Speaking of Medusa . . .

Debbe McIntosh rattled her car keys and glanced at her watch. Typical, she thought. 

Heaving  a martyred sigh, she turned toward the empty staircase and called, pitching her voice to carry.

"Samantha! We're  going to be late for your gymnastics class if you don't get down here this instant. Do you hear me-"

"Relax, honey," Biff McIntosh, flushed and sweaty from his morning run, poked his head in the front door and gave her that disarming boyish grin that worked so well.  No, used to work so well, she thought as he went on.

"Sam ran next door to take some cookies to the new neighbors -- something about a good deed she was doing for Girl Scouts. She said to tell you she'd already put her gym bag in the car and she'd be right back." 

Debbe pursed her lips. "Do we know anything about these people? Anything at all? They could be axe murderers or-"

"Give me a break, Deb -- this is Hazelton, for cripes sakes! You know how strict the covenants are -- absolutely no axe murderers.  Besides, I told Sam not to go in. And I'm right here, keeping an eye on her. What could happen?"

Biff paused his post-run stretches and glanced to one side. "She's standing there on the door step -- must be talking to one of the sisters."

"Sisters?" Debbe grabbed up her purse and stepped through the door to peer across the narrow strip of perfect green that lay between the two houses.  Shading her eyes from the sun, she saw her daughter staring up at someone just inside the other house.  

"Who told you there were sisters?" she asked.

Biff  dropped down in the top step and began to remove his running shoes as he talked.  "I ran into Chuck Hendricks yesterday. You know, he's the realtor who sold that house. Kinda interesting -- our new neighbors are two sisters who last lived in Greece. Chuck said they liked the climate here and they chose Hazelton because they liked the privacy fences, of all things.  He hadn't actually met them -- their banker handled the sale completely -- but he spoke to them on the phone and said their English was quite good,"

Debbe squinted against the sun's glare. "It must be. Look how Sam's just standing there listening. She seemed utterly spellbound."

"Why did these sisters leave Greece, I wonder?" she mused, really to herself but Biff was eager to share the gossip.

 "It's a sad story, according to Chuck." Now Biff was stretching his arms and rolling his shoulders. It always annoyed her that he went through this little routine on the front steps rather than in the back yard. Rippling his muscles and showing off his tan for all the neighbors.

But she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing how much it pissed her off so she just said, "Sad?"

"Yeah," he had lowered his voice and now they were both watching their daughter. "It seems there was a third sister who was murdered--decapitated.  And the guy got away with it. Greek politics, Chuck said."

The child was still frozen in place, rapt in whatever tale this Greek woman was spinning.   

Debbe looked at her watch and moved to the car. She reached through the open window to tap the horn and recall Samantha.

"Did Chuck say what our neighbors' name is? Something unpronounceable ending in -opoulous, I bet."

Biff paused in the doorway. "The first names are pretty weird -- he had to write them down for me.  Get this: Stheno and Euryale -- sounds like a cleaning product and a European ale, he said. Old Chuck's got this system for remembering names -- has to in his line of work."

Stheno . . . Euryale . . .

Back in college Debbe had had a system too. That Humanities course in Mythology -- impossible names you had to know if you wanted to pass. And she was sure she'd learned these. Stheno and Euryale were . . .  who? There were three names. Stheno and Euryale and . . .

Medusa - that was the third sister -- the mortal one of the trio who Perseus had decapitated.  Decapitated . . . All three sisters -- snake-haired gorgons whose glance turned people to stone. Mythical monsters. Mythical . . .

"Biff?" She had to ask. "What's their last name, these sisters?"

"I think it was Gordon -- not Greek at all. I figure their dad must have been English -- that would account for how well they speak the language."

Debbbe took a halting step toward the low hedge between the two properties, trying to fight back a nameless rising surmise.

 

"Sam!" The word was little more than a hoarse croak. 

The child stood open-mouthed, looking up.  Debbe saw the heavy front door slam shut and heard the crack of wood on wood but still her daughter didn't move.

"Sam!" Debbe shouted, "SAM!"

