Masks

This is a wonderful and fitting poem for these rocks. Even though Dunbar lived in another time and may have been expressing the pain black Americans were experiencing when emancipation was supposed to be the whole answer to their suffering, he is still relevant. In 2020, there was such a ragged divide between those willing to wear masks for others, and those refusing to wear masks, that this poem spoke to me in a different way than he may have intended. After you read the poem 4 times, please continue down and notice the rocks I painted that reflect my siblings and masks. And as I’ve mentioned before, rocks help me write so ‘Thank you’ Mr. Dunbar for writing this poem, and thank you reader for reading the poem and my blog and noting the connection.

We Wear the Mask

BY PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR

We wear the mask that grins and lies,

It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—

This debt we pay to human guile;

With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,

And mouth with myriad subtleties.

Why should the world be over-wise,

In counting all our tears and sighs?

Nay, let them only see us, while

We wear the mask.

We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries

To thee from tortured souls arise.

We sing, but oh the clay is vile

Beneath our feet, and long the mile;

But let the world dream otherwise,

We wear the mask!

Paul Laurence. Dunbar, "“We Wear the Mask.”" from The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar. (New York: Dodd, Mead and Company, )

Ray Kids

Cheryl, Diane, Brian, Richard, Leslie

In a span of only six years there were begat five children to Edward and Adele Ray. In general, these children played nice and grew up with love and respect for one another for the first half century of their lives; then, along came Donald Trump and Covid and first signs of real trouble between them.

I am the youngest, and I have been trying to write about the painful change in our sibling relationships, but I have failed. I wrote plenty, then erased it. Rewrote, and deleted. I’ve never had so much trouble expressing a thing. So I’m just going to let Paul Laurence Dunbar’s poem

"We wear the Mask" express the depth of the pain.

But I will say three facts I am confident of:

• At one point, my brother Richard pointed out that within our group of five siblings, we reflected the US divide, that three out of five Americans supported the Covid measures being taken, while the other two out of five did not. But we will be ok.

• We have different ideas about what fair, right, and good mean, and we have had a rough time these past few years. But we will be ok.

• In 2020, I painted these rocks in a bit of an emotional storm and it shows. But we will be ok.

Processing

I give rock offerings to the gods

as I dance away from the Prehistoric Predators, happy that

these prison guards have no power over my scratchings on rocks.

No data, no goals, no mission and vision statement.

I bless the patrons with my smooth rocks and hope they will be my Pardoners.

And as I tiptoe through alleys and quiet streets, I drop offerings to show I do not hate.

People of my town, won't you please pardon me for being myself?

Cray 2022

These are rocks that Heidi Otis and I decorated for Dachshund on Parade, June 18th in Ellensburg.

This is from my Student Art page.

Rocks for Noah, who went back to 'Brick and Mortar' school. I dropped them in Ellensburg yesterday.

The Kiddies' Parade in Ellensburg

Narrative upcoming: How The Queen of Spades knocked me out, cold.

Ellensburg Kiddies’ Parade was a highlight for all the youngsters in my small town. These costumes, painted by mother and Sharon Kibler were our favorites, by far! Notice the knee area on the Queen of Spades where mother, in hindsight, cut space for young knees to bend.

Pictured left to right, Diane Ray, Nancy Kibler, and Cheryl Ray.

Example of narrative development over time- The Owl

——An email to a friend-

I have a story for you, it was like we were in wild kingdom! Last night around 10:00 p.m. Rick and I took the dogs out as he was leaving. We stepped across the alley when suddenly there was a swoop and beating of wings coming out of the alley, very near us.... descending upon us and then clunk, a heavyish-felt sound. Ka-thunk. Just Ka. Thunk.

And then whoosh off it flew, heavy wings lifting it up slowly without it's dead body in tow.

It took a second to figure out what had happened—the whole thing happened so fast.

I guess we upset an owl who was in the middle of hunting and eating a small hawk. It swooped down towards us and dropped its prey and flew off. The hawk was almost dead it was just kind of twitching it was so gross it made me sad I didn't understand it--because I have never seen anything like that so close. I thought it was a rat at first it was so heavy and big.

