"Stop, or I'll TOOT" - Stories from Matin d'Or

This is a tale I've been promising myself (and my friends) to write for years.  It's from my Ruff Life days in Parguera, Puerto Rico, circa 2000.  I once said I'd run the story and pictures past them for pre-approval, but I'm changing my mind; frees up my creativity.

I'm just hoping they'll still speak.

I was working at kite shop Volantines one day when this tall, blond Salty Dog with a thick British accent (which I mistook for Australian) asked,

(sic) "Hello there.  I don't know if you remember us from last year..."

To be honest, so many boaters passed through Parguera over the years, one 'stick' looked like another, but there was something familiar, I think I said.

That was the beginning of a 26 year friendship when in fact we haven't seen one another in, oh, I'd say 20 years.  But Pam and Roger are the kind of friends you can pick up a conversation with as if it were yesterday; you know what I mean.

Their sailboat, Matin d"Or, was a big Westerly Oceanmaster, close to 50-feet (seemed to me) with the tallest mast in the anchorage.  Like other cruisers, they'd stopped in Parguera for provisioning on their way to Venezuela or elsewhere south of a particular latitude before hurricane season began on June 1st.

Cruisers handed out 'boat cards' with the name of their boat, the type, often the size and other statistics, names and mailing addresses and other personal info. I have a stack somewhere, but happily Matin d'Or's was within easy reach so I could ID the make.

My Ruff Life (l) arrived (without cards) in 1998 and remained anchored in la Parguera until 2009.  Those early years were great for Parguera was still undiscovered; before the 'la' was dropped.   I typed up a page of local info (dinghy dock access, water, groceries, supplies, etc) which either Cap or I would dinghy over to newcomers.  We gave rides to marine stores and lent our PO box for deliveries.  You become fast friends quickly, being in the same boat so to speak; but then they'd move on and we'd have a chance to visit again maybe on their way back north.

But Pam and Roger really liked Parguera and for a number of years, while they cruised up and down the Caribbean, they would return and stay for a month or longer.  It was heaven for me because rare was the chance to have girl-chats in English, and Roger and Cap got along well.  We often partied with other couples in the anchorage, here's Yvonne from Holland with Pam behind.

Roger is a wine connoisseur and Matin d'Or's hold (cellar) contained a large assortment of tasty vintages (cases - I won't say how many).  He brought some from Britain and acquired others while island-hopping.

 

I loved listening to Happy Hour stories of this island and that, for even if I'd wanted to move, there were islands where Ruff Life would not have been permitted to anchor.  She was never officially documented; only an Oregon boat registration.  (L) Here's Dutchman Peter with an intentionally blurred Roger, to preserve some dignity.

The wine was nice, but what really got everyone going was Roger's famous Punch, a red concoction that kicked your ass (look, in every picture, we all drank it).  I'd be sorry the next morning, but it really was delicious; and besides, I didn't have to drive the dinghy home - just not fall out.

Over the years we shared different experiences.  Pam came to some of my classes at Michaels, where I taught Norwegian Rosemaling of all things.  Knowing my difficulty with mixing colors, she presented me with a beautiful set of six pages explaining Color Theory (l).

Pam's aids were true works of art which I treasured as much for the artistry as the knowledge.  I returned them to her for that reason years later, but not before scanning each one.  As I've said in the past, there's only so much I can fit in a coffin.

One year Matin d'Or needed a new television set, so Cap drove Roger and Pam to the Mayaguez Mall, where they found one in Sears.  The way Cap told it: They were driving around to the back side of Sears to pick it up, when a policeman on a motorcycle in front of them lost his balance and dropped his bike.  Embarassed, he looked at our car's occupants (Cap never said if they were laughing) then noticed the car didn't have a current registration sticker (we were dead broke at the time).

The policeman righted his motorcycle and walked back to Cap, demanding his license, etc.  I think he claimed Cap 'tapped' his bike and that's why he fell. It was the Memorial Day weekend and the parking lot was packed.  The officer called for backup and a number of police cars from different municipalities arrived, lights flashing, drawing a crowd.  Their intention was to 'escort' the group to the Mayaguez Police Station; until Pam asked sweetly (sic),

"Do you mind if we first go 'round to pick up our telly?"

