the rules of summer ... 20 years and counting

the Rule clan has been getting together for a week every summer for the last 20+ years, and this past week was no exception.  as one of my nephews is in his 20's now, i think that means we started the year he was a baby.  it's become a tradition that's not missed, except for really good reasons like some of the years my brother was living in Ecuador, or Michael having a job that he couldn't afford to miss.  but most years, it's been all of us, and that all now = 15.  the first 15 or so years were mostly spent camping ... and yes, that would be tenting. 

one of the exceptions was the year we went to the hotel in brown county state park in indiana, during which michael asked me to marry him (not for the first time, but it was the first time i actually accepted).  that was the year too that we went crawling through some caves, back when my claustrophobia wasn't quite so bad.  so, a fairly memorable time. 

we stopped the tenting bit about 5 years ago, as it wasn't so fun or easy for my mom anymore, and it became a much simpler process for all of us to just get a house together somewhere for a week.  far easier packing, smoother meal prep for 15 at a time, and stuff to do no matter what the weather.  there was the epic tenting year that involved a huge deluge and high winds and flying tarps and lots of fun drama ... those are a thing of the past. 

we always seem to find some form of drama however, and this year was no exception ... the electric golf cart that came with the house rental proved to be the kicker, as there were more paths on the 40 acres we had to ourselves than there was battery.  it died several times, at varying distances from the house, and one rescue involved a fair bit of hunting and gps-ing and scavenging of batteries and chargers, though it ended up being solved by the loan of another golf cart from the campground on the adjoining land. 

there were many games (loved learning Thunderstone this year), many songs, mucho fishing, many conversations, and many companionable silences.  and waaaay too much food!  i forgot to take a picture of it, but this house has been used as a guest house/retreat center for a long time, and so had the biggest table and best stocked kitchen of any place we've ever stayed.  the table easily sat 16, and we could have eaten 3 meals without having to do any dishes.  truly comfortable, easy, and spacious. 

i try not to think about how many more years we'll have the whole family together, but just enjoy the times we do have, and savor the moments a little more fiercely.  hug a little harder.  feel a little deeper.  watch a little more carefully.  know a little more fully what it means to love, to grow, and to feel the passing of the years. 

it was a good year, a great year in fact, and one that i'm very thankful for.

.....................

we spent one night in a campground after leaving the rental house, and then moved on to Crown Point Indiana, where we're starting some house projects for friends, and hoping that the rain doesn't entirely foil our plans!

onward ...

Keren & Bobby

When we first arrived at Keren and Bobby’s, I expected to only be in their home for a few weeks, and thought I knew them both pretty well.  My relationship to Keren goes waaaay back, and Bobby’s as easygoing as they come, so that despite the fact that I only met him about 6 years ago, it feels Iike I’ve known him forever.   As our visit progressed, I was proved very wrong on all counts.

When you move into someone’s home for something longer than a week, it takes a tremendous amount of graciousness on their part, and a lot of compromise on both sides.  When you have two active boys, (and your hosts are not parents themselves) it adds a whole other level of compromise and blending of ways.  Looking back, I can’t imagine a better testing ground for what it’s like to invade someone’s space for a period of time, and coming out the other side actually loving each other more, rather than less.  I think we got spoiled this time around.

Keren’s an idea factory, amongst other things.  She’s creative, energetic, organized, and a tireless worker.  She has big ideas, and knows how to nudge/inspire/motivate/corral a group into participating in an event, having a marvelous time in the process.  She’s got chutzpa, heart, a very very underrated opinion of herself, and determination in spades.  She’s gold, through and through.  I knew her persona as larger than life, and had a good glimpse of her heart before this, but living in her home for 5+ months showed me sides of her personality that I’d never really understood well before.  We talked over many trips to Starbucks, and many late night porch sessions, and I got to know the woman underneath the red-headed yellow swallowtail butterfly that most of the world gets to meet.  It was an honor.

Bobby, gracious, fun-loving, heart-of-gold Bobby … would give you the shirt off his back if he thought you needed it … and basically did just that for us.  When we arrived, we slid into the driveway with our camper, a small fridge full of half-empty condiment jars, some warm leftovers, and a couple hundred bucks in our bank account.  Not exactly the means to support ourselves, provide our share of food, and contribute to household expenses in general.  Bobby wasn’t fazed at all, at least on the surface.  He opened his home, his heart, and his own strained-to-the-max bank account, because this is what you do for family.  For someone in need.  You take care of folks.

