There's a layer of bright red plastic tile board gleaming through a crack in my new studio wall, the latter layer having been revealed after taking down our old kitchen. Under the nasty white formica counter walls was a beautiful fir clapboard, nontheworse for wear once we took the mastic off, gave it a cleaning then a coat of stain. That it doesn't match anything else in the room is no matter. It was sound, nice looking, and required less work to leave than to change, especially once we noticed the red tile underneath; can of worms, that!
Above the clapboard was a mish mosh of plywood which we've covered with homosote for a huge expanse of bulletin board. Below that, attached to the clapboard, is a deep shelf made of a thick board recycled from the old bar, and handmade brackets from the same stock hold it up. All this hovers over a big old wood drafting table, which came to us via a sculptor friend, now deceased, many years ago.
I approach this space with mixed feelings. It's going to take some time for it to feel like mine - the comings and goings of the family though this wide hall will prevent a kind of art-making privacy that I've known in the past, but I'm hopeful that it will inform my work in a positive way. I'd like to think that the streak of red peeking out at me will remind daily that what was once hidden can be seen again, what was old can be new; that having my own space again will provide an opportunity to reclaim a part of me that's been on hold, and that doing so will reveal some exciting horizons.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Thursday, April 29, 2010
paint and pancakes
Paint and pancakes. Neither one was on my dinner table at the same time in the past months, but they may as well have been for the fast paced activity on that surface. Coffee, homework, tools, calendar, bills, receipts, a meal, a catologue, a napping cat, all rotating in quick succession; my eyes seeing a kind of harmony in it under the more obvious dissarray.
The momentary high that we all felt at "moving in" to the renovated space has moved on, replaced by the dread of miscellaneous small jobs crowding for attention now. A bit of spackle here and there looms a daunting task, more so somehow than the larger project ever did!
A few unfinished cupboard shelves hang agape, staring down at the pantry goods awaiting their home. I avert my eyes as I make breakfast, reaching for flour, cinnamon, baking soda from the crowded countertop. For now it's conveniently hiding the area still needing a finish trim.
The momentary high that we all felt at "moving in" to the renovated space has moved on, replaced by the dread of miscellaneous small jobs crowding for attention now. A bit of spackle here and there looms a daunting task, more so somehow than the larger project ever did!
A few unfinished cupboard shelves hang agape, staring down at the pantry goods awaiting their home. I avert my eyes as I make breakfast, reaching for flour, cinnamon, baking soda from the crowded countertop. For now it's conveniently hiding the area still needing a finish trim.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Haunts
About fifteen years ago, while number one was still a baby, I'd been working on a series of small paintings that I titled Private Property. The intent was to continue making work that spoke to my internal dialogue about physical boundaries in a metaphorical way, illustrating ideas about my sculptural vessels as landscape installations. Though I was aware at the time of the project's complexity on some level, it is with additonal time that I've come to appreciate more of its nuances as they relate to my history at large.
When I was three years old, my mother moved my sisters and me to her mother's home following what I've come to understand was for her an emotionally harrowing married life. Her mother's home provided a safe haven for all of us. Indeed, it was a home away from home for myriad people on an almost daily basis, as a private school for elementary age children. It's been suggested that there along with the many children of priviledge attending there were also children who simply couldn't do well anywhere else. It was an unconventional school and a stimulating environment with lots of animals, artifacts, and artwork in every room of its sprawling footprint. My grandmother's residence there had been allowed by virtue of her endowed principalship and willingness to make it her work-based home. It was a school and it was a home, yet it was neither simply nor wholly one or the other for me.
About five years into our now ten plus years here on Boxwood Avenue I became keenly aware that I'd been drawn to the property in most part because I'd been somehow familiar with its former use as a largely public property. For many years it was a bar/club downstairs, the owners living in a vast apartment upstairs; plenty of room for its family of four. We're five, and still, plenty of room, though our stuff takes up many of the corners that once stored beer. As an artist, its derelict state when I first saw it didn't deter my fast forming notions of how it could look one day. I saw it renovated, with possibilities for a studio, big social gatherings, lots of artwork on the walls, and plenty of room for sprawling teenage legs.