The crowd grew, which only rattled the officers more, but after a brief confab they agreed.  Some cars left, and the remaining 4 or 5 took off, lights still flashing, with Cap in the center.  The motorcade crawled their way through the parking lot to the back side of Sears and stopped while our friends went inside.

The police still intended to haul them all down to the station, but while waiting they finally reached their Supervisor who astutely decided it wouldn't be a good look for tourism.  They told Cap to return the next day with the sticker and fined him $250; might as well have been $250,000.

Cap, of course, wanted to fight the fine and dragged Roger with him to court.  Roger wore shorts and flip-flops, but his size and accent apparently impressed the Judge enough to scrap the fine, or significantly reduce it.  I think the officer was admonished for making such a fuss.

Friends Gayle and Joey, whose vast spread (r) is along the southwest coast enjoyed entertaining and always welcomed drop-ins, so we'd include Pam & Roger whenever they were in the anchorage.  A good time was had by all; I know everyone has great memories.

I also know from experience that while cruising it's nice to be included in the local culture in more intimate ways (as compared to the Vegetable Lady you see each morning);  which makes the experience that much more enjoyable.  Pam and Rog are personable and loads of fun, and easily fit in.

We'd reciprocate on Ruff Life, even though the venue was smaller; made even smaller by the inevitable RAIN which accompanied 99.9% of my get-togethers, most frustrating.

At the time, and I assume still, my friends were far advanced in the ways of computers.  I watched them experience the frustration of finding compatible-this for their laptop-that; which reminded me of Aunt Cathy learning  to use her first microwave in 1973.  Not me, no thanks, I thought both times.

Yet here I am, 'prattling on' about nothing in particular.  I learned phrases like 'faffing about' (puttering) and 'cock-a-snoot' (thumb your nose at).  Always fun to learn more about furriners, isn't it?

I'd become a licensed Artesana working with higueras, seen here drying in a hammock on the top deck.  But if you look closely in the background you can see Roger in one of his favorite spots for chillin' while tannin'.

I once asked Roger (for the purpose of this article) a bit about his background with England's police force.  These notes don't make sense and are my words, but it'll give you a sense:

- 10 yrs Inspector

- Well-respected
- Ran counter-terrorist search team ('80s, Thatcher)
- Hotel bombing.

I only now looked that up and I'm assuming this is it:

"The hotel bombing during Margaret Thatcher's term was the Brighton hotel bombing, an assassination attempt targeting Thatcher and her cabinet at the Grand Hotel in Brighton, England."

Not everyone's CV includes something as James Bond-ish as that.  So one day, Roger and Cap were discussing the differences in police tactics; in particular the peculiarity (to us) of British Bobbies to carry whistles instead of firearms.

"So what do you say when you're chasing a subject, 'Stop, or I'll TOOT!'"

I always thought that'd be the perfect title.  That first year, Pam painted this charming watercolor of Ruff Life from their vantage point.

Eventually, as cruisers inevitably do, Pam and Rog tired of the lifestyle, not to mention all the hard work and expense.  They sold Matin d'Or and went back to their comfy home in Herfortshire; where Pam faffs about in her garden and Roger cocks-a-snootful at his tastings.

It's hard to convey the happy feeling of a familiar sailboat coming into the anchorage, or the sadness watching it leave.  But that's cruising - always comings and goings.

I'm sure I'll see my friends again some day...on dry land.

Cheers, my friends!

Trixie Belden and the Sawtelles

When I was a kid, c. 1960, we lived in Sunnyside, Queens, NYC.  I don't know how to tell kid's ages...I'm in the middle - so how good can my memories be?  Some are surprisingly strong, and that's where this story comes in.

We attended the Christian Science church in Jackson Heights and my parents were part of a 'group' which would have round-robin get-togethers in their homes.

During one swanky high-rise apartment party, the host showed a film of his latest adventure:  parachuting into the jungles of Peru to explore a lost city.  What an impression THAT made on me, you can imagine.  Explains all sorts of things.

Anyway, hands-down, my favorite times were visiting the Sawtelles out on Hicksville, Long Island.  From Sunnyside, for me that was going to the country. (Disclaimer:  Sis, 5 yrs older, recently commented on how different our childhood memories are so this may not all be accurate, but it's a fluff piece so who cares?)

