tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-263500522024-03-07T02:07:09.507-05:00Jeanne's PonderingThoughts, ideas, memories, poetry, short stories and some very elementary sketchesJeannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17427407103374988798noreply@blogger.comBlogger13125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26350052.post-67767561099521379432008-02-02T11:12:00.000-05:002008-02-02T11:16:40.663-05:00Artist Trading Cards<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV4gxNLjs_qeJdAqUKXrnhRHjx9ru54XCl5JOmlV9Ixu5hCSQPFJY4WRSjlElGz1LvjHnoJCad9E2jO1k1mJ8kRxY2T2A57iJ7Agq-SeXpS2B367YGDQh77Wk0dIZR274s7fst9g/s1600-h/003.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5162417403576597266" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV4gxNLjs_qeJdAqUKXrnhRHjx9ru54XCl5JOmlV9Ixu5hCSQPFJY4WRSjlElGz1LvjHnoJCad9E2jO1k1mJ8kRxY2T2A57iJ7Agq-SeXpS2B367YGDQh77Wk0dIZR274s7fst9g/s320/003.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="justify">Making ATC's is a very individual undertaking. After being taught to make them, I began the slow process of trying to put together something appealing. Eventually, I was creating ATC's with the best of 'em! I traded and created sending envelope after envelope in the mail. It didn't take long before my mailbox was full - and then my ATC keeper was full- and then the shelves in my bookcase were getting very full. I knew I was being overrun by them. What to do?</div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify">I decided to gather all of my ATC's together and choose the ones I liked the very best. I came up with 72 cards. I bought a poster frame and make a blue background. Down the left side, I allowed myself a couple of inches and used that to display some blue buttons. I, then, tried to come up with a system to give some sort of continuity with all of the colors and subjects. At last, I finished the process. There was one glitch - isn't there always? The back would not fasten to the front of the frame. Each ATC was of varying thickness according to how many embellishments the artist used. My eldest son was visiting and I asked for a suggestion. He immediately knew what to do. He attached the front to the back using Super Glue! It worked like a charm. </div><br /><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify">One side of my living room wall had been bare for some time. Now I had just the thing to decorate that wall. Using some greenery and side mirrors, I was very pleased with my finished project. Each ATC is unique and created by all of those friends I have met along the way. Look carefully - you may see your own. </div>Jeannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17427407103374988798noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26350052.post-25539942633272911192008-01-15T20:43:00.000-05:002008-01-15T21:06:52.398-05:00Lonely Tree<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9kXKuEok3mqwTatkxeBsAQ0Uyh-xUHDLahmSPb7MkzuWaJgLFBj9GeZ0zg8J51JukAozh_uUAPSIuS56bTQRXrzRqlbty3H9eGcXeutXj1yC5j3_0RYev1ANOzG0WnZpuqqhDpg/s1600-h/2008-01-15-2017-19_edited.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5155889367683568898" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9kXKuEok3mqwTatkxeBsAQ0Uyh-xUHDLahmSPb7MkzuWaJgLFBj9GeZ0zg8J51JukAozh_uUAPSIuS56bTQRXrzRqlbty3H9eGcXeutXj1yC5j3_0RYev1ANOzG0WnZpuqqhDpg/s200/2008-01-15-2017-19_edited.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="justify"><strong>Imagine living in this remote, desolate place. The solitude is deafening. No wind blows, no birds sing. How long has the tree stood here? The tree's leaves are gone and the branches look frail - unhealthy. Overcast skies add to the gloom. Not a bit of color touches the place. Imagine spending every day the same as the day before. Would this not make anyone unhealthy?</strong></div><br /><div align="justify"><strong></strong></div><br /><div align="justify"></div>Jeannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17427407103374988798noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26350052.post-3124501821493352222008-01-12T23:04:00.000-05:002008-01-12T23:25:06.204-05:00Hmmm - - what to draw<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhSjDwUDnuWlhyphenhyphenN3mqN9z3Sy8qjRCFbko0AagtfMdz0ls2B9WwX0W__qT6k7P-66l0rRnRq_n5Hnyeg9rE8Lteu5B5p-0IcdCi5a1bJfJTGwr8T1MPXbMSQhxaehCxlS_vx8atbA/s1600-h/2008-01-12-1601-01_edited.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5154811957957498098" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhSjDwUDnuWlhyphenhyphenN3mqN9z3Sy8qjRCFbko0AagtfMdz0ls2B9WwX0W__qT6k7P-66l0rRnRq_n5Hnyeg9rE8Lteu5B5p-0IcdCi5a1bJfJTGwr8T1MPXbMSQhxaehCxlS_vx8atbA/s320/2008-01-12-1601-01_edited.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>There are millions of things in the world to draw. Me? I couldn't find a single one. I was determined to get one sketch finished. According to my 2008 goals, I needed to get started. Perhaps, it was anxiety that caused me not to be able to find anything to draw. Carrying my sketch book, I climbed into bed. I looked around the room and wasn't impressed with the options. There was a laundry basket of clean, folded clothes but I wasn't ready for that. My night stand looked like a commercial for "Geriatrics Today." That didn't appeal to me either.</div><br /><div>As I felt Mr. Sandman hoovering above me, I knew that I had to make a choice. What to draw - - what to draw - - what to draw. Then, I had it!! Slowly, I moved one foot from under the cozy comforter. I'd draw a foot! Diligently, I looked and drew, looked and drew. Why didn't that darn foot look like the model I was using?! As carefully as I drew, the foot remained peculiar looking, at best. Nevertheless, I am blogging this sketch. It is a symbol of my intention not to be afraid to show my work.