I know it was really hard on him because we arrived at a time when the new house was under gradual as-money-allows renovation, and we brought a tornado of projects and paper and mess otherwise known as Fynn.  For someone formerly known as a gracious host-with-the-most, bare floors and patched walls were really hard for him to ignore.  He felt like he couldn’t give us what he wanted to, treating us to local events and restaurants and a richly-stocked fridge.   Their situation just wasn’t there at that point in time.  So we wallowed a bit, together.  Took stock of what we had, and what we could do with it.  Made cool dining room floors out of porch paint and stencils and leftover primer.  Threw parties with what we had.   Held contests using makeup and fabric scraps.  Built woodboxes out of scavenged lumber.  Talked a lot.  Played a lot of board games.  Made family dinner an event, every single night, even when 5 nights of the week were some form of chicken.  Evolved the may-I-please-be-excused thing into a whole ritual of trivia questions and answers and eventually, sign language conversations. 

We also railed a bit, bemoaned, struggled, and fought the circumstances we were in.  Felt oppressed.  Wondered why the jobs weren’t paying much (for any of us), and why we were in this leaky boat, together.  We learned to talk through it.  Pray about it.  Confront it head-on, rather than sideways.  We all got a rather forced look at what it was like to live together, work together, communicate effectively together, and, yes, parent a bit together.  My boys learned more manners at the hand of Keren and Bobby than I thought possible.  Lovingly, firmly, and consistently.  We grew into a functional unit that knew when and how to work together, and when to separate for a time when we needed space.   We learned how much our emotions affected each other, and it gave me some new tools for labeling and confronting those pesky elephants. 

So back to Bobby … for someone way out of his usual comfort zone, and in a rather distressingly difficulty phase of his life … he came through amazingly well.   With a few realizations of his own, I think.  He learned to turn a blind eye to chaos, to take space when he needed, and to give till it truly hurt.  And never ever once begrudged it.   No measuring stick was hauled out, to determine what they might have been able to afford were we not living there.   No calculations or regrets.   Just love, piles of love, and a flood of it following us down the street when we pulled away.  From both of them.  Tears, big hearts, and big dreams … intertwined in a way I never thought possible.  Knowing what I know now, I have every expectation that the next time we spend time together, the roots will go deeper, and the hearts even tighter.  It’s a friendship that’s not found its limits, nor do I ever expect it to.  It’s just a very beautiful thing, which keeps growing the more it’s worked on. 

(xoxoxo you two)

B

Market Square Shuffle

The first time I went to Market Square to draw portraits, I made $101 bucks.  That was the day after the Chalk Walk and I haven't finished writing about it.  The second time I went to Market Square was after two weeks of rain on a Saturday.  The Farmer's Market was underway, and my grassy area was full of tents for the 200th anniversary of the Civil War.  I made my way to the main square and waited an hour for the vendors to pack up.  I chose a nice spot in the shade of a fenced tree, and set up. 

It wasn’t long before a large black man with a bellowing laugh engaged me in conversation.  I could tell by the way he scoped the square while he talked that he was hustling something.  Turns out he’s an artist named Shawn.  He showed me the Mother’s Day card he was selling prints of for $10 dollars.  It was nice.

You’d have to be pretty charming to sell them for 10 bucks, but he was.  He was very at ease and each time he let out a laugh, he’d study its ripple to the far ends of the square.  As we talked, a grungy girl of maybe 30 trudged past, loaded down with sooty bags.  “Hello,” she said.  I was looking at Shawn at the time and assumed she was talking to him.  I waited for him to respond.  “I said, HELLO!” she said indignantly.  I looked up.  She had stopped and was staring at me.  I thought, what’s this homeless girl with attitude want from ME?  Shawn kept his mouth shut.

“Hello,” I said guardedly.

“Unh!”  She turned in disgust and headed for the shade of the next fenced tree.  I watched, puzzled, as she plopped her bags down, keeping her back to me.

“That’s Foxy,” Shawn confided.  “She’s a spray paint artist.  She’s very, umm … temperamental.”

“Ohh.” Now I saw I was possibly in her regular spot and I had not responded to her attempt to be friendly.  Whoops.

Shawn wandered off and I began to draw a portrait of Bethany from my phone.  An older man, maybe 58, in a straw hat and dress shirt ambled up.  He watched me draw for a minute.  “You new here?”

“I was here 2 weeks ago.” I replied.

“I could tell,” he said, “I’ve not seen you before and I know everyone in this square.”  I kept drawing.

“Have you met Foxy over there?”  He nodded her way.  “She’s a good friend.  She has her ups and downs,” he made a roller coaster with his hand, “but she makes nice work.”

“I said Hi to her,” I allowed.

“And down there at the end of the square … that’s Harley.  The Magician.  He’s a friend of mine.  And over there …” he pointed, “that’s my buddy Hank.”

“You must spend a lot of time in the square,” I observed.

“That I do,” he said, pleased I was catching his drift.  “Truth be told, I do a little drawing myself.”

“Really?” I said.  I put my china marker down.  I could tell he wanted my full attention.

“That’s right.  Portraits, like you, only I do mine in pencil.”

“Oh, Yeah?”  I was remembering that event services said there were no portrait artists.  I was also realizing he was doing a territory dance.

