up just from watching him.

Still, today, when I’m working in the garden, it seems like Dad is right there, at my side. I’ll puzzle over something for a minute, and then the answer will come. It seems, always, to come from Dad. Did it arrive as a distant memory, fresh in my mind just when I needed it? Or did my Dad, so present in my garden, just convey that bit of wisdom to me? Either way, he surely had a hand in it.

A few years ago, I answered a question posed by a friend on why I garden:

I garden for the connection…to the earth, yes, but also…
…to my father, gone now almost twenty years, and the memories of the first little garden he helped us plant. I can see him, still, cutting the furrow in with the hoe, and letting us – tiny children – measure with our hands to space the dried peas and beans, then helping us to cover them over and tamp down the earth…
…to my mother, who would accept our meager bowls of berries or beans and figure a way to incorporate the little bit we hadn’t already eaten fresh into a dish for the whole family…
…to my children who, when I realized children benefited from watching things grow, caused me to abandon my plans to “never step foot in a garden as an adult”, and helped me to know that we all benefit from getting our hands in the earth…
…to other gardeners everywhere who, I find, are related to me through our connection to growing things, whether we have another single thing in common or not…
…and not only presently, but through time, for I can relate to Henry David Thoreau or E.B.White or Celia Thaxter when they speak of their gardens, as if they were sitting here with me today…
For all of this, I garden.

These reasons hold true for me, still, and on this Father’s Day, it feels important to note that my Dad’s influence was the first on the list. Thanks, Dad!

Dear Mom…

When my mother was alive, I missed a thousand opportunities to have a chat with her. I could have easily picked up the telephone, but didn’t. My letter writing was pretty hit or miss: I’d write pretty regularly for a while, then neglect the practice for months at a time. I am ashamed to admit that sometimes, arriving in my home town, I’d deliberately drive past my parent’s house, waiting until I felt “more prepared” for a visit.

In the last few months of Mom’s life, when I knew the end was imminent, I regretted each one of those missed opportunities, and cherished every chance I had to speak with her. Though she’s been gone almost nine years now, there are still things I wish I could talk to her about.

Dear Mom, the pussy willows are blooming, now, off the King’s Highway. They always make me think of you. I first noticed them growing there more than thirty years ago, when I saw Madonna McCafferty, parked at the side of the road and trying to navigate the ditch to cut some of them. You always had a big bouquet of pussy willows every spring. I wish I knew where you got them. You put them in a glossy, mottled gray ceramic vase. The vase sat in the back room, on top of the clothes dryer. The blossoms seemed to last for months.

The few times I’ve followed in Madonna’s path and waded into the ditch to cut them, they seemed hardly worth the effort. After only a few days, each gray fluff would  send out a myriad of tiny threads with yellow ends, that would drop in a powdery mess all over the table. How did you make yours last so long? How did you keep them from going to seed?

Dear Mom, the snowball bush is in bloom in my front flower bed. Mine is much more upright in habit than the one that grew beside the cinder driveway in your parent’s yard, but the blossoms are the same. Their’s grew rounded, like an igloo, with each of the branches tipping over to the ground. It left a hollow space underneath. You’d walk us on the path from our house to theirs, then go inside to visit with Grandma, while Brenda, Ted and I, tiny children, played in the cool shade under the snowball bush. I wonder if Grandpa Ted pruned it to make it grow that way. I wish I’d thought to ask you.

Dear Mom, after working in the yard and garden for most of yesterday afternoon, I was ready for a simple summer supper. Grilled kielbasa and potato salad was my plan. I always use your recipe for potato salad: potatoes, hard-boiled eggs, radishes and cucumber. Cooking for your big family, you always made two large dishes of potato salad: one with onion; one without. Most of the time, I don’t bother with the onion, though I like it both ways. The dressing is mayonnaise, mustard, salt and pepper. I’m a little more generous with the mustard, but otherwise, just like yours.

When making pasta or potato salad, I always make a big batch so that I can eat it all week. Not a “big batch” by your standards, mind you, but enough to fill my two-quart covered bowl. So, I set the potatoes and eggs to boil while I cleaned up and changed out of my gardening clothes. Then, as you well know, it took a concentrated effort to drain, cool, peel, slice and dice all the ingredients. By the time I mixed it all together and put in in the refrigerator while I grilled the meat, it was almost 7:30! Not such an “easy summer supper,” after all! I blame you for that, Mom. You always made it seem so effortless.

