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.

The maternity ward

The light was dim inside the garage as Paul and I put on our sneakers in preparation for our morning walk. Through the window of the door leading to the outside, we could see the brilliant red blossoms of one of our rhododendron plants. This particular Rhodie is always the first to bloom of the several we have on our property and was doing so in spectacular fashion. We opened the garage door and were greeted by a brown flash of feathers as a small bird darted from somewhere underneath the eaves. "I've been seeing that little bird for the past couple of mornings," said Paul. "I think her nest is around here someplace, but I can't find it."

We often find birds nesting around the house and try to leave them alone during their maternity period. One year, an industrious little sparrow built her nest in one of the hanging flower pots just outside our kitchen window. Paul found it before her eggs were laid and removed it. He didn't want to accidentally drown any chicks while watering if he forgot they were in there. For the next week, that little bird gave us the stink eye and hollered her disgust every time we went out on the deck. Fortunately, in time, she flew off in search of a better spot for her nursery.

Paul and I spent several minutes looking for a nest before embarking on our walk. The flashy Rhodie was an obvious spot because it had held a nest for years that had been home to several generations of birds. But the nest eventually disintegrated and Paul found it's remains at the base of the plant last spring. I thought the little bird might have been a swallow and began looking for a mud nest up under the eaves of the garage. Out at the barn, where I keep my horse Mac, swallows rule the roost. They flit in and out of their mud homes, leaving chirping chicks behind in search of all of the insects that come with livestock. We welcome them in spite of the little hillocks of poop they leave behind. But we spotted no nests, mud or otherwise, so we headed out for our walk.

Thoughts of the little bird were lost as we set about the business of getting on with our Saturday. I was in my studio on the computer perusing recipes for the weekly grocery list when Paul called out. "Hey Stace," he said. "I found the nest." He was standing outside the garage near the big red Rhodie grinning. "Where is it?" I asked looking again to the eaves. "Turn around," he said indicating that I should face the door that I just emerged from. I looked closely at the door and then I saw it.

Next to the door, Paul had hung an artificial wreath that he had purchased last year at the big community garage sale hosted by our local Lions club. He liked the the pop of color the wreath added to the front of the garage. Apparently, the little mother bird agreed with him because she built her nest in the center of the wreath. We peered inside and saw four tiny, speckled eggs. So just like that, the outside of our garage became a maternity ward. After some quick searching of nests and eggs online I'm thinking we have the beginnings of a family of wrens. Only time will tell. In the meanwhile, we'll tiptoe in and out of the garage so as not to wake the children.

Welcome Spring!

WEST BEACH SUNSET

14x11 inches, oil on linen canvas, 2019

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West Beach Sunset - auction ends on Sunday, June 2nd at 9:00am PST. 

Another amazing sunset frames a barn on Whidbey island.

We can make it in the shop

Spring. A season bursting with daffodils, tulips, bright green new grass and the frantic chirping of baby birds insisting on being fed by their mothers. As a seven year old tomboy, I can tell you, none of that made the slightest impression on me. I only knew that I could wear a lighter jacket and play outside longer. My heavy, wool coat was pushed to the back of the closet and my galoshes were banished to the bottom of the boot box.

Spring also meant putting my Flexible Flyer sled back into the barn and fishing out my bicycle. Or, I should say tricycle, because at that time I still didn't have a two-wheeler. I had watched with envy my older brother Stephen and sister Susan zipping around on their bicycles and knew I wanted some of that action. I yearned for a two-wheeler and told my Dad as much one evening after supper.

"Well," he said. "I have to go to the dump this Saturday. We'll see if we can find you a bike there." I was elated! Our dump was like an open pit treasure chest. Back then, foraging at the dump wasn't given a second thought, in fact it was encouraged. The more you took home the less the county had to dispose. On that Saturday, Dad loaded up the back of the station wagon (a mid-1960's white Ford Country Squire with real faux-wood siding) with the larger items that wouldn't fit into our garbage cans. My brother Steve joined Dad and me and we made our way over to the dump. Steve viewed the dump as his own parts warehouse. He had a fledgling business repairing lawnmowers and usually found something in the pit he needed for his enterprise.

After arriving, the attendant directed us to the open pit and Dad backed the station wagon down to it's edge. He unloaded our items and the picking began. Steve noticed some discarded lawn mowers and went over to investigate. Dad and I scanned the pit but the few bikes we saw were too large. Then, partially buried, we saw a small bike tire protruding from the pile. Dad grabbed the tire and pulled a pint-sized, green two-wheeled bicycle from the heap. He stood it up next to the car and we inspected it. It was the correct size and the tires, although lacking air, still had good tread. The fenders had minor dents but the paint still had some shine.

"This one looks pretty good," said Dad. "But Dad," I protested. "It doesn't have a seat or pedals!" "Don't worry," he replied. "We can make it in the shop."

