Memories of a Childhood Outdoors – Summer

Part Three – Summer


This is Part Three – as you can see – about my life growing up in Iowa. As I said in Part One and Two we grew up in a time where things were pretty peaceful. Our dads went to work and came home for lunch and in the evening went to work on the cars and trucks or in the garden. Our moms kept house and had long phone conversations with the other mothers and were there for us when we wanted. We kids spent the vast majority of our time outdoors. If the weather was halfway decent, which it usually was, and even if it wasn’t (read Hot and Humid) we found something to do. The only time we were indoors was if there was a thunderstorm, a tornado warning or just too friggin’ hot and humid. Then we would go to the library (did I say I love libraries?) and read, read, read! We had a gorgeous Carnegie Library in town.

The “brood” on the front steps with Dad.


The best thing about summer were the road trips. Mom and Dad packed us in the car and set off but not before they had a fight over how long my Mom took to get ready and then, of course, forgot something. My Dad just wanted to go and once he got going (because he did all the driving) he didn’t want to stop until he got wherever we were going. Bathroom break? What does not kill you makes you tougher.

Once we were on the road – because my mom found what she forgot – we all settled in for adventure and everybody was happy. Road trips were the best part of my childhood. I’ll say that now. When I was a kid my folks argued a lot and it made the house unpleasant to be in. Maybe that’s the biggest reason I spent so much time outdoors but on road trips they didn’t argue. They were having fun, too. Thank you!

We had a lot of different cars when I was growing up but the main vehicle I remember was a long Chevy station wagon. I can’t tell you what year or make. I can just say it was one of those classic kinds that were bigger than a football field in the back seat area. Mom would put down the back seat, lay blankets and a thin mattress there and we kids would hang out (no seat belts) and watch the world go by. (No video games. No TV. Are you kidding? Even no air conditioning. We are all wusses now.) Sometimes we rolled down the back window and threw out wadded up pieces of white bread just to watch it bounce away on the pavement. We were easily entertained. We also made up games to pass the time. For example we’d watch all the other cars to see what states they came from. We’d look for horses on the passing farms and ranches and play “I Get Those Horses” to see who could tally up the most animals observed before anyone else.

Montana, Yellowstone, the Black Hills. We also took a long trip to Los Angeles to visit my mom’s sister and her family. There was the ferocious thunderstorm outside Amarillo, Texas where the air crackled with lightening and ozone . After the storm passed my dad was bent on finding pinto beans. We stopped at a market in the dark and the pavement smelled like rain and my dad came out with the prize. The endless Kansas prairie was flat like the ocean. The red dirt of Oklahoma glowed in the sun. At the Petrified Forest in New Mexico we stopped and I found a horny toad lizard next to the car in the brush. Come, little horny toad. Hey, where are you going? Come back. I was 10.

C’mon Mom!

Sometimes we went east to visit my dad’s mom and her husband Ephraim, also known as Ed. They lived in eastern Ohio and they had a giant two story rooming house with no roomers. They also had a huge empty barn where we spent hours exploring. In there we found abandoned implements from the farmer who had lived there before. Pigeons roosted in the rafters and flew down at the slightest provocation. It must have been a dairy barn because the upper level was a huge cathedral of empty space 3 stories high. This was where the hay was stored. The lower part had rows and rows of dusty, broken down milking aisles and feeding troughs. I never want to be a dairy farmer. Can you imagine getting up in the dark to milk 50 cows every morning and then do it all over again every night?

Gramma Daisy had a sense of humor.

Gramma had a good size pond ringed with willow trees. The pond was full of aquatic weeds and in the weeds hid frogs of a shapes and sizes and also crawdaddies. We took Grammas’ row boat out to the middle and did our best to catch the frogs but they were too good for us. We never caught one. The crawdaddies were another story, though, because the nature of a crawdaddy is bad ass. Those little suckers will go mano a mano with you and your stick. They’ll grab on to it with their pincers and you hoist them into the air and then they let go and fall back in to the water. Woe to anyone who gets too close! Those little pincers hurt! And they won’t let go of you!