Dear Mom, my rhubarb is doing well this year. I’ve given quite a bit of it away and, three times this spring, pulled out your recipe for rhubarb crisp. It’s a nice dessert when it’s warm, fresh out of oven and topped with milk, the way you used to serve it to us. After that, I’ll eat it for breakfast, cold, until it’s gone. I was still in high school when you gave me the recipe. I wrote it right inside the Better Homes and Gardens New Cookbook that you’d gotten me for Christmas, on the contents page for the chapter on desserts.

Rhubarb Crisp

1 cup flour, 1 cup oatmeal, 1 cup brown sugar, 1 stick of butter

Mix together until crumbly. Put half of mixture in a buttered 13 x 9 inch pan. Top with three cups of diced rhubarb. Cover with remaining crumble. Sprinkle with 1 tablespoon of cinnamon and two tablespoons of water. Bake at 375 degrees for about 40 minutes.

The ingredients were written at a forward slant; I hadn’t yet gotten in the habit of writing with the upright letters that I was certain looked more creative. Oh, and that reminds me, your beautiful handwriting…

I could go on and on.

 

 

 

Time-Out for Art: Getting Started

Beginning is the hardest part of almost every endeavor. That certainly holds true for art projects.

Once the studio habit is formed, it’s easier to walk into that room regularly. I know what I’ll be working on, which materials I’ll need, and where to find them. Often, works-in-progress will be out, and waiting for me.

Once projects are underway, it’s easy to keep the momentum going. Problems seem to work themselves out as I sleep, and I know exactly what to do next. Daily rituals in the studio help me warm up to the materials, fill time while waiting for paint to dry, or help me try out new ideas. Successes help to generate confidence in the next process.

None of those things are true for me, right now. Though I have more time at home than usual, other things have kept me out of the studio. Gardening and yard work are springtime necessities, I can’t deny. I’ve got a list of other daily tasks to complete, from household chores to exercise to on-line classes. Still. I recognize avoidance when I am involved in it.

The only way to get over it…is to begin. Go to the studio. Tidy up. Get rid of the failures. Just sit; be in the space. Don’t expect miracles. Don’t look too far ahead. Start.

I’ve been making little thumbnail sketches each day, with fine-tipped marker in my sketch book. Expanding on that habit, I made a little list of items to draw, with soft pencil on good rag paper. That way, when I am unable to do anything else, there is an assignment to fill the empty time. At best, the series of drawings might eventually make a nice display; at the very least, it keeps my drawing skills honed.

Recently, I had a series of collages fail because of technical problems that distracted from the compositions. I’d already ordered mats for them, so I have several mats to fill. I chose good printing paper (Rives BFK, in this instance) so that I wouldn’t have issues with a wavy, buckled surface. I measured and cut them to the desired size. Wanting some color on the surface, I applied a loose, light watercolor wash.

While the papers dried, I went through my collection of collage materials, and set aside some possibilities. I cleaned my brushes and tidied the work table. Then I did one small drawing of a paper bag. That’s it. Not much, granted, but for me, a good beginning.

 

 

Finally, the Garden

the west (back) edge of the garden, with freshly planted tomatoes inside, and a healthy border of rhubarb outside the fence

Yes, it’s that time of year again: garden time! Actually, I’m late. I could have planted peas a month ago, and most of the greens would have appreciated a cooler start. Here it is, June already. And a very warm June, too. Even here in northern Michigan, where nighttime frosts are a danger well into the late spring, I should have had my seeds in the ground before this.

Spring – once again – got away from me. First it was cold. Cold enough for the furnace and, when I stubbornly decided I would not continue to use propane well into May and turned off the gas, cold enough that I had to bring the portable heater downstairs. Sixty degrees should not be too much to ask for! A month ago, I still had snow along the fringes of my yard.

Next came the rain, which washed out the last of the snow, freshened everything up, and caused the grass to grow. Oh, yes, and the mosquitoes hatched. So, first, in order to be able to work outside without being carried away by blood-thirsty insects, I had to mow the lawn. So the garden waited.

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In hindsight, I always think I could have sped up the process, stuck to it longer each day, pushed myself harder, but at the time, it feels like I’m doing all that I can. With my little 18″ push mower, and whole swaths of long, tough quack grass, it took me four days to complete the job.