“The name’s Doug.”  He stuck out his hand.  I shook it. “Yeah, I’ve been doing this for about 21 years now.  I haven’t set up yet this year.  I’ve had a bit of money come in and haven’t needed to.  But I normally sit at that table over there until about noon then move to that table to stay in the shade.”  As I turned to look, he took the opportunity to lean his bag against my easel leg and sat down in the customer chair.  This was an act of aggression.  I considered starting to draw him but sensed he’d find a way to sabotage it.  My best course was to keep playing nice.  “You had any problems with the police?”

“Not yet.” I said.  “I talked to a couple cops two weeks ago when I set up.  They didn’t seem to know what laws applied to me.”

“Well, I’m good friends with the sheriff…”

What followed was an hour of him giving me advice that was largely unnecessary and telling me stories that revolved around how well connected he was.  I had to pull out my “I worked in Times Square” card to take a bit of the wind out of his sails.  Eventually he left, and I went back to drawing my wife.

Within 10 minutes I felt a presence watching.  I looked up hoping for customer, only to find a balloon vendor rocking on his heels and grinning a practiced stage grin.  “Hello! I’m David and you’re new here!”  He stuck out his hand.  It was a welcome contrast, this straightforward communication.  I seized his hand. 

“I’m Michael!” I belted back. “And I am!”

“Well, that’s a firm handshake!  And you have a very professional setup!  AND you do very nice work!”

“Thank You!”  A flat wire basket hung from his neck at chest level, in which he kept his twisty balloons and a hand pump.  Several pre-twisted balloons and a sign were attached.

“Are you, sir, aware of the laws governing your table?”  He asked.

“This, my good man,” I retorted, “Is NOT a table.  It is an Easel.”

“Well put!  An Easel!”  He marveled.  “Good answer!  For you know, it is Illegal to set up a table without a permit.  That is why I,” he gestured to his basket, “carry my table with me.  I can see you are an articulate man,” he flattered. “Let me ask you this: How much do you charge for one of your portraits?”

“Nothing,” I smiled. “I ask only for a donation.”

“Another good answer!” he exclaimed.  “We are not allowed, as buskers, to SELL our wares.”

We proceeded to have a lengthy conversation concerning the laws of the square, in which he was very well versed.  His speech and approach were so like my Father’s, I found it quite enjoyable.  He told me stories of encounters with event services and the police.  His lawyer/girlfriend, Peggy, researched and provided printouts of the most current legislation.  He used to set up a balloon tent with a helium tank.  He also plays clarinet.  He used to bring drums and instruments in for the kids to play.  He’d play the clarinet while the kids played drums and had balloon sword battles.  I was delighted!  Then they changed the law to disallow tents for buskers.

While on this topic, Doug returned looking a little redder in the nose.  I could tell from his approach that he was seething with aggression.  He planted himself standing almost between David and I and folded his arms.  There was the slightest hesitation in David’s story but he went on “ – and so I removed my tent and I replaced it with a table.”

“Only an asshole would set up a tent,” Doug declared.

“That’s true!” David smiled in agreement, as if Doug meant breaking the law.

Vehemently Doug said “No!  YOU’RE an asshole!”

David took a step back, bowed his head and said “Thank you sir.”  Then stepping forward again, “I don’t believe we’ve met.  The name’s David.”   He stuck out his hand.

Doug took a step back, arms still crossed.  “I know You and you should know me, I saved you from getting punched in the face.” David looked at him for a second.  “Thank you,” He said sincerely.

Then turning back to me, he continued. “And then they changed the law to exclude tables.”

It then fell to me, whether I would continue conversing with David, tacitly agreeing the matter was settled and the interruption was over, or would I respect Doug’s misgivings as to David’s character and seek to delve deeper into the mystery of its origin.  I reasoned in myself that even if Doug’s assessment of David were true, his method of conveyance broke social protocol and made him appear to be the very thing he accused David of.  Our anger at others, more often than not, is directly proportionate to our intimacy with that very shortcoming in ourselves.  I concluded that David’s graciousness had netted my attention.  “So that’s when you started wearing your table?” I asked.

“It is!” David beamed.  “Now I carry everything with me and wander freely about the square.”

Doug stormed off in a trail of obscenities and entered the nearest bar.

“What do you suppose that was about?” David’s eyebrows were raised.

“I don’t know.  You handled it very nicely, though.”

“Why, thank you!”  He gave a little bow.

“Perhaps he felt that I was his territory since he spent an hour telling me, the nubie, the ropes of the square,” I suggested.

“Hmm … very insightful,” he mused.  “Perhaps.”  Then  he launched into the story of how 16 nails had been pounded into all 4 tires of his car while in a parking garage some years back and the culprit had turned out to be a bar owner who had recently gotten out of prison for laundering drug money for his brother.  (That bar right there, actually, where Doug had gone in.)  David didn’t know why the guy hated him, but he’d gotten a brand new set of tires out of it, from his insurance.  He said he has a strong personality and it sometimes has that effect on people.