Sometimes we’d go to my mom’s mom in Illinois. She lived in a sleepy little eastern Illinois town and about all we had to do was swing on the porch swing. We cranked up that puppy like it was a playground swing. It’s a wonder it didn’t come loose! My Gramma also had what was called a “stereopticon” which showed “3D” versions of pictures when you looked through the viewfinder. Old Mrs. Roberts lived next to my grandmother. In between the two houses were a lot of black berry canes from back to back, side to side with a narrow path down the middle. Mrs. Roberts (Sadie) was about 150 years old and looked it. She was really skinny and the veins in her hands stood out in bas relief. Her sunken eyes were rimmed with dark circles. We kids were a little bit scared of her because she looked so cadaverous. Gramma would send us over to visit. We didn’t want to go but we were obedient children so go we went. Once we got there we quickly realized that she was nice as pie. When she started talking about her younger days we soon forgot our fear and enjoyed hearing her tell how she “bobbed” her hair against her mother’s wishes and ran off with the neighbor boy to the dance.

Out on my Uncle Louis and Aunt Leona’s farm we rode the pony through the corn rows to make him go faster and we jumped all over the steers in the pens like crazy things. We were in our element. Harper Lee’s “To Kill A Mockingbird” couldn’t have been more perfectly set. This was our version, too.

Back at home we went swimming at Riverview park every day. We ate Slo Pokes and ice cream bars and terrible stale popcorn from the snack bar. There didn’t seem to be fear of stomach cramps from swimming too soon after eating back then. Maybe life was cheaper. I tried going off the high dive board once and had enough of that immediately when my stomach went into my mouth. Not literally. It just felt that way. It wasn’t even that high of a dive board. I was a timid child.

After the hot humid day was nearly over we’d play Annie Over behind the house. Our stand alone garage was perfect. If we had a cloudburst we’d wait until it was over and go out to the street in front of our house where the storm drain couldn’t handle all the water and splash around in the flood  and ride our bikes through it at high speed. If my dad was going fishing we’d go out after dark with our flashlights and try to pull those giant earthworms out of their holes. They were fast. You couldn’t contemplate. You just had to grab and try not to pull them in half (barbarians!)

Here are some highlights : old fashioned key skates that clamp on to your shoes, pickup sticks and jacks on the front porch, hop scotch in the driveway with tiny chains that don’t roll away like a rocks do, mashed potato-style dancing in Jamie’s basement, Fudgcicles, bomb pops, Slo Pokes on a stick, Neco Wafers, frozen Snickers bars, Milk Duds, candy cigarettes, corn bugs and potato salad.

I have an emblem of summer in Iowa that will be with me to the day I die. On my right forearm there’s a scar about 4 inches long (remember this when you’re identifying my dead body) I got his catching fireflies in our back yard. Years ago the farmers who lived on an acreage behind us (the Schultz’) had a real size farm. It had been much larger and when our subdivision was built our back yard was right where their garbage dump had been. So here I am, little child, running to catch a firefly and the next thing you know I’m tripping and coming up with a bloody arm. A broken glass jar was right where I fell. I still remember the trip to the emergency room and the doctor examining my arm. Mercifully I have forgotten the part where they sewed me up!

I would like to write more about finding river clams while canoeing on the Iowa river and fishing at Quarry or Nancy’s horse Tony but I’m running out of steam

Summer in Iowa growing up was the absolute best.

Her Royal Highness

We Actually Wore That

Things are so different now I can’t even believe it.

Author’s Note: I’m taking a break from writing about my girlhood outdoors. I have plenty of material and it’s waiting in the wings for the right mood to strike. In the meantime I got inspired to reminisce about the clothes we gals wore when we were young. All you Millennials have not had to suffer this crap and I’m so glad. You have the hippies to thank.

Here’s the number one worst item of ladies apparel of all time. The worst I tell you! Perhaps it’s best forgotten but I want all you young girls to know what we older gals had to suffer.  The worst item by far was the “girdle”. The girdle was a contraption that held your nylon stockings up and your stomach in. Panty hose had not been invented yet and let me tell you panty hose were bad enough but still an improvement on the girdle. If your girdle was too tight, and it always was because that was the point, it screwed up your digestion. From time to time you would have horrible gut cramps because every once in a while you would have, let’s put it delicately, “fermentation”  in your gut. The girdle did not care about processing of fermentation. So there you sat. Churning and wincing because you couldn’t faint and you couldn’t escape.

