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.

ONCE UPON A TIME

Once Upon a Time, I did a thing and it was right.

But Once Upon has passed upon a day and then a night.

Followed by another one ‘til Once Upon ‘aint right.

And now with full attending this,

life takes it’s next direction.

today will someday be remembered

as Once, and —with affection.

cray 2021

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.

all is nourished

The line is from a poem I wrote about friendship in 1990. The point is that I, like MLK and Oprah, believe that Love will win. It seemed to fit with this rock. The rock was not meant to be a sad Jesus, but it seems to be. A representative of humanity betrayed, anyway.

Thanks Shutterfly.

Teacher Travels: The Ticks

When travelling, one never imagines they will hurt themselves or need to see a doctor, so this was an enlightening trip for me.

One summer I travelled with some of my students for fifteen days in the British Isles. I was the chaperone on a group tour. Little did I know I would learn an important lesson about healthcare in another country.  The students were thrilled when our tour joined another group, and they made new friends.  This tour took all day, with the most exciting stop at Gretna Green, which is now one of the most popular places for weddings.  Gretna Green is a small parish on the border between England and Scotland. Historically, (following the 1754 Marriage Act which prevented couples under age 21 marrying without parental consent), couples would run away from home to get married at Gretna Green. My students went from being newly introduced to the other travelers, to pretending to marry at Gretna Green. 

Afterwards, they noticed a nearby forest, that intrigued their imaginations and they insisted on setting down a dark path. The trees were low hanging, they hung just high enough to allow animals and short humans down the path.  It became darker and darker with every step, I instructed them to stay close together and soon we turned back.  I was the tallest, and the leaves on the trees brushed over me like the brushes on a carwash.  As we left the wooded area, nobody noticed the tiny creatures who jumped onto my clothes, and we all headed to our hotel rooms for the night.  In the middle of the night, I nearly shot out of bed—there were tiny bugs crawling all over my back!  The innkeeper moved me into a new room and laughed when he saw them, saying I shouldn’t have gone into the woods without protection against ticks. (ticks are parasitic arachnids that live in underbrush).

 In the morning, we headed out and by noon I began to feel feverish and woozy and noticed a few swollen purple bumps on my back where the bugs had been.  Unfortunately, the heat made everything worse--the pain, the nausea and fever in my body, and I finally gave in and asked where I could find and emergency room. How would I pay for it?  

Exhausted, I finally arrived at the Royal Infirmary of Edenborough, and the kind doctor told me I had infected tick bites, and I would need medicine.  I was relieved that it wasn’t more serious, but so nervous about the bill, and where to find a pharmacy for the medicine.  I was very surprised when they handed me the medicine and informed me that there was no bill. Gratitude and relief washed over me: all of it was paid for by Scotland’s socialized medicine. I learned a lesson I would never forget. Healthcare in Scotland is much different than in the US. Also, never go into the forests in Scotland without protection from ticks.

 https://www.mountaineering.scot/safety-and-skills/health-and-hygiene/ticks#:~:text=They%20can%20be%20found%20all,year%2C%20but%20particularly%20in%20summer.

The Goat Farm

“One’s destination is never a place, but a new way of seeing things.” – Henry Miller.  Take for example, Nancy and Cheryl, two neighbor girls, who were sure their chores at home were the worst burden of all.  One summer Nancy and Cheryl were sent to the Jackson’s mountain farm, and when they came back, their minds had changed.

They both lived comfortably in a small town with a mother, father, and siblings.   Dutifully, they did their chores every day before going out to play. When the postcard came from an old friend of the family, inviting the children to visit, both girls jumped at the chance.  The girls imagined a vacation with goats to pet, burros to ride, bright gardens and friends. They smiled as the bus travelled along the flat roads of the Colombia Gorge. They were off to a wonderful vacation, far away from their life full of household chores and siblings. Soon the cliffs and scrubs disappeared as Ponderosa Pines and mountains appeared.

The bus stopped in a tiny mountain town, and they were met by a scantily dressed family.  Two toddlers, a baby, and their exhausted mommy and daddy.  The heat was harsh, and the baby was bare bottomed.  The old farm truck groaned, and the gears scraped as they drove on a narrow, winding mountain road that seemed to go on forever. The girls began to wonder about this wonderful getaway.

