Partial Portraits

Week three of portrait painting class.

There has been some progress.

I managed to get to class at the studio, about a 45 minute trip one way, and back home without missing a turn or getting lost...it usually takes five or six trips for me to remember how to get anywhere in a clean shot.   That's big.  Even if I don't come away with a completed painting, I can proudly show my face at home, sharing the results of my ability to find my way and back (check out my earlier posts about my GPS, Samantha, and my driving exploits).

And, to the great glee of the instructor, I showed up with everything I needed to paint.  The first week I didn't have the right medium, any paper towels or the right oils.  Week two was a bit better, I did manage to get all of the paints together.

But, week three was a total success...on the equipment side.  I brought along a new pad of palette paper (to replace my wooden palette that has wet paint on it, which always manages to get on everything in my car and everywhere on my clothes while traveling), new medium (I hear the joke, "What no large?"), and a whole roll of paper towels, to continually wipe away mistakes on the painting!  I go through a lot of paper towels.

Things were looking good, regarding preparation.  Painting was a different thing.

To continue painting the portrait on which I am working, I was advised to, "Look at it as a landscape, check the drawing by measuring everything to redraw the face, and drop lines so see where corners of the mouth fall in relation to the eyes, or where the center of the lip falls in relation to the nose, and so on"..."Take it apart," said the instructor, "Don't think of the person, think of values and lines...treat the pieces of the painting."

Fortunately, I did have an Exacto knife with me, so it was easy to take it apart.  I wasn't sure of exactly how to "take it apart," so I just cut it into four pieces.

Right away I could see the problems. Here, to the left, one can see that the eye is too big and falls to the left...it would have been a better painting had I seen that.  The eye on the right (here and there), is much better, but her chin looks like a blister and the red coloring to the right looks like an infection...didn't see that when it was a part of a larger picture.

Years ago, on Monhegan Island, as I prepared to throw a painting away, an artist stopped me and said, "Before you get rid of that, take a small mat and go around the large painting looking for a smaller one.  In every bad painting there's usually a great postcard!"  

The chin here, with the neck looks better...maybe it is okay and there's something wrong with the upper right portion...this is strange.  But, I guess it's like wearing sneakers...they don't go with everthing.

I do think the neck is coming along well...but now I see that the blotching has spread to her chest...perhaps it's a rash...sitting under hot lights for hours will do that.

The point of all of this measuring and getting values correct is for the "finish."

Getting the light lights on at the end is what "makes the painting sing." 

As she sits holding this pose, the lightest light is on her forehead, as you can see here to the right.

I put on the white highlight and didn't hear a thing.

Of course, now that this part of her head is separated from the rest, I can see that this is really a great part of the painting.

The lesson here is that, at times, we have to sacrifice for our art and learn something in the process.  Chopping up a painting may not feel good or be the best action to take.

However, now that I look at these, and working with the "postcard" theory, maybe there's a market for partial portraits...I only paint your good side or good feature!

Let me know.

The Layered Look

I did think about taking some video during the portrait painting class that I'm taking, but didn't want to intrude on the others in the class.

And, I couldn't figure out how to mix paints, hold a brush or two along with a wipe rag, be able to squeeze out more oils as needed, hold the camera and zoom in and out at appropriate times, and run back and forth to the snack table!

It's a lot of work being an artist.

I did write last week that I would post the painting as we go along, and here to the right is week two of the same model, with another layer of paint.

You don't get to see the painting stroke by stroke, but hopefully you see some progress.

I was surfing the web and came across this portrait painting video and thought you'd like to see what we artists look like in action:

While some painters have insecurities about having people watch them paint, I don't mind.  In fact, I seem to do a bit better if I think someone is watching.  Don't know if I try to do better in front of an audience, so they think that I know what I'm doing, or if it's akin to a joke I read recently.

"How many artists does it take to change a light bulb?"

"Ten.  One to change it, and nine to reassure him about how good it looks!"

It always helps when you hear positive things.  Some like to hear only good things.  I'd rather have honest critique.  I did have an art instructor in a class setting once take a painting I was working on off my easel, look at it for a moment and then drop it on the floor, paint side down.  As he walked away, he said, "Garbage.  Start again." 

I knew the painting wasn't going well, but....

I probably should have picked that oil smeared canvas off the floor and framed it with all of the dirt, hair and unidentifiable objects now embedded in the surface.  "Studio floor - a study."  I could have been rich.  A whole new genre.  Floorealism...hmmmm.

Next joke...

"How many modern artists does it take to change a light bulb?"

"Four.  One to throw bulbs against the wall, one to pile hundreds of them in a heap and spray-paint it orange, one to glue light bulbs to a cocker spaniel, and one to put a bulb in the socket and fill the room with light while all the critics and buyers are watching the fellow smashing the bulbs against the wall, the fellow with the spray-gun, and the cocker spaniel."
Back to the portrait.  I have managed to get her face positioned in the right direction, but keep struggling with that nose.

The instructor says that I'm painting my nose.  When she said that, I went right to the paper towels and started to scrub my face for errant oil paint.

"No," she said, "You don't have paint on your face.  You're not looking at her nose, so you're painting a picture of the one you see every day....yours!"

"But," I protested, "I can't see my nose."

