A Corded Book.

Saturday, Sept. 29, I took a class in making a "corded" book at The Accidental Bookmaker shop with Patricia Grass. I had fun choosing papers and then figuring out how to attach cords to "j" hooks and tighten wing nuts to fix tension.

Next came sewing the pages together and wrapping the waxed linen thread around the cords to cover them.
The result was something I really liked and it was fun to do. My results weren't perfect, but if I kept doing it I'm sure it would get easier and I'd have ever so many nice gifts for friends.
My September book/art journal ends today (One Day At a Time) and tomorrow I start October's book.

Today, Sunday, my sister and husband and I went to the cemetery to take Mom some flowers since her birthday is October 2. It was finally a rainy day in Oregon. That should keep the flowers fresher, longer and keep the pretty plant well watered.
Goodbye, September.

This is looking up into the American elm in our back yard. Soon it will be covered with yellow leaves which will automatically release at a predetermined time (by someone or something) and descend to the ground. If we are lucky they will stay dry long enough to rake easily ... in light piles. With rain, however, more leaves will leave their posts earlier and we'll have heavy piles to compost. But we do need the rain ... .
This is a random post. I am still working on trying to get photos to enlarge in blogger when you hover over them with your cursor.
femminismo

Fall is here.

It's not official, but fall is here in the early morning air and throughout the day. It reminds me of the days when a new dress for school and brand new sharp crayons and pencils made me excited to start learning something new.
This fall I want to learn lots of new things.
If there is anything that teaches us that time is not finite, it's the rapidly ongoing change of the seasons. If I hear once more how quickly time seems to be passing I think I will scream. (I already know this. Don't tell me again! And I promise not to say it myself.)
Here are some photos of flowers still in the yard - autumn crocus and roses ... don't know what kind, but they're lovely.
It's time to plant bulbs now for flowers in the spring. Best get busy.

Sidewalk Chalk Art Festival Day!

Yes! What makes the perfect ending to summer? Chalk Art! There was so much to see and do and people to visit with and good food to eat. So many artists blossoming on the streets with colorful chalk drawings and "paintings."
What imaginations and great skill a lot of them had. The koi in the small sidewalk "pond" looked real enough to feed.
Opinions were expressed, real people and cartoon characters were honored ... it boggled the brain the riot of color that blossomed.

I, of course, this year had vowed to get a balloon hat from Joe Mishkin, the balloon man. As I waited patiently in line with the kids, I decided I wanted a crown. Just a modest number, with no estates, subjects or castles included. Joe came through for me as I'm sure you can tell by the fetching balloon gear I am wearing on my head.
I had so much fun. Three granddaughters were also there, and a son and a daughter. What a wonderful, wonderful way to end summer.

Getting Ready for Fun.

Tomorrow is Sidewalk Chalk Art day and I have to admit I am excited and anxious at the same time. Excited because Chalk Art is always so much fun, marking the end of the summer but with the excitement of fall in the offing, too. Anxious that everything goes well and my contribution is worthwhile.
It's actually just a total day of fun when you can feel like a kid and get filthy while drawing on the sidewalk.
I will have three grandchildren there and my daughter and son will be there, too. It doesn't get much more fun than that.
I never really envisioned the rich warm feeling I would have seeing my older children together with their own children - and those children playing together. It is almost as good a feeling as holding your own baby close to your heart.
I will enjoy tomorrow, whatever it brings: clouds, a little mist, a cool morning. I will be with friends and doing something I enjoy and watching my children play together again.

In memory.

Tonight I hung paper leaves ("Living Leaves") decorated with paints, crayons, pictures and words in remembrance of 9/11. The tradition originally started in 2000 after two local men died on Mt. Hood in a climbing accident. The following year, in September of 2001, it took on more meaning when we remembered the victims of the 9/11 attacks.
Each year we use this opportunity to remind each other of the important joys of life (peace, love, hope), express an opinion or remember and honor those we have lost. As the wind blows through the leaves, which are hung on the small trees along Main Street, I like to think that the thoughts and prayers written on them will reach up into the heavens.
Sentimental, but pure in intention.
This year I put one up for my mother and one for my father. The one for dad is bright orange and large. On the back it says "for the tallest, handsomest and kindest dad." Mom's leaf says "best mama ever."

A Weekend Spent Playing

It was a good weekend of work in the sunroom - off and on - because I had to spend part of the time cleaning out my inside work space to make room for this winter's work. Soon the rain and cold will come and I don't want to be spending it out in the dampness. I want to be warm and cozy and inspired - not shivering.
September's workbook art/journal is well on its way. The pages haven't been too inspiring; just utilitarian. Somewhere to write down thoughts.
Tonight I am making leaves - "living leaves" with thoughts, comments, sentiments, memories, memorials in honor of loved ones and in memory of 9/11. They will hang on the trees in a nearby town to remember sacrifices and honor family members. The leaves may have poems or pictures on them. It is something I enjoy doing each September.
Hope you enjoy the pictures. - femminismo

Busy, busy day!