Marge and George Sawtelle, from Memphis, TN, had three children:  Paul, the oldest, Jan and youngest Suzie. Suzie had some sort of 'problem' which I'm guessing now was a form of Cerebral Palsy.  She couldn't speak among other symptoms, but was dearly loved and always included in activities; oh, she'd laugh!

Jan and Hillary were the same age and 5 years younger than Paul, which made him 10 years older than me.  Paul was like a big brother and the most handsome boy I knew; Hillary probably had a crush on him, too.

Paul was always kind and fun to be around, but we were, after all, a bunch of little girls and he had other things on his mind; or other ages.  When I was 10 he went off to West Point, everyone was so proud.  Vietnam was as yet unknown to me.

Jan, Hillary and I would put on song-and-dance shows for our parents.  I found this old Playbill in my storage things and particularly love: Intermission - 'Refreshments will be sold' and at the end, 'If any Refreshments are left, they will be sold'.

Hey, we were trying to supplement our allowances and GoFundMe was not yet invented.

We were inspired (or at least I was) by comedy records like  Stiller and Meara (Ben's parents), who were outrageously funny; Alan Sherman (Hello Mudda, Hello Fadda); Ray Stevens's Ahab the Arab  (I didn't understand the implications) and Bill Cosby's Noah. ("What's a cubit?")  The last two may turn off some readers, especially Cosby; but, like Michael Jackson decades later, this was in the beginning of his career and the routine's brilliant.

Father George was originally hired as the lead singer at Radio City Music Hall and had loads of recordings.  He also had a small xylophone with three notes:  N - B - C which I loved to hit.  Perhaps that's the reason I volunteered to play the Glockenspiel in Jr. High; see what writing uncovers?

Another family friend was Julie Campbell Tatham, author of countless children's books including some of the Trixie Belden series.  Going to her home in upstate New York was really going to the country.  Again, snippets of memories, but in her beautiful old farmhouse she owned an enchanting collection of those antique cast iron mechanical banks.

Her son was a Serpentologist and they had a small fortress in the back yard with a tall wooden fence, full of snakes that couldn't climb up the fence (I don't know how that's possible).  But the POISONOUS ones were kept in cages in the attic; maybe that's where I developed my phobia.

Trixie Belden is a blond, curly-haired kid who solves mysteries ala Nancy Drew; accompanied by dark-haired best friend Honey Wheeler.  Every time we'd visit, Julie would hand over a signed copy of one of her books, which I'm now selling on my Etsy shop because I've  no one to leave them to.  Believe me, I'll hate to see them go, but like so many of the personal treasures I've been hawking through the years, they won't all fit in a coffin.

Naturally I assumed Trixie and Honey were based on Jan and Hillary, and imagined myself as one of the minor characters.  I still suspect some of Jan and Hillary's characteristics, at least a little, are inbued in her books.

"That's neither here nor there," Mom would say.  Point is, I always associate Trixie Belden with the Sawtelles, and visa-versa.

Suzie passed at a young age and Jan Sawtelle Williams passed in 2016.  We all lost touch at some point, which I regret because it would have been fun to visit her during one of my cross-country trips.  This, from Jan's obituary:

"In high school, Jan's favorite subject and activity was theater; and it became a lifelong passion.  At 18, Jan ventured to the Catskills area of New York, famous for resort hotels catering to people from The City. The hotel had a night club, and Jan was often the MC or an entertainer on its stage."

Doesn't surprise me in the least.  Paul's ending was more dramatic.  After graduating from West Point in 1969 he attended Ranger School,  then was assigned to the 101st Airborne Division in Vietnam.  Paul, 25, was shot and killed in 1971; this, from a tribute on his page on the Wall of Faces:

"On 16 April 1971, Paul Sawtelle led a combat patrol in the infamous Ashau Valley located in Thua Thien Province Northern I Corps, Republic of Vietnam. On the second day of the mission, the Ranger Team engaged a 6 man enemy force by small arms fire and called in Cobra gunships. The Rangers killed the 6 enemy soldiers and later made contact with a larger enemy reaction force. After an extended firefight, the Ranger Patrol was extracted by helicopters and used the Cobra gunships to suppress enemy fire. The Rangers suffered 2 killed and 4 wounded during this mission, including 1Lt Sawtelle."

