Kitchen Window View

Bright morning.

Kitchen sink.

Window view.

Bird song.

Flowers winking.

Lovely.

Jasper Napping

Jasper.

Napping.

On the couch.

Not supposed to be there.

He doesn't care.

Honcho the second-hand dog

My husband, Paul, didn't notice the dog until he was halfway across the vacant lot he was traversing on his way to get his haircut. The lot was adjacent to his office and rather than follow the sidewalk around it's parameter he cut a diagonal path through the overgrown, dried grass. It was the dried grass that obscured her at first being the same golden yellow as her coat. He came close to stepping on her but stopped just in time when he realized what was laying before him. It was a large, pale yellow dog. She stood up, her tail gently wagged back and forth and looked at him with a wide grin and clear brown eyes. It was then that he saw the chain running from her collar snaking back to a plastic dog house with food and water bowls nearby. He was careful not to pet her (she was a strange dog after all) but instead greeted her with a "Well hello". She wagged her tail with enthusiasm while dancing in place in reply.  He looked around and noticed the building adjacent to the lot. "That must be where owner lives," he mused as he continued on to his appointment.

After that first meeting, Paul couldn't seem to get the big yellow dog out of his mind. He could see her out of his office window chained in the same spot day after day in sun, rain or snow. Then he came up with a plan. After dinner one evening he casually asked me if I was interested in getting another dog. Well, that's like asking me if I want more chocolate! While we were usually a two dog family, at that time, we were down to one dog, Zelda, having recently helped our elderly dog, Buster, cross over the rainbow bridge. But really, even if we still had two dogs, I would have happily said yes to a third. "Don't get too excited," he cautioned after he explained the yellow dog's situation to me. "I haven't even approached her owners yet. They may not take kindly to me asking if I can have their dog." I promised to tamp down my enthusiasm with my fingers crossed behind my back.

The next day Paul again took the path across the vacant lot. He paused and said "hello" to the yellow dog who wagged her tail and smiled at him. Taking her grin as a good sign, he walked to the front of the nearby building and knocked on the door. A man in his early thirties opened the door and greeted him with a questioning look. Paul introduced himself and then said "You're either going to think this is a good idea or you're going to yell at me to get off your porch. I think I can give your dog a better life." The man looked at him silently for a moment before asking "Are you the one who reported me to animal control?" "No," replied Paul. "I've watched your dog day after day from my office window over there." he said pointing to his nearby office. "It seems as if you don't have much time for her," he continued. "I live with my wife and two boys on three acres in the forest with a large fenced yard. We have one dog already to keep her company and she would have daily two mile walks in the forest with my wife." 

The man listened to Paul quietly and then related his story. The yellow dog (her name was Honcho) wasn't always tied up alone in the yard. The navy man had found Honcho and her brother (whom he named Gocho) when they were puppies wandering along a highway when he was stationed in Japan. His service in Japan inspired their names, "Honcho" which is Japanese for "squad leader" and Gocho meaning "corporal". He loved Honcho and Gocho and spent time teaching them commands in Japanese, "Suwaru" for "sit" and "Taizai" for "stay" to name a few.  His life in the Navy brought him to Naval Air Station Whidbey Island with Honcho and Gocho along for the new adventure. After he retired from the Navy, he met a woman (now his wife) and they had a new baby. As it turned out, his new wife was allergic to dogs so Honcho and Gocho were relegated to living outdoors. He tried to still spend time with his dogs but his new family and fledgling martial arts business required more and more of his attention. Not long after, Gocho (who was now 10) passed away and Honcho was left to continue her lonely vigil in the overgrown field of weeds. 

When he finished his story, the man looked at Paul and said "You're sure she will have a good life?" "Absolutely," said Paul without hesitation. The man took Paul out to meet Honcho who was wagging her tail wildly at the approach of her master and her new friend. Honcho was as friendly as her waving tail suggested and well trained. "My wife and boys are going to love her," said Paul. "Thank you for asking," said the man. He insisted we take the dog house and her remaining bag of kibble as well as her veterinary records and a check for $100 so we "could get a vet check for her". And just like that, we had another dog. 