"This one looks pretty good," said Dad. "But Dad," I protested. "It doesn't have a seat or pedals!" "Don't worry," he replied. "We can make it in the shop." Triggering a seven year old's eye roll.  This was a common expression we heard from Dad. He did indeed have a wood shop which was located in the hayloft of our barn. We believed he could make anything in it because he generally did. Wonderful things came out of that shop, from a beautiful china hutch to kitchen cabinets with butcher block counter tops. Our breakfast room addition had its genesis in that shop. So, of course, he could make a bicycle seat and pedals. Compared to a room addition or a piece of furniture those would be a piece of cake.

I should also mention here that Dad used the "We can make it in the shop" line as a bit of a "delay and avoidance mechanism" with us kids when circumstances called for it. If we were out at a store and noticed something we wanted to buy, Dad would casually say "Why buy it? We can make it in the shop." Then he would move on with us trailing behind hoping we would forget about the item by the time we got home. In most cases, we did.

But I wasn't going to forget that bicycle. We brought it home and placed it in the barn with the promise of new "Made in the Shop" seat and pedals to come. No more was done with it that weekend. During the week after school, I visited my bike knowing the only thing that stood in the way of two-wheeled bliss was a seat and a pair of pedals. I pestered Dad to begin work on my bike but he was too tired from his job. Saturday finally arrived and my entreaty began anew. Dad knew I could be persistent so after breakfast he headed out to the shop.

A short time later, he appeared in the backyard with the little bicycle. The tires were inflated and it sported a new seat and pedals made of wood. He also had located and attached our set of training wheels. He beckoned me over and held the bike steady as I climbed on board. I practiced all morning and in the afternoon the training wheels came off. Once again, Dad held me steady before giving me a little shove and I wobbled forward through the warm, fragrant spring air.

Thanks Dad.

THIS WAY AND THAT

10x8 inches, oil on linen canvas, 2018

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This Way and That - auction ends on Sunday, March 10th at 9:00am PST. 

If you’ve ever had the pleasure of watching a group of hens out scratching and pecking, you’ll know that their progress is far from straightforward. Instead, they meander this way and that in their search of the perfect morsel.

Following the Stars

I felt the movement before I heard it. It came from beneath our bed. Our dogs, Buster and Chelsea, were stirring from their usual sleeping spot underneath our four-posted king size bed. They both crawled out and began walking around the bed. That meant only one thing, they needed to go out and use the facilities. I glanced over at the mound of my slumbering husband who was snoring gently. Beyond him the bedside clock read 2:17am. One of the dogs whined faintly. "Alright," I thought, "the sooner I take them out, then sooner I can return to the warm haven of my bed." I gently slid from the bed and quickly threw on some sweats.

At the time, my husband, two young sons and I had just relocated and were living in a two story rental house in Coupeville, Washington. I'm not sure what time of year it was but it was cold and there was snow on the ground so I'm guessing early January 2002. We were still reeling from the events of of September 11, 2001. What happened that night soothed me and brought perspective back to my world.

The dogs and I padded down the darkened carpeted hallway, made a right turn, and descended the stairs to the main floor of the house. From there, we made our way through the kitchen to the door leading to the backyard. The cold hit me as soon as I opened the door, sharp and crisp. The dogs shuffled out and began sniffing about searching for the perfect spot to relieve themselves. I stood on the deck just outside the door watching their dark shapes move among the shadows. I glanced up and was immediately struck by the vastness of the night sky. There are few lampposts in Coupeville so the night sky is wonderfully dark. Thousands of stars were sprinkled among the inky darkness, occasionally winking. That, by itself, was a sight to behold until I saw the first shooting star: a bright pin prick of light streaking across the dark expanse. Then a few moments later another one catapulted from left to right. From that time on, the stars flitted back and forth every 20 seconds or so.

I was transfixed. Time, the dogs, and the cold, they all melted away as I stood there watching the heavens put on a first-class, silent fireworks show. Eventually, the luminous projectiles slowed their pace and I felt a cold, wet nose bump my hand. I looked down to see the furry faces of Buster and Chelsea. I took one last glance at the sparkling night sky before turning and herding the dogs back inside. I felt insignificant and cheered at the same time.

Happy New Year!

THE FOUR SENTINELS

14x11 inches, oil on linen canvas, 2018

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The Four Sentinels - auction ends on Sunday, January 13th at 9:00am PST. 

Four sentinel poplar trees watch over an aging farmstead in the Skagit Valley in Washington state.

All in the name of jam

"I want to make Loganberry jam this year," my husband Paul stated on an early spring day as we drove along a winding, country road on the Olympic Peninsula in Washington state. We were returning home from a weekend getaway and had just passed a worn, but colorful sign proclaiming "Graysmarsh Farm, U-Pick Blueberries, Loganberries, Blackberries, Raspberries and Strawberries." "Alright," I said. "Let's choose a Saturday this summer and come back over and pick some berries.

Spring quickly gave way to a very warm summer and before we knew it, we were halfway through July. Paul tried to contact Graysmarsh Farm to inquire about the ripeness of their Loganberries but all he reached was their answering service. He left multiple messages but a speedy response was not forthcoming. So, with one hot day following another, we decided to take the plunge and have a "Berry Date" which Paul assured me would be "berry, berry nice". (And there better be a spider on the ceiling with all the eye rolling that just produced.) 