Also the “latches” that held your nylon stockings would be a visible reminder that you had something under your skirt. How gauche! Sometimes they unlatched on their own as if by magic and your stocking would fall down. They invariably showed through your skirt. Two annoying little bumps that you had to sit on, too!. If you didn’t hike those latches up high enough you might even have the tops of your stocking became visible at the edge of your skirt when you sat down. Woe to those who tried to combine a girdle, nylon stockings and a miniskirt. Forget miniskirt! Better wear a gathered or pleated skirt that reached below your knees if you were going to wear a girdle with latches. Oh Girl!

Nylon stockings. I know we were screwed up by fashion because if you went bare legged you felt “wrong”. Like exposed or something. Bare legs just didn’t happen back then. And it was hard to stay neat and tidy because stockings were always getting “runners” in them. Right in the middle of something you would look down and see the tell tale sign creeping up your leg and wonder how did that happen. So you kept a bottle of clear nail polish in your purse to stop the runner from widening to grand canyon proportions until you could get somewhere to just change out of the darn things. You would spend hours shopping for stockings to replace ones that got messed up.

Then there was the “training bra”. Training? Training for what? Your boobies were so firm or nonexistent that they didn’t need any training. Maybe it was just physical propaganda to get the adolescent girl ready to toe the line in a man’s world. Hey girl, you have to start adjusting so let’s wrap some useless bunch of fabric around your flat chest and get you prepared!

Later on if you achieved any sort of “mass” in the chest area you were made to wear a bra that made your boobs look like weapons of pointy mass destruction. If you didn’t have enough “mass ” to fill them out you had to resort to toilet paper or tissue.

Just so you don’t start thinking that this is just a story about underwear let me tell you a story about high heels. My mom decided one year that I was not “cultured” or “lady-like” enough so she sent me off to the local “charm school” to be improved. Virginia Boyce’s Charm School. There we sat on Mrs. Boyce’s couch waiting to be transformed into perfect little ladies. Mrs. Boyce told us “If your husband walks too fast when you’re wearing high heels just walk slower. He will have to slow down for you.” Thus began the insidious passive aggression and inability to speak out for what you need. Then she had us practice walking in high heels. I think this is where I got my lifelong fear of ankle sprains. While you were trying not to break your ankle you had to make sure you were walking properly. Well, maybe the more appropriate term would be “gliding”. We were not allowed to “bob”. We were to watch the horizon and if it went up and down we were deficient mules lacking all social graces. A few years later I was told by my boyfriend that I didn’t have any movement in my walk. Well, why the heck not and what’s wrong with that anyway? I am gliding, dude. Can’t you see that? What’s the matter with you?

Easter was a time of dread and high anticipation. Mom made it a gigantic production. There was the shopping and the new shoes that pinched and caused blisters. There was the stupid hat that we never wore ever again, the lace trimmed socks and teeny little handbag (to hold what?). Then there was the packing into the car for the Big Event (church) during which we squirmed and complained and mom kept socking us and telling us to be quiet. I couldn’t wait to get home and rip off those clothes and get back into my dungarees and t shirt. The shoes were patent leather that we “shined” with Vaseline. Sometimes Mom made us wear pointless little gloves that never stayed clean. Don’t touch anything Mom exclaims! There we sit like little stone sphinxes staring straight ahead until someone breaks a grin and we all start pushing on each other and laughing. I’m glad I was a kid in those days. Mom had it rough.

Gone and but not forgotten Hall of Fame: Itsy bitsy teeny weeny yellow polka dot bikini. Topless bathing suit by Rudi Gernrich. Sack Dress. Go-go boots. Nehru jacket. Beatles boots. Empire dresses. Baby doll dresses. Culottes. Bobbie Brooks. Shift dresses.