I believe that some homes have their haunts, and this one would illustrate that - there's energy still here from all those who stopped regularly after work for a beer, met with dates, or stayed a while to chat with neighbors. I can feel them more than ever before now that I'm just about ready to finish the renovation of what was once the bar. The as yet empty space between its new walls seems to echo with old conversations, shadows cast long ago seem to crawl against its corners.
It's not lost on me that my public vs. private dialogue is ongoing. There is some small celebrity in being here, and early on I heard many stories of its past from neighbors, passersby, and an occasional visitor seeking its former owners. This is undeniably my home, but the place is still very much the neighborhood's as well, and I would not deny that history. I've invited these people in during different phases of construction, watched their faces as they tried to reconcile their full memories with the shell of a room.
Long ago, before I married and had children, I made a spur of the moment visit to the old school. Though a Saturday, the place was bustling with activity, obviously an important day with parents and children milling all around. I approached someone to introduce myself, though I had no agenda other than the one I made up at the moment. That someone was, remarkably, a teacher I had known, who knew me and the special connection I had to the property. I was given a tour, recognized many objects between the building's walls, reconciled some of my memories with what I recognized, and felt definitely not at home. Several years later I visited again, just to show my children the place. No longer a school, the new owners had nontheless kept the original school sign, installed a plaque recognizing the building's history, paid homage to its former patron's memories.
Here on Boxwood Avenue, our big room will soon be receiving a different level of life than it's seen in many years. Its protracted days of being a storage area are at an end, and it's time to fill it with our own energy; time to put some private life into its public memory. I wish that whoever took the old bar sign off the place, just hours after we signed for ownership, knew that I'd be a sensitive caretaker of its history. Despite my many hours of painting a new coat of blue on the brick this past summer, I stopped short of painting over the shadow of where the old bar sign had been. As much a nod to the building's history, it was to my own as well, accepting and even celebrating a duality that is at once private and public, difficult and dear.
When I was three years old, my mother moved my sisters and me to her mother's home following what I've come to understand was for her an emotionally harrowing married life. Her mother's home provided a safe haven for all of us. Indeed, it was a home away from home for myriad people on an almost daily basis, as a private school for elementary age children. It's been suggested that there along with the many children of priviledge attending there were also children who simply couldn't do well anywhere else. It was an unconventional school and a stimulating environment with lots of animals, artifacts, and artwork in every room of its sprawling footprint. My grandmother's residence there had been allowed by virtue of her endowed principalship and willingness to make it her work-based home. It was a school and it was a home, yet it was neither simply nor wholly one or the other for me.
About five years into our now ten plus years here on Boxwood Avenue I became keenly aware that I'd been drawn to the property in most part because I'd been somehow familiar with its former use as a largely public property. For many years it was a bar/club downstairs, the owners living in a vast apartment upstairs; plenty of room for its family of four. We're five, and still, plenty of room, though our stuff takes up many of the corners that once stored beer. As an artist, its derelict state when I first saw it didn't deter my fast forming notions of how it could look one day. I saw it renovated, with possibilities for a studio, big social gatherings, lots of artwork on the walls, and plenty of room for sprawling teenage legs.
I believe that some homes have their haunts, and this one would illustrate that - there's energy still here from all those who stopped regularly after work for a beer, met with dates, or stayed a while to chat with neighbors. I can feel them more than ever before now that I'm just about ready to finish the renovation of what was once the bar. The as yet empty space between its new walls seems to echo with old conversations, shadows cast long ago seem to crawl against its corners.
It's not lost on me that my public vs. private dialogue is ongoing. There is some small celebrity in being here, and early on I heard many stories of its past from neighbors, passersby, and an occasional visitor seeking its former owners. This is undeniably my home, but the place is still very much the neighborhood's as well, and I would not deny that history. I've invited these people in during different phases of construction, watched their faces as they tried to reconcile their full memories with the shell of a room.
