Christiana's Boat, Oil on Panel, 5" x 7"

They named their oldest child Christiana. We’ve never talked about this, my cousin and I. I wonder how life plays out with a name so closely tied to a particular brand of faith. I wonder how many assumptions are made about what she believes and how she should act, and how often her name is mispronounced and misspelled. It’s Christian with an A at the end, but it’s pronounced Christy-AHN-a. I wonder how many times she’s said this. It’s a beautiful name I think, and she’s a beautiful lady. She has her mother’s high cheekbones and a gift for travel and friendship. She has devoted her life to education so far. We all have so many lives in us, and she’s young, so there may be a few more devotions to come. I hope photography is among them. She took this picture that I finally turned into a painting, and in this and other images she captures artfully the poignant, the peaceful, the passing of time, the natural and the intricate beauty of all things God and man have made.

The more I listen, the more I hear about faith – both the brands and the lack(s?) of it. I’m reading a book about the difference between faith and religion right now. I’ve read it before and I like the guy’s voice, his way of telling stories, his certainty that you can love and feel loved by a God, a Jesus friend, without liking what all those people out there are doing under the guise of religion. I think we could be friends, this guy and I, because he’s not trying to convince anyone of anything, he’s just saying he is kind of a messy human and he likes this guy named God. The chapter I read before I went to sleep last night was about how to go to church without feeling angry. I wish I could call him and ask how to watch the news and talk politics without confusing God with all the wrong that is done in His name, and what he thinks about giving credit for beauty and grace and the pattern of a starfish to chance.

When we are on the sailboat, anchored up in Lake Worth, participating in the economy of one of the richest zip codes in the United States, we are the other half. The wrong side of the tracks. The bus riders and the transients. The people who dump their garbage in public trash cans. We, Pat and I, don’t want to be lecherous and we don’t want to make our choice of independent sailboat living a problem for other people. HOWEVER. There are those living in this anchorage who bathe  in the Publix restroom, leave their garbage on the side of the road, hold hostage the employees of local business for lack of friends and real conversation, and generally make nuisances and spectacles of themselves. Pat lamented yesterday that the few scumbags ruin it for the rest of us, giving all sailing types a bad reputation and a whole lot of stink eye.

And that is how I feel about Christianity. A few bad apples, trying to tell everyone else what to do and that God hates gay people, ruin it for anyone else just trying to do right and live peacefully with other messy humans and a God who I happen to think likes me a lot. And if my name were forever linked with these pushy, televangelizing weirdos, I think I would resent them even more than I do. I get to choose what I say and when, to whom and with what motives, when it comes to talking about my private, quiet, personal beliefs, but what if my name were Episcopaula or Baptista? Maybe it would remind me to be a little sweeter, to be a better specimen, but I’m afraid it would make me defensive instead, on show, and judgemental and angry at all the people giving me and my name a bad reputation.

I guess this is just on my mind right now. Sailors seem, on the whole, to believe in weather patterns and booze more than any given set of religious tenets. I don’t need to have a prayer meeting or anything, but something in me wants to say thank you for the pattern of a starfish and for helping us safely across the miraculous Gulf Stream. Whether Christiana and her name represent something religious or not, and whether I hear the same thing other sailors do when the church bells ring across the harbor, I think my father and his brother have this in common: they raised my cousin and I to have faith – in humanity, in family, in service, in education, in ourselves, and in God. We admire each other more than we actually know each other, and always talk about how we should spend time getting closer. We would both like that I think. Until then, thank you Christiana for this picture, for this painting, for your beauty, grace, gifts, and help.