</div>Jeannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17427407103374988798noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26350052.post-37374063878012633442007-12-21T16:32:00.000-05:002007-12-21T16:34:25.657-05:00Another ChristmasThere used to be another time when Christmas was a joy<br />A time for family and friends, shopping, cookies baked galore<br />The house was warm and cozy and had lights of every hue<br />The scent of pine and peppermint added to the spirit, too<br /><br />The kids checked their list to Santa for toys just so precise<br />Forgetting how the "naughties" may just outweigh the "nice" <br />Their faces crammed with cookies, yet still they chattered more<br />Of toiling elves, and tinkling bells and if Santa's butt gets sore<br /><br />And when the morning finally dawned the children ran with haste<br />To see what gifts old Ho-Ho brought, such glee upon their face<br />The smell of roasted turkey and the pudding made of plum <br />Added more anticipation for the Christmas feast to come<br /><br />Throughout the day "Best Wishes" were offered by the guests<br />And the Christmas feast, as promised, was one of the very best<br />Friends and relatives gathered round to sing "Oh, Holy Night"<br />The warmth of the blended voices created a heavenly light. <br /><br />The years have come and gone from that time so long ago,<br />How much it hurts to think of it, no one will ever know<br />My little ones are all grown up, and have little ones all their own.<br />My husband passed away one day and left me to live alone.<br /><br />No lights or trees, no goodies baked, no one who really minds<br />I order gifts by computer now - - and stack them until there's time<br />The kids don't get together, they have other things to do<br />It's a different kind of Christmas than any I ever knewJeannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17427407103374988798noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26350052.post-23262226468545311282007-07-27T06:26:00.000-05:002007-07-28T09:28:03.166-05:00Lightning Bugs<span style="font-family:lucida grande;font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>The lightning bugs of summer</strong></span><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Lackadaisically floating in simple splendor,</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Gently blinking flecks of light</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">To brighten a darkened world.</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Jeanne Herrod</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">7/27/07</span></strong>Jeannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17427407103374988798noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26350052.post-48996890010666043532007-03-27T22:46:00.000-05:002007-03-28T20:23:30.454-05:00When We Were Young<div align="justify"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;font-size:130%;">When I was first married, money was scarce, so it became a Friday night ritual for my husband and me to go to the grocery store and stop for hamburgers. It wasn't too costly, but we enjoyed it and it was our only night out. On one particular Friday night as we were driving, I noticed my husband, Mason, sort of twitch. It was quick so I thought very little of it. We hadn't traveled very far when he, again, made the same twitch. It was like a jerking motion. I ignored that, too, until I noticed he was squirming in his seat. This time he had my attention. I kept quiet as I tried to figure out what was happening. He continued to squirm and then began to scratch - - just a little at first, but the scratching quickly escalated. The affected area seemed to be in the belly, groin, and backside. Finally, when I could stand it no longer, I asked what was wrong.</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;font-size:130%;"><br /><br />He didn't answer but continued to scratch and mumble under his breath. I so much wanted to laugh but reconsidered when I saw the look on his face. The squirming, twitching and itching reached a fever pitch when he seemed to lose all control. He finally yelled at me, "Jeanne, what the hell have you done to my underwear?" I was dumbstruck. What did he mean? He acted like a man possessed. The shopping center was fast approaching and he seemed to be on a mission to get to it. I believed that if he didn't stop the infernal scratching/twitching, we were going to have a wreck. He continued to yell at me - - "What did you do? What did you do?" I hadn't done anything and I became convinced that this man, this love of my life, had completely lost his mind. </span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;font-size:130%;"><br /><br />It was at this point that he made a hard left turn into the shopping center. He drove through the lot with a vengeance where the road dead ended into a large bank of trees. He slammed on the brakes, throwing me forward. He jumped from the car and ran toward the trees. It was then that I was free to laugh openly. The laughter died suddenly when I saw him tearing at his clothes. He was no longer wearing his pants!! Just moments later I was stunned to see he was no longer wearing his underwear! He was as naked as the day he was born and he was scratching himself like a dog crazed with fleas. I dared not say anything, but I knew we were going to jail if any of the police who patrolled the lot caught sight of my naked husband. Suddenly, I lost sight of him as he ventured further into the bank of trees. I couldn't see him but I certainly could hear him. Oh my, could I hear him!