My dad's mother, Grandma Hattie Pulford Hahn, was a country woman but well educated for her day. That is, she had long passages of the Bible memorized, including the whole Sermon on the Mount. She was my Sunday School teacher in the town's Methodist church and before marriage she'd been a one-room country school teacher. She had thirteen grandchildren but I felt I was a favorite of hers. Perhaps each of us thought the same. I have tons of memories about her and I love her to this day. Her second son, Reuben Jordan Hahn, was my father.
Grandmother Maude Turner Darling was my city grandma. She had a business of her own long before I came along. It was a milliner's shop. By the time I knew this grandmother well she'd had four beautiful children all grown up, but only my two younger brothers and me for grandchildren. We were the offspring of her youngest, my mother, Faith Caroline Darling Hahn.
After graduation from high school I took my first train ride to Riverside, California from Minneapolis, Minnesota. There I was to live with Grandmother Darling and attend the Riverside Junior College located just a short walk from her small adobe cottage. By then both my mother and my country grandma had passed on. Daddy got married to the mother of a schoolmate of mine who had lost his father and the new stepmother was a good fit to take over where I'd left off. This phase of my life presented a comfortable interlude of nearly two years between high school and marriage.
Living with Grandmother Darling gave me a path away from country boyfriends and the likely role of a Minnesota wife and mother. Grandmother bought me a piano and paid for private piano lessons with an excellent teacher. She watched me do her proud with good grades in college where the professors called me "Miss Hahn." I knew the moral boundaries that were expected of me and was glad to obey them, even though these were hinted more than spoken. A "nice girl" just guarded her reputation and self respect. Grandmother Darling paved the way to my marriage to a young Marine captain who was a fighter pilot as well as the product of a family who had lived next door to her in Minneapolis. At nineteen I was married to Wallace Ginder Wethe in the Flyers' Chapel at The Mission Inn in Riverside, California. It was a small and beautiful ceremony.
So, there it is in a nutshell. What prompted this blog? Only this: Grandmothers of the world should be shining examples to their grandchildren. They can't be perfect, but they can show unconditional love and hope in ways that can't offend. No one wants to be exactly like grandma, but good grandmas show us how to be the best of ourselves. Here are a few grandmother rules: Don't preach; just be. Don't criticize; just wait for the seed to grow. Crudely expressed advice I once heard was not too wrong: "A good grandmother keeps her purse open and her mouth shut."I would add, be a grandmother that believes God is always there for His children whether they know it or not. Prayers by grandmothers work.
If you have a loving grandmother count yourself blessed. If you don't, then I pity you, but you can do this: Pretend you have an ideal grandmother. Maybe you can improve on the one or ones you have by being an ideal grandchild. Much of our world is make-believe anyway, so make believe the best of Grandma and Grandpa too. Make believe the best of your parents and even everyone, but most of all make the best of yourself, not in make-believe but for real! A good Grandmother would show you how.
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
A Vacation to Remember
I like short vacations. They serve just as well as long ones to give you a new perspective on life. Lately I've become such a homebody I rarely want to go on any kind of vacation at all. A drive through the spaces we find set aside as greenbelts here in Southern California gives me the sense of adventure I used to get on those long treks when my husband's new Marine Corps assignments took us on moves across the whole country.
Idyllwild, California. Just got home from there with my daughter, Robin. She went to stay at a friend's cabin home and take care of her two dogs while the friend was on a vacation of her own. I was invited to come along. Didn't really want to leave but dreaded the thought of my dear daughter scaling the mountain's curvy roads alone and, after all, she'd accompanied me on our latest trip to Escondido where I used up some of my remaining time share points. So, I went. I'm so glad I did!
There must be something about the mountain air that especially invigorates and refreshes one. When we got there Robin opened the car windows and said, "Smell this air, Mom!" Yes, it did smell wonderful. And the charming cabin where we stayed, the small town feel to the place that belied the fact that it is also a tourist destination, - all this crept into our few days like an elixir of life.
Now I'm grateful to be home again but not for the same old, same old, home. My home is what I might call strangely familiar. That is, it's like an old me with distinct possibilities for change to a better me.