She grabbed my brush out of my hand and plopped the end of it on my nose, giving it a dollop of paint, and said, "Now, go in the bathroom and look in the mirror and clean that off and you'll see what I mean."

What's with me and these instructors and paint everywhere but on the canvas?

So, here we are at week two.  The model continues to be outrageously patient, holding her poses so well that you could almost tell time by the shadow cast by that nose, if she were outdoors during the day and were in the middle of a garden in the sun...she is good.

I wish I could do her justice and come up with something that really looked like her.  There are about six students in the class, mostly beginners, and as the model takes breaks I can almost hear her wincing as she passes the canvases of the various students and looks at our efforts.  I hope she doesn't drink.

Everybody who paints portraits wants to capture the likeness so that the sitter is pleased, along with the artist.  And, perhaps even someone who didn't know the model would see the painting and then the model would walk in and the viewer would turn quickly and say, "That's her...it's so good."

You never know when a good representation can come in handy.  There's a story that the artist Pablo Picasso surprised a burglar at work in his new chateau.  The intruder got away, but Picasso told the police he could do a rough sketch of what he looked like.  On the basis of his drawing, the police arrested a mother superior, the minister of finance, a washing machine, and the Eiffel tower.

See!

We have two more weeks of working on this portrait, so you will be treated to at least two more rounds of "what does the model look like this week."

I did a little bit of work on it at home this week (something you shouldn't do, as you should always be looking at what you're painting) and made some improvements.

Here it is now...let me know what you think!

Face It

...it's hard to paint portraits.

Unlike trees and rocks, and lakes and streams, that appear in landscapes and can pass muster just by looking something like one of those listed, people want something more.

Seems it is expected that the picture you're painting of the subject is supposed to look just like them!

The original "snapshot" before film, portraits were the way to memorialize faces and figures.

We know what George Washington looks like because of the number of paintings of him, and they all look like the same guy.  You could probably pick him out of a crowd today, based on those visions that we've seen.

Same goes for Ben Franklin, Napoleon, and a bunch of other people.

To take the pressure off, I've decided to paint portraits of people that my friends don't know.  That way I can assure them that the likeness is dead on...sorry I can't produce the model, but trust me this is just what they look like.

I started taking a portrait class last week, at the Woodstock School of Art.  You should check out their classes, as the offer instruction in many medium:

http://woodstockschoolofart.org/

I've wanted a challenging art class and I got one.

I thought I'd share the process here with you, through the four once-a-week classes that will result in a completed portrait at the end!  Really!  The instructor promised that!

To the right, above, you'll see the work in progress.  Now, before you get all excited and start writing me about how she seems to be missing an eye and, well, it's not really a very good painting, I must point out that this is the first layer...an under-painting, if you will.

As the model posed, we had three hours to draw in the head and shoulders and start putting in values.  She was very patient and kept the same pose, with a few breaks, without fail.

I think it's a really good start.  The instructor thought just a bit different, "that's going to need some work."

While I was busy measuring the eyes, the nose, the mouth, etc., I got a bit side-tracked...as the teacher noted, "you seem to have flown into space, transposed yourself, and seen the model from over there," as she pointed to the other side of the room.

It was then that I noticed the model was actually facing the other way!  Details!!!

"I did get the hair values right," I added quickly.

Our instructor threw a glancing blow, "a little dark for a blonde, but I guess you can claim artistic license."

I worked on the canvas for another hour and made terrific gains.  Here, to the left below, you'll see the differences...right?  Big improvements?

The nose lighter, better color in the shadows, brighter whites?

You can see the vast difference after an hour...no?

Oh well, more later...another class this week and you'll see...the commissions will start pouring in.

I remember what a former art teacher said to me about portraits.  "Do your best, but don't show it to them right away.  Put it in a closet for about 10 to 20 years, then give it to them.  They'll love it."

Let me know where you're ready to pose!

Sketch a Sketch

I am in the process of re-writing my instruction  manual on sketching and am letting everyone know that I am ready for drawing classes...before you shout, "About time you took drawing lessons," this is to let you know that I will be teaching the craft.

Over the years, I've come up with a fool-proof way to teach people how to draw.  Even the most die-hard resistor, "You can't teach me to draw," came away surprised that they had a drawing in their hands that they had completed.  True story!  One student fought me tooth and nail during each class session, but once she gave into the idea of listening, it all came together.  I didn't buy it from her, but it was so good that she wanted to take it right home and put it on her
refrigerator!

Just like some other folks, I spent many childhood years wanting to draw and paint. Hours were spent on the floor of our second floor apartment studying under the watchful eye of Jon Gnagy.  Or it should be said, laying on the floor in front of the television, watching Gnagy’s art instruction shows, drawing along with him.  Here's a clip from one of his classes:

http://youtu.be/7YIRcQVkTOw 

When Jon wasn't around to provide "private" instruction, I would spend time copying all sorts of shapes, and dogs and horses, over and over out of the Gnagy drawing lesson books...I had a whole drawing set of his at one time! 
 
Following up on my desire to take art classes in high school, and perhaps from someone in person (as Gnagy was off the air by then and the books had worn out), I asked about taking art classes.  The guidance counselors directed me away from that passion, with the statement that "there isn't room in your schedule, as you need Math, English and Science courses for college.”