</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />He was gone for no more than 15 minutes but it seemed like an eternity. At long last, he again came into view. He was wearing his slacks but I saw that the little bundle he had in his hand could only be his underwear! His face was set in an expression I'd never seen before or since. He got in the car, glared at me, and with one quick motion ripped open the front of his pants for me to see! There was an ugly, ugly rash covering every inch of flesh that the underwear had touched. There were also many blood-streaked marks where his nails had dug into his flesh. I dared not speak. I just looked.</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />He held his underwear in the air and asked if I noticed anything. Gee, I didn't see anything. I shook my head slowly back and forth. He just exploded - - "Do you know what is in these underwear? Do you have any idea what you have done?" I continued to move my head back and forth as if it was on a pivot. I thought and thought about that load of clothes and then, with a flash of insight, it hit me! "Oh, I know. I washed your underwear with some curtains." (Like I said, I was a relatively new wife and had never done laundry at home because my mother sent it out. I didn't know about sorting. I may have even washed the rugs with the sheets, for all I knew.) </span></div><div align="justify"><br /><br />Had his eyes been lasers, I would have been blinded. He was so angry. It was then that he said, "Do you know that those curtains are fiberglass?!!" I shrugged and said "So?" That one little word was the final straw, I supposed. With that, he started a tirade that lasted for hours. How was I supposed to know that fiberglass really meant glass! Geesh!!</div><div align="justify"><br /><br />We didn't get groceries that night. We didn't have a burger, either. Our only stop was to the dumpster where he threw his underwear. Upon our arrival home, I made myself scarce. I read a book and tried not to think of the evening's events. I believe things would have been fine if only, if only, he hadn't suddenly appeared before me naked and demanded that I find some kind of medication to put on "his area." Oh, how I tried to choke back the laughter as I looked at that raw, red welts. It was impossible and when my laughter started, I could not stop. </div><div align="justify"><br /><br />I don't recall how this story ended. I suppose in a way it continues even now. Mason gave reminders of the event repetitively over the 35 years of our marriage and now I've told you the story. So. . . the tale still continues.</div>Jeannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17427407103374988798noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26350052.post-1159319256579377992006-09-26T19:40:00.000-05:002006-09-30T00:40:52.763-05:00To Pick Up A Pencil<div align="justify"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1446/2758/1600/2006-09-26-2030-48.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1446/2758/320/2006-09-26-2030-48.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />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.<br /><br />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.</div>Jeannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17427407103374988798noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26350052.post-1152120301765221062006-07-05T11:55:00.000-05:002006-07-06T02:30:33.876-05:00A Tribute<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1446/2758/1600/Bob%20Ross.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1446/2758/320/Bob%20Ross.jpg" border="0" /></a> 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.Jeannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17427407103374988798noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26350052.post-1148412769029471022006-05-23T14:03:00.000-05:002006-05-27T15:16:37.686-05:00IF<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1446/2758/1600/IF.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1446/2758/320/IF.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><div align="left"><strong></strong> </div>If the path was covered by snow piled high<br />And if a cold wind blew,<br />If the yellow light from a naked bulb,<br />Threw shadows of a ghastly hue<br /><br />If holes in the shoes let snow seep through<br />Numbing the inside part,<br />If the wind's sharp sting 'gainst so small a thing<br />Could stop a beating heart<br /><br />If time crept slowly o'er those days,<br />And from those days came years,<br />If winter would not yield to spring,<br />Holding fast to frozen tears<br /><br />If memories cause hurt and pain<br />As they most surely do<br />If the brain locks tight the prison door<br />What chance for life anew?