I won't bore my readers with an account of all we did except to say we took our work along. Robin took her paints and canvas and I took my clay and sculpting tools. We both accomplished some satisfying work. And we took out time to browse around the town, find a quaint old-town coffee shop, a few neat gift shops, one nostalgic collectors' thrift store and a delightfully upscale dinner place for our last night. Robin took lots of pictures and talked to the locals. (You can probably find the pics, if you wish, on her Facebook page under Robin Wethe Altman or contact me at jwrobertson@cox.net and I'll send them to you.)
On the way home we stopped at the Riverside National Cemetery where Wally G's ashes lie beneath a stone along with thousands of other veterans. It was still Veterans' Day (the 11th was on Sunday) so we had missed a celebration, but there were still American flags placed on each gravesite and it was a sight to behold on a sunny fall day! When, after a brief search among the names, we found Wally G's name, we both broke out in tears. So simple. So moving. Wally was not one for funerals but he did say once that he wanted to be buried there, in that cemetery dedicated to veterans, near the town of Riverside where we were married in the Flyers' Chapel at The Mission Inn. He wanted only that tiny spot to declare that there was once a man named Wallace G. Wethe, Lt.Col. USMC who lived, fought and died for his family, his faith and his nation. In time that stone will be replaced with one that is inscribed with both his name and mine. "...and his wife, Joyce." No need for my other surnames. It is enough to be remembered as a Wethe, Wally G's wife of forty years. I could ask no higher honor.
On the last lap home we stopped for lunch at a huge mall on a crossroads in the desert and ate Chinese food in the car under the shade of a tree. The food was disappointing but the fortune cookie made up for that. It said, "Wishing you happiness."
Idyllwild, California. Just got home from there with my daughter, Robin. She went to stay at a friend's cabin home and take care of her two dogs while the friend was on a vacation of her own. I was invited to come along. Didn't really want to leave but dreaded the thought of my dear daughter scaling the mountain's curvy roads alone and, after all, she'd accompanied me on our latest trip to Escondido where I used up some of my remaining time share points. So, I went. I'm so glad I did!
There must be something about the mountain air that especially invigorates and refreshes one. When we got there Robin opened the car windows and said, "Smell this air, Mom!" Yes, it did smell wonderful. And the charming cabin where we stayed, the small town feel to the place that belied the fact that it is also a tourist destination, - all this crept into our few days like an elixir of life.
Now I'm grateful to be home again but not for the same old, same old, home. My home is what I might call strangely familiar. That is, it's like an old me with distinct possibilities for change to a better me.
I won't bore my readers with an account of all we did except to say we took our work along. Robin took her paints and canvas and I took my clay and sculpting tools. We both accomplished some satisfying work. And we took out time to browse around the town, find a quaint old-town coffee shop, a few neat gift shops, one nostalgic collectors' thrift store and a delightfully upscale dinner place for our last night. Robin took lots of pictures and talked to the locals. (You can probably find the pics, if you wish, on her Facebook page under Robin Wethe Altman or contact me at jwrobertson@cox.net and I'll send them to you.)
On the way home we stopped at the Riverside National Cemetery where Wally G's ashes lie beneath a stone along with thousands of other veterans. It was still Veterans' Day (the 11th was on Sunday) so we had missed a celebration, but there were still American flags placed on each gravesite and it was a sight to behold on a sunny fall day! When, after a brief search among the names, we found Wally G's name, we both broke out in tears. So simple. So moving. Wally was not one for funerals but he did say once that he wanted to be buried there, in that cemetery dedicated to veterans, near the town of Riverside where we were married in the Flyers' Chapel at The Mission Inn. He wanted only that tiny spot to declare that there was once a man named Wallace G. Wethe, Lt.Col. USMC who lived, fought and died for his family, his faith and his nation. In time that stone will be replaced with one that is inscribed with both his name and mine. "...and his wife, Joyce." No need for my other surnames. It is enough to be remembered as a Wethe, Wally G's wife of forty years. I could ask no higher honor.