I vividly remember hearing the news:  Margie called Mom then she told me. I was almost 16 and Vietnam was on television nightly.  I broke down crying until Mom gently but firmly asked why, saying,

"You haven't seen Paul in years.  He's just as alive in your mind today as he was yesterday."

You'd have to have known Mom but she was right, and that little reminder has remained steadfast in my heart ever since.

So that's my story.  I wish I had better pictures, but they're clearer in my mind.  Honor to all our fallen soldiers.

Leave Dr. Fauci Alone, You Pigs!

Who the hell is Bernie Moreno, Rep Sen from Ohio - flinging the F-Word at a respected physician during a Congressional meeting?  Well, he's blowing off his own daughter's pretty serious accusations against her ex-husband, Rep Max Miller.  Basically, Moreno doesn't have her back.  His own daughter.  The story's all over - I just picked People Magazine because it seems like the kind of fluff news people seem to prefer.

He's right up there with Jim Jordan, as far as I'm concerned; another PIG who had his own accusations of sexual misconduct (or ignoring claims of ) at Ohio State.  That's old news, too.

I could dig up name after name, but who's more of a PIG than our own POTUS?  How many people do YOU know who are physically ill over what's happeing in this country?  How many of your friends and acquaintences have said they must avoid the news for some time; but things are changing so quickly you're lost if you don't keep up for a day or two.

Todd Blanche, Trump's personal attorney then and now, cooks up a deal which absolves the President and his family from any wrong-doing?  Plus the financial deal, the Slush Fund, for criminals who claim they've been wronged?  Two guys can cook this up and we have to pay for it?

Nothing better to do than go back 6 years and try to hang Dr. Fauci, as if he was trying to intentionally mislead us in order to gain some financial benefit; like we're hearing about the war in Iran?  I'm sick of Trump speaking a few lies in order to drive up the stock market; and after the Richie-Rich's have made their money either in the market or on Kalshi, it goes back down because Iran isn't playing by his rules.

No wonder everyone's sick.  And remember, once we're out of Iran we're heading for Cuba.

Trump's driving (the rest of) us to the poorhouse and most of the Republican Congress is fine with that.

Bunch of PIGS.

'Triggers'

My $750 car repair morphed into $2,200 when I picked it up last Wednesday.  This, after plunking down $3800 three months ago.  Hate to do the math, but that's $2,000 more than I paid for it in 2018 and about one-half of my annual Social Security.  Ouch is right.

But I'm feeling pretty good, considering the considerable hit my budget just took.  It's a good car, my 2004 Volvo, with about 160,000 miles on it; I've been told more than once they're good for 200,000 at least.

But I knew that, for I once owned a 1979 Volvo, built like a tank.  Ex-man #1 and I were returning from our first tour in Europe, and like so many other servicemembers, we bought a new car and had it shipped directly to the States, tax free, I think it was.  We'd gone through five cars in three years living in Kaiserslautern, W. Germany.  I worked in the MP Station Traffic Section, and it seemed I was always filling out a report for myself, although not all the cars were totalled.

The 1969 VW bug we shipped to Germany had belonged to Wally (now deceased) before we married.  It was already pretty banged up from minor smacks when shortly after our wedding, one hot New Jersey night, we'd stopped for ice cream cones.  Driving home the car in front stopped suddenly and Wally hit him; not very hard, but you couldn't go very fast along the beach.

We didn't wear seat belts of course, and while Wally hit the steering wheel I went head-first into the windshield, giving it a good smack.  Once my groom righted himself he turned, saw the cracked glass and reached for my head, still face down in front of the dash.

As he would tell it, his hands felt wet as he touched the sides of my face and, frightened, thought, "Oh my God, I've disfigured her!"

Until he heard, "F____g  ICE CREAM!!"  Yep, I'd grabbed the handle above the glove box, and on its way to the windshield my face went straight into my double-scooped.

Anyway, that kind of 'tap' seemed to happen all the time; so by the time it arrived in Germany it looked rough enough that the Provost Marshall left a copy of Grainger's catalog on my desk; should've kept it.  I'm dusting off old memories...how did it go?  

