Monday, August 9, 2010
Painting in the Woods
Crossing the Bridge
In my previous blog, I wrote about a group of young men who, with determination and a willingness of spirit, carried a large and heavy bridge that had been washed downstream by flood waters back to its rightful place. And I told how the mother of one of the boys did not want me to post the video I was shooting of them. This is a story about her.
She didn't want me to post the video on my blog. She didn't know who would see it and wanted to preserve and protect her and her family's privacy. And because I can understand that feeling of only wanting others to see the parts of you that you choose to show, I understood. After the bridge was in place and I was waiting for the email address from her son, she crossed the bridge to where I stood. She asked if I was from a newspaper, where I planned to post the pictures or if I was using names. And I understood this motherly concern. And I respected her for it. And when her son came over to us and asked why she was being so concerned, we both turned to him at the same time to let him know it was OK. She let him know that it was her right to voice her opinion and expect to have her privacy honored and I let him know that it was fine by me that she did so. It was then, when we both spoke at once, as mothers and as women with their own set of rights and boundaries, saying the same thing, that I knew I liked her.
We talked then, about the bridge. She told me the story of it; how after weeks of rain during the spring thaw one year, she had looked out at the water that cascaded over the ledge one morning and the bridge was gone. She looked to the bottom of the ledge, no bridge. She looked further downstream, no bridge. Whatever power the water possessed the night before, it was enough to make the bridge to the woods beyond her property nothing more than a memory.
We spoke of other things, too. We talked about our children. I told her I admired her son and the other young men for completing their mission to return the bridge. I think it is an admirable trait to finish what you've started, and not quit because of the difficulties involved. I know that I do not always succeed at this. We talked about the area's trails. I told her about my blog and my art and how I've been an illustrator of books for children for more than 20 years.
"I have a story to tell you," she said, and she asked me to sit down.
So we sat down next to the bridge on the ledge where the water fell over the edge, and she told me. She told how when her sons were young, her husband would make up stories for them; pirate stories full of wonderful adventures that kept the kids always asking for more. She had always thought that he should have them illustrated and published, and she'd been after him for years to do something with them. And she thought it would be great if I would speak with him about them. And I thought, sure I can talk to him about the books: at least find out what they are about. Who knows, I may even want to illustrate them. So I said yes, "Sure I'd be happy to talk to him."
Then, "There's something else you should know. Several years ago my husband had a massive stroke which left him paralyzed from the neck down." She told me how his mind was the same as it had always been, but his body was no longer that of the man he was before the stroke. Then she asked again if I would be willing to talk to him.
"Of course."
So we crossed the bridge together, balancing on the diagonal metal rungs that would later hold planks as a walkway, and we went into the house to speak to her husband.
He was in a hospital bed in one of the rooms of the first floor. And he could only move his head. "He can't talk," she told me. So I introduced myself, and said that his wife had told me that he had some wonderful stories about pirates. And then, I don't know why, but I said, "And I would like to illustrate them for you." I felt compelled to say it. The words just fell out of my mouth before I even thought about it. That happens with me sometimes. Occasionally this trait has gotten me in trouble. But often it is the catalyst that opens new doors for me and broadens my world. And then I waited. I knew he couldn't speak so I wasn't sure if we were through with the conversation or if there would be more.
As I stood there searching his face, he cocked his head and started to roll his eyes and I turned to his wife because I thought that perhaps I had upset him. As I looked toward her, she was pulling a rather large, clear acrylic board with the letters of the alphabet in front of her and faced her husband. And it was then that he spoke. Not using his voice, but with the help of his wife, as a team, he searched the letters from his side of the board with his eyes until she found where he was looking and spoke them with her voice. He told me, to his wife's surprise, that he had indeed written a few of the stories in his computer, and that he could print them out for me. It made me a little nervous to have a printed copy that I may lose, because I'm good at losing things on paper, so I told him he could email them to me instead. More eye rolling, and back to the board to ask his wife to get my "exact email". Our conversation was short and to the point, but productive. And I was glad I met him. I look forward to reading and hopefully illustrating the stories. As I said goodbye we shook our heads at one another. "He can't shake your hand," his wife said. But I already knew that.