That's my story and I knew you'd appreciate it since you know what happened to Tank's mother (the owl ate her)... It crossed my mind that maybe the owl decided it wanted Tank instead of what it had and dropped the hawk to grab a Pomeranian instead—losing both (Aesop told it: http://read.gov/aesop/026.html)

Okay that's my story—it seems incomplete, but it really revved me up last night you should have seen me jumping up and down, screaming in a whisper so as not to bother the neighbors.

I wrote that on September 17th, 2020, and tucked it away, hoping to revisit it later. A weekly date had finished with a beau minutes before. It had not been a satisfactory end. I was just thinking to myself. "He has his priorities and they do not include me. He will never think of me as part of his life, but rather a responsibility to fulfill, a drag, pulling him away from his life." And so, because I expected to be his happy priority, as he was mine, I had just decided then that we should probably end it, and to me, this realization was painfully dramatic. As the dogs and I walked him out I felt the owl was giving testimony.

“If you don’t stop now", the owl said, “the relationship will eventually drain you of all energy, exhaust you, essentially drop you in the alley as dead as this hawk."

Fast Forward to Friday, August 7th,2021. The Delta Variant has just swooped into Ellensburg spiking numbers 103%, and we were barely aware of it because we are, of course, vaccinated. It wasn’t as late in the evening, but it was in the same spot, when the owl checked in, this time with his approval, I thought. My spirits were high and I was invigorated, surrounded with the love of some good friends heading out for an extra fun walk.

The owl swooped down the same path as before, just over our heads, but with empty talons this time The previously mentioned beau now just a friend, joined us later that evening for lighthearted fun and we parted politely at the end of the evening, each of us the priority in our own life.

So here I am, almost a year from the first incomplete owl story with what joyfully felt at first like a complete story to tell. I’m guessing it’s not really the whole story.

One of my very early rocks, painted in 2017, looks like the owl who is now my wise neighbor.

Why I paint Rocks...

I have learned from teaching that a captive audience is not always a willing one, which takes away some of the fun of communicating. I find painting and leaving rocks as a gentle way to impact a willing mind.

When a person picks up one of my rocks, it's their choice, and whether or not they keep it or toss it aside doesn't matter. Either way, they decided it themselves.

When they find the rock, are they feeling worried? Scared? Grief stricken? In love? Victorious? Bored?

Whatever they are feeling, the ‘found rock’ can possibly soothe, distract, remind or otherwise participate in the moment.

I leave these rocks around town with the intent of adding a dimension to life.

I left this rock in the Art class at Ellensburg High School today.

Love Coasters

Here are four rocks I photographed and made into shiny thick coasters in May, 2021. I sent the coasters to my longtime friend Suzanne, who has recently begun to feel like an artist herself.

The heart rock is one of my bigger ones, about 4x3. It is an unusually heavy one, which was perfect at the time. I felt all hearts were heavy in May 2020. I left it on a trail post at Carey Lake, and I imagine a lonely hiker picking it up (It was Covid time, everyone was lonely).

Then John, Just John is a more recent drop. In April, I left him near the entrance to the local Moose Lodge. He sat there quite some time. Having been dropped and broken in half the month before, he was not quite himself. All through April, he watched the lodgers come and go each weekend night, and he questioned his worth and was sure nobody was going to love him, ever. It was at least three weeks he waited, then went home with a Moose, who drifted out reluctantly at closing time, and furrowed him away in a pocket. I imagine he stayed in that pocket until the agitation of the washing machine jerked him out. Now he lives there at the bottom of the machine, waiting again, to be found, this time as a plain-scrubbed rock who thinks of itself as John.

Ms. Thing, well she was hot. I left her outside a grocery store where I often see employees sitting on the curb, smoking. I wonder if they dream about angry customers fighting over masks. She was adored and scooped up the same day, and I imagine her on a bathroom countertop where she watches someone brush their teeth twice a day. She is always straining to see herself in the mirror.

Tiny red heart, well, that one could be anywhere. I gave it to my ex as a token of my forever feelings.

It’s probably been thrown down an alley. Hearts are resilient.