While he talked he noticed my attention drifting to Foxy, who was explaining how hard and stressful being an artist could be to a glazey-eyed couple.  They kept nodding soberly. “That’s Foxy,”  David pointed with his chin.  “Steer clear of her.  She’s Manic.”  Well, everyone can agree on one thing, I thought.  “At least she’s out here making art,” I said.  

“Well, I should let you get back to drawing.  It’s been an unparalleled pleasure!”  David bowed and sauntered away.

I went back to drawing Bethany, but my phone was dying.  I was getting antsy.

Finally, around 7:00, two young black girls approached. “How much are your pictures?” one asked.

“They’re for a donation,” I said.

“We only have two dollars,” she mourned.

“Have a seat,” I commanded.

While I drew them, I felt a presence lurking.  I knew it was Doug without looking.  After a lot of throat clearing he leaned into my space and said “I’m gonna leave my bag here, I’ve gotta go to the market.”  He started to put it against my easel leg.  “You’ll be here for awhile, right?” 

I didn’t look up from drawing, but pointed.  “Not on the easel.   Put it against the fence.” I commanded.  He tried to say something else but I was really focused on the portrait.  He left.  I did a respectable job finishing and the girls were delighted.  Unfortunately I had pulled in no more business and was sitting idle when Doug returned.  He was fairly drunk.  I leaned against the fence to help him avoid using my chair.  He leaned beside me and offered me some corn liquor from a water bottle.  I declined.

“Sorry for embarrassing you, earlier.  It’s just that guy is a … well, he’s been really nasty to some good friends of mine.  The owner of this bar here.  He’s a really good friend.  He lets me draw in there late at night when the crowds out here die down.  That’s a good gig, you know, people are really generous in a bar, of course you can never draw for long because people keep buying you free drinks!”

“Well, what did he do to your friend?” I ask.

“It’s a long shtory,” he said, with a sidelong glance to see where my loyalties lay.  “Too long to tell,” he decided.

“Well, I gotta pack up and go home to my wife,” I said, realizing how much I was missing her.

“Will you be out tomorrow?” he asked.

“Maybe,” I said flatly.  I packed and left.

As I carried my things past Foxy I glanced at her work.  It was painstakingly wrought.  Not the slick caliber of the NYC spray artists, but at least it was her own, not formulaic.  I thought, You go, girl, but I did not engage.

loosening the Knox

the days are getting bittersweet, and my stomach is spending most of its time in slight turmoil.  yup, it’s the leaving thing.  happens every time, and every single time i’m caught by surprise.  the roots are deeper, the connections are stronger than i ever planned on.  as if relationships can be planned, hah!  they're a treat, a gift, a lovely beautiful messy thing that makes every day richer and every leaving harder.  i wouldn't have it any other way.  

we've been on this trip for 154 days, and 152 of them have been spent here in knoxville.  never ever thought it would be this long, but my initial thought of 2-3 weeks looks utterly laughable from my current vantage point.  expectations ... the death of me, of many relationships, of mindfulness, of joy in the moment.  (i know there's a flip side to all that, just not going there right now)  

i think it's fair to expect joy and love and happiness on this trip, as long as i also expect pain and growth and delays and arguments and meltdowns and detours, and the occasional real drama.  they come intertwined, sometimes within the same split second.  that deep breath where you're steadying your mind because your heart just exploded and you're not sure where the pieces are.  epiphanies, he-just-died calls, births, i do's, breakups, you name it ... any single moment in which you know everything just shifted, irrevocably, in one direction or another.  

i love those moments.  yes, all of them.  the moments (days, months, even years) that follow?  often they're the worst.  but in those single fleeting bits of time, every single one of them, i feel incredibly painfully amazingly alive.  my heart just took a hit, good or bad, and i KNOW it's there and working and oh so very present.  

this doesn't mean i look for those things, or revel in them if they're sad, but i do measure time by them.  measure life, measure it's depth and breadth and reality and meaning, and find that no matter what the experience, it leaves its mark, its touchstone, and i value every one of them.  they're part of who i am.  my collection, whether harvested deliberately, or tossed in without my choice.  mine.

i had no idea before knoxville that my heart had holes shaped like Marie, Sam, Carpenter, and Auzlo.  like Starbucks every week.  like loving Keren even more like a sister than i already did. like watching for Timmo and Natalie walking Piper and Rider every night (and hoping they'd stop).  like Mikey passing away in Bobby's arms and my arms not being long enough to hug them both at once, or ease the pain of losing his crazy furry companion of 15 years.  of a comfortable answer to the unnammed question "could you live near and work side-by-side with Keren and Bobby at some point in the future?" (that's a yes ...)