As soon as the hippie years commenced off came the bras and the girdles, here came the afros, raggedy bell bottom jeans, crocheted tops, second hand store wool navy trousers with the two rows of buttons at the top. My favorite coat was a double breasted black salvation army captains coat. It looked good with the jeans and my long hair cascading down my back.

Spring: Memories of a Childhood Outdoors


If you’re just now getting in on this I am writing a little bit about my life growing up in Iowa. As I said in Part One we grew up in a time when things were pretty peaceful. At least to us. I think there were some guys going over to fight in Korea but if this bothered my folks I didn’t hear about it. Our dads went to work and came back home for lunch and went out to work on the cars and trucks or in the garden. Sometimes my dad would go out and chip golf balls in the back yard. Our moms kept house and had long phone conversations with the other mothers and were there for us when we wanted. My mom always landscaped our yard with a lot of flowers. She had peonies, castor beans and four o’clocks and she even planted corn in the corners. I thought this was weird but my mom said “I think it’s a beautiful plant.” We kids spent all our time outdoors. If the weather was halfway decent which it usually was and even if it wasn’t we just bundled up and went anyway. The only time we were indoors is if there was a thunderstorm and a tornado warning or coming in sideways in a blizzard.


Spring was a time of water. The snow would melt all around our local area but what we didn’t think about as kids was that snow was melting way up north, too. All that snow melt went in to the rivers and caused flooding. I can’t remember what year they put in the dikes along the Iowa River but when I was young they weren’t in yet.  So every spring the Iowa River and Linn Creek (which we pronounced “crick”) overflowed their banks. I felt sorry for the people who lived nearby but it was exciting to drive out to the old power plant or be on top of the bluff at the cemetery and see miles and miles of flooded fields. Our big recreation park Riverview where the public swimming pool was located would be a giant lake and you couldn’t drive north out of town on Highway 14. A bridge on Highway 14 went across the Iowa River at the park.

The farmers would be waiting for a break so they could go out and plow their fields and eventually there would be a break and they’d plow and then my dad would wait for it to rain again. Then he and I would get in the car, drive some place east or south of town and go walk the muddy fields looking for arrowheads. My dad knew where to look and he got permission from the farmers to go. My dad would say, “Don’t walk on the corn coming up. Stay inside the rows.” It was just correct behavior for the privilege of walking out there. My dad would say, “Look for an unusual shape”. And he would also say, “Don’t look hard. Just scan the area and you will see a shape or color that doesn’t fit.” Our boots would be caked with mud. I called it “mud foot” and it was hard to walk. But every once in a while there would be something that didn’t fit and there it would be. Mostly hide scrapers but sometimes a whole arrowhead. I still have two small hatchet heads. My dad would say, “It fascinates me to think that I am holding something and the last person to hold it was maybe the person who made it.”

I credit my dad with teaching me how to see. I had so much practice seeing while walking those plowed fields. I can find anything now.

Sometimes it was a beautiful day. A little cool, very clear and breezy. Hawks would be circling right over our heads. I tried whistling to them. Sometimes they would whistle back and we  would have a short conversation before they would move on as if to say, “Nice talking with ya but I’m on the hunt for breakfast.” Whenever I see a hawk now I always try to make conversation. They always look, at least. What is she saying? Terrible accent. Sometimes they whistle in reply. Or so I’d like to think.

Spring is a time of wind in Iowa. Strong steady wind from the north and perfect for flying kites. The best part was letting the kite go. It would go so high! I could barely see it! “What if an airplane hits it, Dad?”  I don’t know why I worried about this. Airplanes were rare in the 50s. When an airplane flew by we would run until we saw it and crane our necks. It was a special occasion.

Dad would make the appropriate amount of tail from ripped bed sheets so the kite wouldn’t whip around in frantic circles and then we’d let it fly. There is a lot of open space in Iowa so a kid can let the kite go a long ways without issues. Dad would say, “Let’s send a message to the kite” and we’d write a note. He’d tear a little hole in the middle of the note and string it on the kite string. Up that note would go. Can I remember what I wrote? Not at all. But it doesn’t matter. We were sending a message into the stratosphere.