Honcho came to our home and fit into our family life seamlessly. She got along well with our other dog and cat and our boys were thrilled to have another pet. Her greatest joy was laying on our back deck in the warm sun with the occasional foray onto the lawn to roll back and forth scratching all of her itchy spots. She didn't have to be chained or contained in anyway. She never wandered off. This was her home now and she wasn't going anywhere. Honcho was with us for five years before she also crossed over the rainbow bridge. She came to us as a second-hand dog but left us as a dear part of our family.

Whidbey Cows

14x11 inches, oil on linen canvas, 2020

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Whidbey Cows - auction ends on Sunday, December 13th at 10:00am PST. 

A mother cow and her calf enjoy the late afternoon sun in a pastoral setting on Whidbey island. 

The Art Show

Ahhhhh summertime. For a kid, the days stretch out endlessly with so many possibilities for the imagination. It was no different in the summer of 1968, where a group of kids loafed on the grass, in the shade of a large maple tree in a backyard in northern New Jersey. The group consisted of myself, sisters Susan and Sheri and our friends Holly, with her sister Kathy, brothers Chrissy and David (A.K.A Boo) and Jimmy from down the street. We pondered what to do with the day that lay before us and for some reason plucked "Put on an Art Show" out of the air. I have no clue why that idea sprang to our minds, but I can only surmise that my Mom (quite a talented artist in her own right) had something to do with it as she always encouraged our creative pursuits no matter how messy they ended up. With the decision made, we quickly got to work. The fact that we had no art didn't deter us. We broke out the crayons, paper, poster paint, scissors and glue and got busy.

We spent the better part of the next two days at our house furiously creating art, from your typical sketches and paintings to intricate shadow boxes (or as intricate as we could get using old shoe boxes and dime store construction paper). Now that we had the art, plans went into effect for our gala opening. We chose a date and venue (the next day and our backyard) and set to work curating and hanging the art. Curating was easy, we divided the artwork up by subject matter: Nature Art, Ship Art, Dinosaur Art*, Flower Art and the ubiquitous catchall: Art.

*A side note on the Dinosaur Art: it was all mine. Even though, throughout most of my childhood, horses were my artistic subject of choice, there was a time in second grade when I went through what I like to call my "Dinosaur Period". This was not unlike Picasso's "Blue Period". During that time, I could whip out a likeness of any dinosaur from an Ankylosaurus and Stegosaurus to the more familiar Brontosaurus and Tyrannosaurus Rex. This detour in my career may have been due to the fact that the first love in my life, school mate Lyndon Cochran, was also an aficionado of dinosaurs but that's a story for another time. It's just a happy accident of fate that we produced our art show during this time otherwise the Dinosaur Art phase of my career would have been buried in the annals of history.

Hanging the art was a bit trickier. We had few vertical surfaces (trees) in our backyard for suspending the art and Dad was not to keen on us pounding nails into the trees willy nilly and tape was out of the question (Have you ever tried to scotch tape paper to a tree? It is not happening.). We needed some sort of surface (wood) that we could nail or pin our art to (scrap wood) and be portable enough to place around our backyard for display (scrap wood from Dad's shop!). After promising to return every bit of scrap wood, sans nails, when our show ended its run, we raced to my Dad's shop and found our hanging surfaces.

While the decorating committee went about carefully hanging the show, the publicity committee set about creating and delivering the gala invitations. No common, pre-printed invitations for us! Each invitation was lovingly hand calligraphed in crayon on fine, school grade construction paper and then delivered via Schwinn bike (no helmet required, gasp! it was 1968 afterall.) to the recipient's mailbox. Many gala events also feature swag bags for the attendees. As we had no swag, or bags for that matter, we chose small bunches of flowers carefully gathered the day before the event from our garden (yes, we asked Mom); each with a scrap of tin foil binding the stems together to add a bit of flourish. In addition to the flowers, Jimmy's mom made us cookies to offer our guests.

