Today At The Art Supply Store ...

I'm feeling creative ... that mood where you want to get out lots of pieces and parts and make a mess. So I went and bought three pre-stretched canvases. Big ones ... the largest is 28 inches by 60 inches. I also bought a few small brushes and a bag of seas sponges. I have tons of paint, rags, sealants, varnishes, and larger brushes, all in a box that I get out from time to time. Painting is a long-time hobby of mine ... I love to do abstracts that most people don't "get," and some of my landscapes and cityscapes aren't half bad.Buying canvas ... but I think being creative, for me, is something genetic.

My late father was a carpenter in a manufacturing plant. He was kind of a cross between a designer and a repairman, but it was his home workshop that really showcased his ability to see the potential in a chunk of wood. When he was deep in a project, he lost track of time. His hands were usually a mess and his workshop was peppered with sawdust. I think he taught me a valuable lesson - why clean up until the mess-making is over.

My paternal grandmother, my dad's mom, was a lyricist, although in fact she just liked to play around with words. But on a dare, she mailed her "word stories" to a magazine ad in Nashville and had three songs sold to country music wannabes ... I still have the vinyl records with her credits on the labels in a box somewhere.

My maternal great-grandmother was a poet. She was a small, severe woman who didn't speak about creative topics, but her imagery about the beach, nature, and farm life graced the pages of four different magazines in the late 1950s.

Her daughter, my grandmother, was a seamstress by trade for many years. She could look at fabric and imagine things that others just couldn't see. She was also scandalous. In the mid '50s, she was almost run out of her neighborhood by the other women when she altered several men's suits to be worn by the wife of a Chinese immigrant and local business owner. I think Grandma could have given Project Runway a shot!

My maternal grandfather was a crooner. He sang in all types of groups, and even won several awards in high school and performed as both a solo act and in a barbershop quartet at every county fair that would have them. He was good, so he performed throughout much of the state.

And last but not in any ways least, there's my mother. A self-trained artist. She once designed a condiment label for a local teen burger joint ... she used the $30 prize money to buy paints and an easel. She never got the chance to go to art school, opting for marriage and a family. I don't think she regretted that decision, but, when I was young, my mother took a part-time job as a librarian and used every opportunity to bring home books about painting, art history, weaving, printmaking, decorative arts, and more. She studied as much art as she might have if attending a proper college.

Later, my Mom worked in a print shop where the owner, recognizing her natural gift for design, taught her everything about the business. I think she did as much presswork as she did billing and reception ... the duties for which she was hired.

And in our house, there were always boxes of crayons and colored pencils, reams of paper, markers, glue, glitter, tracing paper, paint sets, glue guns, string and yarn, pastels, scissors and hole punches, ribbon and scraps of fabric, modeling clay, buckets of sidewalk chalk, cardboard boxes of varying shapes and sizes, rulers and protractors, sheets of felt, a woodburning kit, construction paper in nearly every color of the rainbow, and even a big sack of plaster mix from the hardware store. Supplies for arts and crafts were crammed into every drawer and cubby we had. I remember various relatives commenting lightheartedly that my mother wasn't much of a housekeeper, but I never minded. Neither did my siblings. We were the only kids on the block with a moat-surrounded castle made out of Quaker Oats canisters and popsicle sticks, or scary hand-painted monster figurines made from clay baked in an old toaster oven.

In my early teens, my mother suffered a devastating stroke. For about three weeks, it was a constant battle for her to just stay alive. I vividly remember the times when we children didn't go to the hospital and we nervously awaited for Dad to return with the day's "verdict." After months of hospitalization and therapy, she came home ... but her mobility and speech were greatly affected. With great difficulty, she was able to see me as the "Mayor" in my junior high musical. But she missed my high school art shows and other events involving me and my siblings.

I really wanted her to attend my senior design show in college, but the venue and logistics made it nearly impossible. However, my college experience provided some great bonding for my mother and I. Remember I said she liked to learn about all types of art. Every phone call to her or weekend home was filled with me recanting stories about classes and projects. She was outraged by some of my photography assignments, and extremely supportive during my rough brush with the potter's wheel. One Christmas, I gave her a duplicate topography text as a gift. She loved it and would mark all the typefaces she found especially interesting ... her leftover printshop days coming to the surface. From time to time, I would also present her with old pieces of lead type I'd find at flea markets and antique shops. She kept them all on her "special" shelf.

Toward the end of her life, my mother suffered additional strokes and health crises. The family eventually placed her into a nearby convalescent home for the ongoing care she required. I still talked to her about art and design, and when she died I secreted away all her lead type. These little things didn't mean squat to the rest of the family, but they were each representative of a bit of time that just the two of us spent together. I keep them in a box ... it still makes me sad to take them out, but oddly comforting to know I have them nearby.

