a sad little worn down town

I wonder about where I live sometimes.  I know my fair share of people that have left to get away from the rain, the isolation,  the disproportionately high property taxes,  they have fled to more southern pastures, bigger centers, drier, less remote. More than a few have pangs of loss,  feelings of regret, remorse, and of not realizing how good it was….

I was looking on line last night at much newer homes in much more desirable locations.  I was looking at housing prices and amenities.  I was wondering what it would be like to decide to move.   It’s not like I’ve been planted for a long time.  There was a time when I changed communities and hopped from one province to the next on a whim,  rarely more than a year in one place, sometimes not even that long.   I followed work and I moved easily,  everything I owned fit in my little red two door hatch back.   But now I’m here.  I mean really HERE.   I have a house, filled with furniture and all the paraphernalia that comes along with that.  It is not so easy to throw the skis on the roof of my car and leave. But also I’ve put down some roots….

Fragile ones at first but I’m part of this community now. 

I went for a walk at lunch the other day.  The rain had stopped and it was dry enough to take a walk to clear my mind.  I tried to look at what I’d miss, I also tried to look at what a tourist would see.   I wandered over cracked sidewalks, and past potholes that could hide small Volkswagens,  I noticed the bricks missing in the paving stones,  I wondered how many others noticed the green algae and slime streaks that ran down the side of the buildings.   How the windows in the second story of the Chinese food restaurants and over empty storefronts were covered in cardboard and the black scum of too much moisture collected in the corners.   I looked at the cracked concrete walls and the abandoned store fronts. 

It was a sad picture I saw.  One of decay, of neglect.  Of a sad little worn out town at the end of the road.  A town I wouldn’t choose to visit. But somehow it’s still home. While I would not miss the mould, the decay, the rot, the neglect and the sense of abandonment… there are still things that make this place a good one.

I think about what it would pain me to give up – friends certainly, the 7 minute commute to work, the slower pace of a small town.  The fact that I know more than half the shoppers in the grocery store on any given day.  The winds that howl like mourning women and send the garbage cans tumbling end over end down the street.  The storms that are wild and raw and powerful and we withstand them month after month without declaring any sort of disaster.    I would miss the ease at which I move within this community, the ability to get things done because I know who to ask and where to go.   The other thing that I have here is that I’m known in my own way as an artist.  I’m not just another one of dozens of people who dabbles in doodles but some people in this town actually know me for my art, and my art alone.  (how cool is that??) 

The more "NEEDS" you put in the way of your art, the less art you will do.

We have passed the darkest day of the year.  Now the light should be coming out sooner – and staying longer.  But who am I kidding, I still go to work in dark, and leave it once it is dark again.  The fact that I don’t have a window to look out of means that there are in fact days where I don’t even get to witness daylight.  This also bodes ill for the dog. She needs a bath – she is starting to smell… like a dog.  While I accept that she is a dog , that doesn't mean I want her to smell like one.  My realization has been that in the past I walked her more often, and thus needed to hose her down more often to rid her mud and other less savory odoriferous articles she had rolled in, and therefore she did not get a chance to smell like plain old dog.

While I am not one for new years resolutions, I have decided that I do need to spend some time and walk the dog more often.   Which I suppose you could call a resolution – but what I really have thrown out to the world is a commitment to spend more time with my sketch book. 

There is a movement afoot. It is called “Art journaling”  this isn’t really a new thing.  Or even something very defined.   Basically it is about the creative process of pulling together color, words and images as you wish on a page. The nice thing about it unlike many other forms of art, it is not about the outcome, it is about the process.  I need that.

For some people art journaling is more like scrap booking with ephemera (clippings from old textbooks, maps, receipts, recycled stuff from other art projects, product packaging, scraps of scrapbook paper quotes, lyrics, lottery tickets, Polaroid photos, grocery lists... ) all glued into collages.  For others it is an experimentation of mediums – pens, paint, pastels, chalk, crayons all mashed into colourful explosions. For others it really is a journal about life, done in words, and sketches.  Go ahead Google it!

©RiverWalker Arts

For me. What I want out of the exercise is a place to free up my art.  A place where I can sketch without the pressure of completing a painting or a drawing, a way to write down my thoughts, and to loosen up!  I need to work on putting aside the pressure of completing an “art work”.   The more art we do the more constrained we seem to get. …I’m finding myself less free with my creativity and more critical of my work.   Fear - perfectionism - procrastination - pick your poison  are all standing in the way -  between me and my sketch book. 