On the last lap home we stopped for lunch at a huge mall on a crossroads in the desert and ate Chinese food in the car under the shade of a tree. The food was disappointing but the fortune cookie made up for that. It said, "Wishing you happiness."
Friday, November 9, 2012
When a Friend Hits You
The subject of pacifism comes up often in the human narrative though maybe not so often as the instinct to fight back. These come up at every stage of growth and need to be addressed even daily in small and large ways from bitter words to harmful actions.
I often think of a friend of ours, a man who was married but had no children of his own and loved children. He became a favorite pal of the little ones in his neighborhood. One day one of the little boys appeared on his doorstep in tears. "What's the matter, Georgie?" my friend asked. Wiping his eyes with his sleeve Georgie said between sobs, "My friend hit me!"
How often do we all run up against this in our lives? It's bad enough to have an adversary strike us, but when a friend does? This adds a special gall to the cup. We feel betrayed and hurt. We expect our friends to be friends without exception. As for enemies, well, an occasional slap in the face or unkind remark is to be expected. In either case, what shall we do, take it on the chin and stand tall or give out with a sock in the eye?
In my personal life I try to be the stand tall type but when it comes to war I tend to lean toward meeting warlike actions with a strong warring response. In my long lifetime I've seen the results of both pacifism and war and find there's no easy answer. Even Jesus predicted that there will be wars. I don't recall he said, "Go ye into all the world and preach the gospel to every creature, heal the sick, raise the dead, and refuse to go to war at any cost."
My first husband was a Marine fighter pilot and served in two wars over a 20+ year career. I know he had unspoken regrets over dropping bombs or shooting down enemy planes but he regarded his mission as honorable in defending our nation from enemies who would inflict pain and persecution on us in order to serve their evil regimes.
On the personal level I seldom have a warlike reason to act against anyone. I try to always see the other's point if it is contrary to my own but recently I found myself responding to an unkind remark by one who has been a lifetime friend with the "silent treatment." You know how that goes. You simply cut off relationship with the offender by cutting off all dialogue. I've seen others do it and scorned the behavior as a form of hatred that is cruel and unseemly and self-defeating.
This person is the kind that never engages in healthy discussion on a controversial subject but states her view and ends further dialogue with the change of subject. So, I didn't want to give a straightforward response to her comment. Still, the longer I waited to respond or communicate with this one in any way the worse I felt about it. It's hard to carry a grudge, no matter how justified. To have someone in your life who has been a good friend, in spite of her sometimes odd attitudes, and suddenly cut that one out of mind and heart takes conscious effort. Even after overlooking many such remarks should I finally take a stand and end the relationship with silence or anger? What would that do to me? Am I ready to suffer the toll on my own psyche?
My daughter, Robin, is a pacifist. She wants to love the whole world and never, never go to war over anything. I admire her conviction that "There must be better ways than war, Mom!" And I agree, but still I wonder.
As for my friend, I am overlooking the remark as something she said to announce her point but didn't mean to hurt me. After all, she is my friend. When the little neighborhood boy stood on the doorstep of my other friend in tears I know he was brought in, given a glass of milk and a cookie and some kindly advice to remember the "friend" part of his relationship. For further encounter with others we too should remember that when some snag threatens to sever our friendship. It takes a load off our minds to forgive, even when forgiveness is not sought. That should go for our enemies too, I suppose. But that's another story altogether!
I often think of a friend of ours, a man who was married but had no children of his own and loved children. He became a favorite pal of the little ones in his neighborhood. One day one of the little boys appeared on his doorstep in tears. "What's the matter, Georgie?" my friend asked. Wiping his eyes with his sleeve Georgie said between sobs, "My friend hit me!"
How often do we all run up against this in our lives? It's bad enough to have an adversary strike us, but when a friend does? This adds a special gall to the cup. We feel betrayed and hurt. We expect our friends to be friends without exception. As for enemies, well, an occasional slap in the face or unkind remark is to be expected. In either case, what shall we do, take it on the chin and stand tall or give out with a sock in the eye?