Long ago, before I married and had children, I made a spur of the moment visit to the old school. Though a Saturday, the place was bustling with activity, obviously an important day with parents and children milling all around. I approached someone to introduce myself, though I had no agenda other than the one I made up at the moment. That someone was, remarkably, a teacher I had known, who knew me and the special connection I had to the property. I was given a tour, recognized many objects between the building's walls, reconciled some of my memories with what I recognized, and felt definitely not at home. Several years later I visited again, just to show my children the place. No longer a school, the new owners had nontheless kept the original school sign, installed a plaque recognizing the building's history, paid homage to its former patron's memories.
Here on Boxwood Avenue, our big room will soon be receiving a different level of life than it's seen in many years. Its protracted days of being a storage area are at an end, and it's time to fill it with our own energy; time to put some private life into its public memory. I wish that whoever took the old bar sign off the place, just hours after we signed for ownership, knew that I'd be a sensitive caretaker of its history. Despite my many hours of painting a new coat of blue on the brick this past summer, I stopped short of painting over the shadow of where the old bar sign had been. As much a nod to the building's history, it was to my own as well, accepting and even celebrating a duality that is at once private and public, difficult and dear.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
New Year, New Space
Our first floor renovation serves as a good physical reminder of all the worry, promise and hope I hold for the year. Though the room is nearly complete, still yet there are buckets of paint, stacks of wood, and miscellaneous tools standing resignedly shoulder to shoulder with walls just beginning to fortell upholstered chairs, cozy rugs, napping cats, and comfortable domestic disarray.
With all the hardest work done and the walls ready for decisions as to their final dressings, it is a surprisingly uncomfortable relationship I have with the empty space between them. I have courted its possibilities too long perhaps, envisioned them too precisely not to feel a disruption; I've made room for its haunts! The stories I've heard, the room's very public nature way before we ever knew it, have come to life now that life is back in the room.
The promise of renewed life in the big room is running paralell to my decision to rededicate myself to making art again. Stating this publicly is as bold a move as taking on a renovation - everyone can see whether it will move forward or not, there's no hiding the project one way or another. But I've decided to plug away at it again, take the chance that the vision I once held for my career might actually one day round its own corner out of rough construction.
The new year and the new space are both promising opportunities for growth; revisited, redesigned, rededicated.
PS - A future post might talk about how the public/private space issue is a recurring theme in my personal history, and why this might be.
.
With all the hardest work done and the walls ready for decisions as to their final dressings, it is a surprisingly uncomfortable relationship I have with the empty space between them. I have courted its possibilities too long perhaps, envisioned them too precisely not to feel a disruption; I've made room for its haunts! The stories I've heard, the room's very public nature way before we ever knew it, have come to life now that life is back in the room.
The promise of renewed life in the big room is running paralell to my decision to rededicate myself to making art again. Stating this publicly is as bold a move as taking on a renovation - everyone can see whether it will move forward or not, there's no hiding the project one way or another. But I've decided to plug away at it again, take the chance that the vision I once held for my career might actually one day round its own corner out of rough construction.
The new year and the new space are both promising opportunities for growth; revisited, redesigned, rededicated.
PS - A future post might talk about how the public/private space issue is a recurring theme in my personal history, and why this might be.
.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Pottery Shards, Science Projects, and Fleas
Had one heck of a morning the other day, it seemed to last a day and a half.
My right arm has been in a sling for a couple of weeks because I wrenched my elbow something awful when the spade bit I was using to put a hole in a 4x4 (for the boys' chin up station in the yard) got bound up in the wood, the powerful drill twisting my arm out and around. It's been hard not being allowed to do much of anything with it, being that I generally want to everything myself so that it's done right. But the kids are making their own lunches, helping with dishes, taking the dog out, and being generally helpful if not completely into it.
Mother had driven north to help out for a few days and she really pampered me all the way; made lemon grass soup even. She washed dishes endlessly, made me really see how many I usually do in a day, and drove me around town to take care of oil changes, bank deposits, grocery shopping, etcetera. Sleeping in the livingroom on the futon bed, never once complained about a lack of privacy, not a word against the dog's tags clanging in the night, the cats' pouncing during their play in the wee hours. Best, she didn't point out how I was generally a bad patient, not patient at all with my situtation. I can learn a lot from her general grace, and should, and well.