Today was a work day at the newspaper: reading, writing, editing. Argh! My eyeballs need a rest. But after work I went to volunteer some time at Valley Art Association, a nonprofit art gallery. Two artists, Gerald Sticka and Martha Denham, were the featured artists. Their work is wonderful, of course.
It was First Wednesday downtown and I prepared an appetizer (spinach leaves stuffed with Thai-inspired goodies), and there was cheese, dip, crackers, a rosy bowl of plums, grapes, veggies and a wine tasting with Montinore Reisling, pinot noir and pinotgrigo. Lots of happy, smiling people milling about - in the gallery and in the street because there were other vendors throughout town and it was a wonderful September evening. I was happy to be walking around town visiting with old friends and artists I had met last month. The summer is definitely coming to a close and it's hard to say goodbye to these longer, warmer evenings.
By 8 p.m., however, I was happy to be on my way home, with dahlias left over from the party. My shoes are off and my feet will soon be propped up.
I'm posting a photo of a portion of the food table. I love sunflowers! - femminismo

Labor Day Weekend

It was a relaxing weekend and I feel like I got some things done I'd been meaning to accomplish: went to Saturday Market and got peaches (lovely Snow King peaches), worked on my next art/journal book, spent Sunday at Art in the Pearl and Monday escaped to the woods for a hike and a listen to the creek. The sky was blue with white dappled clouds. I've posted several photos. Enjoy!

It's a new month!

Yes, September is here and I have finished August's art journal in keeping with my determination to track One Day At A Time. Hence, the name of this blog for those who didn't know ... or care.
It's warm today in the Pacific Northwest, but last night left dew on the skylights this morning. As you can see by the newest photo I've posted, the sunflower in the front yard - a volunteer - has reached heights beyond picking. Most of the beautiful yellow flowers have escaped my shears and flourish to provide the bees with something - nectar? pollen? - and the birds with seeds a little later on. That is, if it doesn't fall over again. It is staked now, and thanks to our neighbor's exuberant in-ground sprinkler, it is watered.
This month I am making my entire book (not the paper). I have signatures of folded paper I will bind and sew into a handmade cover. I hope it works out and doesn't become the straw that breaks this art journalist's back. Now I must get busy.
Hope your sunflowers, or any flowers, are blooming their heads off. - femminismo

So It Begins ....

There's always one telltale sign in our back yard that fall is on the way. It's not the autumn crocus or the hardy amaryllis, but the lowest branches of the American sycamore that signal the turn of the seasons.
So far it hasn't been the warmest summer on record. In fact, I will be surprised if this September - usually a warm month - is any better.
Why, land's sake, I can remember in the '60s wearing a new wool skirt or a hard earned sweater (my own money, picking strawberries and beans) when school began in September and regretting it because the weather was so hot. Nowadays, there are many times I have worn sweaters this July and August, and not only because of air conditioning inside.
In the Oregon of my youth the summer days seemed warm and long. As I walked through fields of dry grass, the grasshoppers, with their brightly colored wings, fanned out from all around me. Now, I haven't seen a grasshopper in so long, I really wonder if Mother Nature makes them any more.
The summers were warm and my sister and I slept in a small bedroom upstairs where all the heat went during the day. We would gather around the one window that could be opened about 10 inches, because that was the size of the only little screen we had. That was our sole protection from the mosquitoes that could detect the scent of us from miles away. It was torture to lie there in the darkness and hear them whining away. So sleepy ... but we didn't want to doze in case one started drilling.
A rolled up newspaper came in handy, and eventually my sister would screw in the light bulb in the ceiling (the only way to turn it on or off) and start thwacking away at the bugs that alighted on the ceiling - trying in their obscure way to hide from us.
The light bulb in the ceiling: Ah! It's been a couple of years since I thought of that. What great arguments we used to have over whose turn it was to shut it off. It was usually so hot we had to put a sock or something else over our hand so we could touch it and (literally) "turn" it off.
Of course, thwacking mosquitoes on the ceiling and fighting about the light usually only brought a shout from downstairs. "You kids go to sleep! Right now!"
Well, I've come a ways from leaves turning color. What's it like where you live? How do you know fall is coming? I'd like to know. - femminismo

This Weekend's Work.

I decided to heat up some wax and slapped down a torn photograph of these wonderful musicians from a book I had. I added/drew a woman's face and thought it looked as if the trombone player and the young woman were in some way a "couple." I named the woman "Marcella" and the trombone player "Francis." He plays with the Gibson Brothers Band while Marcella remains in the city and attends business school. She is going to be a secretary and save her money up for their wedding. Will Francis ever settle down, however; that's the question.
The imagination is surely one of the more fascinating aspects of being human.