Oh yeah, we needed a second car because I worked in K'town and the missle base was on top of the mountain; we lived 1/2-way between.  I'd been catching the local bus to work and was thrilled to hear a friend from the base was being redeployed and selling his car. It was December, and they were on their way to register the car:  Frank in our VW and Wally driving Frank's car; which made sense to them considering the beerfest they'd just had when they stopped at a Gasthaus for lunch.

Wally slid on some ice, crashed Frank's car into a telephone pole and was picked up by the Polizei for DWI and destruction of property.  After an eventful night they turned him over to the military, and  I became the sole driver for a very long year.  When Wally got his license back we bought a car totally unsuitable for European driving, both size-and-gas-wise.

It was a beast; something like an old Chrysler Imperial, 4-doors.  I remember backing out of the parking space one afternoon, turning and looking towards the left, when the right side of the car drove up onto the door of the car in the adjacent space. The MP owner was very nice and said not to worry, the damage wasn't bad; but the incident haunts me still in crowded parking lots.  Eventually, one evening parked outside the apartment, half up on the sidewalk as they do, a drunk driver plowed into and totaled it.  

At some point the bug gave out and we bought old VW wagon which was so rusted, there was a sizeable hole straight through the floorboard (driver's side), which made for some chilly rides.  Poor thing, I don't remember what happened to it, but something.

Next was my favorite:  a four-door Audi with the softest Flokati seat covers, a very comfortable ride.  I felt badly when, after we left, we heard that the transmission dropped, or something.  It had been running just fine, can't explain what happened, and we felt badly, but what are you gonna do?  I see that even this car had a ding in the hood.

Maybe my transmission trouble 3 months ago was payback.

Months before leaving Germany we went around to different dealerships looking at new models.  We had a bunch of Savings Bonds which Wally's Dad offered to redeem, so we had cash in our pockets.  As Wally was being shown around the showroom I walked over to a kiosk and watched a video about Volvo's safety features.  I watched a car being smashed from all sides plus the top, but the occupants were safe inside their 'steel cage.'

"THIS IS THE CAR I WANT," so that's how we ordered a 1979-242, like this one.  I really liked the slate-blue color Volvo had been using so was disappointed to instead discover this baby-blue on the loading dock in Newark, but I got used to it.  It had a sun roof and was comfortable; and besides, for my birthday we bought a '79 MG Midget for me. 

Trigger

Fast-forward, so I'm paying through the nose for my current car's repairs, but I'd still rather pay the credit card than have a monstrous car payment.  The last time I financed a car was in the '80s, $167 a month for a Honda I called Trigger.  I loved that car and doubt I could get a payment so low nowadays, which would be hard to afford anyway.  Should the car be irreparable, I weighed buying another or just calling a cab and taking the bus for the few times I actually GO somewhere.

The entire steering column mechanism needed replacing and Volvo has discontinued the part.  But the mechanics found one and they managed to put it on.  When I was paying the bill I heard, "What a job that was," in an honest, still pleasant, way; explaining the part is originally assembled on the line before the top half of the engine, then the chassis, or something; but they were successful.  They kept me updated, and after the 3rd quote of $2,100, then hearing about the additional work required, I told myself to expect $3,000; anything less is good.

It took about 10 days from the time I dropped off my latest Trigger until pickup; which gave me time to get used to the price.  I rationalized and justified for days until I decided it would indeed be worth the repairs; and when I finally picked it up their final quotation remained unchanged.  I asked,

"The last time I was here (transmission having to be flushed 3 times was only one thing) I asked if I would be welcomed back and you said 'Yes.'  If I ask the same question now will I get the same answer?"

"Of course!"  They can spot a cash cow, I tell myself not to be cynical, for they are good mechanics and many here use them - it's not their fault I've neglected servicing for years.  It's a good car, and if I want to travel any distance, I can always take a plane. 

Unable to Do 'Simple'

So this post covers a couple of P.S.'s, like my Oyster Shell Sip-n-Paint class on the 4th and the local Member Show piece on the left, submitted the 6th.

I'll begin with the Sip-n-Paint, which was a terrific success.  I'm blurring faces so you can't clearly see their smiles, but trust me, they were there.