She also helped me to fetch Paul home on Wednesday after he stumbled in band class and got a chair leg jammed into his crotch. Poor kid slept for three hours when we got home.
Time came for her to head home though, and for me to go back to work, which we each did if more than a bit reluctantly. There was some talk about her coming back this weekend.
The week went fairly well, and Paul got ready for his weekend scout campout, and by Wednesday evening he was completely ready. Alex and Adrian would each be at a sleepover one night, and it was a long weekend, with no school Monday. Sounded nice. Wednesday night though, Alex discovered fleas on Pippin and in her room and had a fit. I went to get the vacuum - it was still broken, what was I thinking, and had been for since just before my elbow incident. Tried to manage the situation, calm her down, etc. Would have to move her downstairs for the night.
Thursday was supposed to go like this:
Alex up at 5:15 am to spend 1 hour and 28 minutes getting ready for school, 2 minutes eating breakfast, then out the door at 7:00 for the bus. Me up at 6:20 to wake the boys. Fred up at 6:30. Make Alex's smoothy, boys' lunches and breakfast on the table by 6:45. Yell at boys to hurry up at 6:55. Yell up to Alex "are you on time?" at 6:56. Boys out the door at 7:20, Fred on their heels. Quiet house by 7:30. Off to work by 8:30. Pizza planned for dinner because it was Fred's class night, boys' scout night, and back to school night at the middle school.
This is how it went:
Got call during work that Adrian had injured his finger. Told him to be brave, it was just his left finger and the nurse had assured me that it wasn't swollen or black and blue - tough it out.
Kids ate half the pizza as soon as they got home from school. Hardly any left for dinner.
Fred ate leftovers, went off to class. Alex continued fussing about fleas and wondering very loudly about why we didn't have a working vacuum and that it was just great that she'd be alone that night to contend with life alone.
Adrian didn't want to go to scouts, his finger was swollen and a bit black and blue; after being told he would not be allowed to watch tv or video games instead, he got ready for scouts.
Stopped at the grocery store having handed the boys $5 to go get the candy that they were required to bring in to science class next day, dropped the boys off at scouts, stopped at Walgreens for a finger splint and a new cold pack, and a cherry coke to fortify me (self prescribed Rx, the cherry being the important ingredient, Cherry Garcia not being anywhere around).
I drove back to school night, arriving late, so had to park 1/4 mile away from the school. Got asked many times "what did you DO to your arm?" Found out from science teacher that niether son had turned in their first assigned project. Left early to go pick up boys from scouts. Got stopped on way out by PTA friend who after saying hello reminded me that yes, we have to be ON TOP of some of our kids, after all the boys are not Alex (who never needed being on top of) and that after all WE are all premenapausal, so maybe I ought to take some Xanax like she does.
Finally got to scout meeting, boys both happy for just moments because then (OK, BAD TIMING) asked them about that science project, told them they MUST have it completed at school next day or no camping or sleepover. HARD LINE MOM moment. Once home, realized impossible to enforce because materials were at school. Kids showered and in bed by 9:30. Alex on futon in livingroom, fussing, by 11pm.
Friday morning:
I woke suddenly choking with hairspray in my throat at 5:30am because Alex was preparing herself in the tiny downstairs bathroom rather than in her upstairs, well ventilated room.
The boys woke soon after because that just fit.
Alex fussing about fleas until she left for bus.
Paul dropped and broke his favorite cereal bowl, a nice cerulean blue mug with an M&M character on it, given to him by Alex about five years ago. Real tears shed. My Silent Prayer: Thank God it was him that done broke the thing.
I called Mother by 8am, grateful for some time to talk because I would be going into work late that morning. She calmed me right down, providing insight into the humorous aspects of my day-and-a-half-long morning. "You should write about this in your blog" she said.