there are tracks worn in my heart also, from endless circlings and wanderings and designings and communicatings back and forth and back and forth ... how exactly do we hope to fund this trip?  (and how are we going to pay the debts we accidentally dragged along with us?)  assuming that the work wherever/however/for-whomever-we-can thing was the heart of it all (whether they could pay or or not), but likely too limiting if we expected it to fund the whole shebang.  wanting a bit of steady income, enough to cover our fixed expenses at least, to make it possible to take on jobs wherever, rather than feeling like we had to stick to paying ones.  

so the merry-go-round began ... newsletter subscriptions!  family-drawing-based art lessons, by e-book and youtube!  youtube-only "artLOOSE" videos, documenting all kinds of creative projects and asking for patronage/donations from viewers!

the tracks became messy, convoluted, and daunting.  and very very distracting.  every single idea fun on some level, or even many levels, but very time consuming on a monthly basis, even once we got them up and running.  things that would pull our hearts in so many directions, at least for now, that we couldn't see our way clear to do what was right in front of us.  floors that need painting here, decks that need shored up, stuff that needs organized and trimmed and chopped down.  FUN things!  

and michael and i were holed up writing business plans, trying to learn video editing, struggling with words and assumptions and guesses as to who and how to ask for what, and then guiltily emerging from the think-tank to involve the boys by trying to create logos as a family, or something equally strained or awkward.  trying too hard, all of it.  not to be confused with working, or the willingness to work, but trying too hard to figure out exactly who our audience is, and what we'll have time to do on the road, and how it will all fit in and around the projects that we're doing for other folks.  

the other morning those tracks all became very visible to me, in one big ugly pile, and i felt the weight of them all at once.  this was all just backwards.  GO.  DO.  STUFF.  NOW.  and the way will become a bit clearer.  we'll get vaguely in the swing of things, we'll find out how much we can really work creativity in and around what we do, and discover how much time we can spend working before we need to go away and look at nature and monuments and sunsets for a bit.  take time alone, to recharge.  i strongly suspect that somewhere down the road, a spinoff project or idea that we can sell on the side will surface, and we'll jump on it then.  not try to imagine (from keren and bobby's porch) what IT is, and what folks want, and promise to serve it up on a fancy platter once a month.  from a dicey laptop, via public wifi, using video and audio from an android phone.  not impossible at all, but not smooth sailing either.  

i felt a big sigh of relief in my heart after that realization, and the healing of something that had been dividing me.  and also a renewed level of queasiness in the "trust and faith" department, as to how the finances will work out.  as to the likelihood that we'll be asking directly for help sometimes, from humanity at large.  for donations for our living expenses, or for supplies for projects ... which i should have done already because we're leaving several things undone here, because the money isn't available right now for deck lumber and flooring and stuff like that.  

that said, there's great fun to be had in doing things with free/minimal supplies (cool dining room floor, yes?!)  but it often requires a lot more time, thought, and planning than it would if the materials were available.  it does inspire creativity though!  i'd dearly love to get to a point where we had a separate Supplies Fund that could be tapped into when we find a need, and have the time and resources, but no money for the materials.  we've talked a lot about putting out a call for sponsorship when we find a project that needs it, but the timing is an issue.  not wanting to run a kickstarter campaign for something that needs to start tomorrow, or preferably today.  (the wheels are turning fast, and you might be hearing more on that in the next day or two ... and thoughts welcome!)

i might as well say too that we're currently about 700 short on what we need to get out of here next week, to cover tax and registration on the trailer and a couple smaller bills.  hoping this weekend's jaunt to Market Square will net Michael more than last weekend's portrait drawing session, which should help somewhat. (he's working on a blog post all about drawing in the square, btw)

as i wrap this up, Fynn is off spending his last hour or two with his new BFF, who leaves tomorrow early, and won't be back until after we pull out next week.  he is going to need some tlc for the next few days i think, as well as access to my phone more often than in the past.  i have some goodbyes to say too, which i don't want to.  i never expected the richness of the connections we've made here, and have to say it's a very awesome pile of gifts to come from our very first stop, and truly worth every minute we've spent here.  it helps give me courage to step out and move on again, and to hope that we're leaving behind a bit of ourselves in return for what we've gained.  

onward. 

Face Off

Face Off is a contest where people put makeup on people and go in front of judges to see who has the best makeup.  And they don't just use eyeliner and lipstick, they use professional special effects makeup like airbrushes and fabrications and different clothes.  In the building they have hundreds and hundreds of different things that you might need.  So that's what we did, and we did a mini one.

This is us planning and getting ready to do Face Off tomorrow.  We had two teams.  The first team was me, my dad, and Bobby.  Team number two was Douglas, Keren, and my mom.  So we planned the first day, and worked the next day.  In planning, we had 2.5 hours, and the same for working.