 I have come to the conclusion that I need to loosen up, and give myself permission to play with paint, and pencil and pens on paper… to make a mess, to make mistakes, to worry less about “ruining” my sketch book.  My  Art should be a river of imagination....  2013 is a blank book.  Today is but a page waiting for ink. What kind of chapters will spring forth. 

 I might even share some pages if I’m happy with the results.

My Christmas Bonus.

I work for a living.  I spend my days in a beige cubicle staring predominately at a computer screen,  sometimes at documents, and other times at spreadsheet data.  Occasionally I meet with clients or the public and largely these are thankless meetings.  While I do my best to balance conflicting wants, often at the end of the day no one is happy, and I’m exhausted after being yelled at. Yes you read that right – yelled at. It is then that I look forward to the next time I can stare at little numbers in the silence of my spreadsheet without my phone ringing. 

No one ever thanks me for a job well done, and there are no Christmas bonuses.  In fact downsizing and budget cuts took out my last job while I was on maternity leave and I was lucky enough that there was a vacancy in another branch I could slip into.  Others haven’t been so lucky.  More than a few folks in my office will find themselves out of work come the new year.  Some have over 15 years of service… but it doesn't seem to matter. It is the “new” way of doing business we are told. 

My life as an artist – is one of pursuing a passion.  It is not a way to put bread on the table.  So I will not be giving up that beige cubicle any time soon.  However there are moments when I do manage to sell an original painting where upon I jump up and down and run to my husband and say… “GUESS WHAT???!!??”  “I sold and original!!!”  Some one actually likes what I do enough to want to purchase it for what it is worth and put it on their wall!   These are my bonuses.  These are moments of redemption – but they give me hope in a world driven by the economic bottom line.

So to whomever made my Christmas a little bit brighter, I thank you.  I really do hope you enjoy your new piece of art.  It was made with love and brought me joy in it’s creation – I hope it will bring you pleasure in it’s new home.

So you ask – what was it that sold?   It was a winter scene – so apt given the recent weather.  

When Snow Came A Falling
Watercolour on Cotton Rag Paper
Original: SOLD!! 

Christmas is not a time or a season but a state of mind

Christmas is a day of meaning and traditions

It is not thanksgiving, and yet it is the time of year I am the most thankful for family, for friends, for health, for the safety, warmth and comfort of my home.   I will not wade into the debate about Christ in Christmas or the modern debacle of rampant consumerism.  I have instead chosen to embrace the muddle.  A blending and melding of traditions, celebrations and faith.   

I love the story of the nativity.  It is symbolic for me on so many levels, it is about family, and love, and giving to those less fortunate.  It is about being thankful for what you have and celebrating life.  While candidates for virgin birth include Osiris, Mithras, Dionysus, and Krishna, it is Mary and Joseph that have found their way into the songs I sing to Chicken Little and the traditions of our home.

©RiverWalker Arts

Watercolour on Cotton Rag Paper

Original Sold 

  

I also enjoy the more heathen rituals of winter solstice, of feasting with family and friends and the dragging in of a tree into ones home and festooning it with lights and ornaments, not to mention the pagan practice of adorning houses with lamps and wreathes of laurel and evergreen.  This all blends quite  nicely with the Persian winter celebration of Yelda and the shared feasting, reading  of poems out loud, telling of stories, dancing, and the serving of fruit in the form of pomegranates, nuts, and dried fruit.  The red of the fruits, symbolizing the crimson hues of dawn and glow of life,  in several cultures and for those celebrating the splendour of Mithra (a deity once popular with Roman Legionaries).  These traditions are further evocative of other ancient mid-winter customs invoking various deities  to request protection of the winter crop.

©RiverWalker Arts 2009

Pen and Ink on Paper. 

Living in  21st century North America I also get to luxuriate in the more modern fantasy about Santa  (a blend of Christian crusader, pagan god, commercial idol, not to mention really great marketing by Coca-Cola.) and how this benevolent man spends his time crafting toys for all the little boys and girls the world over. Maybe I love the story of Santa so much because I wish it could be true that all over the world children could wake up to a little something special just for them,  no matter what country, no matter how poor, or how disadvantaged. 

My heart is thankful, my door is open, my glass is raised, and I toast to families everywhere, to your health and mine, to the virtues of love, peace, joy and giving.  

May the spirit of Christmas bring you peace,

The gladness of Christmas give you hope,

The warmth of Christmas grant you love.