PS - Paul home after school, proud that he'd managed to do his science project during study hall, and had put it on his teacher's desk. Adrian had worked on it, but not finished it, and had left it at school. Got Fred to drive Adrian back to the school for his project. I took Paul to meet the campers, thinking we'd be there early enough to help with last minute packing. Enjoyed the peace and quiet of yellow leaves skittering on the tarmac in the breeze, branches against a blue, blue sky. Campers arrived at 6pm and later (departure at 6pm said the paperwork). Realized Paul needed a coat - they'd be up near the Delaware Water Gap. Called Fred, he ran it over, then turned right around to take Alex to swim team. Alex home by 9:15pm. Adrian and I got Chinese food and three Redbox movies. Laundered Alex's blankets while we watched an old Harrison Ford in the last Indian Jones movie.
Big, big sigh at around 10pm.
.
My right arm has been in a sling for a couple of weeks because I wrenched my elbow something awful when the spade bit I was using to put a hole in a 4x4 (for the boys' chin up station in the yard) got bound up in the wood, the powerful drill twisting my arm out and around. It's been hard not being allowed to do much of anything with it, being that I generally want to everything myself so that it's done right. But the kids are making their own lunches, helping with dishes, taking the dog out, and being generally helpful if not completely into it.
Mother had driven north to help out for a few days and she really pampered me all the way; made lemon grass soup even. She washed dishes endlessly, made me really see how many I usually do in a day, and drove me around town to take care of oil changes, bank deposits, grocery shopping, etcetera. Sleeping in the livingroom on the futon bed, never once complained about a lack of privacy, not a word against the dog's tags clanging in the night, the cats' pouncing during their play in the wee hours. Best, she didn't point out how I was generally a bad patient, not patient at all with my situtation. I can learn a lot from her general grace, and should, and well.
She also helped me to fetch Paul home on Wednesday after he stumbled in band class and got a chair leg jammed into his crotch. Poor kid slept for three hours when we got home.
Time came for her to head home though, and for me to go back to work, which we each did if more than a bit reluctantly. There was some talk about her coming back this weekend.
The week went fairly well, and Paul got ready for his weekend scout campout, and by Wednesday evening he was completely ready. Alex and Adrian would each be at a sleepover one night, and it was a long weekend, with no school Monday. Sounded nice. Wednesday night though, Alex discovered fleas on Pippin and in her room and had a fit. I went to get the vacuum - it was still broken, what was I thinking, and had been for since just before my elbow incident. Tried to manage the situation, calm her down, etc. Would have to move her downstairs for the night.
Thursday was supposed to go like this:
Alex up at 5:15 am to spend 1 hour and 28 minutes getting ready for school, 2 minutes eating breakfast, then out the door at 7:00 for the bus. Me up at 6:20 to wake the boys. Fred up at 6:30. Make Alex's smoothy, boys' lunches and breakfast on the table by 6:45. Yell at boys to hurry up at 6:55. Yell up to Alex "are you on time?" at 6:56. Boys out the door at 7:20, Fred on their heels. Quiet house by 7:30. Off to work by 8:30. Pizza planned for dinner because it was Fred's class night, boys' scout night, and back to school night at the middle school.
This is how it went:
Got call during work that Adrian had injured his finger. Told him to be brave, it was just his left finger and the nurse had assured me that it wasn't swollen or black and blue - tough it out.
Kids ate half the pizza as soon as they got home from school. Hardly any left for dinner.
Fred ate leftovers, went off to class. Alex continued fussing about fleas and wondering very loudly about why we didn't have a working vacuum and that it was just great that she'd be alone that night to contend with life alone.
Adrian didn't want to go to scouts, his finger was swollen and a bit black and blue; after being told he would not be allowed to watch tv or video games instead, he got ready for scouts.
Stopped at the grocery store having handed the boys $5 to go get the candy that they were required to bring in to science class next day, dropped the boys off at scouts, stopped at Walgreens for a finger splint and a new cold pack, and a cherry coke to fortify me (self prescribed Rx, the cherry being the important ingredient, Cherry Garcia not being anywhere around).