When I got to college, someone at the college admissions office said, "You only have Math, English and Science classes.  You need liberal arts courses!" I'm still confused.

At that time, there were two “arts” classes to pick from, "Introduction to Spanish and Spanish Culture" or "Introduction to Oil Painting."

Painting won out.  Not that I had anything against Spanish and Spanish Culture but, after studying French for seven years, I thought I had spent enough time on learning a language that no one else around me spoke.  I will wait for a moment while someone points out the merit of having thought twice about the Spanish classes!

Back at the community college, I spent several years studying with Guy Corriero, a fine oil painter and instructor, and now an AWS (American Watercolor Society) member.  A prolific artist, Corriero's works have been described as "the most colorful impressionistic watercolors anywhere."  You can see his link here on my blog page...he continues to paint many wonderful things.  I heard recently that he painted his kitchen!

Under Guy's tutelage, I learned the techniques of sketching, drawing, oil painting, watercolor painting, critique in studio, not crying when he asked you what your subject matter was, and the joys of painting plein air. 

Monhegan Island, Maine

The think about sketching is that you can do it indoors or out...Monhegan Island is a favorite art retreat for me and the groups that Guy Corriero led there over 25 years. Instruction on the island focused on seascapes, the life of a sea village and, as Guy would walk all over the island to give individual instruction to the students, learning how to let him know where you were so that he didn't run around the island all day long looking for you.

I've also painted plein air in Lyon, France, where I bought my first box of oil paints, while also studying French language, history and culture, and have painted in the Hudson Valley and upstate New York, and in Massachusetts and other areas of Maine.

I do favor the impressionistic style of painting and am fairly adept at the skills that watercolor requires. Other studies of mine included studio classes with Sylvia Springer, a fine upstate still life and portrait artist; Lee Parks, watercolorist and instructor with the Hurleyville Artist Association; James Ziegler, classically trained oil artist; several local classes in pastel, and figure drawing with School of Woodstock instructor Jon deMartin.

I've provided art instruction to individuals and groups, including art programs at Mohonk Mountain House, during “Artists Inspiration” programs, and created a very successful program for 1st graders at Kerhonkson Elementary School in the 1990's that resulted in successful watercolor training for 7-year-old students.  Along with other artists, I contributed art work of my own to the school.  The program developed with First Grade teacher Barbara Cesaratto brought varied art forms to the lives of young children, created an 'art gallery' in that school's library and a full scale outdoor display made of tiles created by the students, among other projects.  I also produced a very successful class around Native American art processes, instructing those same groups of children on how to find materials in nature to make brushes and drawing implements and painting with natural substances, such as berries and plants extracts.

Starting my career with oils, I've had many successes with the medium regarding landscapes and seascapes.  I also studied watercolor and produce an annual series of "Fall Foliage" paintings focusing on individual leaves that has proved to be very popular.

My works have hung in the Omni Building in New York City and are in many private collections across the country, and I've participated in group art shows in the Mohawk Valley and Hudson Valley, and at Mohonk Mountain House, in New Paltz.

So, here's the point.  I'm about finished with the re-write of "The Values of Sketching" and will be using it as an instructional booklet for upcoming classes, for individuals or for groups.  I am also trying to figure out how to "teach" sketching on line, via my blog...stay tuned for developments there.

In the meantime, each drawing or painting really starts with a sketch...if you have an interest, contact me and somehow we'll figure out how I can get you sketching!

A Poem for Spring!

Ode to Spring

I noticed this morning I had a spring in my step!

It must have come off of the well.

I was checking for leaks in the pipes in the ground

And I slipped on some ice and I fell.

The darn thing festered most quickly,

And the pain seemed it might be eternal.

Just when I was starting to feel real good,

I'm failing while the planet's gone vernal.

The hopes and dreams of lawns of green,

And of flowers and birds and bees,

Were clouded by the fact that I also dropped my glasses

And was crawling around on my knees.

This time of year should be filled with joy,

Seemingly sprung up by fairy dust.

Yet, I'm hobbling around on one good foot

While the other is fillin' with rust.

I was looking forward to toasting Jupiter and Venus,

All shiny and resplendent in front of us.

Instead, I'm trying to think and remember....

When was my last shot for tet-a-nus?

Well, the good news is that spring has arrived

And it's everywhere that you look for it.

Spring is in the air, in the fauna and flora,

And in the jar, once removed, where I put it.

Poet's Walk

Poet's Walk

*check out the link below

Today we decided to take a walk

Somewhere near, where we could also talk.

We got in the car and headed west.

Took my car...heated seats are the best.

Just under an hour and we were there;

Easy to find, after paying bridge fare.

Only a few cars in the parking lot.

Little company on the trails is what we got.

On the web we took time to check out the place

And wanted something easy, no hills to face.

Trails were level, 'bout two miles out and back,

But the meadows and flowers the place seemed to lack.

Of course, it is winter and most plants are dead

And the birds were smarter than us to be there, instead

They probably had flown to places that were sunnier.

The fact we expected spring scenes made it funnier.

The wind blew cold and the bridge blocked the view

And sightings of other fauna were few,

But the thing that ended up perplexing us the most

Was the lack of who we expected as hosts.