In my personal life I try to be the stand tall type but when it comes to war I tend to lean toward meeting warlike actions with a strong warring response. In my long lifetime I've seen the results of both pacifism and war and find there's no easy answer. Even Jesus predicted that there will be wars. I don't recall he said, "Go ye into all the world and preach the gospel to every creature, heal the sick, raise the dead, and refuse to go to war at any cost."
My first husband was a Marine fighter pilot and served in two wars over a 20+ year career. I know he had unspoken regrets over dropping bombs or shooting down enemy planes but he regarded his mission as honorable in defending our nation from enemies who would inflict pain and persecution on us in order to serve their evil regimes.
On the personal level I seldom have a warlike reason to act against anyone. I try to always see the other's point if it is contrary to my own but recently I found myself responding to an unkind remark by one who has been a lifetime friend with the "silent treatment." You know how that goes. You simply cut off relationship with the offender by cutting off all dialogue. I've seen others do it and scorned the behavior as a form of hatred that is cruel and unseemly and self-defeating.
This person is the kind that never engages in healthy discussion on a controversial subject but states her view and ends further dialogue with the change of subject. So, I didn't want to give a straightforward response to her comment. Still, the longer I waited to respond or communicate with this one in any way the worse I felt about it. It's hard to carry a grudge, no matter how justified. To have someone in your life who has been a good friend, in spite of her sometimes odd attitudes, and suddenly cut that one out of mind and heart takes conscious effort. Even after overlooking many such remarks should I finally take a stand and end the relationship with silence or anger? What would that do to me? Am I ready to suffer the toll on my own psyche?
My daughter, Robin, is a pacifist. She wants to love the whole world and never, never go to war over anything. I admire her conviction that "There must be better ways than war, Mom!" And I agree, but still I wonder.
As for my friend, I am overlooking the remark as something she said to announce her point but didn't mean to hurt me. After all, she is my friend. When the little neighborhood boy stood on the doorstep of my other friend in tears I know he was brought in, given a glass of milk and a cookie and some kindly advice to remember the "friend" part of his relationship. For further encounter with others we too should remember that when some snag threatens to sever our friendship. It takes a load off our minds to forgive, even when forgiveness is not sought. That should go for our enemies too, I suppose. But that's another story altogether!
Thursday, November 8, 2012
Curiosity & Discovery at any Age
Today I'll be seeing the great grandie who lives nearest me. He is nine months old and his name is Jack Carlo Murcia. When I write about him I want you to know I am not slighting my other great grandies, Sammantha, Max, Kingston, and Amy. I love them all dearly but baby Jack is the one I get to observe most frequently because he lives the nearest.
As I've mentioned before, to watch a baby at play you can plainly see that life is a matter of curiosity and discovery for babies. It should be for us all up until the day we become curious enough to have the daring to reach out to the "hereafter."
Now, to anyone who doesn't believe in a hereafter or a here-to-fore, I say, That's OK. I won't try to change your mind because I can't furnish proof of either. Still, since I have no proof either that there isn't life before birth and after death, I simply choose to believe in both. Someone once pointed out to me that in order to see the here-to-fore and the hereafter you only need to climb to a higher point of view. It's like seeing the bend in a river from a precipice above rather than from the shore below. Sounds reasonable to me. No one can say there's not a whole lot more to life than any of us have yet discovered. And that makes me highly interested in the here and now from an ever ascending standpoint.
Baby Jack and Baby Amy (who I saw on Skype the other day) are both curious about the colorful toys their parents have provided them. Color, feel, taste, smells and sounds fill their waking hours. As they grow they also learn to recognize love. Later they'll learn the do's and don'ts of life through trial and error and/or the guidance of their parents and teachers. Along the way they'll get educated in social and civic matters. They'll find inner talents in literature, music, art, science, etc. Maybe they will entertain curiosity that reaches beyond the five senses. This is good up to a point so long as it doesn't become adherence to baseless conjecture and superstition.