Montana Back Yard, Oil on Panel, 5" x 7"

Our sailboat is in the water and we are living in it, car-free and carefree. We’re not in the Bahamas yet, but we’re independent and unplugged (mostly), and more aware of the stars than we are of the headlines. A night or two after we left the marina, Pat sent an email to my parents he let me read first, thanking them for Christmas and other things. There was a little part about how proud they would be if they could see me zipping around in the dinghy and holding my own in this boating life. It made me want to live up to that spirit of adventure and competence. His few sentences make me want to zip and hold instead of whine. We have promised to NEVER be the yelling, angry, anxious couple screaming their way up to the dock or the mooring ball – and we’ve seen plenty of tight-lipped, unhappy mates blaming everything from wet feet to dragging anchors on their equally cross partners to know what we’re promising – but Pat’s words to my parents make me want to say yes, to feel lucky, to strive for this pioneer spirit all the time.

Silo, Oil on Panel, 5" x 7"

It’s not that going without a shower for days on end is admirable, or lugging 35 pounds of gasoline in a jerry jug across six lanes of traffic is something everyone should try. I don’t think the doctor that just shared my table for lack of available seating particularly enjoyed my pioneer look or smell. He doesn’t much care that I love wide open spaces or doing things for myself. I’m not really accomplishing anything new or brave, nothing particularly adventurous or ground-breaking. But when I hoof it a few miles for lunch, or take the bus in a strange town full of collagen and fancy cars, or stop what I’m doing to unpack a storage bin and hand Pat a tool I don’t know the name of, I feel a little freedom, a little pride. When I take the dogs a long way to tinkle without complaining, or go to the boat-parts-store and get the right piece, all by myself, I feel like I’ve done something. Learned something. Proven that I have a little strength, a good head on my shoulders, a decent attitude and some competence. I’m secretly thrilled there are no covered wagons anymore, but maybe it’s the willingness that matters. I guess walking a mile and a half to buy a new yoga mat before we set sail doesn’t quite compare to driving cattle across raging rivers to start a new life in the vast unknown, but still. I think my parents would be proud, and I’m digging the night sky and the love.

Fir Ridge, Oil on Panel, 7" x 5" SOLD

Here’s what did me in. This scrawny guy in long nasty denim shorts and lots of tattoos was standing in front of the fake Kindles in the electronics section of Wal-Mart. He was just touching them all noncommittally, not asking for help, and not getting any. And my heart broke. For all I know, he’s been wanting one for himself all year and his pops wants to buy him something nice for Christmas. But in my head he was trying to pull the trigger on a gift he couldn’t afford for a girlfriend, daughter or mother, spending his last dollar or bumping up that credit card bill even higher, two days before Christmas so his girl would have something to open. None of my business, and I just preached about choosing how you see life, but right there in front of my eyes was a story so already-written I wanted to stop, hug this guy, and tell him she’ll still love you if you buy her a toothbrush. Please go pick out a nice toothbrush for her. Here’s $3.

I didn’t do that. No hugs, no advice. I did give $3 to that Salvation Army woman out front, the one with the enormous heart, and tried to talk myself out of my mood as I got ready for my run. I parked at this new spot, Ipod on, sunglasses off, keys hidden and legs stretched. All bendy and excited about a few new miles nice and early, I headed off thinking about all the money. All the money people spend this time of year, whether they have it or not. All the money to buy, wrap, and ship things no one needs or probably even wants. I also saw a guy this morning wheeling a tiny pink sparkly Barbie bike out to his car and thought, I hope she rides that thing more than a week. When did I become such a cynic? Why can’t people give nice things to people they love? Heaven knows I get tremendous, generous, delicious gifts I don’t deserve. I was just about to the part where I tell myself to snap out of it Holyer, when something in my calf snapped instead. I felt it pop or pull or rip, and just like that I was hopping, stopping, and hobbling back to the car.