The family lived in old barn, which was destined to be a house, when there was money to fix it up. Someday it would have a kitchen, a bathroom, and a heater in every room.  For now, without electricity, it had none.   Up the mountain a way, there was a small cabin the girls slept in, with a special garden out front. The garden--full of weeds to be picked, the cabin, full of mice.    To wash up every morning, they trekked down past the goat barn, over the creek, to a water pump.  It took all their strength to get the icy water to fall into their buckets. Then, they lugged the water up to the barn for the family.

Cheryl and Nancy were up with the sun, squatting on a three-legged chair with their heads in the side of a goat with bursting teats. Their hands ached from pulling the huge nozzles, until the bag was empty. Gratefully, the goats wandered out in the fields, then back again before supper for the same. By the end of the two weeks Cheryl liked the smell of her sweat against the goat fur.  The small children needed tending constantly, except when the girls were needed to scrape the bark off the felled trees for a new house.

Nancy and Cheryl were never so happy to come home again! Home, where each was the youngest in their family, and their homes had running water and electricity. If they learned anything on this trip to the mountains, it was to be grateful for what they have.

Seventeenth Thursday with Rico

“Man. Rick Talerico, you know….everyone who knows you…doesn’t not like you," gushed a completely sober Ellensburg native, struggling verbally to express the essence of Rick.

But it goes even deeper than being liked or not NOT liked. Rick is an icon in the underbelly of Ellensburg night life. He has been feeding and entertaining Ellensburg for 25 years.

He is a riddle, wrapped up in an enigma, and you can see this as he steps away from his work or play for a smoke, and a visit.

His low, Taurean bearing exemplifies his character--stubborn, unforgiving, and potentially dangerous. Whereas, his charming, gruff voice and impish, chin-tucked grin combine with his thick, luxurious chuckle, to draw you into the warmth of his persona, immediately. Intellectually, he has a direct and startling connection between the topic at hand and his own funny bone. Then there is the sensuous and symbolic quality of the way he half-closes his eyes to protect them from the smoke he makes. He turns cautiously away from the group so as not to be rude with his habit. He is complex.

While he loves competitive games and has forged long friendships, Rick is essentially a loner, and a bit of a genius when it comes to movies and music. He draws his words and his convictions from the well of popular culture. He would be happy to see most people… never, and some lucky people, occasionally. A special someone, a loved one in his life, will know for certain that there is a delicate and perpetual place for her in his life, somewhere between his well-guarded private time and his kitchen. In the kitchen, he is the boss.

He is the lone puppet master in the kitchen at The Tav, but he doesn’t abuse or treat others unfairly, as you hear cooks or chefs will do. He is efficient and unafraid of hard work, and expects the same from others as well—which may not be a reasonable expectation in a job offering such low pay and high stress.
The college students working there have their eye on life after The Tav, and hold their upcoming graduation as a carrot to get them through the night. If they work hard, they tell him apologetically, it is to make sure they don’t end up like him, 50 years old in a job at The Tav. But he has a degree in Graphic Design that came from the same college they fervently hang their hopes on. A degree offered him stability but came with creative bondage, and he trudged that route for a few years before returning to his kitchen

What they may not realize is that—this was an easy and deliberate choice for Rick. His creative needs are fulfilled by the rhythm of orders coming in, the juggling of unexpected demands handled deftly and with surprising alacrity. His reward is timing and style and the appreciation garnered.

He is essentially free here, at the Tav, and he is content.

I am proud to have been a special someone in his life for 17 Thursdays, and before. When I was 12 and he was six, I taught him to draw a horse, and then ride one. He taught me how to care for a bloody nose and a feisty boy. And now, 43 years later, I see the same feisty boy who throws his hands in the air to signal victory, now a man. I watch him from this silent side of the wall between us. Immutably, he is living his life with a unique combination of humble acceptance, self-deprecating pride and bitter self-preservation.

Covid and The Dress

"I have no reason to wear a beautiful dress. None." came the mournful whimper.

The world weary woman was drinking heavily and she was not alone In fact, the existence of this crowded outdoor drinking hole seemed to be diametrically opposed to the fact that there was a Covid 19 pandemic. Drug use and alcohol abuse was up, endemically, and she was participating in the tendency, slobbering her ideas, and unknowingly, the virus, from one end of the table to the other.