Even though I have paint at home, I grabbed a big tube of crimson acrylic paint before I left the art store. Red was, after all, her favorite color, and I think my next painting will be all about her.

POINT OF RANT: Moms in all shapes and sizes are priceless gifts ... treasure them.

Today At A Funeral ...

A friend of mine recently lost his wife. Well, he wasn't so much a friend as the son of a good friend of my father's who we saw at picnics, Christmas and Fourth of July get-togethers, card club, and various functions while growing up. We went to rival high schools, so there are no great "buddy" stories or tales of high school hi-jinx. Now we just run into one another five or six times a year and force idle chit-chat.

I guess I'm trying to establish the "friendship" level of our relationship because his wife's funeral was a mess and I'm going to talk about it.

The rumor was depression, pills, recovery, and suicide ... in that order. Local gossip said she'd been extremely down and moody for months. Then she pulled out of it and things seemed good. About a week into "good" she checked into a hotel about 30 miles away, used the pool, ordered ice cream from room service, and then ingested a boatload of prescription meds. They didn't have any children, thank goodness.

At the funeral, the casket was closed which I found odd. The wife was really pretty and, well, I always figured if you still looked good on D-Day why not show off a little. And the family all told this "story" about a traffic accident out on a country road that was news to me. Everyone listening just nodded and "oohed," but when the family recounted the details of the accident, the inflection on certain words was so fake you could tell it was rehearsed. Weirder and weirder.

Anyway, I hate funerals. Meeting the distant and not-so-distant family of the departed and then making small talk is so uncomfortable. Making excuses for why it's been so long since you've seen the departed or general friends and family is equally exhausting. And watching little kids squirm in new clothes and uncomfortable shoes makes my skin itch.

The very first funeral I ever attended was for my great grandmother. She was nearly 90 and died from complications from pneumonia. Lying in that coffin, she just looked peaceful ... like she was catching a nap while the rest of us scurried about. I was too immature to get the finality and sadness of it all.

The next one I recall was in high school. A kid on our football team lost his father in a construction accident. Everyone turned out for "calling hours," a type of "Get-Out-Of-Attending-The-Funeral" event usually held the evening before the official funeral and burial. I went with a group of five friends. We were all clustered around our classmate when I happened to look over at the open coffin. Our classmate's little sister ... she was probably four or five years old at the time ... had pulled a stool over and had climbed up to get a better look at he father. She spoke something to him that I couldn't hear from across the room ... it seemed sweet. She then touched his hand gently with her much smaller one ... it was touching. Then she leaned in and kissed him square on the lips! ... I thought I was seeing things. Finally, an older relative swooped over and guided the little tyke over to a seat near two other children. The older lady looked around the room furtively, caught my glance, and smiled like she was saying "Oh, well." I smiled back with an "Oh, how gross!!" reply. I couldn't wait to tell my friends about what went down at this incestuous ho-down ... I think I was getting hives on my neck from the anticipation. To this day, I still run into that little girl ... she's recently married and expecting her first child. I know she was young and didn't understand what was happening around her. I also know that I stare at her lips like they should have open sores on them, or burst into flames for touching the dead. She probably thinks I'm a perv or secretly into her. I hope she doesn't sense my "Oh, I still think you're a creeper" thoughts in my present-day grin.

So we've established that funerals are on my "out" list, but I must say that cemeteries are "in." I think cemeteries are the most peaceful places on earth. Most are beautifully organized and manicured, almost always teasing your senses with an unnatural quiet and the scent of freshly-cut grass. Even the older ones ... complete with broken markers, overgrown perimeters, and muddy colored everything ... have a unique charm.

When I was in junior high, one of our projects for civics or history or some subject was to visit the grave yard and make charcoal rubbings of the headstones we found most unique or interesting. I remember I did a report about two families who tried to outdo each other with bigger and more intricate headstones, and it was truly fascinating. In college, I did some of my photography assignments in a local cemetery and asked dorm mates to help out as "extras." I also remember visiting a graveyard about an hour away because of a newspaper article ... it boasted this large granite orb that supposedly shifted on its pedestal with the rotation of the earth. One several occasions, the stone in question has been marked and sealed in place with various epoxies, only to be discovered slightly rotated a few days later. Spooky and cool at the same time.

But most of all, creepy as it may sound, I like to occasionally visit cemeteries for personal reflection and relaxation. When the weather is nice, there is one particular contemporary graveyard where I sometimes go and park myself on a bench to read. Anne Rice is wonderful to read in a cemetery ... and Ridley Scott. Other times, I visit relatives who have passed to tell them things about my life ... it's corny, but I feel more connected with a headstone to focus on.

Now, I'm not suggesting setting up guided tours or creating RV lots for eager campers, but consider visiting with a departed loved one more often then a sad geranium on Memorial Day.

POINT OF RANT: Death is a human ritual that lingers well after the actual event.