Merry Chirstmas to all.

In the old days, it was not called the Holiday Season; the Christians called it 'Christmas' and went to church; the Jews called it 'Hanukkah' and went to synagogue; the atheists went to parties and drank.  People passing each other on the street would say 'Merry Christmas!' or 'Happy Hanukkah!'  or (to the atheists) 'Look out for the wall!'  ~Dave Barry, "Christmas Shopping:  A Survivor's Guide"

Rediscovering the Pot Roast.

I work a 40 hour work week.  I am also a full time 24 hour a day mom to a one year old boy,  I’m a girl guide leader to 8 or so 12-14 year olds, I’m vice president of the local Community Arts Council, and somehow I manage to squish arts and crafts in there.  What I am not is Superwoman. 

I don’t exercise enough, the dog doesn't get walked nearly enough, and my new philosophy is that if I can get the closet doors shut – it’s clean enough.   I’ve hired a housekeeper to come for 3 hours every two weeks to help me cope.   However in the time between when I get home from work around 5ish and when Chicken Little gets thrown into bed at 7:30.  I somehow need to get a meal on the table.  My solution has been breaking out with freezer meals (mass produced casseroles that I can freeze and pull out at any time to pop in the oven which are largely assembled on weekends or when Chicken Little is in bed)  and Crock-pot meals assembled in much the same fashion.   It’s working.  We are fed, we even get vegetables on most nights. 

I do still like to cook,  and so it was when hunting for slow-cooker meals I dug up my mother’s Pot Roast Recipe, with the thought of turning into a crock-pot meal.   It’s an old one.  It’s a Pot Roast.. Do people even make pot roast anymore?  Some dinners get a bad rap like tuna casserole, meatloaf and pot roast  The stigma may come from bad experiences or maybe because those meals are just ugly to look at. But I’m a mother without enough time on my hands...  

When I re-read the recipe... all I could see was caramelized onions and beer... this has to be delicious... I decided I’d actually spend the time, and make it in the oven on the weekend.  I sent DH out for the meat.  I sat Chicken Little on the counter,  I sliced onions,  Chicken Little tried a few.. but spat them out, and was shortly after pacified by Christmas Oranges – followed by playing in a sink of soapy water.   I stirred, and caramelized those onions.... stir and wait.. they will eventually get brown and yummy... wait for it, just let them do their thing... wait for it.... browning up. It is sooo worth it.  I added beer, and tomatoes.. and threw the works in the oven. 

Eating dinner that night and watching chicken little down those stewed up onions one after another, I wondered why I have not done this more often – back when I had time to cook.   But even better than the flavour was the gravy – a thick stew of onions, carrots, turnip in beer and tomatoes.  Yum. 

I could not bear to throw out this deliciousness.... I put it on the stove. Added 4 cups of water, an assortment of vegetables, the left over roast cut into bits, and called it pot-roast soup.  It will serve as lunch for the coming week... and voila! Almost instant homemade soup -  this is the stuff I need to get me through the time crunch of the coming week!  Delicious. 

Pot Roast  with Beer and Caramelized Onions 

3-4 pound boneless beef pot roast

¼ cup all-purpose flour

2 -3 tablespoons oil

4 med onions halved lengthwise and sliced thin

2 tablespoons packed brown sugar

2 bay leaves

1 teaspoon salt

½ teaspoon ground cinnamon

½ teaspoon ground ginger

½ teaspoon pepper

3 large garlic cloves chopped finely

2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar

1 bottle beer

1 can tomato sauce (213 ml) (or some puréed tomatoes when you realize you have no tomato sauce)

1 ½ pound carrots

1 small rutabaga

On a large plate, roll meat in  flour to coat, shaking off excess…reserve excess flour.

In a large Dutch oven heat  half the oil over medium - high heat.  Brown meat on all sides about 8 minutes.  Transfer meat to a plate.

Reduce heat to medium  Add remaining oil to pot.  Add onions, brown sugar, bay leaves, salt  cinnamon, ginger and pepper.  Cook 12- 15 minutes or until onions are tender and  golden, stirring often.

Add reserved flour and garlic.  Cook  30 seconds, stirring.  Add vinegar, cook until evaporated.  Pour in beer and tomato sauce.  Bring to a boil and  cook  1 minute or until thickened, stirring.  Return meat  and accumulated juices  to pot. 

Cover and stick in oven at 325 for two hours, turning meat occasionally.