The name of the place had us thinking we'd see

A poet sitting near or under each tree.

Instead, although we looked real hard,

The place that billed them was missing their bards!

*http://scenichudson.org/parks/poetswalk

Happy New Year 2012!

I thought I should let you know that I have mixed feelings about resolutions this year.  Not that I haven't made any; I do have a short list on the fridge.

In fact, I compiled mine two days ago, well ahead of the official New Years' Eve Resolution Deadline.

You didn't know there was an official deadline?

Oh sure, you have to have them in writing before you have your first drink New Years' Eve.

If you wait any longer, there's the possibility that you will wake up New Years' Day and not recognize the handwriting, let alone understand why on earth you would write things like "wash my car every week so I get better gas mileage, beg my adult children not to move out as I would miss cooking for them, or take up smoking so I have something to list next year to give up (I'm never too out of it to discuss wine in my resolutions, unless it involves buying a winery)."

No, I made my list, but it is tainted by all of this 2012 Mayan talk.  You know, "the end."

Now, everyone I've heard from is saying, "2012 has to be better than 2011.  Given everything that happened with the weather, politics, family, economy, and more, the universe owes us a break."

Then, they write and ask me if I think that this December 21st "end of things," per the Mayans, is something to worry about.

Asking me if we should worry is akin to asking me if I put chocolate in my milk to make chocolate milk.  I worry about everything, twice over.

That's what gives me pause as I head into my resolutions, as some of them would involve activity after December 21, 2012.  I have to ask myself, do I want to put that much effort into something that's going "poof" in less than 365 days!

We all want to be better and have a better year, but just how good does one want to be if there's not going to be enough time for everyone to recognize how good you've been?

I could pay off the house or spend all of that money having fun instead.  If I'm not going to be living here after the 21st of December (and don't have to pay off the note), why bother.

A perennial resolution is to downsize, get rid of clutter, live with fewer things.  Well, if everything's going to be tossed into the universe in some sort of climatic explosion, why should I waste time lugging this stuff all over the place?

Of course, if I don't clean out that will reduce the exercise that I might get via that endeavor, so now I have to consider putting a resolution together providing me with just enough exercise to get me through the next eleven and three quarter months.

Then there's the "have more fun" resolution.  Fun gets tempered by work, family, responsibilities, and some state and federal laws.  Do I head into the New Year with my eye on a bigger, longer future, or deal with the Mayan Calamity and have more fun than I ever thought I could have?

See, this is why I'm perplexed.

As I did write my list of resolutions, I'm heading off in a direction to fulfill them all.

However, I think I will keep my eye open for a class on Mayan language and culture.

Perhaps I can get ahold of a copy of the ancient text that the Mayans put forth about the upcoming December date and figure out something before I get too engrained in being too good for my own good.

Send me your thoughts about 2012, the Mayans, and your resolutions!  We can worry together.  Happy New Year!

Back By Popular Demand: Christmas and Blogging!

Seems people are still checking out my blog, over 400 hits since my last post.  Got busy this summer, and then Fall hit, big time (as many of you know and felt), and now that the holidays are over and, well, since my wife keeps saying "you should be blogging," here we go again.

I'll start my new thrust of dedication to my blog, while I assemble new thoughts to share with you, by posting my latest holiday newsletter, our annual Cunningham Christmas Chronicle...as those of you who celebrate by decorating and gifting and sending cards, traditional efforts can be fun...really! 

Read on...

We decided to take the holiday pressure off ourselves this year and commit to doing everything at the last minute.  In fact, if there's anything we can do after Christmas, for Christmas, we are there. 

I had that plan working just fine, until Theresa's sister, Mary, called to see about coming up, with her friend Dorothy, to each get their Christmas trees.  We make an annual pilgrimage to a local purveyor of prickly poking, needle dropping flora.  They wanted to come up a week earlier than we would normally go...it did fit with our weekend schedule, but would set us up for getting something done ahead of time...we sighed and agreed.  Of course, that meant we were going to have to fill that next weekend with something non-holiday related, but were able to put that thought off to another last minute decision and believed were happily behind again!  We knew it would be a full day. 

Although Mary and Dorothy historically take about 6 minutes each to find a tree (once Mary pointed to one as we were driving in, “That one!”  We could have slugged her), I knew we could count on Theresa to soak up the rest of the day, checking out each and every tree on the 85 acre farm.  In the past, as you know, we've closed tree farms waiting for Theresa to pick out that perfect trimmer.  And I don't mean by sunset.  One year the guy actually had to ask us to leave as his wife was calling him to come home as they were leaving for Midnight Mass.  Upon arrival this year, I set off with Mary and Dorothy to help them cut down and drag back two trees, while I watched Theresa disappear into the forest on her quest for the perfect tree. 

True to history, Mary and Dorothy were espying two lovely firs within minutes of arrival and as I was looking at their possible selection with them (you know, too tall, too thin, crooked trunk, no needles, all brown needles, is that a dead bird in there?), I found Theresa standing next to me.  I told her I'd be with her in a minute to help her look (I get to spend hours answering the, “Does this tree make me look too big?” questions), as soon as the ladies told me which to cut down.  She said, “No, no need to look...this one!,” as she pointed to a tree six feet away. 

