As I walked about my classroom assisting my students with their art projects, I picked up a heavy stainless steel caliper they were drawing.
I was instantly reminded of my father. He was a machinist and used to machine precision parts for huge complicated machines that created things such as the ink cartridges for HP. He was very proud of his work. Occasionally, he would bring home pieces that he created and show them to us.
The realization struck me, for the hundredth time, that he would never talk about his career again. He would never show me, or Amalie the things he had made. He is gone. Forever. The finality is still seeping in gradually, like settlement in a pond. I never really thought I would miss him. But I do.
Layers of ink were blended on the page. Image was cut from a magazine and pasted on page. Small floral masks were placed on the page and gold ink was brushed over them and on the page. Text was added with a black gel pen after the ink dried. The page seemed to be missing something, so I added a bit of french antique metallic ribbon. It seems to represent the separation I sometimes feel from what is actually occurring around me.
My father loved his afternoon coffee break.
My mother would rustle up some fresh-baked cookies or cakes, and serve everything on a pretty platter. Coffee was served out of a porcelain coffee pot, with a ceramic warmer underneath to keep the coffee at just the right temperature. Never again will we sit together and enjoy a fresh cup of coffee.
Photograph cut out of a magazine, and torn in half. Brown patterned paper from Michael’s, torn and inked on the edge. Edging is decorative paper lace sheet from Michael’s, cut into a narrow strip, and spray mounted on page. Text hand written and inked in Sakura white Gelly Roll pen.
When I was a child, my father sometimes called my little brother and I names. "Sons of bitches" was his favorite.
One day, my mother overheard him. She became very angry. She told my father that she wasn't a bitch.
After that he called us other names. And I guess that made it O.K.
This art journal entry is created with a painted background. I used chalk inks, so that the paper wouldn’t wrinkle. Images are cut outs purchased from Stampington and Company. The black flower transparency is from Michaels. I stamped over the cutouts to create more texture. Wrote in black gel pen.
George Winston sat down at the Steinway piano and began to play “Colors”.
A cascade of notes erupted into the still air and showered down, drifting like red and yellow leaves.
White tree trunks stood in slim rows. A large blunt-fingered hand held mine gently, and I raised my eyes and met his warm gray ones, full of approval and contentment, a small smile curving his lips, a look I have never seen.
The cool yellow leaves shush, shushed about our ankles as we strolled through the trees,
glints of yellow dissolving into stage lights.
I feel a pat pat upon my cheeks and I reach up thinking to feel the leaves,
but it is only tears.
Sorrow swept over me in waves, each swell growing in depth as I went about the mundane task of vacuuming up Christmas needles.
I couldn’t rationalize the sadness away.
An image filled my mind. My father, wrapping his arms about me, enveloping warmth, endless love, such as I never received from him in real life.
As the image fades away, a child’s voice, weeping cries out “Daddy! Daddy!”, and the voice is mine.
Ten minutes later the telephone rings and it is my brother.
Dad is gone.
And I weep.
12/29/09
When the white feet of dancers beat across the stage
the sound is like the wings of birds at dawn, fluttering,
and when the feathery light bodies rise en pointe, spinning
like the wind across a lake, the sight is romance, uttering.
Variation on a Theme by D. H. Lawrence
David Ira Rottenberg from Soldiers of Beauty
Watch Amalie dance. She glows with joy, flying free upon tiny feet. She thrills to the sound of applause, shining in the spotlight. See her sweet delight in a miniature bouquet from her most ardent fans, Mommy and Daddy, on this special night. Dance with joy, my darling little girl,
Kisses,
Mommy
Twirl! Swirl!
Tiny ballet shoes pranced and danced.
Slide! Glide!
Little tutu’s bobbed and bounced.
Presented for your viewing pleasure are this year’s Nutcracker Ballerinas, in all their winter glory.
Excited chatter rises as the four-year olds, otherwise known as the Candy Canes, take their seats.
Only to die down into pre-performance nerves.
Ah, but it’s worth the thrill of being on stage!
My very own sweet candy cane, Amalie!
One performance down, one to go! A star’s life is a busy one! 
Every year, Chris and I go a-questing for the Perfect Christmas Tree.