Outside on the porch she told me how it had happened so many years ago. How her strong husband over six feet tall, who was jovial and generous and would do anything for you was now, because of a massive stroke involving the brain stem, unable to do anything for himself without help. But he never felt sorry for himself, she said, and to this day he was not bitter about his fate. And I watched her speak about him. I could see how much she loved this man who had lost so much, and I couldn't hold back tears that pushed against my eyes from the moment I saw her pull out the alphabet board.
So I cried on her front porch while I listened to her talk about his strength of character which transcended his physicality. I cried because I thought it was a tragedy for a person to lose so much. I cried more for the sheer awesomeness of it all, for his strength to live every day knowing there will never be a bridge back to the way he once was, and for her's to understand what it means to them both. And maybe I cried a little because I don't ever think I will love someone like I feel she loves him.
I crossed the bridge again, back to the trail that would take me home. I think of them often, especially yesterday as I painted in the woods, silent but for the birds and the stream that passed by me. I look forward to seeing them again and reading the stories to which I will hopefully add my images.
I know I will cross this bridge again.
She didn't want me to post the video on my blog. She didn't know who would see it and wanted to preserve and protect her and her family's privacy. And because I can understand that feeling of only wanting others to see the parts of you that you choose to show, I understood. After the bridge was in place and I was waiting for the email address from her son, she crossed the bridge to where I stood. She asked if I was from a newspaper, where I planned to post the pictures or if I was using names. And I understood this motherly concern. And I respected her for it. And when her son came over to us and asked why she was being so concerned, we both turned to him at the same time to let him know it was OK. She let him know that it was her right to voice her opinion and expect to have her privacy honored and I let him know that it was fine by me that she did so. It was then, when we both spoke at once, as mothers and as women with their own set of rights and boundaries, saying the same thing, that I knew I liked her.
We talked then, about the bridge. She told me the story of it; how after weeks of rain during the spring thaw one year, she had looked out at the water that cascaded over the ledge one morning and the bridge was gone. She looked to the bottom of the ledge, no bridge. She looked further downstream, no bridge. Whatever power the water possessed the night before, it was enough to make the bridge to the woods beyond her property nothing more than a memory.
We spoke of other things, too. We talked about our children. I told her I admired her son and the other young men for completing their mission to return the bridge. I think it is an admirable trait to finish what you've started, and not quit because of the difficulties involved. I know that I do not always succeed at this. We talked about the area's trails. I told her about my blog and my art and how I've been an illustrator of books for children for more than 20 years.
"I have a story to tell you," she said, and she asked me to sit down.
So we sat down next to the bridge on the ledge where the water fell over the edge, and she told me. She told how when her sons were young, her husband would make up stories for them; pirate stories full of wonderful adventures that kept the kids always asking for more. She had always thought that he should have them illustrated and published, and she'd been after him for years to do something with them. And she thought it would be great if I would speak with him about them. And I thought, sure I can talk to him about the books: at least find out what they are about. Who knows, I may even want to illustrate them. So I said yes, "Sure I'd be happy to talk to him."
Then, "There's something else you should know. Several years ago my husband had a massive stroke which left him paralyzed from the neck down." She told me how his mind was the same as it had always been, but his body was no longer that of the man he was before the stroke. Then she asked again if I would be willing to talk to him.
"Of course."
So we crossed the bridge together, balancing on the diagonal metal rungs that would later hold planks as a walkway, and we went into the house to speak to her husband.