What you should be envisioning now is something akin to a biblical scene of massive white clouds in the sky parting, huge bright shafts of light screaming down towards earth and angels flying back and forth singing strains of “Hallelujah!”  And, yes, trumpets, harps, any other heavenly musical instruments you can think of...maybe even an accordion...it was that special.  Years of tree hunting with Theresa flashed before my eyes.  I was shaken (not stirred, that's another story).  “Wha?,” was about the only thing I could come up with.  We were done within twenty minutes.  Mary and Dorothy were so surprised, as they had brought books, kindles, knitting, and wine for their usual wait.  They just pointed to the closest trees to them and, as though surrendering to the moment, each said, “That one.” 

As we were dragging the trees to our cars, I could hear the farm owner in the background, talking to his staff, “Something's off...usually this time of year there's a small crowd, some poking and pulling on every tree, others just sitting around waiting for them...Christmas just doesn't feel like Christmas anymore.”  I felt bad for him, but more-so for us, as now we had nothing to do with the rest of the day.  Mary came to the rescue, “Let's go to lunch.”  “Ooo,” I cooed, “and let's find someplace that has notoriously slow service...that will be fun!'  Turns out the restaurant staff was so pleasant and so attentive that we soon found ourselves back in our cars heading home.  

Back home, as I looked at the tree standing in a pail of water on the deck, I noted I now had the afternoon free of chores.  I caved into putting the tree into the stand and putting it the living room.  Kevin helped hoist it in and it went into place on the first attempt.  I cut the binding cord and it fell out beautifully.  As the branches swayed into place, filling out the space, I turned to Theresa and said, “Great, now what am I going to do?  It doesn't need to be trimmed, moved, reset or balanced.  No ropes or weights to keep it standing.  I guess I'm forced to put the lights on it!”  I couldn't believe we were getting this far ahead.  Then, to add insult to injury, all of the light strings I had packed away last year worked...and they weren't tangled.  I was miserable with success.  But, I knew we still had to decorate the thing, so we decided to put that off for another day.  

That other day turned out to be the next day.  As I came into the house from work, there was Theresa gleefully placing ornaments on the tree.  “What are you doing?”  She apologized, but said that her doctor's appointment was canceled and she had the time.  “Had the time?  We were supposed to be filling time so that we'd be feeling the Christmas pressure!”  I was seething...we were getting ahead of schedule, yet again.  My hands were clenched with stored up energy...I rushed to the kitchen, needing to knead something.  I pulled out butter and flour and all sort of other edibles and pushed out 62 dozen cut Christmas cookies. 

As I was pulling the last batch out of the oven, Matt bounded in and said, “Need help decorating those cookies?”  Before I could sit him down and talk to him about the merits of being patient and planning, and how not rushing into situations is a good thing, he had many dozens spread on the table with icing bag in hand and within hours finished them all off, with colored frostings, sugars and sprinkles.  Our hopes were dashed for a last minute baking frenzy.  I settled into the nearest sofa, wine in hand, racking my brain for something that I could drag out to fill up the advancing gap of free time before the holidays.  “I know,” I shouted, “Christmas cards...we haven't done Christmas cards.”  Theresa twisted up her face, glancing at me, “I addressed and signed them all yesterday...sorry, but I was on call and waiting. I needed something to do.”  I looked at her, “Don't tell me you've got your Christmas shopping done!”  “Okay,” she said, “I won't tell you that.  Maybe you should have another glass of wine.”  

I was defeated.  Here we are, a week before Christmas, and ready for the holiday!  

Faced with time to go out to holiday happenings in the area, time for gatherings with family and friends, time for quiet moments and reflection on life and the holidays, a relaxed Christmas Eve and Day with plenty of time for gifts and goodies, I could only think...time for relaxation, reflection and spending time with others?  

What have these holidays come to?

Who's My Daddy?

Family get-togethers, at least in our family, are opportunities for us to talk about other family members.  Usually, it's about the ones that aren't there (that's why I try to get to as many gatherings as I can) or those who have passed on, who become the subject of conversation.

My Aunt Bea passed away peacefully, recently, at the age of 94.  During the reception that followed her burial, and I'm not talking a festive party-like gathering, but more of a "this was a long day and we're hungry" event, the topic of my father came up via my brother and another aunt who was in attendance.

In conjunction with Father's Day, and these recent conversations, I thought it appropriate to present everything I know about my biological father.  The picture here is what he looked like when he was about 18.  He left me and my brother when we were about 3 and 2, respectively, in the questionably capable hands of our mother, to move out of state.

I knew he was my father because that's what I was told and I do look a lot like him.  And, his brothers and sister seemed to think he was my father.  My mother's relatives used his name, when referring to my father, and my birth certificate lists his name as "Father." I once had someone stare at me to the point of total distraction, stating, "You must be Jack Cunningham's son, you just took me back 20 years.  I went to school with him."  Okay, didn't know the man.  Hadn't even seen a picture of him.

Until I was about 20, that's all I knew.

I can't say that I missed him, as I didn't remember him.

I thought it strange, as did many others, that my mother accompanied me to the "Father-Son" banquet for the cub scouts, but have since figured out that the "scouting" event put her in the room with a great number of men.  Now I know why were late arriving, as she needed the time to over-primp.  She was quite the attention getter there.  I don't remember if I got any scouting badges or awards, but she did score a lunch date for the next day.

