My oldest daughter Meera finishing last piece for her show at The Paper Nest in Iowa City. the opening is tonight, from 5-7. Stop by if you are in town.
Soup Days and First Snow
We had our first snow here in Iowa City. It began in the early evening and was on the ground in full glory this morning, piled high in the hammock resting under our big yellow maple tree. It's going to be a soup day at my house, for sure. What about you?
Are you thinking about soup days and snow?
Here's a tiny story for you, from my blog archives.
December 16, 2010
Our first snow.
In this early morning state, at 6:30 a.m. my neighbors were already out with their snow blowers. We have one, too. Most days, though, I prefer to strengthen my sword arm. Today, shoveling to the rumble and roar of Hondas and Toros, brought me back the memory of the first time I heard a snow blower. It was in the late 1960’s in Troy, New York. And it belonged to an Englishman, Gordon Leavis. He and his family had just moved a few houses over from us. We hadn’t met them yet, but learning of my young father’s heart attack, Gordon zipped up our walk, and cleared our snow.
A few phone calls were made that day,and later, when Gordon, his wife Valerie, and their daughter Susie were in our living room, they entered our family’s heart and life. Drinks were served for the adults, I’m sure. Maybe my dad even baked his famous cheesecake. Or maybe he whipped up an enormous pot of the mushroom barley soup he loved to make and often distributed to the worthy in cleaned out Hellman’s Mayonnaise jars.
My parents, Gordon, and Valerie died many years ago. School friends and neighborhood kids from my growing years are spread out all over the country and the world. We now meet on on Facebook. Susie Leavis is there, too. She wrote me that she has my father’s soup pot. And when she takes it out, she thinks of him.
Here’s to snow blowers and soup pots and good neighbors.
Studio Work
The labor you do alone.
Studio Scrawls
#tbt What We Save
In 1979 I moved to Iowa City, Iowa, with only a backpack and a portfolio. Later my mother sent me my old Camp Hochelaga footlocker which I had packed with my winter clothes before I left home. My mother died a few years later. The footlocker went on to house the linoleum blocks I used to illustrate my letterpress books. Back in the days when our children were small and we were cramped for space, I stored it in our garage. Camp footlockers were not built to last forever. Before mine was emptied and hauled to the dump, I ripped off the return address label my mother had used decades ago. It's what I saved. A reminder of when 37 Point View Drive, Troy, New York, was my home, when I could still count on my mother being there.