Bee Season

It's bee season here at the New Hampshire home. With bee season comes the hum of bees flying about the yard, the sweet taste of honey off the comb, and the honey harvest itself. Today, rainy as it was, the bee buddies were out--my dad and his long time friend Allen. Decked in their bee suits, I peer out to see them brushing away honey bees from the trays and passing them off to the garage--the "safe zone". Having participated in this in the past, I quickly ran upstairs to slip into long pants, making sure to pull my socks over my pants so to protect my ankles from stings. Snatching the extra bee hat, I run outside to watch.
"Whatcha doing Dad?"
"We're trying to shake most of the bees off for tomorrow."
"Oh." I say, "Can I watch?"
"Sure, if you stay in the garage you won't need the hat," he says as I drift out to see clumps of bees cluttered on the ground, on my car, some solo bees looking quite perplexed as to what they are suppose to be doing, let alone where to be, wandering up the driveway.
"Hey Mol, would you mind getting me some Benadryl?" Dad asks.
"Sure; did you get stung?"
"Aw tons of times at the ankles. They're clever bees this year."
I chuckle as I run back into the house, glad my mom, who took my dad to the ER last time for anaphylactic shock, wasn't home to hear that one, despite my dad's newly developed love for allergy shots. Tomorrow if he makes it through today without too big of a reaction, will be the honey harvest.

Note from the editor

Dear Readers:

I would like to note that I am aware of the limited amount of pictures that have been appearing on this site. I have merely loose excuses, one being that I have misplaced my digital camera to demonstrate the work I have advanced on my ice cream series, and two, I tested my arm out today, waving it romantically in the air as I believe all artists do when they paint and decided due to stitches and surgery, I must wait a few days yet before I can get back to the paint. I did however, work the day before surgery on an old piece that my friend Kelley has persistently been asking about of a woman in a blast of color. I put clothes on her. How nice of me, eh? Yes, I laid in the first layer of acrylic with the hopes of adding oil over what was a watercolor painting. This may be a disaster but I am encouraged at my willingness to experiment.
So for now, you may have to remain entertained by my more writerly story-telling as a means of informing you of the other events and activities that inform my days.

Kindest regards,
Management

Knitting Circle

This evening I had my first ever cafe crawl. Much like the pub crawls discussed, but never experienced in college, this cafe crawl had similar rules, save instead of the intent to be inebriated, the intent became progress on our knitting projects. So equipped with a ball of yarn (that I think is super beautiful and took over an hour to wind into a ball with the assistance of an architect,) we, two other girls and myself trotted down to a local coffee shop, pulling our yarn from our purses and engaging in delightful conversations about life. Noted for our "Knitting Circle" by some customers, we flashed our projects, a scarf, a hat, and a sweater in progress. "Oh, lovely!" "I have a friend who owns a knitting shop in New York City..." Ah, to own a knitting shop. I'll add that to my farm, so: 1. Farm 2. Berries for picking 3. Labrador 4. Painting studio 5. Knitting shop
When the customers had all cleared, the music stopped, we escorted ourselves out into the rain soaked streets and meandered up a block to the next coffee shop, open till ten, to join again in our circle, feet propped on a chair, peering out at the flow of passerby's out the window. While the college kids moved back in and delighted themselves in revisiting the town they had left for the summer, I was brought back to a time when late night socializing with friends was a normal and expected event. Knitting clubs on a couch of a random college art friend with wine and cheese. Nights piled on an old striped couch, passed down through generations at a house named, "The Tony Danza". Ah the memories that mingled in with the rain drops. What a fine evening indeed.

Reality show

I use to be an avid summer fan of ER. After a 7 AM swim practice I'd come home, veg on the couch and watch reruns till noon at which point my body rebooted it's tired self and on with it's day. So I knew Abby, I knew Noah Wiley and was wrapped up in the drama that never sequenced properly on TNT Summer, but I was enraptured all the same. This being said, I recently had to go in for a minor surgery. Minor because it was a "Hey we're going to knock you out and give you a bracelet but we won't let you spend the night." kind of deal.
So in I go, too preoccupied with other life things to really stress about this being my first surgery past wisdom teeth that I would remember. I pass through the waiting room it and suddenly my little trip transported me right into the set and scene from ER. Now I use to dream of being on X-Files, helping out Mulder & Scully... ER?...Not so much. But there I was and on goes the action.
To be properly dressed in character, Nurse Janet tells me about my cool new outfit, complete with tight socks and booties, then we're on to the rooms you always see the nurses hanging by where there's a movable curtain and a bed on wheels (formally known as stretchers). I can hear the guy next to me who's saying he's a regular short-stay surgery guy. Better than on TV where you hear your curtain mate screaming in pain, right? I settle in for my role, letting them ask me twenty questions, hook me up, stick things to me, and then the real action.
IV is in, dangling above my head, I'm suppose to be lying down, there's a nurse at my feet and the anesthesiologist at my head and they're wheeling me down those classic white hallways... "Hop over onto this stretcher Molly," they say, and then poof, I'm in recovery asking the nurse, "And what's your name again? And do you like your job?" Shake, shake, as I wake. I'm not sure my career questionnaire would be in the script of ER but apparently as I quest for careers, it made it in my episode script. Oh but for life experiences.