Another reason I didn't have "dad envy," apart from never having or knowing a father, was that mother always had someone around to pick up that slack.

When her male cousins, brothers and brothers-in-law weren't around to do the typical male-bonding things with us, like fishing, camping and yelling at us, her dating efforts provided us with a slew of gift-toting, kid impressing types, who kept her busy as she searched out her next soul mate.  Oh, in my mother's context, soul mate equals someone to pay the bills.

You see, apart from my real uncles, there were the "other uncles."

"Uncle" Bob was a drummer in a band...that was his job.  Now, there's a profession that speaks secure relationships, as one of the reasons my mother left dear old dad was her complaint that he spent too many hours in local bars.  I don't think "Uncle" Bob was playing in the local symphonic orchestra...as the nearest one of those to us was two states away!  He lasted a few years...seems his wife, from whom he was "separated," wanted him back.  Those musicians!!!

"Uncle" Lou was a phantom.  Really!  We knew he existed as there were notes and gifts and lots of comings and goings, after our bedtime.  We were threatened with "no meals, no deserts, no movies, and no life" if we came out of our bedroom to see what this guy looked like.  I thought he must have been so physically malformed that one might turn to stone, if you looked at him.  Silly me.  He wasn't deformed...he was just mean and married.

Another "Uncle" was a shoe salesman.  Another "marrying type," he took Mom to lunch regularly, bought me a sandwich once in a while, and managed to do this around working hours, before he had to rush home to the wife he was "going to leave."

"Uncle" J had lots of little jobs.  He swooned over our mother, but wasn't in the race for long.  I was okay with his short attraction, as we got little more than a "hello" once in a while, and it was always uncomfortable when I was in school with my "uncles" children.  Turned out another one of his jobs, besides not getting around to "leaving his wife," was swooning over other ladies about town.  Mom couldn't handle competing with other girlfriends.  A committed relationship, hey that happens, but sharing a date!  No way!!!

"Uncle" L was a really nice guy.  He waited on our mother hand and foot.  He helped her out with all sorts of issues, bought her stuff, gave us stuff, and was just a nice person.  Problem?  No wife, no money.  Too easy, and not a good soul mate (see definition six paragraphs above).

I digress...since those early years I learned that our father, who art in heaven (sorry about that, too easy, Catholic upbringing, and he did die over 30 years ago), ran from our mother.  Her demands demanded that he get as far away as he could.  He remarried, had another family, and was once again a father.

He left behind a pair of cuff links. 

As Father's Day rolls around, I get asked by many about my father.  I don't have much to tell and have been busy enough in my life not to dwell on him.  I tell them what I know, thinking that they are referring to my biological paternal unit.

One thing that did stick with me, through all of the years of questions, was that I did commit to myself was that, if I ever had children, I would stay in town or in touch no matter what.

That's worked out wonderfully, as my wife and I are happily married for over 30 years and have three great children. 

But, due to the upcoming holiday and questions that keep popping up, I found myself looking up the definition of "father" in Webster's Dictionary, to help keep my thoughts straight...it states, "one who has begotten a child." 

Okay, dear old father did that.  Based on that, he gets 100%.  Hmmmm...so do I.

Then, I thought, maybe there's a different definition for "Dad", and I found this poem:

A Dad is a person
who is loving and kind,
And often he knows
what you have on your mind.

He's someone who listens,
suggests, and defends
A dad can be one
of your very best friends!

He's proud of your triumphs
but when things go wrong
A dad can be patient
and helpful and strong.

In all that you do,
a dad's love plays a part
There's always a place for him
deep in your heart.

And each year that passes
You're even more glad,
More grateful and proud
just to call him your dad!

Thank you, Dad .
for listening and caring
for giving and sharing
but, especially, for just being you!
Happy Father's Day
- Author Unknown

Mystery solved!  Who's my Daddy?  

Based on the definitions in this poem, not the begetter, and not the "uncles."  

Adjusting for gender, turns out my wife is my dad, and if you know anything of my family, stranger things have happened.

Happy Father's Day to my wife!!!

Flat Stanley

We've had a visitor recently.  His name is Flat Stanley.

Our nephew asked us if he could come visit, as he's never been to this part of New York State.

Of course, we agreed and set off to show him the sights.

His first adventure was a visit to Mohonk Mountain House, in New Paltz, New York.  He got a ride there with our nephew's cousin, who works there.

You can check out Mohonk at their website, www.mohonk.com, but there's nothing like seeing the place up close and personal. 

Flat set right off to take in the views!  And, not one to stay put, Flat was all over the place in a flash.  He climbed to the top of a summerhouse, to look at the gardens from a high point.

Two stories up he could take in all of the plants that are preparing to flower for the season.

Flat was pretty brave going up there by himself...he could easily have been blown away, as it gets pretty windy up there on the mountain sometimes!


Flat spent most of the day hanging around the mountain house, and while there's lots of places to hike and walk, they have bicycles, horses, golf, tennis, swimming and more...but the best thing to do, and Flat was sure not to leave before he got to it, was taking a boat out on the lake.

Here's a picture of Flat rowing his way across Lake Mohonk.  He was even doing it without paddles, which is pretty good.