Old Barn, Oil on Panel, 10" x 8" SOLD

Now, the moral of this story is NOT when you’re tight you get hurt. I stretched darn it. And not wanting people to spend money on stupid stuff they can’t afford isn’t being tight. It’s being protective. Nosy, but well-intentioned. No, this tale is about what I did with the rest of my day. It’s about why that skinny kid was just standing in the electronics section. It’s about time. It’s about staring at fake Kindles with someone you love on your mind, finding wrapping paper and tape in a closet, and the moment when the paper and tape come back off for a different kind of BAM. The joyful, extravagant, loving human condition kind.  It’s not about the money at all. It’s not that the silly calendar I made for my brother is going to make his 2012 different than it would be otherwise, but the time I spent creating it, printing it, going to the Wal-Mart for a mailing envelope, and standing in line at the Post Office to send it to Switzerland were all spent thinking of him, time spent with him. It’s finally dawned on me that sweet Rosellyn next door would rather go out to lunch than find a card and a plate of cookies on her doorstep, so next week we’ll go out just us and spend some time together. Don’t worry Dorothy, I still shared your cookies with her and she loved them. Since I couldn’t walk much yesterday, I finally settled into my painting room with some canvases I’ve been avoiding eye contact with all week. I stood still and sometimes sat, and just spent some time with myself, my brushes, and these places in Montana I’ve been meaning to revisit. And today we’ll go see Pat’s people for a few days of Christmas.

While I was subbing a couple weeks ago, I got stuck in a media center with a big class of 8th graders while their teacher used her classroom for the equivalent of Quiz Bowl practice. During third period, everyone was relatively quiet except two girls at the closest table to mine who would not stop bickering. Bicker bicker bicker namecall, no YOU are, bicker. I finally told them life was too short for me to listen to them talk to each other like that, so either stop saying anything and do their work, or go to the back of the library where I could see them but couldn’t hear them. They looked surprised and said we’re twins, as if that explained everything, and TRIED to bring me into their bicker bubble by picking apart the idea of life being too short. How can life be too short one of them asked, when you live the whole thing until you die? Huh? I was wise to their widen the bicker field tricks, so I just put my finger to my lips and enforced the blessed media center code of silence. They spent the rest of the period quietly, thankfully, and I spent it sneaking looks at their twin-ness and thinking Oh, you’ll see. You’ll see how short life is. How it picks up speed like a cartoon avalanche and pretty soon you’ll be bickering in the old folks’ home. So that’s the moral of this story. Don’t fight with your twin. Spend time with the people (and places) you love. Time is the gift, not the fake Kindle or the rinky-dink calendar, and there’s an end to it. Spend it wisely, spend it well. And now that YOU’re depressed by the human condition, the fleeting kind of BAM, Merry Christmas. Sorry about that. I hope you have the time of your life.

Another Two Faces, Oil on Panel, 10" x 8" SOLD

Mia has been hugging me at school every day. Whether I’m in one of her classes or the restroom, there’s a big smile, a big hug, and a couple minutes of polite conversation every time she sees me. I think a person at the grocery store would witlessly look through her, but if you’re a substitute teacher in Brevard County, you scan the rolls for her name and the halls for her curly hair. I’m not sure how any kid decides whether to love a sub or hate one, and I’ve been hated, but with Mia if it isn’t good, it’s Dante’s Inferno. Sarcasm drips, comments pour, and a torrent of hate spews from her eyes. She can incite a whole classroom of perfectly nice 16 year olds to become punky toads capable of near-riot behavior. I’ve seen it. Think poor lady substitute sobbing in the bathroom and smearing lipstick down her chin, crazed by Mia while back in the classroom Mia chews gum and gazes sweetly out the window. But if it is good, Mia is loving and loyal and honest, hilarious and affectionate. I told her she couldn’t play with my hair in ceramics class two weeks ago, not so much because of her sticky clay fingers but because I was trying to maintain a modicum of professionalism. I didn’t win Mia over with coolness, that’s for sure, and there’s a chance this is all sarcasm on her part, but from my end, I’m delighted every single time I see her gum-chewing face.