<br /><br />Jeanne HerrodJeannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17427407103374988798noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26350052.post-1145930158638521902006-04-24T20:45:00.000-05:002006-04-24T20:55:58.653-05:00Packing Up<div align="left"><br />PACKING UP<br /><br />I started packing up today with agonizing pain<br />Pushing hunks of my life into boxes to be given away,<br />The bed now barren of sheets of warm, green flannel<br />A reminder of a perfect union<br />I started packing up today<br /><br />I started packing up today – tears streaming down my face<br />Gathering the leavings of one so dear<br />Threadbare jeans and pocket tee-shirts with a hint of cologne<br />Sending signals to all of my senses of such great loss<br />I started packing up today<br /><br />I started packing up today on knees made weak from anguish<br />Sorting through drawers where long-saved objects have lost whatever significance they may have had<br />“Important papers” saved that no longer seem important<br />Photographs of two joined as one showing innocent smiles and naivete of what was to come<br />I started packing up today<br /><br />I started packing up today, devoid of joy or hope<br />Cleaning the last drawer, the last closet, the last of the lint under the bed<br />And then it was done<br />Death breaks the marriage bond and consumes the one who must stay behind.<br />I started packing up today. </div>Jeannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17427407103374988798noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26350052.post-1145852913274353782006-04-23T23:15:00.000-05:002006-04-23T23:51:59.343-05:00Widow's Holiday<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1446/2758/1600/MLH.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1446/2758/320/MLH.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />No flowers came for me today,<br />No card with love so true<br />No gentle pat or warm caress<br />No gifts to me from you.<br /><br />No tender kiss while in your arms<br />No words of love I hear<br />No holding hands or secrets told<br />No vision of you near.<br /><br />Sweet memories are all I have<br />To get me through the day<br />Echoes of precious moments lived<br />Close to my heart to stay.<br /><strong></strong>Jeannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17427407103374988798noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26350052.post-1145672351261192512006-04-21T21:08:00.000-05:002006-04-22T15:03:01.063-05:00That Wonderful Year<div align="justify"><strong><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />They sat erect, all in straight rows<br />Anticipation grew<br />Thirty boys and girls prepared<br />To start the year anew<br /><br />The teacher introduced herself,<br />“Miss Spier,” she wrote in chalk<br />Then turned around, her face aglow,<br />And asked each of us to talk.<br /><br />“I’d like to get to know you<br />So please tell me your name,”<br />One by one, we answered her<br />Her attention never waned.<br /><br />And then with introductions made<br />Our fifth grade year did start –<br />So much to learn and see and do,<br />For each to be a part.<br /><br />The thirty of us formed a bond<br />With that teaching dynamo,<br />And as the days turned into months,<br />Our love for her did grow.<br /><br />Not only in the classroom,<br />But evenings and weekends, too.<br />Miss Spier surrounded by her brood,<br />Found such “neat” things to do!<br /><br />From trips to church and gardens fair,<br />And sometimes to the park<br />Together we went everywhere,<br />From dawn to way past dark<br /><br />Miss Spier’s old Plymouth shuddered<br />As we all jumped in the seat<br />The radio was played full blast.<br />With the brake she kept the beat!<br /><br /><br />Back in class on Monday morning,<br />To start the week anew,<br />We were filled with anticipation<br />Of what we were to do<br /><br />We danced to Calypso music,<br />The flute we learned to play<br />Miss Spier read Robinson Caruso,<br />In a very expressive way!<br /><br />Recess always found us<br />Choosing teams for games of ball,<br />Each student knew the others strength,<br />We gave those games our all!<br /><br />As Fall turned into Winter<br />And Spring arrived anew,<br />The camaraderie that year,<br />Brought friendships ever true.<br /><br />Anne and Larry became best of friends.<br />Their common interests grew.<br />Karen tried to flirt with Roland<br />Though her technique was still askew.<br /><br />Ella and Dorothy were a team,<br />They lived close to each other,<br />Elwood and Billy often fought<br />They acted just like brothers.<br /><br />Barb and Shirley were the dancers,<br />And they did it very well<br />Jeanne had won Rex’s heart,<br />Of course he’d never tell.<br /><br />Doris and Elmer were class artists<br />Much envied for their flair<br />While Doris and Dreama (our chubby ones)<br />Giggled beyond compare.<br /><br />Miss Spier made that fifth grade year<br />Wonderful from beginning to end<br />She had taken thirty 10-year-olds,<br />And turned them to lifelong friends<br /><br />We said goodbye one day in June<br />In Leakin Park we came.<br />The glorious days of work and play,<br />Would never be quite the same.<br /><br />We had no concept of our loss<br />Kids are that way, after all.<br />But the realization of what had passed<br />Came to us that next Fall.<br /><br />Those thirty all have long since grown,<br />We’ve drifted far apart<br />One thing we have in common still,<br />Miss Spier is forever in our heart.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span></strong></div>Jeannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17427407103374988798noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26350052.post-1145324931763859602006-04-17T20:37:00.000-05:002006-04-17T20:53:51.273-05:00AN ARTIST?<div align="justify">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.</div>Jeannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17427407103374988798noreply@blogger.com2