I drove back to school night, arriving late, so had to park 1/4 mile away from the school. Got asked many times "what did you DO to your arm?" Found out from science teacher that niether son had turned in their first assigned project. Left early to go pick up boys from scouts. Got stopped on way out by PTA friend who after saying hello reminded me that yes, we have to be ON TOP of some of our kids, after all the boys are not Alex (who never needed being on top of) and that after all WE are all premenapausal, so maybe I ought to take some Xanax like she does.
Finally got to scout meeting, boys both happy for just moments because then (OK, BAD TIMING) asked them about that science project, told them they MUST have it completed at school next day or no camping or sleepover. HARD LINE MOM moment. Once home, realized impossible to enforce because materials were at school. Kids showered and in bed by 9:30. Alex on futon in livingroom, fussing, by 11pm.
Friday morning:
I woke suddenly choking with hairspray in my throat at 5:30am because Alex was preparing herself in the tiny downstairs bathroom rather than in her upstairs, well ventilated room.
The boys woke soon after because that just fit.
Alex fussing about fleas until she left for bus.
Paul dropped and broke his favorite cereal bowl, a nice cerulean blue mug with an M&M character on it, given to him by Alex about five years ago. Real tears shed. My Silent Prayer: Thank God it was him that done broke the thing.
I called Mother by 8am, grateful for some time to talk because I would be going into work late that morning. She calmed me right down, providing insight into the humorous aspects of my day-and-a-half-long morning. "You should write about this in your blog" she said.
PS - Paul home after school, proud that he'd managed to do his science project during study hall, and had put it on his teacher's desk. Adrian had worked on it, but not finished it, and had left it at school. Got Fred to drive Adrian back to the school for his project. I took Paul to meet the campers, thinking we'd be there early enough to help with last minute packing. Enjoyed the peace and quiet of yellow leaves skittering on the tarmac in the breeze, branches against a blue, blue sky. Campers arrived at 6pm and later (departure at 6pm said the paperwork). Realized Paul needed a coat - they'd be up near the Delaware Water Gap. Called Fred, he ran it over, then turned right around to take Alex to swim team. Alex home by 9:15pm. Adrian and I got Chinese food and three Redbox movies. Laundered Alex's blankets while we watched an old Harrison Ford in the last Indian Jones movie.
Big, big sigh at around 10pm.
.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Best Intentions
On facebook, yesterday afternoon, I posted that I had gotten paint on my brand new jeans, despite better intentions. Toni liked it, and I was glad because she's one that I could count on to get all that the statement stood for.
Alex has just about given up on me, her sense of style propriety insulted too many times by my lack of same. She was about two and a half years old when I took her shopping for a nice summer party dress. Standing in the aisle with a light blue and pink striped searsucker slipped over her t-shirt and tights, she suddenly twirled around on her toes to see its skirt fly out. I didn't teach her that, and you gotta know, I wouldn't have. But there it was, undeniable. Alex was more girly than I, and she cared about clothes. Much older now, the distressing in her jeans leaves me a little distressed, but she assures me it's cool, and she wouldn't dream of sewing any of it. She has such confidence in this assessment, and it shows in her overall stance which is such that she could wear anything and look good.
Distressed Jeans Economy:
The Right Brand at Upper Crust Store: starting on sale at $30, and going up to $100 and some of them have had paint applied to them already, For Effect.
At upper crust thrift store Plato's Closet: about $20, many with tattering that identifies them in the upper echelons of tattered styling, and which earns them special placement in the store, front and center.
At my favorite thrift store Red White and Blue: about $7
Which leaves me grateful that the boys are still just fine with RWB jeans, which look brand new in just the right distressed way, and where the $10 still-with-tags Ralph Lauren's hang right next to the $4 Levi's.
The truth is, I didn't actually get paint on my jeans. Because they were brand new, the result of a gift card spending spree, rather dark blue, and markedly untattered, I was very, very careful while wielding a paint brush at the wall. I imagined my daughter's sigh.
.
