More dad memories
Hanging out with Jack and Karen in our backyard in Houston, my dad
laying in the grass with our two guinea pigs, Charlotte and Nibbles, on
Seeing rows and rows and jars and jars of hand mixed acrylic paints
on hand made shelves my dad built in his painting studio
Popping in to say “goodnight” to my dad when his painting studio
was still upstairs in our house, the bright light of the overhead
bulb, walking in to see my dad’s back as he was intent on finishing
a line or stroke
My dad buying my mom a beautiful piece of handmade jewelry
from…rats…hmm…what is his name? Well, we all had matching rings
my dad had made by this artist. My dad’s was gold with lapis lupis (dark
blue stone) and my mom’s was gold with ivory, with a small gold dot
in the middle, and my sister and I had matching gold rings with
half-lapis and half-ivory. I still have mine and wish I had my dad’s.
Watching my dad laugh until he cried! When I am really goofy or
extremely tired, I do the same thing. It’s an awesome feeling, to
laugh that hard!
My dad coming to visit my elementary school and to talk about
life as an artist. He brought HUGE paintings. I remember running around,
I was excited and nervous! And kind of embarrassed, too. So, I’ve always
remembered that feeling and tried my hardest to let my girls’ know that
I”m coming to teach at their schools WAAAAY ahead of time so they
can, hopefully, not feel wierd when I show up.
Taking long family road trips in the car, a station wagon with
fake wood paneling, and my dad telling hilarious stories, sometimes
sad stories, that he would make up as he would drive. I vaguely
remember one about a hawk and a catapillar and their long journey.
Rounding the corner in a rainstorm in Maine to a GIANT dinosaur
tail up above the road! We pulled over…it was a dinosaur sculpture park,
with thunder and lightning—ppzzzapp!—and no one else at the park.
This was during the time I wanted to be a paleontologist, so I’m grateful my
parents pulled over for us to look at these strange creatures in the middle
of a wooded no where.
on the cusp of understanding those gentle dreams