The Right to Bully with Arms

Thursday, I joined a rally (not an organized demonstration) in front of the court house. I like this definition of rally: “an arousal from depression and weakness.” The rally was a lively gathering of citizens attuned to current events. Taxpayers less weighty than most of the white people in town. Me, I’m a white person in town.

Police blocked the street and re-directed traffic; peaceful participants. I soaked in the feeling of unity. I basked in the energy of “Yes, we can.” I was not ashamed to be white.

Returning to my nearby apartment, I found two officers in an unmarked black SUV, talking shop with two bike cops from CWU. They laughed and chatted. Fat, white and relaxed. I went in, got my dogs and came back out. My pets were suspicious, but one officer laughed and talked to them, and they quickly relaxed. So did I. I had barely taken twenty steps on my usual evening route when a menacing figure suddenly blocked my path.

The reverse of the friendly cowboy. Rifle ready out in front of his chest, his body rigid, silent, terrifying. “I can kill you” was his harsh non verbal message. Shaken, I screamed a few profanities and the rifleman stepped aside, keeping his stiff military bearing. Job done.

The nearby police did not seem concerned. They approached me and asked “Ma’am, can we help you?” “Do you see him? Did you see that gun? He cut me off with his gun up. Why are you ok with that?” “Ma’am, it’s his right.” “It’s his right to scare a person walking her dogs? That is his right?” “Yes ma’am.” “Are you kidding me?” “How can I help you with this Ma’am, would you like me to walk past him with you?” “No. I would like you to do something about him stepping out in front of me with a big rifle up like that. That’s his right?” “Ma’am, I can empathize with you, but yes, that is his right.”

I was born here. I am a fan of cowboys. But yesterday I saw the police in my town protect a man’s right to bully while bearing arms, over the rights of a person to feel safe walking her dogs. Ask yourself, please: what if that man had been black with a menacing demeanor and a gun jutting out angrily at me? Would that have been his right, too?

May 29, 2020. Day three of phase two

What I saw is hope. After six weeks with the town locked down, I got out for a ride.
On my bike this morning around town, I saw people smiling. I saw people caring about each other. Moving carefully past one another with  their concern visibly aimed at another person, outside their bubble gently and kindly, respectfully and appreciatively.  Some masked, some not, all deferring to one another. And my heart went into my throat.
What I saw today is hope.
Cray

Love in the time of Covid

To add another level of understanding, play this video for background music while reading.

When I was 12, almost 13 years old, we moved out on Wilson Creek, down Sprouse Lane. That’s when I became the babysitter of Ricky and Mark Talerico, then 1st and 3rd grade, maybe? Captain Joel Talerico and his wife Linda, the parents, were a beautiful young couple. Particularly, The Captain was a handsome, swarthy fireman with a rough voice, whose smile made me wish my house was on fire. Mark and Ricky were cute as could be. Ricky’s round, chubby gnome face and fat lips reminded me of a baby boy, and Mark’s more serious, pointy face with spectacles looked like a little professor.

I babysat occasionally in the evenings, and things seemed to work between us, so when summer vacation started, I had a full-time job. Every weekday I woke up early and walked the 25 sleepy steps to our country neighbors’ home and began my workday. Their house was new, built in a field, so the yard was still sliced dirt, with tracks from the grader fresh. The romper room was mostly done, but not yet dry-walled—their garage became a playroom before it was built. A low piano sat staring at me with the sheet music for Romeo and Juliet (A Time for Us), and so although I had stopped taking formal lessons in fourth grade, I pounded my way through the beautiful melody and imagined that’s what I would do day after day while the boys played nicely.

Of course I didn’t spend too much time on the piano. Boys that age need attention.

There were a few mishaps, I admit.

There was one very bloody nose that I fumbled my way through. There was no Google back then, so I just tried to think of the logical way to treat it. My first impulse was to have him blow it all out, but he had been through this crisis before and he wisely wrestled away from my help. He saved himself as he held his head back with a gob of toilet paper against his blood spout nose, no thanks to me.

At some point, the young fellows had a knock down, drag out fight, and again, I handled it the only way that seemed logical. Out came the wooden spoon, not the good old oiled and solid spoons like my mamma used on my butt, but the lightweight, cheap kind that come as a part of a wedding set. I broke it right across one of their behinds.