And then she began to run.

*********

This is a re-post from 2010. It was a response to a picture prompt on Magpie Tales.

What's Going On Here?

Yesterday when Josie and I were reading her new High Five magazine, we came to the craft project.  She always wants to do the craft project of the month but we don't always have the right supplies on hand. This time we did! Mostly.

We didn't have photos of people that I was willing to cut up and we didn't have  a cache of plastic lids--so we improvised. I would draw faces and we would scotch tape them to the craft sticks.

(As you can see, Herself was truly styling. "I look like a teenager," she told me.)

Here are the people we made: Josie, a centaur (her request,) Medusa, and A Guy Medusa turned to stone (also her request.) 

She was delighted with them and told me that she isn't afraid of Medusa because Medusa is silly. (Later she told me I was silly, like her daddy.) 

Soon, the centaur and Medusa were having a fight. The centaur is a Good Guy.

"Fairy tales are more than true: not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten."  Neil Gaiman

 

A Beautiful Day

 

Playing . . .

I took a break from the exercises in the book just to fool around and learn how these brushes and colors work.  I sketched a dragon--a dragon pretty much like the dragons I was drawing for my boys forty-some years ago.

And then I remembered the door-to-door salesman, selling a handy-dandy bed tray/blackboard. I was probably 10 or 11 and he wowed me as he quickly sketched a parrot and a stereotypical wicked witch. I begged my mother to buy the tray/blackboard and she did--probably because at that time in my life I had strep throat a lot and had to stay in bed, eating half-frozen canned pears. This would make a place to put the bowl of pears.

But the thing is, my drawing skills haven't progressed much beyond that parrot. (I can still draw the 'witch' but omit it for fear of offending my witch friends--there are warts with hairs growing out of them.)

Still, it's pleasant to spend time trying to make the color go where I want it.

Then I decided just to put a rainbow of colors on the palette and just make random marks, trying to shade and get familiar with the brushes, I started with some vertical swashes of red, orange and yellow--and couldn't stop myself from getting representational and seeing tree trunks. I'll probably go back and give then the ink outline treatment to stop them looking so blobby.

And now I remembered an 'art' class at Camp Junalaska almost seventy years ago--sketching trees and being reminded to shade one side of the trunk. These trees hark back, I suspect, to that long ago lesson.

Twenty years ago I participated (for several years) in a studio class for acrylics and oils. My lovely teacher would look at my attempts and say, "You're a colorist, I see." Which I suspect is polite talk for "Can't draw very well, can you?"

But, hey, I'm enjoying myself.

 

Josie Asks the Hard Questions

Why is the puppy wearing clothes?

Do I get a sticker now?

When do the numbers stop?

Why are goldfish orange?

Why do I have to put away the Legos before I go home?

Why can't I take my parasol out in the rain?

Meema said she was going to make me something good to eat and I said Is it something you like or is it something I will like?

It was cream cheese with honey on a bun and I liked it!

 

Forsythia Brightens Our World

 

This is Humbling . . . And Good for Me

At least I assume trying to learn something new that requires attention and hand-eye coordination is good for a person of my age (78! how did that happen?)

These three were done attempting to follow a video tutorial. (She makes it look so easy.) They are still unfinished, awaiting the final touches of white ink (I've ordered a pen) but I don't hold out much hope--I know I over-worked them, especially the one on the right (Night Sky, ha! Big Mess.) But that's how I learn, evidently, by making mistakes.

I also learned about the importance of taking time to let the paint dry (or half-dry, depending on what you're doing.) That was the idea in the tutorial behind working on three pictures at one time--a little here, then move on to the next.

The next day I did an exercise from  Watercolor Success in Four Steps. This went slightly better though I should have taken more time with my preliminary sketch. And while I was waiting for the various stages to dry, I washed some more windows. Multitasking!

Along with yesterday's rainy landscape, I'd like to paint these daffodils. . . someday . . . 

 

Rainy Days and Sundays

If only  I can get the watercolor technique figured out so I can paint this view!