I enjoy this kind of thing, teaching crafts and simple painting; been doing it for decades.  Someone called it my 'comfort zone,' I suppose that's true.  It's not life-threatening (to anyone else) and supposed to be FUN, I remind my audience.

I was drinking water.

I began with, "How many have held a paintbrush before...or a pencil?  If you haven't held a pencil, I don't know what to say," and we were off and running.

"What inspired you to become an artist?"

Momentarily stunned into silence by this little girl's eloquent query afterwards, I had to quickly squash Amy from sarcastically blurting out,

"I was f____g starving!" which sounds like an oxy-moronic comparison, but it was true.  It took lots of hard work to become a Starving Artist.

So I answered, "I began with crafts; yes, crafting, which led to other things." (Left: the Mimosa Bunch)

In Puerto Rico I didn't speak the language so I couldn't apply for a job in my old field: Purchasing; nor did I want to.  That wasn't part of the dream.  But we needed money so I managed to clerk at a grocery store, stocking shelves and other duties; hardest work I've ever done for such little pay, not counting being an Artist.

Sip-n-Paint Birthday

In my spare time I kept practicing my painting and began selling pieces in kite shop Volantines.   THIS was the plan back in Oregon: me, painting on some island like Gauguin in French Polynesia.  I never expected to be baking 110 loaves of bread on a Saturday morning (my humble beginnings on the island, Parguera Then and Now.)

Varnished shells

I took a chance and applied to Michaels Craft Store in Mayaguez to become a European folk-art instructor, of all things, and they enthusiastically said, Yes.  Flying by the seat of my pants, certainly; but what I lacked in experience I made up with enthusiasm and encouragement.

And that's what I brought to our little Oyster Shell Sip-n-Paint.  A good time was had by all; for after all, it didn't cost them a dime.

I don't do this stuff on a regular basis, which probably has something to do with my enjoyment. That, and my livlihood doesn't depend on it.  It's especially gratifying to teach children, for they're free from any constrictions we learn as we grow up.

So I learned another skill, which I'm considering peddling to local hotels.  We've got loads of them and oyster shells and it sounds like a good idea, I know.  I could probably make some decent money and have already begun a flyer, but I'm still formulating what I really want to do.

But if money wasn't a crunch, would I still pursue this avenue?  And what price am I willing to quote?  There's loads of competition out there and I've had decades of trying out my 'good ideas' with plenty of compliments, limited success and, for the most part, poverty.  And let me tell you, it's exhausting and demoralizing.  At 70, do I want more of that?

So in which direction, I must decide, do I want my future to head?  After all, it's not as if I have all the time in the world anymore; but then again, as my old boss Marc would say, "You may get hit by a bus tomorrow."  Perspective.

I recently explained to a co-Workamper that whatever price I decide to charge for pieces entered in this years Member Show, the Arts Center gets 40%.  How much do I think I'm worth, or willing to settle for?  I remembered gallery partner Alberto, who made jewelry, decry, "Anything less and I give it away!"  Tourists were always bargaining in Puerto Rico as if in a Third-World Country.

I'd have time to decide, I thought, for my pieces didn't have to be submitted until some time in September.  I thought to get a jump on things and headed to Goodwill for a suitable framed canvas, they always have different sizes; matted; glass or no.  I explained to Rosemary what I was hoping to find and after less than 5 minutes met up with her to show off my treasure:  an 18" x 30" framed board, not a canvas (I hate painting on canvases).

I'll try to condense this:  I'd been looking at last year's show which, because of some delay, didn't begin until the fall.  I called the last week in June to confirm the September date, since I couldn't find the same page online, and was told, "No," this year's pieces needed to be submitted by Sunday, July 5th...no, the 6th...NOT in September.

Holy crap!  I knew I could get my idea down in about a week but that's with really hustling.  I'd decided, since the theme of the show was Pathways, that I'd do something I'd wanted to do for some time:  recreate the scene I painted on my teardrop (above), sold in '24, which was based on a poster hanging in my bedroom as a kid.  There was a hippie girl with a backpack, sitting on the curb, her back to the viewer - I can picture it as if it were in front of me now.  The expression was,

"I don't know where I'm going, but I'm on my way."