Most people have to row and row, but not Flat.  He was able to sail from one end to the other, without any oars at all!

Before he left Mohonk, Flat was sure to check out the maze.

Here, you can go round and round and round, and almost get lost, but good thing for Flat, you end up at the beginning when you're done...whew!

Flat would have liked to have stayed at Mohonk, but he had to get back to our house so that he could go for a ride.

We were going flower shopping, to start getting plants for our gardens, and we were hoping that Flat could help us pick out some flats!  Figured with his name, he'd be an expert.

So, we jumped into the car.

We live near Accord, New York, and there are many greenhouses in our area....you can check out Accord, by reading what wikipedia has to say about it: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Accord,_New_York

Flat was in such a hurry, that when we went out to get into the car, he was all ready there...he couldn't wait to go to the greenhouses!

Flat didn't ride on the outside of the car, don't worry.   We buckled him in, seat belts of course, and set off.

The only thing was that it was raining a bit, but Flat didn't mind...he fits nicely between the raindrops.

The greenhouse we go to is only about 15 minutes from our house and they have lots of plants, flowers and vegetables, to pick from.

When we got there, Flat took off.

It took us a few minutes to find him, but there he was...we should have known...he laid down on the first flat he came across.

We figured he was tired from his travels, so we let him rest a bit

We went through all of the buildings there to see what was for sale this year.


There were marigolds, petunias, tomato plants, geraniums, chives, lettuce and more.

They had lots and lots of flats of plants, but we had the real Flat with us, and just when we thought we'd have to go looking for him...there he was.

Flat was all ready checking out what was going on in the greenhouses and was taking in the view from some hanging plants.

Flat was having a great time.

Even though it was raining outside, it was nice and warm and dry inside and we were able to shop for a while.

We ended up getting a whole flat of marigolds and then mixed up another flat with tomatoes, coleus and some small colorful plants whose name we can't remember.

We did end up buying some seed packets, pumpkins and cucumbers, and Flat will have to come back to see them when they start to grow.

We went outside to pay and when we were getting ready to go, we noticed that Flat wasn't with us.

Didn't take us long to see that Flat was tired.

There he was, taking a nap in the coleus.

Flat's visit to the Mountain House, the ride in the car, and the adventures in the greenhouses had tired him out!

We went back home for lunch.

While we had a sandwich, Flat said he wasn't real hungry, but did have some Wheat Thins and a couple of Thin Mints....hmmmm....maybe that's why Flat stays so thin?

If you're interested in your own Flat Stanley, or helping someone to get to know Flat, check them out at: http://flatterworld.com/about.php?nav=about

Birds Do It

Spring brings thoughts of cleaning, fixing, gardening, and making everything fresh and new.

One of the things we've been struggling with is empty next syndrome.

Not that the boys have moved out, but the lack of it.  They haven't inched out a bit and we can actually taste doing something with those rooms they occupy if they did get places of their own.

We picture spacious rooms, depleted of furniture and awaiting our creative design...new studio for me, sewing and spinning room for my wife, or maybe a whole new bathroom with jacuzzi and enough space to actually move around in.

The reality is, most likely, they're going to be here for a few more years and we'll have to continue to stuff our projects under our bed, dragging them out when the spirit that strikes matches our energy level.

I was on line the other day and, as I do from time to time, was checking out ways to redesign our rooms and came across a gallery of photos, showing what rooms of other still-ensconced children looked like.

It was very strange.  There wasn't anything in any of the rooms.  I mean, there were beds and dressers, and desks and lamps, but missing was the accumulation of toddler through teen debris.

You could actually see from one end of the room to the other...and what was that light source?

We haven't been able to get close enough to a window in either room, in years, to try to clean it off, so their rooms always have this dim bar-lit quality, even on the brightest of summer days.

We'll remind the boys, from time to time, that they need to pick up something...how do you find anything in that mess?  The answer..."If I put things away then I won't know where anything is!"

I guess I can take comfort in the fact that they are getting a workout, climbing over the mounds of whatever-that-is-in-there, and like most parents with children who focus more on socializing than cleaning, we tend to keep their doors closed so company won't think unfavorably about them or us.

One time, a cousin with a police background visited and his first reaction was to ask us when the burglary occurred?

Just recently, I got worried when I couldn't find one of the boys.  I knew he was home, but after taking a look in his room and not seeing him, I searched the house high and low.

His car was in the driveway, but he was no where to be found.  My wife looked, too.  We started to get frantic, thinking aliens had sucked him out of the house, when we heard a small, "I'm still in bed."  A pile of clothes had fallen off the side dresser onto him, in bed, and he was barely a lump amongst lumps.

"That's it," I said, "I'm bringing in someone to clean this up!"

It wasn't easy.  I went through six prospective helpers.

Several just didn't have the lifetime to commit to the project.

Two thought haz-mat training was needed and another wanted a list of shots they should have prior to starting.

The last possibility came to me via a friend.  A visiting Sherpa, Kenji, this friend of my friend, was looking for some work while he was visiting and the idea came that he could spend a few days minimizing the stuff in the bedroom.

Kenji stood at the doorway, mouth agape.  "There is so much stuff and I don't know what is what!"