I’m not cool. I never have been, and it’s way too late to start trying now. I can’t think of any way in the world I could accomplish it anyway, although I did just buy my first Ipod. I quote musicals and collect lace handkerchiefs. I read about canning instead of vampires, and a party for me is painting. By myself. One of the kids I substituted last week asked if I partied a lot in high school, and I smiled and said no, no I did not. He thought I was toeing the adult party line when I was actually, somewhat sadly, telling the honest truth. I could have gone on to tell him that my cool friends in high school called me the social refugee camp and for a little while in junior high I had a mullet, but I let him believe what he wanted. I haven’t been cool for a very, very long time, so I don’t know what Mia sees in me. The great thing about lack of cool is lack of peer pressure. I’ve just never been phased by whether my shoes are right or my jeans have the right label, if I get THE invitation or where I sit for lunch. When cool is so far off the table you can’t be threatened with its removal or tempted by its charm.

To these kids I am something of a weird neighbor with old fashioned sweaters, a lunchbox, and a haircut they don’t understand, a nice aunt in for the day when their real guardians have something else going on. I care way too much about what they’re supposed to do and what kind of people they’re going to grow up to be, I smile too much, and I ask way too many questions. I torture these kids with talk, with order, with a need for productive class time and respect for the school, their missing teachers, each other, me. Uncool but earnest, well-intentioned, and infinitely respectful until they show me a different way. Some kids love it, others hate it, hate having a stranger telling them what to do, especially without a uniform or a badge. With the haters I have no perceived authority until I assert it, they don’t see it coming, and it’s never comfortable when they’ve guessed wrong. There is no power to struggle with, no pressure to be a peer. It’s a little lonely but nice aunt or not, I’m the adult. And for every hairy eyeball and sneery lip, I get a high five, a shy smile, or a random compliment. It all seems very subjective.

Two Faces, Acrylic on Canvas, 24" x 30" SOLD

Remember this painting? I posted this version two years ago, but the reference photo of a fence line in Wyoming was still lurking in my album and I wanted to see what showed up this time around. Infinite versions are possible, and what you see is as much yours as it is mine. Love it or hate it, it’s all very subjective. Maybe that’s why there’s someone for everyone, a substitute for every student, a Mia for every weird aunt. Life is subjective and we get to choose how we see it. We all have two faces or more, and there are at least two sides to every story – probably closer to 13 or 14. If I can’t hear what they’re whispering I get to choose whether it’s about my big nose or my pretty eyes, the dumb thing I just said or more likely, nothing about me, because not much is really about me. Maybe that’s what Mia sees in me: what I choose to see in her.

Jet, Oil on Canvas, 16" x 20" Commission

What I failed to mention when it happened is that Christmas came early this year. After most of the packing and mad painting had come to a close, and before Thanksgiving with my parents and my pistol of a grandpa Maynard let the sun shine in, just when I needed it most, Christmas rang the doorbell while Biggie barked, and handed me a brown cardboard box from his brown truck of surprises. Here go most of my cool points, but I always hum the “Wells-Fargo” song from Music Man when I see a delivery guy at my door, a little thrill in my heart that it really COULD be something special just for me. I hadn’t ordered anything, wasn’t expecting anything, and couldn’t begin to imagine what was inside. Usually in these circumstances it’s something camo or something tool-y, but it was addressed to me and it looked exciting and BIG.

Turns out it wasn’t very big. It’s fairly tiny if you must know. Long-sleeved but briefer than a co-ed’s short shorts, so tight and so watertight. The opposite of big, did I mention how SHORT?, but exciting for sure. Pat Santa Claus Bond secretly ordered new wetsuits for both of us, and hours before we left for Florida they finally found their way to our front door! I don’t THINK Santa chose this model to force me back into running, but it does seem a natural course as I will be, in roughly four weeks, suctioning this little black number over my bathing suit and sporting it for Pat, God and everyone to see. In the Bahamas. In the warm, salty water full of coral and fish and lobster in 18 million spectacular colors and hiding places. With my thighs hanging out from tight rubber gaskets if you will. I will. I couldn’t be more excited. Right before Thanksgiving Mr. brown-clad Christmas delivered concrete, tangible, Geoprene proof that there is something to look forward to, something to laugh about, something happy and beautiful coming my way. There were no tears in the driveway this year, and the sunflowers that showed up in South Dakota are proof positive that the future is feeling plenty bright. I am the luckiest girl in the world.