Truth be told, I am the instigator of this quest, as Chris is dragged along, probably secretly dreaming of the Perfect Bike Ride. The search for the Perfect Tree can throw me into a frenzy of eyeballing, shaking, and stroking any tree that might be The One. This search can take hours, beginning with selecting the Perfect Tree Farm, because, yes, we cut our own fresh tree. For those of you that are silently gasping at the waste of a good tree, let me assure you that the farms we go to cut high enough on the trunk that the tree regenerates itself.
One year, I insisted on a Silvertip Tree. The lovely Silvertip has nice sturdy branches, that are well spaced, allowing room for our collection of ornaments. Unfortunately, in a warm clime such as California, Silvertip are prone to aphids. The aphid secretly coupled in the elegantly decorated tree, until masses of insects started falling off, crystalized in hardened drops of sap. No more Silvertips for us.
The following year I decided only a Balsam Fir would do. Balsam Firs do grow in California. Waaaaay high up in the mountains. Hours of driving later, near to dusk, we finally found the Perfect Tree Farm that grew Balsam Firs. Chris, who had done the driving, took on a distinctly Scrooge-like appearance, insisting that I find the Perfect Tree before the sun fully set, so that we could be home before midnight. Needless to say, that was the first and last year we bought a Balsam Fir.
Two years ago we purchased a White Fir, seduced by a discount coupon that came in the mail. Apparently, many other budget minded people were seduced as well, and by the second year, few perfect trees were left, and those were marked up considerably. Exhausted from hours of searching in the chill rain, and fearing that the Scrooge would be a permanent addition to Chris’s personality, I selected a Not Perfect Tree. After bringing it home, the tree leaned drunkenly in the stand, and refused to look symmetrical regardless of which way it was turned. It also vengefully began dropping needles shortly after being decorated, ignorant of the honor bestowed upon it.
This year we tried a new Perfect Tree Farm. The back entrance was right next to Amalie’s favorite Apple Farm, and we planned on letting her go on a pony ride and eat donuts after selecting the Perfect Tree.
The morning dawned crisp and clear. We packed into the SUV and drove up to the Perfect Tree Farm. After being directed into the correct stand of White Firs, we began the search, Amalie riding high on Chris’s shoulders.
“How about this one?” I suggested, thrilled that I found The Perfect Tree so soon. “Mmmm, maybe. Let’s keep looking.” suggested Chris, not quite ready to choose one. “This one?” he said, pointing to another. “No, it’s too bushy.” I replied. “This one?”, he said, but no that one wasn’t right either. “Over there! Go over there!” shouted Amalie, getting into the game. Hours later, Chris had disappeared, and the Scrooge was back. Perhaps having a four-year old riding on your shoulders and dictating where you must go wasn’t all that much fun! Finally, we all agreed on The Perfect Tree. A nice tree cutter cut it down for us.
Then it was up to the Scrooge to get it tied down to the roof of the SUV. Sadly, the Scrooge struggles with the art of tree tying every year, and this year was no exception. Giving even the orignal Ebeneezer Scrooge a run for his money in the grumpiness department, Chris declared the tree firmly tied down. Amalie enjoyed her pony ride and an apple donut for lunch, as it was much too late to get her home for a healthy lunch. The rest of the day and the next morning, my mom, Amalie and I decorated the Perfect Tree, the Scrooge beating a hasty retreat for a mood enhancing bike ride.
That evening as we sat by a roaring fire, Chris declared that it was indeed, the Perfect Tree.
Next year I’m going plastic.
Meet Ava Rosemeyer.
Isn’t she beautiful? Look at those tender eyes, that precious smile.
She is gone.
Gone. Here no more.
A pang tears at me when I type those words.
She is the child of Sheye Rosemeyer, a wonderful blogger and photographer.
Lost to a baking hot Australian summer day, in just 30 minutes. I can only imagine the anguish the Rosemeyer family struggles with each and every day.
I so wish I could help, and in this tiny way, maybe I can. Sheye made this postcard to help prevent tragedies such as the one she is living through.
Read it.
Teach it.
And live.
Sunday morning was spent on one of our favorite fall activities. Apple Hill, as the area is known, boasts numerous apple farms.
Although the Big People go for the delicious apple pies and fresh picked apples, Amalie lives for the pony rides.
Groaning shelves of apple preserves tempts the cook, and hot apple donuts, paired with apple cider makes for a delish breakfast.
When Amalie is a bit older, we will cave in to her demands to climb into the leafy branches of the apple trees and pick her very own apples.
Loaded down with all kinds of apple goodies, we make our way back home. But before we go, here’s a dandelion wish for you!