Now, I'm wondering if all this is so transparent that it's too boring to go on my blog site. Where is it going? I don't know. I just find it fun to write. Words sometimes lead me to ideas I've not thought of before. Just as my fingers form clay into faces of people I've never known. What comes out on paper and in clay is often something unique and worthy.
So, what did I get out of this blog? Only the suggestion that I too, at the near age of 87, am a baby yet, exploring a territory beyond my present comprehension. To have the curiosity to seek a more compassionate point of view (even in the midst of a political campaign!) is to gain peace and understanding. To suffer the pains of what others may appear to inflict on me without striking back? That is a step toward a better world, but not if it means letting oneself be victimized. Putting up with wrongs when we can help to set things straight is no virtue, but resisting requires wisdom and moral stature.
Some say that age is infancy. I say that if that's so, then great! I'm ready to explore my world with the curiosity of a baby who's learning to crawl and the discovery of a sage who has learned to climb.
As I've mentioned before, to watch a baby at play you can plainly see that life is a matter of curiosity and discovery for babies. It should be for us all up until the day we become curious enough to have the daring to reach out to the "hereafter."
Now, to anyone who doesn't believe in a hereafter or a here-to-fore, I say, That's OK. I won't try to change your mind because I can't furnish proof of either. Still, since I have no proof either that there isn't life before birth and after death, I simply choose to believe in both. Someone once pointed out to me that in order to see the here-to-fore and the hereafter you only need to climb to a higher point of view. It's like seeing the bend in a river from a precipice above rather than from the shore below. Sounds reasonable to me. No one can say there's not a whole lot more to life than any of us have yet discovered. And that makes me highly interested in the here and now from an ever ascending standpoint.
Baby Jack and Baby Amy (who I saw on Skype the other day) are both curious about the colorful toys their parents have provided them. Color, feel, taste, smells and sounds fill their waking hours. As they grow they also learn to recognize love. Later they'll learn the do's and don'ts of life through trial and error and/or the guidance of their parents and teachers. Along the way they'll get educated in social and civic matters. They'll find inner talents in literature, music, art, science, etc. Maybe they will entertain curiosity that reaches beyond the five senses. This is good up to a point so long as it doesn't become adherence to baseless conjecture and superstition.
Now, I'm wondering if all this is so transparent that it's too boring to go on my blog site. Where is it going? I don't know. I just find it fun to write. Words sometimes lead me to ideas I've not thought of before. Just as my fingers form clay into faces of people I've never known. What comes out on paper and in clay is often something unique and worthy.
So, what did I get out of this blog? Only the suggestion that I too, at the near age of 87, am a baby yet, exploring a territory beyond my present comprehension. To have the curiosity to seek a more compassionate point of view (even in the midst of a political campaign!) is to gain peace and understanding. To suffer the pains of what others may appear to inflict on me without striking back? That is a step toward a better world, but not if it means letting oneself be victimized. Putting up with wrongs when we can help to set things straight is no virtue, but resisting requires wisdom and moral stature.
Some say that age is infancy. I say that if that's so, then great! I'm ready to explore my world with the curiosity of a baby who's learning to crawl and the discovery of a sage who has learned to climb.
Monday, November 5, 2012
The Music of Our Times
When I get tired of TV News told over and over again I tune into a station (on the TV) called "Easy Listening." It takes me to a sweet spot in my heart that rests beguilingly between romanticism and nostalgia. I want to write about it but you know, dear reader, exactly what I mean. You may have a more recent collection of songs, the songs of your own tender youth and younger years, but the feeling is the same.
Right now for me it is playing "Tears Get In Your Eyes." I remember the first time hearing it. A senior girl at one of our high school events stood with a mike in her hand down on the gymnasium floor. (We didn't have an auditorium in our small town high school.) She had a beautiful voice and sang it so tenderly I could not hold back the tears in my own eyes.
That girl has gone into the hereafter now as so many of my classmates have. That too brings tears to my eyes. Happy times often take our minds back to earlier years, different scenes, by-gone days. Those were the days when we had hopes and dreams for the future. That future? I don't recall that I ever thought of it as the "single blessedness" I now enjoy or the prospect of having adorable great grandchildren. That future was something almost too sweet to define. It hung on the strains of music we loved. The music of our times.