I love Christmas. I love the secret surprises, the family traditions, the little twinkly lights, the smells and foods and black and white movies. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I’m a sucker for Christmas hymns, and Advent candles make me feel holy. There’s nothing else all year like opening the box of cookies and snacks my mom bakes and sends in the mail, and the very idea that grown people decorate TREES inside their HOUSES and in the squares of big cities seems as magical and unlikely as convincing those same grownups to walk around in prince and princess costumes, but no one bats an eye. They just haul out the boxes of lightbulb Santas and decoupage and decorate away. And I really love Christmas when it rebels against the calendar and shows up early, late, or some time in the middle of August.

The other Christmas surprise I neglected to mention was this commission I painted for a friend’s daughter. He asked me late in the summer to paint her with her horse, and we worked and worked on the what, when, and where so he could give it to her when he saw her at Thanksgiving. I’m not 100% sure the gift was given, or if it was liked, or if I’m spoiling a surprise, but odds are she’s not frequenting this site, and the deal should have gone down weeks ago. Around the time I was running six miles every day with my new wetsuit and my mom’s cookies chasing me every step. A gift is a gift when you get it, a surprise happens when you see what’s hiding in the brown box, wetsuit or painting, no matter what day of the year it is. I’m here to tell you untaping and peeking, and fixing the tape after, has never ruined a gift for me. It just lets me feel surprised and loved and thrilled on my own schedule.

Farmhouse Study, Oil on Panel, 7" x 5" SOLD

I have a thing for kitchen tables. Yesterday morning I sat at my parents’ round glass-top table listening to crazy birds in a tree I couldn’t see through the sliding glass door and to morning noises warbling down from my parent’s upstairs bedroom. The faintest drone of radio news was interrupted by descants of my mother’s singing, never a whole verse of anything, and my dad’s chorus of wake-up throat-clearings and nasally snorts. These notes, with the occasional floor squeak above my head and eventually the slow drum of feet down stairs, while chirps and whistles lit up the sky, were reveille. Coffee was making, refrigerator humming to keep the leftover turkey safe for my airplane sandwich later, and I skipped my run to sit at the glass-top table and let the music proceed quietly and sweetly.

I have a sweet family, both parental and I don’t know what to call the other. Pat and two dogs. You know, my family. Sweet in different ways. I watch Hallmark Hall of Fame movies and go to church with Ron and Dorothy, my parents. We sing along to Broadway musicals and my old youth choir performances. Genuinely sweet, not in a perfumed kleenex kind of way, but in a midwestern, coupon-clipping, grace-saying, hand-holding lucky kind of way. We laugh and talk over each other and play games and drink tea and call my brother in Switzerland dying to hear his voice and his news but shy about a four-way speakerphone conversation. We eat a lot of sandwiches, and homemade cookies are lurking around every corner.

Pat is not interested in watching Les Mis or Camelot, and his head would explode like glass if he had to sit at Perkins for three hours or shop for towels at JCPenney with anyone on God’s green Earth. But he drove our car from here to Florida for heaven’s sake, so I could spend more time with Ron and Dorothy, and discovered the leaky roof and soggy drywall all by himself. He spent the entire day yesterday, while I settled first at my parents’ and then at my grandfather’s kitchen tables, struggling to clean mildew and mold from floors and furniture. He’s already been to the grocery but he wouldn’t eat at our favorite places until I finally got back to eat with him. He surprised me with a new wetsuit for the sailboat just when I needed it most, but that’s a story for another day. Sweet in a practical, handsome, romantic, capable, lasting, loving, real everyday kind of way. In a make me a better person, honest kind of way. Our music is different, less morning noise, but the notes are rich and deep.