Berry Picking

Today my mother and I did a rapid berry picking extravaganza at a beautiful farm called Monadnock View Farm. Aptly named, as I hopped out of the car a gorgeous view greeted me with Mt. Monadnock standing tall. A yellow farmhouse with an old fashioned wood-street sign indicating, "Bathrooms, Berries, Check-in, Gift Shop" stuck firmly in the ground across from the cute goats and bunnies.
"Isn't this grand Mum?" I asked, skipping along the dirt road to the Check-in.
"I could totally see myself living this way on a farm with my goats, sheep, bunnies, labrador and berries, painting pictures and being perfectly content."
"Can't make much money that way Moll," she replied.
"Yeah Molly that sounds like a wonderful way of living, and I'll look forward to seeing your farm..." I rattle on, ducking behind the blueberry bushes, popping one in my mouth. I've been teasing my mom lately about her responses to my wild and crazy ideas for what it is that maybe I'm destined to do for a bit in my life. For today it is a farm girl on a blueberry farm, pick one, pop one in my mouth, canning jam, meeting fun new people who want a picking experience...

Skylight Nights

I sleep under a skylight. This can be both magical and annoying. Annoying when the thunderstorm hits and you wake to rain splashing on your face, annoying when the birds go crazy regularly at five in the morning and you just fell into sleep from a late night of painting. Magical too as the wind tosses the fuzzy trees above your head, magical when the skylight is closed and you can watch the thunderstorm light the night sky, magical when the full moon peeks through your window to splash moonlight on your face.

Last night was a toss and turn night, but it became a magical night too as I lay backwards in my bed with my feet propped to the skylight, studying the fuzzy stars--fuzzy because my glasses were off, when suddenly I saw a streak of light shoot across the sky. A falling star. My frown from discomfort instantly switched to a giant smile as I tossed my wish up to the sky and a prayer for Robbie per his mum's request. (I saw a falling star earlier this month too while I was out with my sisters in-laws and learned to toss a prayer up with a wish)

So for an evening that could have continued to be frustrating, I can thank that skylight for the evening show. Magical.

They are back

Just when I thought New Hampshire was a wonderful place to live this time of year, forgetting momentarily about the insane mosquitoes earlier in the season, I opt to take my dog out for a walk. Walking to the end of the driveway, I pause and say,
"Chloe, how about we try the trail today?"
Chloe, as most dogs, just merely follows my lead and trots on down the hill with me.
Ducking under the cross over pole that prevents cars from trespassing, we trot along about three or four yards before,
"RUN CHLOE! THEY'RE AFTER US!!" and I start haphazardly running over the loose cobblestone to avoid the dirty rotten blood sucking insane mosquitoes that have apparently had a revival.

The Smell of Oil

While this has absolutely nothing to do with books or art or writing as of yet--although I'm never one to discredit life experiences as building into great tails or art, today I learned how to change the oil in my car. For those of you who know me, I'd like to point out that in the course of my learning, yes, I DID participate. Actually, I changed the oil in three cars today through the instruction of my dad who having had three girls was probably thrilled at the bonding experience of having one girl home and interested in learning such a skill. So barefooted and clothed in some boxers with paint from when I painted my first studio, and an old shirt of Dad's I squeezed myself under the hood of not one, but three cars and twisted the filters off, drained the barrels, checked the dip sticks, rubbed smeared and coated my face and arms in oil... it was grand.
Perhaps even more exciting was the fact that my car now looks like new after having been washed down (it looked like it had mold growing on the exterior due to sitting under an oak tree for awhile). Then my dad and I cleaned, moved my sisters things to storage, washed interior windows and vacuumed. I don't know what was more interesting to discover.. the keys to my friend's old sold truck or wall hooks from my sister's dorm room under the front seat. I believe what just occurred was called "detailing". So, my car is officially detailed. Next up is my room.

