32 Years

Tino and I married on this date in 1994, one of the happiest days in my life.  He passed unexpectedly 3 months later; which is when the old Andrea died and her shell began walking.  For 32 years I've been trying to fill it, or at least bring back some of my old Umph, Mom would call it.  Happy to report that's going well.

I'm no longer weepy and have accepted the loss; and, most importantly, learned that Grief never leaves but it does change over time.

You never get over it, but you can get past it.

Happy 250th America!

I know we're struggling with the holiday, but be of good cheer!  At least we're still vertical.

I don't have to work, but I am teaching my first Sip-n-Paint here at the park for guests.  When Rhonda broached the idea to me last year my immediate reply was, No, are you kidding even though I didn't know what that was.  I answer the same with new foods.

But over the winter I had time to chill, and to Rhonda's astonishment a couple months ago I said I'd do it.  What the hell, can't hurt when it comes to experience.

Only I don't like painting on canvases.  Because of my vision (lazy eye) my depth perception is pretty much non-existent, so I've found it easier to paint when I'm holding something in my hand or leaning against it.

OYSTER SHELLS!  What a nice memento of a trip to the Oregon Coast, and fortunately we've got loads of them, thanks to another Workamper who occasionally heads for Newport to where the restaurants toss their empties.  We bartered shortly after I arrived, and she made this beautiful painting of Ruff Life, I must take a photo now.

My American Flag experiment was to (1) experience painting on a shell and (2) paint something simple enough for an hour, hour and a half class.  Sure, it's fitting for the day, but not everyone wants to display a flag on a shelf.  But an ocean sunset?  Piece of cake for the novice...class begins at 2.

Happy Fourth Everyone!

At This Age, No One Expects Anything Out Of Me Anyway

I'm working on a painting to enter into this month's Member Show at the local art center; not this, of course.  I've been grappeling with the fact that my hands just can't paint the way they used to, quite frustrating; so I've been doing loads of rationalizing with Amy, inside my head.

"No one expects anything out of you anyway, at this point in time."

I know, but I don't want to stop being an artist completely.  The theme of the show is Pathways, and since none of my gourds are suitable, I decided to paint something similar to the back of my teardrop, now sold.

"Same, but different."  That's ok, I suppose.

"Consider the mirror."

In Puerto Rico, I'd occasionally find an abandoned decorating magazine, and in 2002 I ripped this picture out.  Isn't it a beauty?

I've carefully kept it in a plastic sleeve, knowing that one day I'd create my own using the shells I'd collected over twelve years.  But I thought I had more, I discovered when I retrieved my things last year from storage.

That's when I remembered all the crafty things I did with kids at the Saturday Market, c. 2012, using my own 'stash' to inspire creativity.  I don't look at that as a wasted effort, but what about my own dream?  Was it lost, too?

So as happens, last month Rosemary and I headed to Goodwill to look for craft items for summer projects here at the park, and where I found a tall glass vase full of old shells and rocks and things for less than two bucks.  I wandered over to the frame section, you never know when you'll find a Picasso amongst the Dogs Playing Cards.

Thanks for Blowing Up My Dream, Mr. President

These pictures are taped to my RV kitchen cabinet.  The bottom scene, "My Kind of View," I painted (and sold) during a 2023 challenge at the Newport Visual Arts Center.  I included BC in the left corner.

The top picture I snagged when some online ad popped into my screen.  It's not very large, but it would be a palace to me:  solid walls; neither floating on the water or balanced on 6 tires; living on a piece of property which won't be ripped out from underneath me.  Maybe a yard for a dog.

But that continues to be a Pipe Dream, thanks to Donald J. Trump, who owns how many properties?  Why?  Because today he's suddenly decided NOT TO SIGN the bi-partisan housing bill:

"House Speaker Mike Johnson, R-La., and Senate Majority Leader John Thune, R-S.D., both celebrated the passage of the housing package, which cleared both chambers with overwhelming bipartisan support, an unusual feat in the sharply divided Congress

"The measure aims to increase housing supply, make homes more affordable and cap the amount of single family homes private equity can purchase."  Of interest to me: expanding manufactured housing by unlocking more financing for factory-built homes and eliminates an outdated rule that required manufactured homes to be built on a steel chassis, cutting construction costs significantly.  Continuing,

"The two congressional Republican leaders announced that Trump would sign the bill in Statuary Hall on Wednesday at noon ET.

"But Trump downplayed the bill in a Truth Social post Wednesday morning, then followed up canceling its signing altogether, saying he won’t sign it until Congress approves the controversial election bill known as the SAVE America Act."