This morning I sit at a long wooden number in my tiled Florida kitchen. It’s the central nervous system, center stage, littered with remnants of yesterday’s travel, last week’s mail, today’s grocery list and the apple my granddad sent on the airplane with me. He’s sweet too. It’s home for computer-box, coffee cup, and all thoughts big and small. Growing up our table was classroom, art studio, abundant and perpetual meal service, and fellowship central. Now it is not unusual for me to paint, write, list, research, gather and organize, fold laundry, read, visit, and yes, eat here at this wooden table with matching chairs. Next week I’m going to tackle canning. It’s a big table. On second thought, maybe it’s less the stage and more the orchestra pit, the heart of the music, the source. I’d certainly be lost and silenced without it.

Sunflower Study 1, Oil on Panel, 5" x 7" SOLD

We’re having a fabulous time. We picked up my grandfather, who is 96 years old and still a pistol, the day before Thanksgiving and dropped him back off at his apartment in town the next evening. We played pinochle, watched the Macy’s parade, and made lots of mouth noises while we sat in the living room painting sunflowers (me) and studying the chessboard (not me). The men battled for ChessMaster of the Universe while the women cooked the full meal deal and fretted over the new dishwasher. My mom yelled into her cellphone every time an aunt or uncle called, my dad napped through the evening news, and my grandfather tried his very best to needle and tease his way into my heart. Lucky for him I’m still ticklish. Not so lucky for me. Besides being a good audience and spreading paint and brushes from one end of the house to the other, I also ran 18 miles in three days, just to keep the peace. It’s a lot easier to hear the story about falling off your first horse for the 83rd time if you’re good and tired. It helps with the tickling too.

Sunflower Study 2, Oil on Panel, 7" x 5" SOLD

I sketched out all these sunflowers a couple days before Grandpa joined the party. Thursday morning after my run, I got settled with paint and pallet, mixed my colors, and started filling in the darkest darks. A little while into the process, he puttered over, leaned across the light from the cathedral windows, and stared down at my non-paintings of purple and brown shadows. Is that a kit? he asked. Does the kit you’re using outline the colors for you? When is it going to look like something? I shouted that I would build up from the darks to the lights, and add the brightest spots at the end, so it probably wouldn’t look like much until I was almost finished. What? These dark spots give the depth and the perspective Grandpa, while the bright spots are the sunshine, the icing on the cake. What? Nothing. It’s a pretty good kit.

Sunflower Study 3, Oil on Panel, 7" x 5" SOLD

He hasn’t seen the finished pieces with the bright yellows and highlights yet. He got the shadows without the sunshine, and I’m not sure there’s much perspective in that. It’ll make for a good dig next time he sees me though: remember those paint-by-numbers you did that didn’t look anything like flowers? Well Grandpa, it’s the final touches that make a painting come alive. The rest is foundation, building blocks, brown buildings, the work. You don’t paint the door red or play in the golden sunflowers until the very last. The little touches of lemon and white are the homestretch at the end of 18 miles. Without the bruisy colors the bright spots wouldn’t make sense, but the reverse seems true too. My bright spots are the turkey soup and Shrek 3 shared after a day of museums in downtown Sioux Falls yesterday, the Christmas lights already up on farmhouses and streetlights from here to Grandpa’s apartment and back. The sunshine is another meal with my thoughtful and thought-filled parents, another round of pinochle before I get on the airplane Monday, the whitecaps on the pond behind the house, and the fire in the altar-shaped fireplace tonight. I miss Pat and our little family this week, and I wish we lived close enough to South Dakota to stop by every night to put the blanket on my horse in the little brown barn. Those are the shadows, but all in all, it’s a pretty good kit.

American Bison, Oil on Canvas Panel, 24" x 20"

This painting looks like fireworks to me. It’s almost glaring, not soft at all, and looks like an American flag was reworked to cover this canvas. I like the texture of the threads shining through the paint, and I like just how close to his face I feel, like a snort would be audible. And leave a stain. And I love that I saw him in person just a few weeks ago.