Finally, the garden. Which has taken a week. Though each evening I told myself I’d be able to finish up the next day, it hasn’t worked out that way. Mornings have been damp and chilly. Mosquitoes are voracious. By mid-day, the sun is beating down mercilessly. The dogs peek out with pathetic expressions from their bits of shade, pleading for a walk or a ride to the lake.

So, every day, I carry outside:

• a tote of garden tools
• my garden plan, sketched in pencil on graph paper
• the book, Carrots Love Tomatoes, on companion planting, which I use to plot out my planting arrangement, but also refer to when I’m squeezing something in
• sun screen
• mosquito repellent
• my full-body, hooded, polyester net, hotter-than-hell-but-effective anti-insect suit, for when mosquito repellent is not enough

And I give it my best. And every evening, I carry it all back inside.

It’s coming along. I have planted thirteen tomato plants, all generous gifts from family and friends, and sixteen basil plants started by my cousin Bob. I have double-dug, spaded and raked nine garden beds, each roughly 36″ wide and twelve feet long. I’ve planted peas, bush beans, summer squash, winter squash, and cucumbers.

Yesterday, on my afternoon walk with the dogs, I gathered long branches that had fallen over the winter, and carried them home. Today, I’ll use them to make my pole bean tepees, and plant those seeds around the perimeter. Because I have run out of space, I’ll plant Swiss chard around and inside of those tepees, and hope for the best. The kale seeds are going in the asparagus bed, along the north wall of the garden, and the salad greens will be planted in my last canvas tub. That’s it! Finally, the garden will be done!

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A Day in the Life

said at the start

I am an artist. I used to have a hard time saying that. It seemed presumptuous, premature, or like I was putting on airs. I’d say, “I want to be an artist,” or “I take art classes,” or “I like to make things.” Though it was as much a part of my individuality as almost anything else, it was a hard title to claim. Mother, daughter, sister, friend, of course. Student, walker, gardener, cook, teacher, sure. But “artist” seemed a designation for someone living a life far different than mine.

Even when I finally, after much practice and self-talk, learned to say, “I am an artist,” I half expected to be called out on it. Though I studied art for many years, and have a couple degrees to prove it, and though my work hangs in colleges, galleries, and many homes and businesses, I sometimes feel like an imposter. My life is pretty ordinary. My jobs have been simple menial labor positions. I don’t dress flamboyantly. Yet here I am. An artist.

What’s that like, a day in the life of an artist? Well, I can’t speak for others, but I can describe my day: today. I get up to an alarm, because I have trouble falling asleep, and staying asleep at night. If I’m really regimented about getting up at a set time each morning, I find insomnia is not such a big problem. I have a regular morning routine that includes meditation, gratitude, drawing, studying, yoga and quite a bit of coffee drinking.

This morning, I had an appointment at the medical center. My cholesterol runs high; my thyroid runs low. Periodically, I have to make sure the medicines I’m on are doing their jobs. So, today I went in for a blood draw. I mailed a few letters and picked up my mail, then picked up my pre-ordered groceries at the store.

Home, I checked the news, then took the dogs for their first walk of the day. I carry a bag of kibble, to keep them close to me and to reward them along the way. I also carry my little electronic tablet. I have the Audible app, and listen while I walk. Right now, I’m enjoying A Short History of Nearly Everything by Bill Bryson.

Today, now that the lawn is mowed, was my day for getting the garden planted. I’m late. Not too late for Beaver Island, but late enough where I have to be serious about it. I am afraid Ruth Stout’s no-work garden plan is going to have to be set aside this year. It’s too late to get a load of straw delivered from the mainland. The straw I’ve used to hold in moisture and keep weeds at bay is on its third year in my garden, and losing its power. Proof is the prolific crop of weeds, covering the entire garden.

I pulled weeds: three heaping wheelbarrow loads of weeds. I cut back and pulled up blackberry brambles, worked up the soil, and planted six tomato plants and sixteen basil plants. And, on this day when I intended to get the garden done, that wasn’t nearly enough. I’ll have to get an early start tomorrow.

I emptied my compost into the big bin. Since the fire danger was low, I took the opportunity to burn papers and windfall. I put a load of towels on the clothesline, took the dogs for another walk, and came inside for the night. After getting cleaned up, I fed the dogs, made a big pasta salad and sat down to dinner. Then, remembered that Wednesday is the day I’m going to post a blog about art. Or, in this case, what a day in the life of this artist is like!