And the way we came up with our characters, we had a list of different elements and jobs, and numbers next to them.  The teams took turns rolling dice.  You would roll twice for the elements, and once for the jobs.  The different elements that we had were dirt, lava, water, and metal.  Our team got dirt and metal.  The other team got lava and dirt.  And for the jobs, we did the same.  Our team got a postal worker, and the other team got an engineer.

And at the judging time, what we would get judged by ... we had to have a back story, and how the character looks, and how the elements were incorporated. 

Our backstory for what we were putting on our character was that the earth had gotten mostly destroyed, and there were small chunks left with people on it.  Our character was a giant postal worker that is slowly terraforming the moon, and making it into dirt, and all the silver and copper in the moon are going into his arms.  And also he has the moon for his head.  And he has the moon for his head.  He has the moon for his head. 

And on the bits of the earth there is a rumor traveling around that the EARTH BRAIN MOON MAN is going to come back and remake the earth.  Bobby was our model.

The other team's idea was to have siamese twins, one was immune to fire and lava, the other was made of dirt.  They were chemical engineers and were exploring in volcanoes trying to find the fountain of youth.  Douglas was dirt and my mom was lava.

My mom partway through being painted.  The red is lava and the black shapes are going to be crusty lava.  The red was grease paint and acrylic paint and red sharpie marker. 

We were allowed to use anything in the house.  And we only had a few supplies of makeup and stuff.

Our model before he put on makeup.

Douglas being made, at the age of one minute.  And the vines on his arm are real.

OUR TEAM's FINISHED MODEL

Earth Brain Moon Man

Inside his head is the terraforming of the moon turning into dirt for the earth.  We made the dirt out of grinding up styrofoam bits, then pouring in paint.

team two's finished model

judging

Our judges were Opa and GramGram, and we were judging on skype.  They judged us by making a list of three categories which were Backstory, Makeup, and Incorporation of Elements.  Each team got a different amount of points in each category.

Waiting for the judges

This is the end of the Face Off and the winning team is ...

Team Number Two!

I liked the Face Off thing and I would want to do it again, and it was my idea to do it.  Most of the people didn't want to do it at first, but we all had fun.

bits and pieces

been awhile since i posted, and i don't have too much to say as we're still chewing on things and pondering things and piecing bits of work and study and conversation and projects together into a week and then another week and then i realize that it's been a month and ... the days do march, don't they?  so here's a small wander through my pics since i last posted.

we visited this lovely couple in march, after first meeting them at a health expo in january.  don and patty run a place called the Well Being Conference Center up in Tazewell TN.  they've built it entirely themselves in the last 6 years or so, and as their vision of having a place in the woods where people can get together and talk and learn and play is somewhat related to our goal (and they're actually doing it!) we thought we'd pay them a visit and get a tour and a reality check and maybe some wisdom, along with the views. 

they delivered all that, and more, and were most delightfully gracious hosts who gave thoughtful answers to my many questions, and asked some great questions of their own.  a great day out.

more recently, we spent Easter with friends at their family's lake house, and had a delightful day playing with boats and bows and arrows and jelly-bean laying chickens, and chatting in the sun.  another welcome break.

spring has hit fully and properly here, with storms (ahhh i've missed thunder and lightning!), dogwoods, azaleas, irises, and even an 80 degree day or two.  we were back to three wool blankets in the camper two nights ago though, so it's not all that consistently warm yet.

a few times lately i've been up near sunrise ... shocker to many, i know ...  and after trotting in the house to the bathroom i've grabbed my camera and gone prowling.  it's a magical hour, and almost enough to make me get up earlier on a consistent basis.  the key word being almost.

i've had some pretty depressed days, which somewhat accounts for the lack of words.  i miss being creative in my own right, honestly.  all the work of starting a new venture and working on documenting it, making it happen, and figuring out how to finance it while on the road via freelancing and creating new stuff to sell ... i haven't prioritized making stuff that i just plain like to make, that has nothing to do with heartLOOSE.  not sure where or how to make that happen, but taking pics helps, and talking to cool new people helps too.

which i got to do a couple weekends ago, when the boys put on a lemonade stand during the neighborhood-wide yard sale. 

keren made cookies, the boys made lemonade ... and actually sold more than they drank ... a surprisingly successful venture!  fynn's "lemonade dance", performed while running alongside approaching vehicles, likely had something to do with that.  so did Douglas' steadiness in sitting in the back of the truck for hours while Fynn ran around shopping at the yard sales and hanging with his friend C down the road. 

i went on a long wander with Fynn at one point, and found, to my great delight, a trio of lovely rotten kids selling their odds-and-ends while chatting and eating their breakfast in the sun.  two were sisters, two were neighbors, and all were my kind of ladies.  i bought a candle holder just to have an excuse to hang around, and could have sat there all afternoon.  full of delight and wonder and questions and happiness ... they reminded me much of my Grambie and how much i've missed her and her voice and hands and very warm lap.  i was so glad to find them.  cool new people for sure.