At last we were ready, the art had been created and hung and the invitations delivered. The day of the art show dawned fine and clear. We set up a small card table near the front gate leading from the driveway to our yard. On it lay the miniature bouquets in their crinkled, foil wrappers next to a plate of homemade cookies. Boo, being the youngest of us, was given the job of handing out a bouquet to each mom as she walked into the show. And what a show it was as our parents and neighborhood friends walked around admiring our efforts. The local press was on hand to document the event as evidenced by the photo above (that's me on the far left.) In our minds, the show was a resounding success. It was every bit as good as art shows that took place in fancy galleries and museums in the big city. All it took was a little imagination.

THE OLSEN BARN, CHESTER, CA

14x11 inches, oil on linen canvas, 2019

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The Olsen Barn, Chester, CA - auction ends on Sunday, July 26th at 10:00am PST. 

This is the iconic Olsen barn located in Chester, California on the shores of Lake Almanor. It sits flanked by a large Cottonwood tree with the setting sun casting shadows on it’s gnarled exterior.

Manhole Cover

You've seen them around, those lists of everyday items with hidden uses. Things like the hole in a soda pop pull tab being a place-holder for your straw or the tiny pocket in the front of your jeans being the perfect spot to keep a pocket watch handy. Apparently, the humble manhole cover is one of those everyday items that has multiple uses as well or so I learned a few years back when I recorded my Dad relating stories of his life. (Something, I would encourage everyone to do. It doesn't have to be a parent; siblings, cousins, spouses, children, friends all make excellent storytellers.)

For those of you not up on your manhole cover knowledge, it's main function is to act as a removable plate forming a lid over the opening of a manhole in a street for access to sewer, electric lines, or water lines. It's designed to prevent people and things from falling in and to keep out unauthorized people and material. Manhole covers are most often made from cast iron, concrete, or a combination of the two. This makes them relatively inexpensive and pretty darn heavy. To remove manhole covers, most covers feature "pick holes" into which a hook handle is inserted to lift them.

But to my Dad, Herb, as a young boy growing up in the Bronx, New York in the late 1930's and early 1940's, a manhole cover meant only one thing, home plate. Like other kids, he was a devoted fan of his beloved "Bronx Bombers", the New York Yankees. If he and his pals weren't listening to the baseball game on the radio, they were playing stickball. Stickball is a street game related to baseball usually played in large cities in the Northeast. The equipment consists of a broom handle and a rubber ball about the size of a tennis ball but without the felt usually a "spaldeen" (a high-bounce pink rubber ball made by Spalding) or a Hi-Bounce Pinky (also known as a "pensy pinky" and, you guessed it, is also pink). The rules come from baseball but can be modified depending on the location of play such as a street where a manhole cover becomes home plate and the buildings on either side constitute the foul lines.

As my Dad told the story, it was a bright summer day and he and his buddies were engaged in a rousing game of stickball. It was hot and humid as Herb stood at the plate (manhole cover) clutching the worn broom handle his friend Eddy had swiped out of his mom's cleaning closet (boy, was he going to "catch it" when he got home). Herb ignored the sweat trickling down his temple as he gazed at Billy, the pitcher. He wasn't just a kid in a t-shirt and dungarees rolled up at the cuff anymore, he was Joe DiMaggio facing down Bobo Newsom of the Detroit Tigers. Already he had hit two foul balls bouncing them off the same brownstone row house. The boys had seen the owner of the house shaking his fist at them through the window but they paid him no mind. I mean, come on, they were in the middle of a game!

The ball "thwacked" off of the broom handle and careened to the left where it banged off of the brownstone row house just below the window with the shaking fist.

Billy reared back and threw the bright pink spaldeen. Herb watched the ball all the way to the plate where he took a tremendous swing. The ball "thwacked" off of the broom handle and careened to the left where it banged off of the brownstone row house just below the window with the shaking fist. The window was wrenched open and an angry voice reached their ears. "I've had it with you kids!" the voice shouted. "I've called the cops!" Off in the distance came the wail of a siren.