                             

I Can See (a Bit More) Clearly Now

The willow is clothed in pale green 

And it's looking like spring,

So, of course, I'm washing windows.

In this case (the kitchen,) washing windows involves moving stuff, washing it before putting it back, and cleaning up all the crud that had accumulated under the table. 

 

The kitchen windows are the age of the house--forty-six years old--and I can't do anything about the fogging between the panes. But at least they and the knick-knacks thereon are clean now.

The dining room windows are a bit newer and clean up nicely, though in order to avoid having to drag a ladder t the deck below, I have to perform some weird contortions to get the both sides. But it's done, just in time for the rainy days ahead. 

Now maybe I can play with my watercolors.

 

Spring Flowers and a Reminder

Time to enjoy the crocus . . .

And the daffodil . . .

And past time to wash the windows.

(Though, in my defense, some of that is the clouding that happens in elderly double-paned windows,)

 

Notes from an Interview

 

 

The opening of a short piece I'm working on . . .

It doesn’t surprise me that her feet aren’t actually touching the heavenly floor (jasper, chalcedony—one of those) but floating a few inches above it. The surprise is that she opens the door herself. Surely she has angels for that.

“Hail-” I begin but she holds up a slender hand – a familiar pose. “Please, just don’t.”

Her smile – you’ve seen in a million times –all those paintings and statues – is heartbreakingly sweet and equally heartbreakingly resigned. “Come on,” she says, motioning me in. “We might as well get started.”

For years – maybe aeons—I’ve dreamed of scoring this interview. The Big Three, of course, are famously ineffable, but the BVM has the reputation of being approachable. Still, I can hardly believe my luck as I follow her down the echoing hall and into a pleasant sitting room where a bank of tall windows overlooks a sea of billowing clouds.

She settles onto a vast white sofa, tucking her bare feet under her soft blue robe, and pointing to a comfortable chair. I sit and two goblets of something red materialize on the little table between us.

“Wine?” I raise an eyebrow. “Or is it…you know… the Blood of the Lamb? I am honored-”  

She rolls those soulful eyes, picks up the nearest cup, and takes a sip. “Sorry to disappoint you. This is pomegranate juice. I find all that Blood of the Lamb stuff a bit off-putting. After all, He is my son.”

This is my opening. “Yes, and that’s one of the things I’d like you to share with us. It’s been so long since He actually manifested to humanity. Can you tell us what He’s up to these days?”

A tiny crease appears between those gull wing eyebrows. “I thought you wanted to talk about me, not Him. It’s always the same—He…They…go off being ineffable for centuries at a time. Does He write? Does He call? Maybe a card at Christmas—sometimes one on Assumption Day—‘Love you, Ma.’”

She makes a face and does the eye roll again. “Big deal---He loves everybody.”

She sets her goblet down on the table just a little too hard and some of the juice sloshes out, only to evaporate instantly, leaving the marble surface unstained. The tiny frown disappears, and she leans toward me, enveloping me in her sweetness.

“Heavens, now I’m sounding like a Jewish mother. Of course, He’s got so much to do—about His Father’s business as he told me long ago. And I know” she made those little air quotes, “He’s with us always. But still…”

***

“You’re not going to call it ‘Interview with the Carpenter’s Wife’ or something like that, are you?”

Her gaze is sharp and I can feel those eyes boring through the cover of my notebook where I’d jotted down a few ideas. The Carpenter’s Wife was one. Also The Messiah’s Mom.

“Because," she continues, "aside from the fact that publishing today is overrun with titles like The Podiatrists Cousin. The Analyst’s Aunt, The Exterminator’s Ex , I really dislike the false assumption that the subject of the piece is defined by a relationship until he or she or they breaks free and asserts his or her or their identity. “

She’s on a roll now – who knew the BVM follows popular fiction?

“It’s almost as bad as all those girl titles- Gone Girl, Girl on the Train, Girl with the Dragon Tattoo…” She points a slender finger at me. “Girl from Galilee—don’t even think about it.”

Nothing at All About MM and Prince H