earlier this week we had a two-evening long event which was designed and orchestrated by Fynn, and as he's tasked with blogging about it, I won't do more than share the pic above of one team's prep area.  it was way more fun than i expected it to be :).

today we went downtown hoping to catch the farmer's market before it closed up for the day, and after wondering why the parking was so scarce and some roads were closed off ... we found that it was the Rossini festival with food carts and vendors galore, opera being sung, swords being swung, and nary a green vegetable or fresh flower in sight.  oops.

we spent part of the market budget on street food (ugh) but had a jolly time and got to talk to some interesting folks, and see some cool sights.  fynn even got to try on some real chain mail!

we spent a long time at one glassworks place, and michael modeled one of their eyeball pendants quite handsomely, don't you think?

we found Art Alley, which was a block-long stretch of graffiti/art work, and a great way to avoid a stretch of food tents and crowds when i got a little tired of them.

when we walked back to the car at the end of the afternoon, i laughed to myself ...

... the arch we'd come under 3 hours earlier was now struggling at half-mast, dragged down by deflated balloon tails and the ravages of increasingly gusty winds.  i felt a kinship with it, like it was a rather silly but apt expression of my recent moods.  afloat, but tattered.  i'll take it. 

as my SIL called to remind me the other day, we did get a truck, and we did get a camper, and we are on the road, even if it's not going the way we expected.  true, that.  and a welcome reminder. 

onward ...

Chalk Softly

Things take time here in Knoxville, so I wasn’t surprised it took Event Services four days to call me back.  Lorraine, with whom I spoke, seemed somewhat taken aback when I answered.  This, upon reflection, was because the voice mail I had left was in my best southern drawl, very unlike the one speaking with her.  She told me no, I could not sell my portraits in Market Square downtown, but I could draw for donations, in which case I would be considered a “busker” and would not need a permit.  Buskers are welcome anywhere there is not an Event so long as foot traffic is unimpeded.  “It’s strange,” she said “we don’t have ANY portrait artists.”

“Maybe,” I suggested, “Artists don’t like to give their work away for free.”  This was not MY feeling, however, I was stoked.  The police, who directed me to Event Services, had led me to believe I wouldn’t be able to draw at all.  Drawing for donations is something I love.  It relieves the pressure of meeting expectations and places the value judgment of your artwork in the hands of your subject and their conscience.  You never know what you’re going to get, but what you get is always genuine.  And getting anything sure beats nothing.

The next day we packed a lunch, piled in the truck, and headed downtown for the Chalk Walk at Market Square.  We had been to a Chalk Walk in Raleigh, NC about a year ago and loved it.  This would be a great way to scope the ropes for setting up while enjoying a gorgeous day out looking at art. 

The sky was blue.  The dogwoods were blooming.  We had enough diesel to get there and back.  The shoestrings we ate for breakfast were sitting well.  We found the free parking garage and just as we were getting out of the truck, Bethany says “OH NO!”  She’s staring at her phone.

“What is it!?” the boys and I say in unison.

“They’re trying to take the storage fee out of the wrong bank account; the SAME ONE that bounced it four days ago!”  This was Bad News.  Bethany puts so much time and care into juggling our four accounts that something going wrong is nearly unimaginable.  Going wrong twice is a show-stopper.  It was that stomach-dropping horror when a deer leaps out and you can’t stop the car.  Time slowed down.  I tried to breathe in the green spring air, but it was sallow and thick with despair. Chalk Walk would be the funeral procession of our happiness.

Bethany was seething hot angry tears, staring at her phone and stamping her foot some fifteen feet away.  Douglas and I stared at each other wide-eyed and frozen until Fynn, blithely unaware that the world was ending, began asking trivial questions.  “What’s that pipe for?  How tall do you think most High Top vehicles are?  We’re a High Top, right, because we parked in the High Top parking?”

We both turned to Fynn.  “Fynn, no.  This isn’t a good time to-“   THUMP!  Bethany was beside us again slapping the truck.  Matilda took it.

“There’s NOTHING we can do!  I BEGGED and got the fee waived LAST time.  They’re not going to wave it AGAIN!  I don’t even know WHY PayPal took it out of this account.  I RESET the defaults!  There’s NO STINKING WAY we can afford this!”

From some remote place, I heard my voice saying “I think we need to call the banks Right Now and see if there’s ANYthing to be done.  We’ll never enjoy this day unless we do.”

“Yeah. OK.” Bethany said, knowing she would be the one making the call, “But first we find a bench and we eat.”  We headed out of the garage in silence.  We made it half a block.

“Hey, Mom?”

“What, Fynn.”  Steel and Ice.