Late spring in Iowa is also a time of tornados. Sometimes we would go to bed and suddenly mom would be at our bedroom door saying get to the basement now and we would grab a blanket and run down the basement stairs to huddle in the southwest corner until the storm passed. Mom said the southwest corner was the best corner. She said that tornados usually travel from southwest to northeast so if we were hit the debris would fly away from us. Is this scientific? Beats me. It’s just what she said.

When a storm hit in the day time Mom would tell us to turn on the TV and see if the screen glowed a certain way. If it did the tornado was imminent. She’d then tell us to go to the side of the house away from the direction from where the storm was coming from and open the windows a crack. She said this would equalize the pressure and maybe the house would not fly to bits. She said the reason a tornado would make houses fly apart was that the pressure inside the tornado was less than the pressure inside the house and that made the house explode when the tornado came close by.

I loved and was terrified of wall clouds. The colors in a wall cloud could be a weird  kind of green. There would be a wall cloud coming from the  west (all our weather came from the west) and the wind would blow furiously toward the cloud. When the edge of the cloud was on top of us everything would go silent. Eerily silent. No birds. No nothing. And then the gust front would hit. It would hit like crazy. Rain would be coming down in torrents. Lightning so ferocious and thunder so loud that the house shook.

A huge funnel cloud touches down in Iowa (AP Photo/Lori Mehmen)

Once before a wall cloud hit I looked up and saw little tiny tornados forming way up high. Then they disappeared. I have loved weather ever since. Nature’s fury and majesty.

After the storm and the danger of lightning passed our street would be flooded because the storm drains couldn’t handle all the water. We’d go out and run and splash. It was a very good time.

In May my dad and I would go over to Lennox where he worked. It was my mom’s birthday on May 15th and he would pick armfuls of lilacs to give to her. Those lilac bushes towered over our heads but the heavy blooms made the branches bend down to greet us. Here we are the flowers would say. Come bury your face in our lavender fragrance.  To this day I still love lilacs. They are my favorite flower. There is something about that scent that fills me with an almost indescribable joy and bliss.


Part One – Memories of a Childhood Outdoors


I am tempted to call this story Days of Heaven because growing up in Iowa in the 50s was pretty wonderful. Our dads went to work and came back home for lunch and went out in the evening to work on our cars or in the garden . Our moms kept house and had long phone conversations with the other mothers and were there for us when we wanted. When we weren’t in school (for that’s another story) we spent all our time outdoors. Oh, there were the early morning Saturday cartoons when we were older and finally got a television. Cartoons started at 7 am and ended after breakfast and then it was up and out if the weather was halfway decent which it usually was and even if it wasn’t we just bundled up and went anyway. The only time we were indoors was if there was a thunderstorm and a tornado warning or coming in 50 miles an hour sideways in a blizzard.


Sometime we had a blizzard and when it stopped we would pile in the car and go sledding at the Country Club golf course. We had sleds and inner tubes and sometimes one family would bring a toboggan. The snow in Iowa was perfect for sledding. The first time I went skiing at Lake Tahoe I thought “let’s go sledding” because I was used to Iowa conditions. That thought was promptly squashed when we realized that the Sierra snow was too deep and all you did was sink. Not going anywhere on a sled, you weren’t! But in Iowa it was gravy. I mean it was perfect snow. Only about 3 or 4 inches deep and, boy, you could go fast! We kids would be airborne most of the time on those long slopes. A little bump and whoo-wee up you’d go sled or inner tube and all if you were holding on. If you weren’t you were ejected and flying on your own. I wish I had a photograph of the entire scene. It would have looked like a Courier and Ives postcard.

Our Weimaraner dog Heidi (in silhouette), my sister, my mom and me.

From our house on Fifteenth Avenue you went down Nevada Street to there was a little grocery store called Twin Foods.  They sold milk and bread and a few other things. They had a real bakery in the back where they made the most scrumptious white sandwich bread, crusty crust and soft, chewy insides. In the winter the owner had the brilliant idea to take his tractor and scoop out a shallow depression that he then filled with water to freeze and make a kind of ice skating rink.  Then with our classic white figure skates we girls would tentatively swoosh around. The boys would swoosh around on hockey skates because no self-respecting boy would be caught dead in figure skates.   Sometimes we would go over to the bottom land on North Center Street where water went over the bank of the Iowa River, gathered in large tracts and then froze. We would skate there, too, but it was not very smooth ice so I never got very good at skating. I mostly got good at not falling.