I love the way people who own or have owned houses can so easily say, "It's no big deal; It a headache; It's Always Something," as Gilda Radner would say.

But I'd like to find out for myself and at 70 I'm running out of time. The boat doesn't count (read about King Tut) so I'd be a First-Time-Homeowner, doesn't that help?  I always hope that something changes in the Rules so that maybe, just maybe, I can have one, too.  Live without the fear of being thrown off or out of someone else's property.  A little place like the picture below.  It's not too much to ask.  I don't mean simply GIVE it to me, but allow my piddly Social Security to afford a mortgage on something comparable to this.

Our President and many of you think it's more important to make sure people don't vote illegally; which, contrary to Conspiracy Theories, is NOT allowed in Certain Blue States.  Sure, some people are, for some reason, wanting to vote so badly that they'll cheat.  I happen to believe it's more likely that those people thought or assumed they could vote.

Is that the kind of crime you'd think of if you were determined to break the law?  "Think I'll try to vote."  Trump's truth on this is the same as the Reflecting Pool problem and drinking bleach to fight COVID (before that became a lie/conspiracy, too.)

So thanks to the Jerk and those who support him.

The Pool Wasn't Primed

You don't need to be a pool expert (or the President) to come up with the reason the Reflecting Pool is peeling:  improperly primed, I'd bet my life on it.  Any artist worth their salt knows you've got to prepare a surface prior to painting.  This, from a handout I penned for students in 2004:

PRIMERS

"Priming is the key to most paint finishes.  It creates a bond between the surface you want to paint and the paint finish you are applying.  Primers are specially formulated to create smooth surfaces for the base coat, sealing new drywall, new plaster, concrete, raw wood and any repairs, allowing the paint to spread smoothly without soaking in.  There are many different types of primers for different surfaces.

"Primers should never be used exclusively as a base coat.  I know, we all want to cut corners just a little bit, but don’t be tempted; however, if you want to apply a dark base coat, your primer can be tinted to half the formula of the paint color.  This will reduce the number of coats required to achieve the desired depth of color."

They drained the pool and started slapping on the American Blue.  It's peeling NOT because someone took a box cutter and sliced a long slit but because they did a quick, half-ass job.  If you believe that terrorists are at fault, then I've got the proverbial bridge to sell you - the Gordie Howe might go cheap.

But more alarming is how quickly Trump got the authorities to arrest and charge people for touching the water and supposedly tearing the bottom off.

BULLSHIT!  The outfit who did the job was given it outright, no bids; did you see that shady character who owns the company - the guy Donald knew, then didn't know..  I worked in the budget office for the Navy in the 70's, and every job performed REQUIRED 5 bids minimum (min 3?) before a contract was awarded.

Don't believe Trump's excuse, what a ludicrous lie; but more importantly, don't let them get away with arresting US for insulting the President.  I've written about that loads, and the possibility that my blog might disappear because I've not been kind to our Incompetent-in-Charge.  From a story I wrote in May 2025:

"Once they've filled their concentration camps with illegals and sufficiently deterred others from crossing the border, their blood will be up and they'll start in on citizens.  If habeas corpus is eliminated, it'll be next to impossible to protect anyone encountering law enforcement, whether illegal aliens or legal citizens with prior records.  Who's to determine who is a threat?"

It will get to the point when people are no longer able to keep their heads in the sand.  The man's a lunatic.

Dad Called Me George

"My father was in a dream last night," I excitedly told manager Rhonda.  Dad was across the proverbial crowded room, smiling in my direction, wearing a suit and tie as if heading to work.  "Dad," I cried, and by the time I reached him I was no longer 5'2" but hugging him about his knees.

"You never talk about your father," Rhonda commented and it's true; but not for any reason other than it's been so long ago.  Dad died in 1986 at age 62 from cancer; despite the fact that he quit smoking in his 20's.

Another businessman who worked in the same building was convinced the reason was asbestos in the old brick six-story in midtown Manhattan; across from Port Authority. 

I'm better at writing stories when I include photos as I type, so here goes:

1915

Bron Urban (Urbanowicz) was born in 1925; one of six children of Polish immigrants Chester and Rose who arrived in NYC in the early 1910s.  They were fleeing Russian and Cossack oppression and settled in Greenpoint, Brooklyn.  Grandma and Grandpa worked hard and saved their money, as many immigrants do; and in the 1930s they bought their house on Eckford Street, 3 stories and a loft, for around $6,000, where they lived until the late 1960s. Today that neighborhood's full of million-dollar apartments inhabited by the rich and famous; but back then it was a low-income neighborhood made up of Eastern Europeans.