“Why does that sign say-“

“Fynn.”  I interrupted, “Don’t talk to Mom right now.  Walk with me."  We trudged uphill toward Market Square, the bright sunlight dimly penetrating our dark cloud.  I strode ahead, forcing Fynn to trot, as I quietly answered his continuous stream of questions.  I saw grass between buildings ahead.

“Why are we crossing the street?”

“Because there will be benches.” I pointed.  And there were.  We sat.  We prayed.  Bethany called PayPal.  We ate.  Bethany called Citibank.  I kept the boys occupied.  The grassy area was a nice little spot lined with benches, trees, and a few sculptures.  It just happened to be the one my sister had told me would be perfect for drawing portraits in.  Through the trees we could see people milling about the Chalk Walk.  After half an hour, Bethany resurfaced, triumphant.

“I didn’t realize that PayPal has a separate account for debits which is how storage is paid and that comes straight out of Citibank not 360 or TVA and the guy at Citi waived the fee but said this was the last time as long as we get the money in there by Tuesday which gives us three days but of course PayPal may have already taken out a fee and storage will likely slap us with a bounced check fee which means we’ll need to find 40 more from SOMEwhere to put in but for now the disaster won’t snowball, thank you God!”

Yes.  And thank you Bethany.  The sun was out.

Years ago, when we would hit hard times in Brooklyn, I would tell Bethany that she was overreacting.  These were merely circumstances.  Anger wasn’t going to fix anything.  This did a lot of good.  Like gasoline to fire.  The smoldering cloud of gloom would last for days, weeks, even months, and I would do anything to get away.  Hide.  I wasn’t going to let my Don’t-Worry-be-Happy get sucked into that vortex, so I would go to my studio or crawl in a bottle leaving her alone with the anger and despair.  It took me far too long to realize these were her Feelings, not enemies, and she needed me there feeling her feel her Feelings.  Not cringing or judging or attacking, just being there.

It’s hard.  It’s suffocating.  But, man, has it changed things.  I’ve learned that her anger was not because I’d saddled her with the financial responsibility but because the financial situation had gotten out of her control and there was nothing she could do about it.  “Ohhh…” you say, nodding sagely, “she’s got Control Issues …”  Shut Up.  She’s damn good at what she does and she already knows what her issues are.  I’ve also learned that what I thought was despair over our circumstances was despair that I would be remote and Absent.  Again.  That’s heart-rending.  But now I’m getting an inkling of where this could go.  The cords I’m not severing from my heart to hers go both ways, and the commitment I thought I was lacking from Bethany is now pouring into my heart through those same cords.  So, if she’s angry, I’m going to be there for every terrifying minute of it.

The Chalk Walk was a lot of chalk drawings, the more of which you looked at, the more you wanted to do one yourself.  At least that’s how Fynn and I were affected.  I really liked the shark one. 

This lady won last year …

This one was done by a grade-schooler ...

This girl did beautiful work. I don't know if she ever finished.

Beer on the moon!  This one looked even better once the sky was black, and full of stars.

Halfway through, Fynn pointed out the free-for-all section in the central plaza.  Lots of kids were drawing.  He began asking to go and draw about every three minutes.  “Let’s just look at everything first, and then we’ll see,” Bethany or I would respond.  As we were hot and the crowds were wearing down our patience, we moved through the second half faster and faster.

A table on the edge of the free-for-all area was selling t-shirts and boxes of chalk.  They also had a box of leftover chalks from those who had finished their drawings.  It wasn’t clear if these were for sale or free for the using, so we sent Fynn to ask, figuring he had the best chance of charming free ones from the lady.  Fynn returned with three chalks; white, lavender, and yellow.  “Dad, are you coming?”  Of course I was.

Douglas and Bethany chose to relax in the shade while Fynn and I found a spot he could draw.  “Dad, are you drawing?”  He asked hopefully.

“Well, are these all the colors you could get?”  Yellow, white, and lavender is a very limited palette, especially drawing with chalk.

“No, there’s a whole bunch in the box.”  Bless him.  He was only being polite, taking three.

“I’ll be back,” I said, and went and picked out one of every color I could find. 

We had fun.

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Right before we left, the UT physics club had set up a table of things they had drug out of the lab and were doing demonstrations and soliciting donations.  What a bunch of geeks!  Douglas fell right to talking with them as if he wasn’t introverted at all, and Fynn nearly dove head first into the bowl of liquid nitrogen. They geeked hard for 15 minutes and even made donations from their own wallets as we left.  I looked around.  Tomorrow I would come back and I would work for donations.

Douglas pointed out in the truck that Fynn’s knife was the most potentially violent drawing in the whole Chalk Walk.  “At least there wasn’t blood on it,” I said, “Though the drawing of Galactus showed him destroying the earth.”

“Even that,” Bethany said, “didn’t evoke the same kind of danger.  There was a gentleness to everything there.”

“Yeah.” I said.  “It crossed my mind to have him draw some chopped carrots."