Tears were streaming down her face but because of the pandemic’s demand for mask wearing in public, there was no make-up to be ruined, so that was something. She was certainly wearing no mask now, nor were the others, because there was a rule that if she was outside, or sitting down, she didn’t have to wear one.

"I have no reason to wear a beautiful dress. None."

And as she spoke, she draped herself over the others at the bar. She trusted that her Drunkeness protected her and the others at the bar, and the virus smiled at the opportunity to grow. It would grow stronger and reach farther than any of the other COVIDs would. And this time, it had the idea of a dress to thank.

Baby Hippo

Egyptian Baby Blue Hippo, mine.

https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/544227  

I'm not sure what it is I like so much about this ancient Egyptian statue of a baby hippo, but it intrigues me. I think I like the shadows from the Nile, right on his back, they give you an idea of the setting, which immediately suggests a story. And the hippo may be the main character, dynamic and anthropomorphic, or flat and quiet, in the background of the excitement of that time. Maybe the reed cradle bumped the baby hippo as it floated by with baby Moses. Imagine that.

Five of these rocks have been dropped around Ellensburg, but I kept this one.

MENASTASH(sic), I LOVE YOU!

This rock tells a story of love.

There was a once boy who had lived for nearly 50 years before he found the love of his life —he found his true love while hiking Manastash (prounounced MENastash) Ridge, in Ellensburg, WA.

Because he could, he strapped a 50 pound bag on his back, to remind him that he was still strong, still alive, still capable of handling great weight.

The heat was almost, but not quite, unbearable (100 degrees, or so) and he focused on the sharply escalating trail in front of him. When at last he reached the top, a golden-haired angel helped him give his Dog some water. She smiled. She talked with him not at him. She too was hiking the ridge at an inhospitable time of day. She was like no other. They shared air and steps all the way down the ridge.

He knew then he would give her all the apricots in his orchard. He knew she was his love, and soon she would realize it as well.

Nice work Jaymes and thank you!

A character named James Cady was my Jim over here in the 90's. (Coincidentally I also had a Jim doing my hair on the west side in the 90's so I had two Jims to access at all times, and I was very proud of it). He took care of my hair and he made me look beautiful. As it does, time passed and I moved around-- we parted ways but I never stopped loving him for what he did with my hair.
He passed away this week unexpectedly, a man younger than myself died of a cardiac arrest. Kathy and Scott Carlton still went to Jaymes and are feeling the loss more than me, no doubt. It's just a shocking loss in a small town. These rocks are my expression of one of his own pieces of art that was hanging in his studio.
You did good, Jaymes.

The Coat

It was orange and brown; a warm nylon/Polyester jacket, down- filled to keep away the Ellensburg wind. It engulfed little Ricky, making him feel ridiculously small and silly, and he was determined to lose it at school that day. It was easy, the spring sun shone down and the coat stripped itself off, anthropomorphically, landing on a recess bench, forgotten.

42 years passed, and the coat returned to him, turned inside out, and named Cheryl.

She was still orange and brown, but now She fit him perfectly. When passing a mirror, he caught a glimpse of his figure with Cheryl on, and liked how he looked. This time, he would cherish her, and with any luck, she would not be lost.

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

Everything is different when one thing has changed

Here’s what I think:

This town changes, every time a new rock pops up, and change is good for an old town like Ellen’s burg! Hello crack-in-the-sidewalk! I stubbed my baby toes on you, my teen aged toes as well. Certain sidewalks have not changed in all these years, some houses and buildings remain in the same condition. But if I set out a rock, well then the town has changed, hasn’t it? And I have directed that change, and in doing so, I invite someone to pick it up, and make a change again.

It’s inoffensive, nice to look at, charming, and safe. Exactly like me.

This rock symbolizes the dynamic nature of life.

Pregnant Lady

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.

And Another!

“In every real man a child is hidden that wants to play.”-Friedrich Nietzche

I love that I teach all day keeping a formal and professional tone, and then I play with rocks.  Today I read, and then painted, Mary Shelley's Frankenstein.

After having read it, we are well set up for a universal truth that Frankenstein, the desperate and lonely monster, utters. “Beware; for I am fearless, and therefore powerful.”

I hope the person who finds it will read Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein because of it.