Recently I visited a charming gift shop and bought a little block of wood with words inscribed on it saying: THE OLDER I GET THE BETTER I WAS. When I saw an old photo of myself the other day I thought to myself, Was that really how good I looked? Now I see myself in photos and want to cut that part of the picture out. I don't recognize me. Why is it I still feel ageless inside? There must be a "me" that only I can see or feel. Thankfully, that inner me is the only one I see on a regular basis. The other one, the outer one, is what others see or I see only in photos. Even the image in the bathroom mirror is better when I get my make-up on in the warm amber light. Once I leave it I leave others to deal with the outer picture and myself with an inner one whose face is hidden but whose heart is laid bare.
Now the music is playing "I Worry and Wonder." Yes, I worry and wonder. Then I step out on my patio on a day like this when the sun falls in filtered light through tree tops and reflects on the creek's ripples in sparkles of gold. I feel good. I think if I knew then I'd "end up" contented with a long life behind and the mystery of the next life somewhere, sometime not too soon, in a place like this with children who love me, grandchildren too, and darling babies and toddlers for great grandies, I might have been happy to know I was going there. Still, I do worry and wonder sometimes. Wherever was that sweet spot when life was absolutely perfect and I didn't know it? When did I pass it by unnoticed because I was reaching out longingly on the strains of the music of my times?
Right now for me it is playing "Tears Get In Your Eyes." I remember the first time hearing it. A senior girl at one of our high school events stood with a mike in her hand down on the gymnasium floor. (We didn't have an auditorium in our small town high school.) She had a beautiful voice and sang it so tenderly I could not hold back the tears in my own eyes.
That girl has gone into the hereafter now as so many of my classmates have. That too brings tears to my eyes. Happy times often take our minds back to earlier years, different scenes, by-gone days. Those were the days when we had hopes and dreams for the future. That future? I don't recall that I ever thought of it as the "single blessedness" I now enjoy or the prospect of having adorable great grandchildren. That future was something almost too sweet to define. It hung on the strains of music we loved. The music of our times.
Recently I visited a charming gift shop and bought a little block of wood with words inscribed on it saying: THE OLDER I GET THE BETTER I WAS. When I saw an old photo of myself the other day I thought to myself, Was that really how good I looked? Now I see myself in photos and want to cut that part of the picture out. I don't recognize me. Why is it I still feel ageless inside? There must be a "me" that only I can see or feel. Thankfully, that inner me is the only one I see on a regular basis. The other one, the outer one, is what others see or I see only in photos. Even the image in the bathroom mirror is better when I get my make-up on in the warm amber light. Once I leave it I leave others to deal with the outer picture and myself with an inner one whose face is hidden but whose heart is laid bare.
Now the music is playing "I Worry and Wonder." Yes, I worry and wonder. Then I step out on my patio on a day like this when the sun falls in filtered light through tree tops and reflects on the creek's ripples in sparkles of gold. I feel good. I think if I knew then I'd "end up" contented with a long life behind and the mystery of the next life somewhere, sometime not too soon, in a place like this with children who love me, grandchildren too, and darling babies and toddlers for great grandies, I might have been happy to know I was going there. Still, I do worry and wonder sometimes. Wherever was that sweet spot when life was absolutely perfect and I didn't know it? When did I pass it by unnoticed because I was reaching out longingly on the strains of the music of my times?
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
My Art Star
My mother was first to declare me a budding artist. I was about four years old when I sat out in our back yard with a pad and pencil. "Here, Joycie, see if you can draw this cow," she said as she handed me a magazine tear-out photo. Maybe it was her way of trying to slow down a super active little girl while putting baby brother in bed for his afternoon nap. Later she found me still at it. She took the page out of my lap and let out a squeal of delight. I remember enough about that drawing to know that it was no childish rendition but a truly good likeness of that cow. So, I learned right then what genuine praise at an early age can do to set a star in the heavens for a child. That star for me was art.