Kelley's Cause

So for all my blog readers or soon to be blog readers, check out my friend Kelley's blogsite too:
kelleyscause.blogspot.com

Kelley is the youngest member in my second family. You know how that goes, the house on the block that you just ran in and out of as if it were your own. The Goddu house was like that for me. With three girls in their family and three in mine, we ran the neighborhood, biked to school together, swam on swim team together you name it. Kelley had a diving accident three years ago that left her with the prognosis of "only being able to shrug her shoulders and move her head." Kelley has since worked her butt off at special therapy clinic down in Atlanta, GA where through everyday work and exercise she has regained a considerable amount of motion in her arms and can push herself in her manual chair--certainly far more than expected in the more traditional setting. Of course like many health programs in our country, her program costs a ridiculous amount of money each week, let alone for the full three month cycles for which she is down in GA. Consequently, the percentage of continued therapy is becoming reflective upon the donations of businesses and any person or family that takes the time to donate to her non-profit site. You can read more about her on her blog site and follow the link to her non-profit site for donations too on the link above. This is the friend that I did art lessons with this summer and she did a fantastic job with oils and watercolors--the watercolor piece she developed on to cards (flowers) and are available for sale if you'd like some gorgeous stationary to write letters or gift to your letter-writing pals.

Check it out.

Props to the little one.

I spent a weekend in Ohio for my darling nephew's Baptism. While he performed stunningly and won over the hearts of all with his cute white suit and giggles.. one of the things I most enjoyed was sitting out under the evening stars with my brother-in-law and his dad, my mom and fishing in the channel that ran alongside their backyard. With glowing bobbers, a falling star and a continuous catch of ugly-as-sin catfish, a drink or two, it was just a perfect way to end the weekend of celebrating.

Lake Winnipesaukee

This morning I sat with my toes curled in the sand watching the water rock to and fro to and fro, water that I have known as a seven-year-old and water I return to as an adult. I recall watching this water memories of standing up to my hips being told to, "Talk to the fishies, listen to the fishies," while my tiny frame shivered in the chilly morning water. Thoughts of a lifeguard fishing me out because I was too tired to pass the two laps around the docks requirement that would get me out of those early morning swim lessons also drift through my mind as I think about how I swam half way around the island the day before. Mountains and tall pines surround the Jolly Island for which I am visiting, and I wondered if my younger self appreciated the mountain view, the atmospheric perspective that my adult self so admired.
My friend's family, with whom I was staying, have a saying that your life will never be the same once you've slept on an island. This island is the third island shy only to Hermit Island in Maine and Key West for which I've stayed overnight, though it is the only island for which I have slept over that required a boat to reach rather than the passage of car over bridge. While I felt the calm and relaxation that comes with resting on Jolly Island, I also enjoy the time I get to reconnect with water from long ago... summer camp memories, failing to learn how to swim memories (I since went on to go to Nationals in swimming and played four years of college water polo), meals in the dinning hall, jumping onto a balloon filled with air that floated on the surface of the lake (fully equipped with a life vest), camp fires and Mum in the Loon (sick ward) just in case I got homesick (she was a nurse). Oh the impact of a night on an island.

Interviews

Today I had a great interview with Peter Glassman, owner of Books of Wonder an independent bookstore in New York City. booksofwonder.net. Mr. Glassman is the person I purchased my first and only (because I happen to almost exclusively live on a student salary save presently) Trina Schart Hyman painting. Drifting back to that fine day I can recall Kate & Amy Silver and I exploring New York City for the first time in my rather small-town rural existence. Knowing that I was to be working in New York with Holiday House, we thought it might be smart to do a dry-run--if nothing else, to locate where in fact Holiday House was located. I also happened to want to look at this bookstore which I had viewed on the web prior as a dealer of Trina's art work... and so with no further adieu, we found Books of Wonder, a phenomenal bookstore that was just my cup of tea. Filled with beautiful books, books that had been long out of print, posters, collectibles you name it, but perhaps the most powerful was if one wandered to the back of the store where stunning pieces of original art hung on the walls.
"Molly, you have to ask if there are any Trina pieces in storage," Kate whispered as we stared at the large piece from Sense Pass King... and so I did... braving the young cashier to ask her to look in back.
There we found it, my little Trina painting, complete with finger print smudges off to the side. While the price tag was totally respectable for the work, my little college self wasn't sure I could afford it. So I went with the "Could you give me a second to think about it?" pause.
"Molly," Kate hissed. "I will not be friends with you if you don't buy that. Consider it research and use your grant money."
Such a little blackmailer that Kate Silver... but there we were and out I walked with a nice complimentary "Books of Wonder" canvas bag and my very own Trina Schart Hyman painting.
All this being extolled, I also happened to earn a conversation with the owner, a long time friend of Trina's who came out and was delightfully friendly, full of stories and a genuine love for the artist I had long admired. This was Peter Glassman. Years later, one San Francisco Captain later, and a book well on it's way to completion, I once again connected with Mr. Glassman to hear additional stories and details about Trina, this time to assist in the depth of my chapter on art galleries.