Imagine explaining to the parents how I broke that piece of balsa wood across their child. Linda and Joel liked me, but I was young and they began to question my maturity and ability to handle two energetic and mischievous young boys.

Captain Talerico knew of a babysitting course I could take They offered to pay for it—a full Saturday was all I had to give. Saturday was our sabbath, said my mother, and so the answer was no, and thus ended my career with the Talericos.

Fast forward forty-five years. I live in town again after 25 years away and little Ricky does, too. He is called Rick now, but he still has his round, chubby gnome-face and fat lips. We both have some gray hair. We see each other in passing occasionally and always make a big deal of it. Always hug and laugh at time’s tricks. I am his babysitter, and here we are, essentially the same age. How does that happen? I wish we could fall in love and have a funny love story, maybe like the song, A Time For Us, but we don’t.

Now we’re in this pandemic, and being single, are more alone than we have ever been. Creativity and isolation motivates a bold expression of this story. Thank you, Covid 19.

A rock I paint reminds me of his mother, Linda.

I sign it, Love, Mom, and leave it for her son, on his mailbox.

He might like it. Or he might not.

I never know.

6/5/2020

Follow up:

Once more, things seem to work out between us.

11/14/2020

See: Seventeenth Thursday with Rico

September 26, 2020

Why my evolving rocks?

I have learned from teaching that a captive audience is not always a willing one, so I see painting and leaving rocks as a different way for me to impact a mind.

When a person picks up one of my rocks, it's their choice, and whether or not they keep it or toss it aside doesn't matter. Either way, they decided it themselves.

When they find the rock, are they feeling worried?scared? Grief stricken? In love? Victorious? Bored?

Whatever they are feeling, the found rock can possibly soothe, distract, remind or otherwise participate in the moment.

I leave these rocks around town with the intent of adding a dimension to life.

I left this character in the art class at Ellensburg High School today!

Why my evolving rocks? (Copy)

I have learned from teaching that a captive audience is not always a willing one, so I see painting and leaving rocks as a different way for me to impact a mind.

When a person picks up one of my rocks, it's their choice, and whether or not they keep it or toss it aside doesn't matter. Either way, they decided it themselves.

When they find the rock, are they feeling worried?scared? Grief stricken? In love? Victorious? Bored?

Whatever they are feeling, the found rock can possibly soothe, distract, remind or otherwise participate in the moment.

I leave these rocks around town with the intent of adding a dimension to life.

I left this character in the art class at Ellensburg High School today!

And another thing

Have you ever read To Kill a Mockingbird? Of course you have. Everyone has.  As an English teacher, I have read it more times than I can count and still, I have one part of the book I cherish more than the rest. 

Boo Radley is a scary recluse who communicates with the kids by leaving a variety of mundane items in a hole, in an old tree, and in doing so, builds a connection. Boo Radley ends up rescuing the children from the villain. You see, although the town did not see him as an upright citizen, he was. I will fight for my community the way Boo Radley fought for the youngsters.  Boo Radley understands the reason I love to leave rocks.

One Reason

One Reason: Henry Mattisse said it, and I hear it: “Creativity takes Courage”.

 I love that each particular design on a rock didn’t exist before I created it. And it especially didn’t exist in the particular place that I set it. And the act of picking out a rock, putting my own brand of pretty on it is not as simple as it seems. I am Anxious picking it up, I’m anxious putting it down, bravery moves my feet.

Why is Cray rocking Ellensburg?

Thank you for your interest in this.

I was born in the old hospital at the top of third street, the youngest of the five Ray children, thanks to Edward Lee and Adele Ray. I spent a most adventurous childhood at 206 N. Sprague in the safe and loving arms of a neighborhood. Through life’s pulling and pushing, I spent half my life in Western Washington raising a family, much of it teaching secondary English Language Arts, and most of that time trying to get back to Ellensburg. When, in 2016, I arrived at last, I was met by an early snow, followed by more snow and a relentlessly frigid winter. It was time to get a hobby.

And that’s when I began rocking back and forth, and I have never stopped.

Here are a few of the rocks, which I will never claim are amazing, but they are mine! PINTREST: https://pin.it/43WXerx