The boys jumped into action. Eddy scooped up the pink spaldeen and shoved it into his pocket. The other boys scattered leaving Herb still standing over the manhole cover clutching the broomstick. It took him only seconds to realize yet another excellent use for a manhole cover: hiding incriminating evidence. He inserted the broomstick into one of the manhole's pick holes, released it, and watched it drop out of sight. As he ran away to rejoin his pals he thought "Now poor Eddy is REALLY going to "catch it" when he gets home."

BAA, RAM, EWE

14x11 inches, oil on linen canvas, 2019

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Baa, Ram, Ewe - auction ends on Sunday, January 19th at 10:00am PST. 

I love the way these sheep are backlit by the setting sun. They look like woolly gems. At least, I think so. 

Pumpkin Season

A few weeks ago Paul and I took our annual trip to Sherman's Squash Farm on Whidbey Island to pick out our pumpkins to decorate our house for fall. I've tried to grow pumpkins at our Island home before but we have a lot of trees and shade so I've never been successful. We enjoy visiting the pumpkin patch at Sherman's but there's nothing quite like the satisfaction of growing your own pumpkin.

Back in the day, on our small farm in New Jersey, growing pumpkins was a simple endeavor. The climate of the Garden State is wonderful for growing pumpkins as long as you have a spot with more than 6 hours of sunlight and we had that in spades. But what really boosted our ability to grow pumpkins was our horse manure pile. It was our secret weapon. Our manure pile was impressive and because our family always kept a few backyard horses, it grew larger, day in and day out, month after month, year after year.

To keep a manure pile from spreading out too far, it was important to get a wheelbarrow to the top of the pile before dumping its contents. To aid in our quest to get to the "top of the hill," my sister Susan and I would lay down planks end to end to act as a sort of ramp. Then whoever was pushing the wheelbarrow would get a running start and head toward the ramp. The big front wheel would bump over the edge of the first plank and up the pile you would go. If you were really skilled and had enough leg strength you'd make the transfer to the second plank and eventually to the top of the pile where you could dump your load. Most times though, somewhere between the first and second plank, you'd loose control of the load and everything (including you) would tip sideways into the fragrant heap.

This grand, steaming pile of manure was the perfect place to grow pumpkins. One spring, mom came home with a packet of "Big Max" pumpkin seeds. She gave us each a few of the pale white, plump seeds and instructed us to plant them (not too deep) scattered about the manure pile. Within a few weeks pumpkin seedlings emerged from the mound. It didn't take long before the seedlings became a raucous tangle of vines with enormous leaves. The manure pile took on a Medusa-like appearance with the vines extending to the outer edges. The flowers and then pumpkins began to appear. Small and green at first they gradually grew to bocce ball, then basketball size and beyond. By the time fall rolled around we had some serious pumpkins. 

But we still had to use the manure pile for dumping.  After all, the horses didn't stop producing manure just because we wanted to grow Halloween decorations. So Susan and I carefully placed the plank ramps to do the least amount of damage to our ever increasing crop of pumpkins. We had a few near misses and flattened several of the large leaves, but all of the pumpkins emerged unscathed.

When it was all said and done the largest one was over 100 pounds. We used it to adorn our front porch to greet young goblins on Halloween. We gave the second largest to our neighbors who owned the country gas station down the road. There it sat, bright and orange, practically winking at customers as they fueled their cars or asked for directions. That fall our pumpkins were the stars of the neighborhood. 

After Thanksgiving, though, the pumpkins lost their allure as bright and shiny thoughts of Christmas pushed into everyone's minds. We piled them into our wheelbarrow and took them to where they began, up the planks and onto the manure pile. There they rested and rotted with their magic seeds inside waiting until next spring, when they could emerge once more in all their orange glory.  

JERSEY GIRL

14x11 inches, oil on linen canvas, 2019

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Jersey Girl - auction ends on Sunday, November 3rd at 9:00am PST. 