Mona? Is that you?

Mona like you've never seen her before. The wonderful illustration is from a yoga magazine and don't you think it makes a wonderful, cozy pullover for Mona? However, she might seem scary to some. She's got a great hairband and earrings that are extra special. I may cover her in wax ... just because I've been wanting to heat some wax. The weather has been cooler, so the time may be ripe.
I am still continuing with my art/journal pages. I have been back to work and busy after vacation. Hoping to enjoy a leisurely, artful Labor Day too. Ciao!

From Oregon to Washington

We left on Sunday for Ellensburg, Washington. Up the Columbia River Gorge - a most beautiful place - across at Biggs Junction, to Goldendale and then on for miles and miles through Washington territory to E-burg.
Across the Columbia, on the Washington side, the hills looked as if they were covered in brown suede or nubby golden corduroy. Most of my scenic pictures are "speeding" photos, which means from the car window as we sped on our way. Going 70 mph was the norm for most of our trip.
We met family in the town of Ellensburg and had dinner and then went to the "bed and breakfast" my sister operates when family visits. She really doesn't have a bed and breakfast, but she and her husband do have a wonderful log cabin. So peaceful there, with only the birds - tanagers, grosbeaks and many, many hummingbirds. (Well, there are elk, deer, mountain lions and bears - from time to time - but the only wildlife I saw was birds and chipmunks.) Check out the photos at the bottom of our views from the cabin.
We went to Roslyn, where "Northern Exposure" was filmed, hiked and climbed in Ohme Garden, in Wenatchee, which you really should visit, and buzzed through Leavenworth. Our quest for a new sparkly wind twirler was realized. Yippee!
We ate and ate and had a great time. Thanks, Judy and Gary, for the fine welcome. Happy birthday, today, Judy!
Now we're home watering the yard and scrubbing road grime from the car. Back to the real world.

Windy, artsy August night

Tonight was the First Wednesday of the month, and at the art gallery where I volunteer there was a great turnout for our eight local artists' reception. The food was good and wine tastings were going on all over town.
The wind blew along the street and flapped the colorful flags outside the gallery so loudly it was hard to hear yourself think.
The farmers market at the end of the street was filled with early, luscious produce and beautiful lilies, sunflowers and annuals of all sorts. The air was scented with basil and tamales and I met an artist from Louisiana, driven away by the lack of work and depressed economy, and another artist who paints toys with other objects. There was one painting of a sock monkey next to a rubber ducky. The monkey was looking very tenderly at the ducky, like he'd either like to take it on a date or for a ride in a tub of water.
Another artist had wonderful, impressionistic fused glass and still two other women artists - sisters - who had jewelry and "totem" people, all inspired by their upbringing in South America, Chile and South Africa. "Tribal art" they call it. Ah, the minds of artists - and so many of them say "We'd like to quit our jobs and do only this." So I'm not the only one ... no big surprise. Good night, now.

Tiger Lily

I've got two "tiger lilies" actually. One is the flower and one the little lady, Tiger Lily, that I made on SCRIBBLER. I love to draw the simple line figures with my mouse and then watch SCRIBBLER make them look almost like actual art.
On this altered book/journal page I pasted a head onto a body - both ones I drew and the software program finished. The link is http://www.zefrank.com/scribbler/.

Once you start, you will find yourself unable to quit. Good luck drawing.

July is getting on.

There's not much left of July is there? Once again I didn't "pepper" the flower beds with annuals so I could have some vivid color in the garden during these last days of summer. Most of the color is from a scattering of lilies, the butterfly bush and late lavender. The purple cones of tiny flowers on the butterfly bush smell so much like honey to me, and the swallowtail butterflies truly love them.
I won't write for long tonight, except to say that I am tired and I long for the week of vacation that is coming soon. After that I want to retire and stay at home and plant flowers and draw pictures and someone should just give me a paintbrush and a thousand tubes of colors - all sorts of colors - and turn me loose with them so I can make art.

Be Gone Ye Dragon!