He was in a hospital bed in one of the rooms of the first floor. And he could only move his head. "He can't talk," she told me. So I introduced myself, and said that his wife had told me that he had some wonderful stories about pirates. And then, I don't know why, but I said, "And I would like to illustrate them for you." I felt compelled to say it. The words just fell out of my mouth before I even thought about it. That happens with me sometimes. Occasionally this trait has gotten me in trouble. But often it is the catalyst that opens new doors for me and broadens my world. And then I waited. I knew he couldn't speak so I wasn't sure if we were through with the conversation or if there would be more.
As I stood there searching his face, he cocked his head and started to roll his eyes and I turned to his wife because I thought that perhaps I had upset him. As I looked toward her, she was pulling a rather large, clear acrylic board with the letters of the alphabet in front of her and faced her husband. And it was then that he spoke. Not using his voice, but with the help of his wife, as a team, he searched the letters from his side of the board with his eyes until she found where he was looking and spoke them with her voice. He told me, to his wife's surprise, that he had indeed written a few of the stories in his computer, and that he could print them out for me. It made me a little nervous to have a printed copy that I may lose, because I'm good at losing things on paper, so I told him he could email them to me instead. More eye rolling, and back to the board to ask his wife to get my "exact email". Our conversation was short and to the point, but productive. And I was glad I met him. I look forward to reading and hopefully illustrating the stories. As I said goodbye we shook our heads at one another. "He can't shake your hand," his wife said. But I already knew that.
Outside on the porch she told me how it had happened so many years ago. How her strong husband over six feet tall, who was jovial and generous and would do anything for you was now, because of a massive stroke involving the brain stem, unable to do anything for himself without help. But he never felt sorry for himself, she said, and to this day he was not bitter about his fate. And I watched her speak about him. I could see how much she loved this man who had lost so much, and I couldn't hold back tears that pushed against my eyes from the moment I saw her pull out the alphabet board.
So I cried on her front porch while I listened to her talk about his strength of character which transcended his physicality. I cried because I thought it was a tragedy for a person to lose so much. I cried more for the sheer awesomeness of it all, for his strength to live every day knowing there will never be a bridge back to the way he once was, and for her's to understand what it means to them both. And maybe I cried a little because I don't ever think I will love someone like I feel she loves him.
I crossed the bridge again, back to the trail that would take me home. I think of them often, especially yesterday as I painted in the woods, silent but for the birds and the stream that passed by me. I look forward to seeing them again and reading the stories to which I will hopefully add my images.
I know I will cross this bridge again.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Today I am taking one of my usual strolls through one of the trails near my home. When I get out of the car with my cameras and start to walk I can feel the tension of the morning begin to slide off my shoulders and fall to the ground. Nothing particularly bad happened this morning, there were small things like not having one of my websites cooperate with what I wanted it to do. And I was running late as I didn't want to leave my daughter at home alone and waited for my her to get ready to leave the house for where she was going. I had planned to start a series of plein air paintings today, and I could tell, as the minutes and an hour or so ticked by that there would be no time to take my painting gear, set up and paint and have enough time to get back before my daughter returned. My change in plans determines that I will scout out locations today and take pictures to see the compositions of the painting I hope now to do tomorrow. So here in the woods with my camera in hand, I walk away from my self-inflicted tension of the morning and I move into the sanctuary of the trees that cast shadows and pinpoints of light all around me.
The woods feel like home to me. They calm me. They are not appreciated by enough people as the mood enhancing experience that they truly are. And I'm glad because that means that even on this Saturday, except for the occasional biker or hiker I am pretty much alone. I can hear the birds and the wind blowing through the trees and I can take as many pictures as I want without worrying about anyone being in the picture.
I find several locations for tomorrow's painting and also for a few paintings after that. But that isn't the only thing I found in the woods today.