At first a pencil and paper were enough. In about the sixth grade I entered a magazine contest and won a certificate to an art school. Trouble was the school was about a hundred miles away in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Our small town high school had no frilly subjects like art. It was strictly academic although music and sports ranked high. I contented myself by drawing in my spare time.
Entering Riverside Junior College in 1943, I was still aiming for that art career star. I took the only art course still given, Art Appreciation. The reason? During WWII all non-essential courses in state schools were dropped. My further education in art would be on hold until after I'd earned the mandatory credits. But after those first two years another career intercepted art. I married at nineteen and became a Marine officer's wife, then a mother. I watched gladly to see our third child, Robin, become the artist I might have been. She had every advantage in that direction, a burning desire to be an artist from the age of three, plenty of art classes in the artist community where she grew up, a college scholarship in art, a summertime booth at the art festival in Laguna Beach and a promising career that is blossoming today.
In 1986, after becoming a Marine widow, I enrolled in a clay sculpting class in the Laguna. It turned out that I was the only one in the class to learn sculpting. The rest made pots and the teacher set me off in a corner by myself with several how-to books, a few tools and a large block of clay. After the first week I knew I'd found my niche. I quit my job as a secretary in a retirement community and dove into what was to become my art star chase at last.
I'd hardly begun when life threw me another path, the building of a dream house in my old home town in Minnesota. There I had a big studio, a kiln, and a new life. Until, that is, I went to Summer Session for Adults at Principia College to take a course in sculpting. There another side road showed up, marriage to Dr. Robby, a retired college professor at that school. I sold my house and moved to West County, St. Louis. Sculpting again took a back seat.
Now, nearly seven years after my eight year marriage to Robby, I have belatedly begun again. I sculpt faces. I can do full figures but only the faces interest me. They come out of the clay almost forcefully as if I have nothing more to do than let my hands and fingers go to it. In a little while someone begins to appear. Someone gives me the eye, the smile (yes, they all smile) and I am hooked until the face and I have bonded and it says, "Thank you, Joycie!"
The faces are coming now, two, three, four a day. I'm in heaven and find it hard to keep up with my housework, much less reading and all the other to-do's that come along. Robin is helping me to get ready for being juried for the art festival next summer. She thinks I have a good chance to get in. She's also suggested a name for my faces: Beautiful People. They don't have the ordinary kind of beauty and some might think them homely, (though I can't imagine why!) Each has an inner beauty, that shines through. I take a lump of clay and don't quit until someone, a real person and someone I absolutely love, comes out.
Here's how I'll market them soon, with this note on their numbered certificate declaring that there is only one original of them. It says:
At first a pencil and paper were enough. In about the sixth grade I entered a magazine contest and won a certificate to an art school. Trouble was the school was about a hundred miles away in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Our small town high school had no frilly subjects like art. It was strictly academic although music and sports ranked high. I contented myself by drawing in my spare time.
Entering Riverside Junior College in 1943, I was still aiming for that art career star. I took the only art course still given, Art Appreciation. The reason? During WWII all non-essential courses in state schools were dropped. My further education in art would be on hold until after I'd earned the mandatory credits. But after those first two years another career intercepted art. I married at nineteen and became a Marine officer's wife, then a mother. I watched gladly to see our third child, Robin, become the artist I might have been. She had every advantage in that direction, a burning desire to be an artist from the age of three, plenty of art classes in the artist community where she grew up, a college scholarship in art, a summertime booth at the art festival in Laguna Beach and a promising career that is blossoming today.
In 1986, after becoming a Marine widow, I enrolled in a clay sculpting class in the Laguna. It turned out that I was the only one in the class to learn sculpting. The rest made pots and the teacher set me off in a corner by myself with several how-to books, a few tools and a large block of clay. After the first week I knew I'd found my niche. I quit my job as a secretary in a retirement community and dove into what was to become my art star chase at last.
I'd hardly begun when life threw me another path, the building of a dream house in my old home town in Minnesota. There I had a big studio, a kiln, and a new life. Until, that is, I went to Summer Session for Adults at Principia College to take a course in sculpting. There another side road showed up, marriage to Dr. Robby, a retired college professor at that school. I sold my house and moved to West County, St. Louis. Sculpting again took a back seat.