Meanwhile, peel carrots and rutabaga  cut into 2 x ½ inch strips.  Add to meat and cover and simmer   for another 1 – 1 1/2 hours or until meat is tender.

Remove roast from pot, spoon sauce over meat and serve remaining sauce separately. 

After dinner.... make  Left-over Soup– Chop up remaining roast into bite sized bits, return to pot, with 4 cups of water, and a host of vegetables – green beans, corn, potatoes, cauliflower, mushrooms, kohlrabi or whatever you can find in the bottom of your fridge. 

Bring to boil. 

Voila!   Lunches for the whole family for the week. 

Nature looks dead in winter because her life is gathered into her heart.

December is really a special month.  It is a time of year to quit complaining that it is cold outside,  to take a deep breath and settle down a little more into the inner warmth.  Thus, when the snow began swirling wet and heavy outside my window on December 1st, and the fury of the wind set the vents to rattling, and the hot watertank exploded …  (oh wait… the hot water tank disaster had nothing to do with it…. )   I began to feel the urge to stare in quiet contemplation at small white twinkle lights,  to watch the flicker of a candle reflected in a glass of red wine… er.. I mean.. mulled apple juice.   To cozy up beneath thick warm blankets amid the glow and sparkle of Christmas décor. 

When Snow came a Falling
Watercolour
by RiverWalker Arts. 

And so it was that I set out to create the space that I wanted to enjoy.   Having never really done much more than string a few lights, pop up a tree I had a few things to acquire.  This town will provide if you look hard enough and are willing to improvise.  Home after raiding every store in town, I walked upstairs with my bag filled with sparkling miscellany and DH just laughed at me.   Reminding me how silly all this temporary décor really is and how taking it all down in a month will be a chore, and that we will have to then store it all somewhere for the next 11 months…. .  I didn’t care, and told him as much. 

Across the mantle I laid dark green garlands with shiny baubles and glittering red ribbons, I strung lights around the windows, and pulled out the beautifully crafted stockings my grandmother had quilted for us.   I tucked more garland and plaid ribbon around my chandelier, tied bows on the backs of my dinning room chairs.   DH indulged me and set up our lovely fake tree.  (I will not wade into the fake vs. real tree discussion – suffice to say I love them both,  but have chosen for the mean time to have a fake tree if for no other reason than it can stand for longer indoors without going brown and dropping all it’s needles) 

Photo ©RiverWalker Arts 2012

When DH plugged in the tree and in the dimness of the living room it exploded into light, Chicken Little who had been busy putting a shiny purple bauble first on and then taking it off the tree sat back on his haunches and exclaimed in his little one year old voice “ woooooaaahhhhh.”  He then proceeded to spend the next 30 or so minutes talking to the tree in his loudest gibberish.   I wish I had captured this on camera – alas it was not to be and I shall have to suffice with the memory.

Later that night, Chicken Little tucked into bed, DH admitted the place looked festive and lovely, and that we should have friends over to play games and enjoy food together as a way of embracing the festive nature of this special season.  

Isn't it funny that at Christmas something in you gets so lonely for - I don't know what exactly, but it's something that you don't mind so much not having at other times.  ~Kate L. Bosher

a little more on laundry... or maybe insanity

It is late out and I’m doing diaper laundry..which has got me to thinking... that most of the time you lose things in the washing machine...  like socks.... I even blogged about sock physics once (Link) the jist of which is my theory that - it has something to do with the speed at which the socks move and centripetal motion created within the washing process wherein the socks are directed orthogonal to the velocity of the spin cycle, toward the instantaneous center of curvature of the dryer drum... resulting in the abrupt disappearance of socks into another dimension.

But lately I’m noticing that there are other things that happen in the wash.... sometimes you shred things, and sometimes that Kleenex in your pocket turns into a nasty pilly mess that takes months to fully get out of the hoodie pocket...

I HATE that feeling of shredded washing machine Kleenex... and sometimes the pocket is forever ruined...

but sometimes you are lucky.. and the wash also causes things to miraculously appear....(these items I assume come from another dimension - a place where they have a surplus of single socks tumbling out of their dryers....)  these things that appear in my wash include things  like screws, earplugs, or quarters...and sometimes dollar bills.. if you are really lucky... lost hair clips and buttons miraculously appear. 

 Other times you are not so lucky.. and chap stick appears... or a little red craft feather comes out with the whites....

Or maybe it’s a sign of approaching insanity that I’m thinking and worrying about these things...