My dad holding the buck. Howard Stegman holding proof of the recurve bow. They fletched their own arrows, too.

My dad was a hunter. He hunted all manner of wild animals. He hunted squirrels, pheasant, ducks, and rabbits. He even went to Canada once and bagged a moose. We were eating moose for a year. But deer were the most prized animals. He and his friends hunted deer with the classic recurve bow. Compound bows did not exist at that time. Al Polley was a farmer out north of town and he had corn fields and timber that bordered the north side of the Iowa River. He gave my dad and his friends permission to hunt there. To keep warm while they were hunting my dad and his friends built a plywood one room shack that they called the deer shack. Like I said they used it to warm up in. They needed this because how you hunted deer with a recurve bow was to make a little platform high up in a tree next to a trail that the deer used habitually. The hunters would sit for hours in the tree waiting for the deer to come along. But the deer didn’t come like clockwork so when our dads got cold they would climb down and get in the deer shack to warm up. Some snowy winter evenings we would take a big pot of chili out there and build a big fire and then stand around the fire and eat the chili with crackers. Later on I would go with my dad in the dark to scout for deer sign while the others stayed behind. I guess it had to be in the dark so as not to spook the deer so much. Dad never explained much of anything. But it made me fearless of the dark.

Other winter evenings we would go out in the car just after dark and drive into the corn field stubble and circle the car around so the headlights would illuminate the perimeter of the field. If we were lucky we would see a deer herd feeding on the corn stubble. Their heads would pop up and we’d see their shiny eyes. Such beauty. My dad hardly ever hit a deer with his bow and arrow. I think maybe he hit one or two in all the years I was growing up. It’s hard to hold a recurve long enough to get the perfect shot and the deer would not come into the perfect position. Tree branches could be in the way. The dads practiced all summer at the Isaac Walton League so they would be as ready as they would ever be when deer season came.

Next: Part Two – Spring


Sharing Power

Something is going real wrong in our country. My partner Marty’s feelings are a small example. He says “but what about us guys?” I say “what do you mean ‘us guys'”. He says “No one is paying any attention to us guys. We have misery, too.”

He doesn’t understand why blacks are all upset. He doesn’t understand why women are all upset. This is because he’s a fair-minded individual who’s never been prejudiced against any person or group. He looks on misbehavior the same way for everybody. If you do wrong you should face the consequences. He also believes that if a person has a problem they should work at it until they fix it.

I say “I’m not pointing a finger at you but there has been a historical effort from the white male supremacy to keep certain groups under the thumb. Now there’s back lash against that supremacy. For every action there’s an equal an opposite reaction. It’s ordinary physics. It’s to be expected.”

Which brings me to a theory I have about all these shootings and bombings. The ones who are doing this are the extreme radicals of Marty’s group who feel the pressure of losing power that they have been used to and like. Some guy friends of mine say “how come we never worried about guns when we were young?” I say “You guys were in power then. (50s and 60s). Women and blacks, etc. did not have power. You did. You would not need to resort to gun violence to get noticed. Back then everybody from cartoons across the gamut represented you.”

I think some of the fringe white men from Timothy McVeigh on up are doing whatever they can to feel like they still have power.

Until we address this it’s my opinion we’re going to keep having this sort of gun, bomb, fill-in-the-blank violence. How to fix it? It’s my personal opinion that the men who are starting to feel disenfranchised need to have a come-to-Jesus meeting (not literally) and realize that there are ways to share power. The men who “get this” need to help their brothers.

(photo by Mark Jackson copyright 2018)

The Ranch Man: a non-academic study

marty CocoThe Ranch Man is a peculiar kind of human. They are what might have been known in earlier times as the “rugged individualist”. I have a Ranch Man so I know what I’m talking about. I have done a casual study on the Ranch Man. Here are my findings.