I apprised him that I just wanted everything taken out and put in piles that my son would go through.  Clothes in one piles, papers in another, musical instruments together, glassware, jewelry, shoes, boots, beer bottles, silverware, serving dishes, car parts, movie stubs, chewed gum, old band aids, each in its own category.

"But," Kenji seemed to object, "There is no path to follow.  Even in the Himalayas there is a path."

"No big deal," I said, "Just walk on top of everything until you get to the bed.  From there you can push the stuff off the bed and use that as your first landing site.  Then, you can pull all of the clothes up onto the bed and start with that pile."

"But," Kenji persisted, "How do I get out?  Even in the mountains we have guidelines to which we attach ourselves to find our way out."

"We can do that," I replied.  "Right over there, next to the pile of empty film canisters and store receipts is about sixty feet of hemp that was supposed to be a hundred beaded necklaces.  You can attach that to your body and throw the other end to me.  I'll tie you off to the handrail in the hallway!  Just be careful, the twenty tins of beads spilled a few years back and it's like walking on marbles over there."

"But," Kenji once again hesitated, "I need food and water for such an ordeal."

"Not a prob," I stated with much confidence.  "The kid went into the room with a full size pizza and several boxes of crackers just the other day.  And, the fact that we're missing half of our glasses and place settings for twelve, there's probably enough water, soda and assorted food items to last you a year!"

Kenji went in.

That was a week ago.

I'm hoping for a full report soon.  I hear clatter coming from the space, and piles are appearing inside and outside the room.

There was also an ominous posting on the bedroom door, with a note from Kenji.

He attached this photo, on the left, and wrote, "Birds do it."

Star Stuck

My wife loves looking at the nighttime stars!

There's only one thing that she loves more than that...dragging anyone in the house outside to look at them with her.

I don't think she's afraid of the dark, as she'll stand out there as coyotes, who are seemingly five feet away, bay at the moon, while bats circle her head.

And, she certainly is not gaining an authority on star groupings by gently forcing me or the boys to join her as, when she questions, "What constellation is that," we always answer the same way.  "It's the Twinkie constellation."

We get "that look," and she states, each time, "There is no Twinkie constellation!"

I murmur, "Twinkie, twinkie, little star....."

"If you're not going to enjoy this, then just go back inside," she commands.

Worked!  Well, actually, I dare not leave.  I quickly point, with a startle, and state, "Ooo, look, a shooting star!"

"That one," she asks, "that's moving across the horizon over the pine trees?  That's a plane!"

Oh.

I spot a small dot slowly moving overhead, "Hey, a satellite!"

She, "How about another plane?"

Okay.  I'm no expert.  I can spot things moving, but when they're millions of miles away can I be faulted for a small mis-identification?

Back a bit, when it was announced that one could see the space station fly overhead, okay a small bright dot in the netherskies reflecting where it was, we got dragged outside.

Based on what we had seen in the newspaper, my wife had figured out just where and when it would be viewable.  She placed blankets on the ground, had blankets to cover us, brought out a retinue of binoculars, and was ready for space station sighting!

I was bemoaning the fact that it was cold out, it was dark (I'm not so intrepid with the knowledge that coyotes, bears, foxes, raccoons, skunks, bats, mosquitoes, ticks, and rabbits run amok at night...yes, rabbits, they nibble on things and they have big teeth!), and now that I was laying down on the ground, my sinuses were moving about and I was getting dizzy.

I should also mention the fact that it was close to bedtime.  I was starting to doze awaiting the arrival of the astronauts.  Hoping that I could wave to them, I had a flashlight, but that idea got nixed when my very own Carl Sagan told me to "Turn that thing off, I can't see the sky."

Can't see the sky?  There's like eighty million acres of it above us...and billions and billions of stars!

I would have said that out loud, but that would have been considered heresy against her revered Carl.

Then the next statement from her, as I lay there shivering.  "Isn't this romantic?"

Fortunately, I had turned the flashlight off and she couldn't see the look on my face, jaw askew, as the frozen word left my mouth, "Abbbb..soo...luuuut...lyyyy."

Nothing more romantic than laying on frozen ground, holding a flashlight you're banned from using in a pitch black environment, sinus pressure squeezing your brains out, while you scour the sky for six Russian cosmonauts who you have zero chance of actually seeing.  Was that a rabbit that just ran by?

We didn't find the space station.  We're sure it's up there, but there wasn't much to report.  In fact, it got a little hazy and my wife wasn't pleased that her view was partially obstructed.

The moon was shining a bit, and that light dimmed the stars and her enjoyment.  She reported that it looked like it wasn't going to be worth the wait and we should head in.  She was disappointed that she wasted her time waiting to see something special and ending up seeing nothing.

At the moment that she stood and turned for the door, I was taking a last look at the skyline and suddenly a bright arc of light screamed across the sky.  In seconds it gained life, shouted it's existence with a blazing stream of light, and then burnt away.  One could almost hear the crackle of fireworks.

I must have gasped or inhaled deeply, as she heard me and turned to ask me, "What was that?"

We've been married thirty years.  I said, "Nothing, probably a plane."

"With everything in the sky, how come you only ever see planes," she asked?  "Good thing, though.  If that had been a comet or the space station I would have been really upset!?

I love star gazing.