It’s like a jump off a diving board into a cold, murky pool — when you don’t know how to swim.
That’s what it feels like on the days I walk one mile to work. What am I afraid of? That’s what I asked myself this morning.
I thought about all the good reasons to drive instead of walk: I would get there sooner, my right knee was hurting, and I’d just eaten breakfast and hate to walk on a full stomach.
I thought about all the good reasons to walk instead of drive: I had made a commitment to my health and exercise would strengthen my heart and lower my blood glucose levels, I wouldn’t be using my car and it would help the environment, and I had lost another 2 pounds. Boy, these reasons outweighed the others. What was I waiting for? If I collapsed at the side of the road surely someone would stop and help me. The same thing could happen while I was sitting in the car or at my desk.
I stepped out the front door into a beautiful summer day and stopped. I should take the car, I thought. Why? I went over the same concerns as before. No; walk, I decided. Quickly I took off before my anxieties gave way to the good things walking had to offer.
You can learn a lot more about your neighborhood when you walk through than when you zip past sealed up in a car I decided. At the end of the block, it sounded as if there were a party going on. It was a group of guys laughing and joking over coffee in the back yard, letting off steam before leaving for a construction job.
About a block away from home, on the street that runs parallel to ours, I heard a rooster crow. Then I heard it again. Chickens in the city! It’s amazing how some neighbors get along so well with each other. Evidently none of them found roosters annoying. Or if they had, they decided to live and let live.
When you walk alone, you also have time to contemplate your life. Twice a week I have one-half hour to think about people I love and people I could live without, trips I’d like to take and, of course, where I’ve been in my life and where I’m going.
The jump off the diving board, the jump out the front door – both are like the leap of faith that writing is: putting down your thoughts and hoping that you'll find it both a good exercise and rewarding. Of course it's the happiest thing when your writing gives someone else information they need or want.
In 2003 I went to Italy by myself – if you don't count the hundreds of other people in the airplane, all of them strangers – to meet a group of women in Umbria. I got there without dropping unconscious by the side of the road. During that trip I confessed to the group of women that I had anxiety attacks. One of them said, “Oh, doctors know how to deal with that now."
Is that right, I thought sarcastically to myself. I'd been having these attacks for about 40 years and no one had ever given me very much help.
She explained that breathing in through your nose to a count of four, holding your breath for a count of four and then exhaling through your mouth to a count of 10-12 would work for me. I should practice this breathing to be ready if an attack came. So, I did. There wasn't much to lose.
A couple of nights later I woke up around 2 a.m. and it started; that terrible anxiety.
The breathing I thought, over my panic. I began breathing and holding and exhaling and I'll be darned if the anxiety didn't stop. In that dark room in Umbria, I could literally see the dragon - that for so long had his claws wrapped in my hair - let go and fade away into the corner. I felt so powerful; so wonderful.
However he still lingers in my memory. He hasn't come back full force and I don't want to allow that to happen. The memory of the claws is why I play the mental game with myself - should I walk to work or drive. Yet I know that every time I walk I'm doing more than getting exercise.
I'm leaving that dragon a little further behind every time ... and good riddance.

Do You Know Crabby?

I've been feeling crabby lately. How about you?
Feeling crabby, for me, usually means there's been a shortage of letting feelings out. A couple of days ago I spent some time in a place that does not hold good memories for me: the local emergency room.
I wasn't there for myself; lucky me. However, it is a place I associate with two terrible events in my life. It's the emergency room where I saw my father alive for the last time, and it's the place I brought my mother when she was hurting one night. She laid in a room for over two hours before she was admitted to the hospital. She was then released about a week later because her doctor could do nothing more for her.
I'm sure this emergency room holds plenty of frightening memories for many local residents and even for the people who work there, I can't imagine they become inured to the harsh realities of living and dying.
So, yes, I've been crabby and distracted and feeling a little lonesome for loved ones I still love and miss. Perhaps it's time for a good cry and then some therapeutic art.
Maybe it's even time to write, which has been cathartic in the past. We shall see.
Can you tell where I went on Sunday? There it is: Haystack Rock at Cannon Beach.

Friday's over. Whew!

Well, I don't know about you, but I escaped the dreaded Friday the 13th with no accidents or bad luck (that I know of). Except I seem to be losing my memory. I swear I will have to write down more things, and write them in one place only, so I can live my life without forgetting to attend parties or by going to interviews that were actually scheduled for next week.
I have always felt my memory was poor, due to the scattered quality of my thought patterns. This was something I thought I was born with, and although I try to remember more than the words to the theme song from "Gilligan's Island," there are definitely times my memory lets me down.
I am not thinking it's a serious illness, but my "rememberation" could really use some help. (And I've tried ginko already, and didn't forget to take it, so I won't try that old joke.
I have been watering the July flowers in my Pacific Northwest garden - not as often as they'd like, but as often as I care to. Most of my free time is spent trying to keep up with my altered book/journal ... filling its pages with some random thoughts that won't be too frightening to pass on to future generations.
I look at it this way: If I found a book like some of the ones I'm filling up, I would be delighted. I can only hope they survive the coming years and someone similar to me finds them interesting.
Now I am going out to the sunroom to paint a few more pages with some new paint that was recommended to me. I hope it's cool where you are ... but not too much so.