The Canvas Chair . . . . .


Lawn Chair


As I’ve written before, we learn a lot from our experiences in life, but we learn a lot too from the lessons of those we know and love.

I cannot but think that life is constantly teaching me, in little ways and in big ways, and that much of it goes over my head . . or under the bed.

I wrote a poem and then decided to draw an illustration to go with it.  I have no talent for art and have not studied it, so my sketching was crude and it was small.  I copied it and then tried to enlarge it on my computer but it wouldn’t do that.  So the drawing is set in stone, as are many of my thoughts, perhaps.

When I think back to events from the past, a “saved” picture may seem large or small to me, depending upon how much importance I give it.  If it’s something lovely, a wonderful memory, I may see it in full life, and in color.  If it was something not important it won’t be important in my mental file.  If it’s something regretful that happened and that I learned from, that picture will grow smaller in time and fade when I’ve learned the lesson.

But why did I write this poem about life? Probably because I think about life and I treasure it more as I move toward the exit door.  But why did I write about troubled life?  Probably because I don’t know what I’m talking about, because I had very few troubles in my life.  Just as I didn’t know about sketching because my experience there was sketchy.”

Maybe because someone close to me is having a rough time putting away old memories and planning some new ones and gradually enlarging them, in color . . . the kind you see in full daylight  and not the kind you see in the middle of the night.



When things go wrong

and life goes off the script

and I say “What the . . .?”

When the story takes

a sudden turn and people

that I didn’t cast

walk on . .

When the set is

being damaged while

I sleep or take vacations,

then I wake up just in time,

get back into my canvas chair

and pick up the megaphone.


























Drawing on memories . . . . .



Some of you who have read my book may remember that I had another drawing there similar to this.  I have absolutely no artistic talent, but I sat down one day some years ago and trusted my memory to give me some pictures from my childhood and help me put them on paper

Looking at that picture the other day I went back and found this crude one also, and I paid attention to the fence.  I thought I had just made it up, but in a real photo I found later, that is the fence we had then.

Our memory is so much better than we realize.  Do you ever, in your mind, go back and visit places you have lived in the past?  I do, and I can walk through the rooms and see everything as it was then.  I can even feel the feelings that I felt in that place.

A place . . a feeling . . a fine detail is somehow easier to remember than someone’s name.  No, wait.  I do also remember the names of people around me back in the 20’s and 30’s.

I just can’t remember the names of people I met yesterday.

Something that’s part of growing old is that you search your memory, reviewing everything, in case there is something you missed or forgot.  I believe that memories are the most prized souvenirs from this planet.  We worry about what we’re going to do with all the photographs we took through the years, but we have far more in a very private place that no one can see but us


A picture story from the Twenties . . . . .

Foxes and kids

As I’ve said, I have very few pictures of me as a child, and this is one of them!

My father had finally captured the foxes who were raiding the chickenhouse every night.  They were caged and waiting to be picked up by some agency, and we were warned to not go near . . . except, of course, for this one quick picture.

Note my lovely hand-made dress, probably from feedsack fabric, the lovely stockings, and my BLOOMERS.  I apparently am not able to read yet, as my hands are right there on the warning sign.  My face is looking definitely devilish.  Or foxy.  Meanwhile, note my brother, in nice clothes, his hair neatly combed.  It looks like he is going to a party . . . . and I am Cinderella in rags.

Some fun to have fun with an old picture.