A lovely Jersey cow and her companions bask in the warm sunshine on an early fall day.

Gone broody

The hens run back and forth in their yard as I approach the gate. They either think its a feeding opportunity or I'm going to give them a little "free range" time. They can't roam loose continually because of all the bald eagles and raccoons in our area. An eagle would have no problem making a quick meal out of one of our hens given the opportunity. So we give the girls limited, supervised outdoor time.

When I open the gate, out they rush with their wings flapping. Sometimes they'll take flight and zoom over the grass about two or three feet in the air. They can only sustain this for a brief time because, even though they have fully feathered wings, they are big-bottomed girls which isn't favorable for long flights. As I watch them happily cavorting about, I notice we are short one chicken. This usually means one girl is "at work" laying an egg.

I open the door to the coop and, sure enough, there is a hen in one of the three nesting boxes my husband Paul built. However, there's something wrong with her demeanor. She doesn't have the patient look of a laying hen. In fact, she looks downright angry. I notice her feathers are ruffled and she eyes me with contempt as if daring me to reach under her for the egg.

In fact, she looks downright angry. I notice her feathers are ruffled and she eyes me with contempt as if daring me to reach under her for the egg.

"Rats!" I think to myself. "She's gone broody." This sounds like "gone fishing" but it's not nearly as much fun. When a hen has "gone broody," she decides she wants to hatch out some eggs. This would be fine if the eggs are fertilized but ours are not as we have no rooster. And to complicate matters more, the only "egg" she's sitting on is a white golf ball. We put a golf ball in each nesting box to make the hens think one of their sisters has already done her job and so they better get busy.  It really helps. You could also use small round rocks but I like the white golf ball method. They just seem to be less cold than a rock. Broodiness typically lasts three to four weeks and during this time some hens will lose weight because they aren't eating and drinking regularly. Breaking a hen of her broodiness will help ensure that she will eat when hungry and drink when thirsty. It will also help with their anger issues as broody hens are more aggressive.

She ruffles her feathers even more if possible and glares at me.

I know how futile it would be for her to try and hatch a golf ball, so I reach in and grab that girl, lifting her out of the nesting box and setting her down in the grass outside the coop. She stands there in the bright sunshine blinking and looks stunned. She ruffles her feathers even more if possible and glares at me. Then she runs around the outside of the hen yard and coop looking for a way to get back in.  I had shut the gate so she searches in vain. I go to the shed where we keep the feed and get a handful of scratch corn (A.K.A chicken ambrosia). I sprinkle it in front of her. She ignores it at first and then one of the golden kernels catches her eye and she pecks it up. The next moment she's doing what I call the "chicken two-step:" one step forward to scratch with head up, one step back to peck with head down. "Now we're getting somewhere," I think. This repetitive dance is typical chicken behavior and just what I want to see. Pretty soon she's relaxed her feathers and they lie closer to her body. She's also not as agitated.

I hang out on the warm grass with the girls watching them be chickens. It's quite relaxing. I highly recommend it as a pastime. The broody hen lays down in a designated "dusting hole", a depression in loose dirt where the hens can take a dust bath. It's the chicken equivalent of a spa treatment. She rolls around flipping dirt all over herself in an effort to get as filthy as possible. The dirt helps prevent parasites such as lice and mites from finding a home in her feathers and legs.

When she finishes her dust bath, I round up the flock and herd them back into the pen. I take heart that the broody girl doesn't go straight into the coop but instead stops to take a drink of water. But I know we've still got more broody days ahead of us. But that's okay. If I go out tomorrow and I'm met by a girl with angry eyes and ruffled feathers, I'll just put her out in the sunshine - maybe with a nice glass of Pinot Noir.

Cheers!

MID BITE

11x14 inches, oil on linen canvas, 2019

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Mid Bite - auction ends on Sunday, July 28th at 9:00am PST. 

A young filly pauses mid chew to wonder just what the heck am I doing in her pasture.