A Ranch Man doesn’t cotton to what they perceive in others as dishonesty, arrogance, pomposity, know-it-all and other self centered behavior. It does not matter to them that sometimes this means that they are guilty of this very behavior themselves. Their sense of right and wrong is keen and is written in a book of which they are the author.

When the Ranch Wife encounters this in her Ranch Man it is best that she take a deep breath and hold her tongue. There is nothing you can do to change him, girls. This is the way he is and this is what you love about him. Keep repeating this mantra! He is single minded. He knows how to do things and he is sure of himself. This is a very endearing quality. However, it becomes less endearing when he directs this behavior toward you. This is where patience comes in very handy and if it gets too much for you to bear then knowing how to put your foot down without making him mad is useful.

Ranch Man will always be fair if you are fair. Remember, Ranch Man is good at training colts. He is patience and kind but if the colt misbehaves he will make it very difficult for the colt to misbehave. He will make it easy for the colt to behave the right way thus making it seem to the colt that it is the colt’s idea to behave correctly. Girls, we need to take a cue from this very successful training system. You can use it on Ranch Man. Before I proceed I must warn you to never let on to him that you are doing this. Never, ever tell him, oh, you are just like a stud horse or that kids can be trained using horse training methods. He will not take kindly to the comparison. He thinks he is superior to livestock. You know and I know he is not superior but we can’t let on that we know this truth. We must keep him in the dark about this reality if we are to keep him happy.

This does not mean we look down on the Ranch Man. To the contrary, we have a deep respect and love for Ranch Man just like we have deep respect for the livestock with whom we partner and depend on. For example, the horse can bolt and kill you. It is obvious that it is unwise to disrespect the livestock and it is necessary for survival to know and understand the critter that you are dealing with. Ranch Man is not any different. Ranch Man can use the English language and the livestock cannot. This is the only difference. However, this breaks down if you have to go out in the field with Ranch Man and he starts using his hand signals on you from afar. Then you know he is speaking another language and it is not a language from the planet you live on. It is best you learn this language. Other Ranch Men understand this language. You can learn it, too. Unfortunately, the only way you can learn it is through trial and error. Ranch Man does not know how to teach it. He learned it through trial and error himself. Just keep breathing. It will come.

Finally, living in harmony with Ranch Man is not for ignorant, stupid girls. This is why the most successful Ranch Wives are of superior intelligence. If you meet a successful Ranch Wife you will be immediately struck by her calm demeanor, knowledge of life and how to get things done. The average Ranch Wife will dominate over the average City Wife at any level.  This is just a fact of life. I’m all about giving credit where credit is due. Let’s hear it for Ranch Man and Ranch Wife!


purpleflowersWhen I teach art in elementary  school I always hear negative comments.  “I can’t draw.”  “I don’t know how to do this.” “It’s ugly (what they’re drawing).” I can relate to these comments. Every artist has had these thoughts. I’ve had these thoughts and I’m no different. Maybe you don’t even have to say these things to yourself. I’ve seen people look at a painting and say, “A monkey could do better than that.” People will step up the plate and help you be critical of yourself. The negative voice outside of you also lives inside your head and is alive and well.

Let’s overcome this.

Here’s what I tell my students.

I cut to the heart of what is going on. They look at what I drew and theirs does not look like it. I say. All you kids, I don’t want you to draw like me. Don’t compare your drawing to your class mate’s drawing. If everyone drew the same how boring of a world would it be? That’s the beauty of art. Everybody does their own thing and that’s what makes it interesting.”  Do it your way. The most important person is you. Please yourself first. Please other people second.  If you want.  You aren’t obligated to please other people. Right here and now. Let’s give ourselves permission to not please other people when we do art. In personal expression here’s the thing: do the best you can right where you are today. Be like Scarlet O’Hara. Tomorrow is another day. You can do something today and then you can keep going tomorrow.

(By the way, I’m not talking about commercial art. In commercial art you have to please your boss and that’s the deal you sign up for to make a living.)