That was back in 1972 but the saying has unknowingly guided my path through life.  I've been thinking of that quite a bit these past weeks, and decided that though I may be poor, one breakdown away from living on the street, the intangible treasures gained throughout my rough-and-tumble life have served me well.

It may not have been profitable, but at least life hasn't been boring, and I'm not through yet!

Anyway, that was the plan.  So while simultaneously preparing my Sip-n-Paint, THIS spent most of the day sitting in the middle of my RV, just like my Seashell Mirror, for over a week.  I've never claimed to be an exemplary artist, but I've got my own style which some find 'charming.'

I figured it would be easy since, technically, I've already done it; but it was never meant to be an exact replica.  I've tried duplicating my one-of-a-kind gourds and it can't be done.  It's not simply the paint and brushes, but the mood of the artist.  I'm in a different place now than I was when I painted the teardrop in 2021.

Bue before I could begin, I had to pull the warped board away from the frame, and then try and flatten it out.  I was about 70% successful but figured I'd staple the board to the back of the frame, I still had time to figure that out.

I've also been transcribing my journals from the Ruff Life days and recently found one criticism by the Captain,

"You paint too slow," uttered before a show when I had dozens of blank, carved gourds to finish in little time.

That's always been my problem as an artist - I can't do Simple; I simply can't.  Most artists would agree that it's tough to know when a painting is truly finished and when it needs a bit more.  For me that's after stepping away from a project for some time then coming back with a fresh perspective.

Only I didn't have the time.  So I'd sometimes get up at 2am to add details which needed drying prior to the morning's work.

"Enough is enough," I chided myself, "put it against the frame and see where you want to add meandering vines" out of the painting and on to the frame; I love painting trompe l'oeil, or fool the eye.

I wasn't going to varnish the painting inside of the frame so now one project morphed into two.  I was trying to create an extension of the wooden gate and kept shooting myself in the foot.  Yes, it looks terrific but it was a pain in the como-se-llama.

Here's the start of the ivy, at least the 'shadow' ivy.  The darker photos are the ones from the middle of the night.  I've also added the dove and more details on the plants in the front.

"That looks good," but needs more.

Shoot, why did I waste my time on the flowerpots, which I only covered up?  That's how I paint.

"STOP" Out of time plus the board's warping again.

Putting it inside the frame was a production I'll hopefully never have to replay.  The staples were first too short but the longer ones held. Ka-Chunk, Ka-Chunk, all around the back.

But when I flipped it over I discovered some of the staples came through the front.  HELL - good thing I allowed all-day Sunday (after the Sip-n-Paint Saturday) to assemble the frame.

I'd cover them somehow, but what about the back?  Will it go "BOING!!" in the middle of the show?

I'd located a 1" x 1" scrap in my closet and discovered it would work horizontally across the back - terrific!  Cut it and it was perfect.

Except on Sunday morning I saw that the scrap was actually spreading the frame.  I cut it a second time without measuring (I knw, measure twice...), I knew better, and yep, it was too short.  Went through this-and-that before sticking some Velcro pieces on either end; and then spreading wood glue along the edges. I hoped that wouldn't drip through to the front while placing my sewing machine on the back.

It all worked; I went to attach the hardware for the framing wire to my pre-drilled holes; which were now towards the bottom of the frame.  Turned out a large push-pin easily poked holes, I don't know what kind of wood that is, and I filled the first holes.

I covered the staples, which were against the edges, with modeling paste and painted the patches to resemble moss; you can't even tell unless you ZOOM.  I liked the mistake-turned-interesting effect, and balanced it throughout the frame by streaking moss green.  Voila. 

Monday morning I dropped off "On My Way, a Self Portrait," along with Safari Carousel, painted 20 years ago; a better representation, I felt, of my ability as an artist.

Wouldn't you know, as I was signing in I saw a stack of colorful advertisements and the word Transformations.

"What's that?" I began when the docet said, "This year's theme."

"What happened to Pathways?!"

"That was last year."

I felt like an idiot, but as she reminded me, it isn't required to follow the theme, and besides, my painting would work just as well.

Now, after all this, how much would YOU charge?  I'm not telling, but I will say I'm not giving my pieces away.  If they don't sell I'm happy to keep them, since they are a couple of favorites.  Just hoping to Goodness the painting remains together throughout the show.