As I am snapping some rather picturesque shots that include a rock-strewn stream running through the woods, I hear voices behind me. Being a fairly cautious person, I slowly move toward the noise keeping hidden by the boulders and trees around me. I find several young men moving a rather large metal structure that resembles the skeletal remains of a bridge. It is, in fact, a bridge that used to run across the stream a little further up the trail. The images they create while they try to move this thing are good ones and I ask permission to take their picture. As I follow them through the trails, snapping pictures of their progress I get the story of the bridge and how it washed away quite a while ago. And having just found it, they were attempting to restore it to its rightful place. As I want to post the photos on my blog and give their names, I ask if anyone has any paper to write down their names or at least give me an email address so I can send them the photos. No one has paper or pen or even a phone. One of the guys says, "Do you have video? I can tell you our names on the video." So with the other camera I have in my pocket, that indeed does take video, we start a small movie on how to move a bridge. It's a study in how to work as a team and I am impressed by these young men who work so well together to haul this very heavy iron structure upwards through a rocky wooded trail. They don't argue, but rather listen to each other as needs arise.
"There's a rock in the way; we have to move to the left."
"It's getting heavy; can we put it down for a second."
"Everyone lift together . . . 1, 2, 3 . . . lift."
And of course I am stumbling backwards just in front of them, trying to get the shots. I'm snapping photos with my right hand while I'm taking videos with my left, and even though the woods are not all that serene at the moment I'm having a great time. It's great to watch their progress. They succeed in getting this structure to its destination with determination and a wonderful sense of friendly camaraderie and I'm feeling really good about being able to preserve this moment for them.
As it turns out, the mom of one of the guys, for reasons of privacy does not want me to post the video on my blog, so you will not see it posted by me. I am instead sending it to her son so he can share it with the other young men who are in it. But the story does not end here.
And that will be my next blog.
The woods feel like home to me. They calm me. They are not appreciated by enough people as the mood enhancing experience that they truly are. And I'm glad because that means that even on this Saturday, except for the occasional biker or hiker I am pretty much alone. I can hear the birds and the wind blowing through the trees and I can take as many pictures as I want without worrying about anyone being in the picture.
I find several locations for tomorrow's painting and also for a few paintings after that. But that isn't the only thing I found in the woods today.
As I am snapping some rather picturesque shots that include a rock-strewn stream running through the woods, I hear voices behind me. Being a fairly cautious person, I slowly move toward the noise keeping hidden by the boulders and trees around me. I find several young men moving a rather large metal structure that resembles the skeletal remains of a bridge. It is, in fact, a bridge that used to run across the stream a little further up the trail. The images they create while they try to move this thing are good ones and I ask permission to take their picture. As I follow them through the trails, snapping pictures of their progress I get the story of the bridge and how it washed away quite a while ago. And having just found it, they were attempting to restore it to its rightful place. As I want to post the photos on my blog and give their names, I ask if anyone has any paper to write down their names or at least give me an email address so I can send them the photos. No one has paper or pen or even a phone. One of the guys says, "Do you have video? I can tell you our names on the video." So with the other camera I have in my pocket, that indeed does take video, we start a small movie on how to move a bridge. It's a study in how to work as a team and I am impressed by these young men who work so well together to haul this very heavy iron structure upwards through a rocky wooded trail. They don't argue, but rather listen to each other as needs arise.
"There's a rock in the way; we have to move to the left."
"It's getting heavy; can we put it down for a second."
"Everyone lift together . . . 1, 2, 3 . . . lift."
And of course I am stumbling backwards just in front of them, trying to get the shots. I'm snapping photos with my right hand while I'm taking videos with my left, and even though the woods are not all that serene at the moment I'm having a great time. It's great to watch their progress. They succeed in getting this structure to its destination with determination and a wonderful sense of friendly camaraderie and I'm feeling really good about being able to preserve this moment for them.
As it turns out, the mom of one of the guys, for reasons of privacy does not want me to post the video on my blog, so you will not see it posted by me. I am instead sending it to her son so he can share it with the other young men who are in it. But the story does not end here.
And that will be my next blog.
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