Our Berry Date took a bit of planning. We live on Whidbey island, which means to get to the Olympic Peninsula we have to take a ferry. This particular ferry is so well travelled that you need to make a reservation to travel on it and woe to those unlucky folks who just show up and want to hop on, cause ---it ain't happening. Paul dutifully made the reservations and on the appointed day we drove on and sailed across. After we disembarked, we had about a forty minute drive to reach the farm. It was a lovely, warm day. As we drew closer, tall poplar trees with dense shrubs at their base lined the road obscuring everything beyond them. At a break in the trees, there was a slim gravel road with a sign confirming that we had reached Graysmarsh Farm. We turned up the drive and the farm's fields stretched out in front and on the sides of us. To our right lay acres of lavender, just beyond peak bloom but still stunning and on our left was the parking area with row after row of berry vines.

We turned into the parking lot and, judging by the amount of cars already there, we weren't the only ones with a hankering for berries. Beyond the cars was a small wooden stand occupied by two teenage girls. A large flatbed trailer was parked along side of the stand with stacks of 3 gallon plastic buckets. We walked up to the stand and one of the girls said "Would you like to pick berries?" "Yes, Loganberries," Paul replied. "Okay," she said. "Go ahead and take a couple of plastic buckets and head down that path," indicating a grassy farm road bisecting two berry fields. "The loganberries are the first rows on the right."

We wandered down the path with our buckets bypassing the first few loganberry rows, figuring most people would choose them first and therefore they would be over-picked. We entered the fourth row and began to pick the ripe berries. The Loganberry is a hybrid of blackberry and raspberry. It was accidentally created in Santa Cruz, California by the American judge and horticulturist, James Harvey Logan in 1881. The fruit resembles an elongated blackberry in shape but is dark red in color. They are more fragile than blackberries, which we discovered as we continued to pick. Rather than coming away as a whole berry once grasped by our fingers, many of the berries "exploded" in juicy fashion.  Soon our hands, from the tips of our fingers to our wrists, were stained a deep blood red.

It was perfect picking weather. "This is quite relaxing," I thought as each berry dropped into my bucket. I could hear the murmur of other voices of people picking in the rows beyond ours. The sun warmed our backs but before it got too hot, a cool breeze occasionally blew off the Puget Sound bringing with it the sweet smell of the berries over the fields. Before too long I noticed my bucket was beginning to have some heft to it. "How many berries do you need for your jam?" I asked Paul. "Around six pounds," came the reply. "Well, I think I have at least that amount," I said. After comparing amounts, we agreed to pick some more just to make sure as we worked our way back toward the fruit stand to weigh and pay for our harvest. As we reached the end of the row, I glanced down into my bucket and noticed my jumble of berries was fast becoming a mushy heap. "Oh well," I thought, "we're going to make them into jam anyway."

Both girls looked at me in horror, before pointing to a flat, electric scale. I placed it gingerly on top as the juice continued to flow out and onto the counter. "No, no lift it up --lift it up!" one of them cried. "The juice will wreck the electrical connection!"

We walked up to the stand and I hoisted my bucket up onto the wooden counter. "We're ready to weigh and pay for our berries," I announced. "You have to pour the berries into one of those cardboard flats so we can get our buckets back. We'll weigh them and then you can use the flats to take your berries home," one of the girls explained. She indicated a stack of shallow, corrugated cardboard boxes, about the size and shape of an empty kitchen drawer, piled on the flatbed trailer where we found the plastic buckets. I walked over to the flatbed, grabbed a box and dumped my load of berries into it. It soon became apparent that the boxes were not leak-proof as berry juice quickly seeped out the edges of the box. I lifted my box leaving a pool of blood red liquid behind and carried it over to the counter. "Okay," I said holding my dripping box, "where do you want me to put it?" Both girls looked at me in horror, before pointing to a flat, electric scale. I placed it gingerly on top as the blood red juice continued to flow out and onto the counter. "No, no, lift it up--lift it up!" one of them cried. "The juice will wreck the electrical connection!" I lifted the box clear and returned the contents to the plastic bucket. Paul slopped his in as well. We ended up weighing the whole mess in one of the buckets.

We knew there was no way we were going to get those berries home in the cardboard boxes without destroying the carpet in our car, so we offered to purchase one of the buckets. The girls waved away our attempts to pay additional money for the container. "Just go ahead and take it," one of them said as they mopped up the juice on their counter. (Clearly, they wanted no more to do with us and our drippy berries.) We safely stowed the berries in the trunk of the car in our new free plastic bucket. As we drove away, we marveled at how unprepared they seemed to be in regards to handling overripe, oozy berries. "Come on.  They work at a berry farm after all!" remarked Paul. "By the way," I asked, "Did we get at least 6 pounds for you to make your jam recipe?" "Oh yeah I think we have enough," he replied. "We picked over 21 pounds!" 

BOVINE BUDDIES

14x11 inches, oil on linen canvas, 2018

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Bovine Buddies - auction ends on Sunday, October 28th at 9:00am PST. 

Three friends in a field enjoying an early Autumn day on a Whidbey island farm.