To Pick Up A Pencil

While having breakfast this morning, I sat with Danny's book in one hand and a sandwich in the other. I had bought a large purse several weeks ago that would easily carry my sketch book, a tin of 12 very nice colored pencils, 3 pencils for sketching, and Danny's book. I felt "ready" to draw and yet, I never did. I just read and reread and carried my supplies.

A lifelong opinion that an artist is born and not made is a difficult belief to dispell. It becomes the self-fulfilling prophecy. Having finished my breakfast, I pushed back the tray, closed the book and studied what was before me. Breakfast clutter? Why not? I opened my satchel and took out my spiral sketch pad and a pencil. Without further consideration, I began to sketch what I saw. My hand shook making my lines crooked, and all looked out of proportion, yet I continued. And then it was complete. While staring at my rendering, my 5-year-old granddaughter appeared at my table. "What'cha doin' Mamaw?" I turned the book around so that she could see. "Wow, Mamaw, you can draw food. I can't draw food, yet." My first critic - - a perky cutey - - who recognized what I had drawn and approved my sketch. What praise! I could have asked for no more.

A Tribute

I remember well the day I flicked through the TV channels and came upon a public television program. It was my first introduction to Bob Ross and I was mesmerized by him. He appeared to have been caught in a time warp dating back to the 70's with a mane fashioned into an exaggerated "Afro." He spoke with a voice so gentle and hypnotic that I was lulled into a sense of peace. He maintained that anyone could paint and demonstrated with a knife and several brushes. Often he paused his painting to show a baby squirrel that had wondered into his yard. His love of nature was only equal to his love of painting. Thus, he incorporated the two. It was only in the last couple of years that I happened to read the information following the program. It stated that the program was "brought to you by the Bob Ross Memorial Fund." I was shocked as I never knew of his passing. He lost his battle with cancer at the age of fifty-three. What an inspiration he was and what a gentle spirit. I miss him.

IF

If the path was covered by snow piled high
And if a cold wind blew,
If the yellow light from a naked bulb,
Threw shadows of a ghastly hue

If holes in the shoes let snow seep through
Numbing the inside part,
If the wind's sharp sting 'gainst so small a thing
Could stop a beating heart

If time crept slowly o'er those days,
And from those days came years,
If winter would not yield to spring,
Holding fast to frozen tears

If memories cause hurt and pain
As they most surely do
If the brain locks tight the prison door
What chance for life anew?

Jeanne Herrod

Packing Up

PACKING UP

I started packing up today with agonizing pain
Pushing hunks of my life into boxes to be given away,
The bed now barren of sheets of warm, green flannel
A reminder of a perfect union
I started packing up today

I started packing up today – tears streaming down my face
Gathering the leavings of one so dear
Threadbare jeans and pocket tee-shirts with a hint of cologne
Sending signals to all of my senses of such great loss
I started packing up today

I started packing up today on knees made weak from anguish
Sorting through drawers where long-saved objects have lost whatever significance they may have had
“Important papers” saved that no longer seem important
Photographs of two joined as one showing innocent smiles and naivete of what was to come
I started packing up today

I started packing up today, devoid of joy or hope
Cleaning the last drawer, the last closet, the last of the lint under the bed
And then it was done
Death breaks the marriage bond and consumes the one who must stay behind.
I started packing up today.

Widow's Holiday

No flowers came for me today,
No card with love so true
No gentle pat or warm caress
No gifts to me from you.

No tender kiss while in your arms
No words of love I hear
No holding hands or secrets told
No vision of you near.

Sweet memories are all I have
To get me through the day
Echoes of precious moments lived
Close to my heart to stay.

That Wonderful Year

They sat erect, all in straight rows
Anticipation grew
Thirty boys and girls prepared
To start the year anew

The teacher introduced herself,
“Miss Spier,” she wrote in chalk
Then turned around, her face aglow,
And asked each of us to talk.

“I’d like to get to know you
So please tell me your name,”
One by one, we answered her
Her attention never waned.

And then with introductions made
Our fifth grade year did start –
So much to learn and see and do,
For each to be a part.

The thirty of us formed a bond
With that teaching dynamo,
And as the days turned into months,
Our love for her did grow.

Not only in the classroom,
But evenings and weekends, too.
Miss Spier surrounded by her brood,
Found such “neat” things to do!

From trips to church and gardens fair,
And sometimes to the park
Together we went everywhere,
From dawn to way past dark

Miss Spier’s old Plymouth shuddered
As we all jumped in the seat
The radio was played full blast.
With the brake she kept the beat!


Back in class on Monday morning,
To start the week anew,
We were filled with anticipation
Of what we were to do

We danced to Calypso music,
The flute we learned to play
Miss Spier read Robinson Caruso,
In a very expressive way!

Recess always found us
Choosing teams for games of ball,
Each student knew the others strength,
We gave those games our all!

As Fall turned into Winter
And Spring arrived anew,
The camaraderie that year,
Brought friendships ever true.

Anne and Larry became best of friends.
Their common interests grew.
Karen tried to flirt with Roland
Though her technique was still askew.

Ella and Dorothy were a team,
They lived close to each other,
Elwood and Billy often fought
They acted just like brothers.

Barb and Shirley were the dancers,
And they did it very well
Jeanne had won Rex’s heart,
Of course he’d never tell.

Doris and Elmer were class artists
Much envied for their flair
While Doris and Dreama (our chubby ones)
Giggled beyond compare.

Miss Spier made that fifth grade year
Wonderful from beginning to end
She had taken thirty 10-year-olds,
And turned them to lifelong friends

We said goodbye one day in June
In Leakin Park we came.
The glorious days of work and play,
Would never be quite the same.

We had no concept of our loss
Kids are that way, after all.
But the realization of what had passed
Came to us that next Fall.

Those thirty all have long since grown,
We’ve drifted far apart
One thing we have in common still,
Miss Spier is forever in our heart.

AN ARTIST?

I've never thought of myself as an artist and yet, I do create. I write poetry and short stories. For years, writing was the extent of my creativity. Now in the (early) autumn of my life, I find that maybe, just maybe, I can do other things. I may be able to sketch and to paint. It was only recently that I got the courage to attempt to put on paper the pictures I've visualized in my head. My goal is to be able to illustrate the children's book that I have had been written in my head for such a long time.