Alex has just about given up on me, her sense of style propriety insulted too many times by my lack of same. She was about two and a half years old when I took her shopping for a nice summer party dress. Standing in the aisle with a light blue and pink striped searsucker slipped over her t-shirt and tights, she suddenly twirled around on her toes to see its skirt fly out. I didn't teach her that, and you gotta know, I wouldn't have. But there it was, undeniable. Alex was more girly than I, and she cared about clothes. Much older now, the distressing in her jeans leaves me a little distressed, but she assures me it's cool, and she wouldn't dream of sewing any of it. She has such confidence in this assessment, and it shows in her overall stance which is such that she could wear anything and look good.
Distressed Jeans Economy:
The Right Brand at Upper Crust Store: starting on sale at $30, and going up to $100 and some of them have had paint applied to them already, For Effect.
At upper crust thrift store Plato's Closet: about $20, many with tattering that identifies them in the upper echelons of tattered styling, and which earns them special placement in the store, front and center.
At my favorite thrift store Red White and Blue: about $7
Which leaves me grateful that the boys are still just fine with RWB jeans, which look brand new in just the right distressed way, and where the $10 still-with-tags Ralph Lauren's hang right next to the $4 Levi's.
The truth is, I didn't actually get paint on my jeans. Because they were brand new, the result of a gift card spending spree, rather dark blue, and markedly untattered, I was very, very careful while wielding a paint brush at the wall. I imagined my daughter's sigh.
.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
A bit about Mud Wasps, Outhouses, and Eggs
My sisters and I spent summers in the country, bare chested and bare footed, among towering trees, wild grapes, and lots of room for our very young selves to roam. Our grandparents had built a complex of rough recycled barnwood buildings, decorated with wavy blue trim and quite cozy. They resided in the main cabin (special because it had kerosene lamps, and the wood stoves) and a row of storage sheds capped at one end by a cabin had built-in bunk beds for the kids. Highlights included outdoor baths in the big zinc covered steel tub, neighbors bringing us baskets of still hot tomatoes, which we ate with such relish the juice ran down our chests to our shorts, science lessons we'd get whenever an injured or dead beast was found on the property, the celebrity we enjoyed with inevitable black and blue toe stubbings, and the promise of a comforting hug if we dodged our way to the main cabin through a particularly scary thunderstorm.
Few ammenities were provided though none of us felt the burden of it really. Our playground was vast and wild, and we were wonderfully scared at the prospect of a late night trek down to the outhouse flashlight in hand, waving it back and forth across the path to fend off Indians or foxes or wayward criminals which we were certain lay in wait along the path or down inside the outhouse itself.
The outhouse was far less ominous during the day. Mud wasps could be watched during our visits, making their row homes steadily each day all summer long. I'd sit there watching them spit out their mouthfulls onto the painted wood slats, just inches away from the budget toilet paper and the heavily pine oil scented block hanging nearby. The passing of summer could be measured by the size of their complexes.
Early mornings were measured by the amount of dew on the spider webs that tented the leaves on the ground. Still silver meant that one might have a chance at finding my grandmother at the potbelly stove for a fried egg in the small yellow enamel fry pan. It would have been a special treat, joining her privately like that, and worth waking early for.
Few ammenities were provided though none of us felt the burden of it really. Our playground was vast and wild, and we were wonderfully scared at the prospect of a late night trek down to the outhouse flashlight in hand, waving it back and forth across the path to fend off Indians or foxes or wayward criminals which we were certain lay in wait along the path or down inside the outhouse itself.
The outhouse was far less ominous during the day. Mud wasps could be watched during our visits, making their row homes steadily each day all summer long. I'd sit there watching them spit out their mouthfulls onto the painted wood slats, just inches away from the budget toilet paper and the heavily pine oil scented block hanging nearby. The passing of summer could be measured by the size of their complexes.
Early mornings were measured by the amount of dew on the spider webs that tented the leaves on the ground. Still silver meant that one might have a chance at finding my grandmother at the potbelly stove for a fried egg in the small yellow enamel fry pan. It would have been a special treat, joining her privately like that, and worth waking early for.
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