Now, nearly seven years after my eight year marriage to Robby, I have belatedly begun again. I sculpt faces. I can do full figures but only the faces interest me. They come out of the clay almost forcefully as if I have nothing more to do than let my hands and fingers go to it. In a little while someone begins to appear. Someone gives me the eye, the smile (yes, they all smile) and I am hooked until the face and I have bonded and it says, "Thank you, Joycie!"
The faces are coming now, two, three, four a day. I'm in heaven and find it hard to keep up with my housework, much less reading and all the other to-do's that come along. Robin is helping me to get ready for being juried for the art festival next summer. She thinks I have a good chance to get in. She's also suggested a name for my faces: Beautiful People. They don't have the ordinary kind of beauty and some might think them homely, (though I can't imagine why!) Each has an inner beauty, that shines through. I take a lump of clay and don't quit until someone, a real person and someone I absolutely love, comes out.
Here's how I'll market them soon, with this note on their numbered certificate declaring that there is only one original of them. It says:
BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE
ADOPTION CENTER
Out of clay I come to you
with only a hope for one more view
of a life I lived and a place I knew
on a planet called
EARTH
Joyce Darling Collections - original sculpture #______
I have no delusions that these, my faces, will make me famous. I'll leave that to heaven. I just revel each day in the joy of having found my way to my star and the inspiration to get with it. I may never make a fortune. That's irrelevant to me. Clay is not expensive. My tools don't wear out. The faces keep coming and I feel like I've finally found a darn good reason for living. Now I must not get de-railed again. I think I've learned at last to stay on the beam!
Monday, October 15, 2012
My Own Politics
Every four years when these United States ask their citizens to vote for President and Vice President I feel a sense of responsibility to re-examine my own desires of how I’d like to see this country run, what aims the parties profess and how much I trust the candidates to be truthful and capable. It presents a burden on me to exercise my best judgment and cast my ballot. So, I listen to the arguments, weigh the positions carefully and then ask myself, How do I want our country to be governed and who do I think can best guide it to that end. Here it comes down not to party allegiance but just me. Suddenly I feel a sense of saying, with real strength behind my convictions, which way I’d like to see my country go. How? I cast my ballot.
The long process of campaigns can be wearisome but the more I listen to others the better picture I get in my own mind. I try to be as objective as possible to determine which of the candidates best represent my own views. I even try to wipe the slate clean of old prejudices and loyalties. I want what I know everyone wants, the best leaders with the best ideas.
Now, the one thing I find most difficult in all this is the discovery that some in my own family, some of my best friends, see it all differently. Either I choose to speak up and hope that feelings won’t erupt in a hurtful way or keep silent on the subject. It is such a temptation to argue, but rarely does that help. On the other hand, keeping silent is hard to do. But that is what my parents did. So well did they conceal their political preferences that I cannot tell to this day what party each of them belonged to or whom they voted for. The only reason I can give for this is that they owned a small business and by tipping their hats to one or the other side they might alienate a good number of their customers. In my early years I never could keep a secret. Even when I got older and chose for myself I could not tease their politics out of them.
I wish, yes, I wish that, except for those who feel inspired to get out and work for the party and its candidates, all of us could keep our politics to ourselves. I wish each one of us could contain our feelings and arguments and let our vote be, as it’s supposed to be, secret. I have not done that myself but I wish I had.
Today I am casting my ballot. It is early because I’ve been given an absentee ballot due to a hip replacement I had a few years back. After weighing both sides carefully (and prayerfully), I have made up my mind. I suspect those closest to me can guess which way I voted but I wish they couldn’t. Many of my friends and relatives vote their own conscience and leave the talk-talk to the professional politicians. I admire that.
Here’s all the best to everyone who is eligible to vote in this USA. Let each of us have our say, and let it speak with conviction and power, on election day.
Afterwards I may smile amiably but with my lips closed and my vote still a carefully kept secret!
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