I got a surprise in the mail yesterday from my friend the librarian. It’s probably not fair to make Mary sport that t-shirt every day as she is between libraries right now and I’ve never heard her shush anyone in my life, but she is all the good and charming bits of librarian that come to mind. Mary sent me a treasure – two really, no, three. She’s a knitter, that Mary. She just relocated across the country to New Hampshire and somewhere, somehow in western MInnesota, between homes and between libraries, I’ll be darned if she didn’t knit me a pair of lambswool berry-luscious wristies! Think leg-warmers for lower arms and upper hands with a clever slot for each thumb – altogether fingerless gloves. All the girls are wearing them these days. Besides these fabulous numbers, dripping with love and style, she sent a photo of a wind farm with the reflection of the U-Haul truck shining in the mirror jutting out over the plain. The feeling this picture gave me was a deep and peaceful sigh, a quiet, head-shaking “I love America.”

I have crossed this country more than a few times. I’ve driven across Texas, Oklahoma, and on up the map. I haven’t hit the northeastern or northwestern corners yet, but I feel lucky and thankful that I’ve seen as many states as I have. It’s a fantastic place, this America, with all its flaws and quirks, and all I can be is humble and grateful that I was born here instead of the other 195 countries I could have landed in. It’s fortunate too that I’m in a patriotic state of mind, as I will be heading across at least three states Sunday. It’s time. Time to trade in bison for alligators, snow for my tomato garden, friends for acquaintances, wool for cotton, fires for Rosellyn’s Christmas yard art. And on the way across the country, I’ll trade in my warm wristies for my cool West Yellowstone Library t-shirt, salute the wind farms, pledge allegiance to the flag, and shake my head at the places I live. If we pass a roadside stand maybe I’ll even buy some fireworks. Goodbye for now American Bison, hello America.

One Mule, Oil on Canvas, 18" x 14"

Dear Michelle,

I’m flabbergasted. Really, I’m speechless. I had no idea you even knew my name. How on Earth did you get my email address? I guess maybe I gave it to your husband a couple years ago, but I never thought he would keep it, and I NEVER thought I would be hearing from you. As if, after a merry Girl-feast in town last night, I wasn’t feeling special enough, I came home to a message from the Presidents WIFE addressed to ME, waiting demurely in my Inbox. Talk about feeling prized.

Michelle, I guess I can call you by your first name since you used mine, it was almost eery that you wanted to write to me about all the incredible women you’ve had the privilege of meeting as you have traveled across the country. I came home thinking the exact same thing! In my head as I drove carefully home from a cozy dinner of comfort foods and joyous friends, I was considering the indescribable beauty, warmth, talent, and love of the women in West Yellowstone. I was thinking about the respect and humor the old science teacher and the new science teacher shared when they were comparing notes by the refrigerator, and how the twins really mean it when they hug you and say I love you. I was marveling at how open our newspaper lady is about writing for work vs. writing for real, and how honest she was willing to be with me about the recent loss in her family. I was smiling at the fact that the two girls who own the ski and bike shop, which on any given day is the town hub of all activity physical and social, often take a back seat to the rest of the star power in our midst. I was mentally hugging the new girl who braved our noise tonight and the old friend I always love seeing but never talk to. It’s as if we know there are only so many stories and so many hellos and goodbyes in a night like this, and we’ve given silent permission to each other to spend them on everyone else, because ours are unspoken and unwavering. And as I slipped up the snowy steps to my front door and fumbled for my key, I was loving the women I didn’t see tonight.

You must have read my mind when you wrote about the different ages, backgrounds, and stations in life, and how we are determined to leave a better world for our children, giving them opportunities we never even dreamed of. Ok, the never even dreamed of part may be a bit much, but I get what you mean. Some of the girls I saw last night have kids – the 4th grade teacher who should be a Sundance model has 17 of them in her classroom, and the prettiest mommy with the squishiest baby I’ve ever seen, who are so smitten with each other I can already see their future friendship when I look at them, are perfect examples. Others don’t. The Yellowstone gals, ranger and designer, who if I didn’t KNOW how smart and good at their jobs they are I would SWEAR were hired for their looks and their humor – Park Cover Girls –  and the lovely fishing and snowmobile guides, want a better world too. But you were right about how hard we work and how we persevere. And you were right when you told me how special we are. I know you visited Yellowstone a while back, but when did you meet ME?

Thank you very much for the invitation. I am incredibly honored that you thought of me. Congratulations on launching and chairing this special group of women and asking me to join you and women all across the country. I’ve never been asked to do anything by a president’s wife before. This may seem off-topic, or like I’m avoiding your direct request, but did you ever see the 1980-something musical version of Annie with Carol Burnett as Mrs. Hannigan? Remember how “The sun’ll come out tomorrow… TO-MORROW, TO-MORROW, I LOVE YOU, TOMORROW…” etc. is the song that comes to mind and jars your ears when they go way up high on some of those notes, whenever you think of Annie? I had forgotten until I watched it the other night that this was a political song. If you haven’t seen it in awhile, Annie gets to go to the White House with Daddy Warbucks, where he and President Roosevelt are discussing the New Deal, and after they enumerate the nation’s problems they ask Annie what she thinks of the whole thing. Well, she says, back in the orphanage when things were looking grim, she used to sing this little ditty to cheer herself and all those other hard-knock little girls right up…

But Michelle, I’m not feeling very sunny, or even very HOPEful about politics right now. I’m not sure when the sun is going to come out. To be very honest and respectful of course, I and most of the women I know are tired of politics. We’re tired of campaigns that last longer than terms in office. We’ve lost interest in issues and debates because we’re tired of hearing the talk and feeling powerless to effect change. These talented, purposeful, beautiful women you talk about and I know are feeling, for the most part, stuck with a day that’s grey and lonely, and we’re tired of sticking out our chins for no reason. I realize your kind invitation was addressed to me, Jennifer, not to the women I’ve taken the liberty to speak about and for, so I will answer you personally. Michelle, I really like you as a person, but for the first time in my life I want nothing to do with politics. It’s sad to me. I don’t know what will happen next, but if I had to guess, I’d bet my bottom dollar on a whole bunch of nothing. I appreciate how special you’ve made me feel, and I’d love to take you up on that getting to know each other part, but with real women and real parties of my own to enjoy, I think I’ll decline your invitation for now. Sorry for the long-winded answer. Good luck, and thanks again,

Jennifer

Funky Bear, Oil on Canvas, 22" x 18"

When I was little I collected stuffed animals. I had a few dolls I guess, but it was the bloat (that’s a crowd) of pink hippopotami, the patchwork hound dog with the broken neck, the stuffed donkey, and Pinky the bear who filled my shelves, my bed, and my imagination. There may also have been a unicorn hiding in the fray. The Easter Bunny, Santa, and any visiting aunts and uncles had it pretty easy: bring a book and a stuffed animal and prepare for undying affection. With my new commitment to sharing the good, the bad, and the ugly it seems only right to mention that despite the MANY storage sheds and moving trucks I’ve packed and unpacked, I still own a few of those dusty, musty, pink furry things. They were a spoonful of sugar for me, good company. And I’m a weirdo.

Funky Moose, Oil on Canvas, 20" x 16"

I don’t mind my own company, even without musical instruments. But who wouldn’t want to live in a funky town with an Easter egg bear and a bluesy moose? Who could resist afternoon tea with Linus, a herd of pink cows, and an unkindness of ravens? Can you BELIEVE that’s the official name for a flock of ravens while larks get to be an exultation? Did you know owls are a parliament and starlings are a murmuration? These are the kinds of wonderful things we talk about in MY town, full of mules and horses and all the half-finished creatures still upstairs. You’re welcome to visit, but in a week we’re taking this show on the road. If you miss us this time around, don’t worry, we’ll be back when the wind changes.