In art there’s no right or wrong. Is there right or wrong in arithmetic? Yes. One plus one always equals two. Two plus two always equals four.  Art is very cool. There is no right or wrong in art and that’s the beauty of it.


If they’re particularly stuck I will show them how to get unstuck. There’s always a way. I sit down and show them step by step how to build their drawing. What did you want to do? How is it not measuring up to what you wanted to do? Art is getting something in your head and then breaking it down into steps of how to make what you have in your head appear like magic on the paper. (Yes, it’s magic all right. Making something from nothing.) Only pure abstract artists are uncontrolled. Only artists in New York or Los Angeles and other places, who are trying to amaze themselves, gallery owners and prospective buyers, are doing things without a plan. But guess what? They actually have a plan. It just doesn’t look like it. I’m letting you in on a secret. Don’t tell.

Sometimes after many years of practice some artists develop a facility that allows them to be 100% free and spontaneous and still end up with something good. Picasso was 100% free. His studio was littered with thousands of drawings that he drew in the spur f the moment on crappy, non-archival paper. He drew on anything. He just did stuff and put it down. You can, too. If you want. There are no rules.

So I ask you.

What art would you like to do but haven’t done? Why haven’t you done it? Do you tell yourself you don’t have time to do it? Do you tell yourself it costs too much? Think of all the reasons you can’t do it. I’m here to tell you none of those reasons are any good.

If you don’t have enough money, do your art project on a smaller scale. If you don’t have enough time, do it a little bit at a time. Five minutes max. Two minutes. One minute. I’m here to tell you the reason you haven’t done it is your mind has made up a reason. Your mind has habit grooves. Ideas are water that flow down these habit grooves in the same old way we have always been doing things.  So if you’ve always wanted to try watercolor but find yourself on the couch watching TV every night it’s because you’ve been laying on the couch more than you’ve been getting up to try watercolor. This is the point where I want you to understand that you don’t have to beat yourself up by telling yourself there’s something wrong with you for not doing what you want. Blame your habitual brain.

The way to overcome it is to act like a baby. Babies take a step and fall down. How many times did you start to walk when you were a baby and fell down but you got up and started over until now you walk just fine! We all need to cultivate our baby minds.

For some of you being perfect is important. If you’re afraid of not doing it very well I’d like to say No One Was Ever Good When They Started Out! Think about your baby self trying to learn how to walk. Embrace your baby-ness in this! When you make something and you don’t like it, crumble it up and throw it away. So what? Start over.

Please go online or to the store and buy your materials. When you’re in Wal-Mart go to the art section and buy student grade watercolor paper and watercolors. Those kind that we all had in grade school. The ones that come in a little tray. Then sit them on your table and wait. Don’t try. Wait. Set it all up so it’s all ready. Look at images. Look at pictures that thrill you. Or make stuff up in your mind. Then one day surprise yourself and go over to the table, open everything up and just make some marks on the paper. Get the feel of it. Don’t even try to paint anything. It doesn’t matter. You’re a baby learning how to walk. In between the other stuff you do all day go over and make some more marks. Just do it long enough to get a feel for the paint. Pretty soon you’ll be branching out and walking. You’ve made some new grooves in your brain.


Recently I decided that I was going to try something I haven’t really done much of before. I have been enjoying and doing portraiture, objects and animals for most of my life. I haven’t been a big fan of landscape. Trees have been my particular nemesis. Too many details! Ridiculous number of leaves! And yet when I go to some galleries I see luscious landscapes that just thrill me to my core. I love the California Colorists.


Selden Connor Gile is one. He wasn’t bothered by details. Why am I stuck in being bothered by details?

I’ve also been fascinated by Fauvism. They were a group of early twentieth-century artists whose works emphasized painterly qualities and strong color over the representational or realistic values retained by Impressionism. Les Fauves comes from a French word meaning “wild beasts”.

Paul Gauguin is a good example of Fauvist painter.

So I decided it was time that I try landscape. I decided that I would take my own advice and ease into it by painting simple shapes. With color. This is how I started with pastels  ten years ago. I took a class at Albany Adult School and the teacher brought fruit to the class which we were supposed to draw. The challenge was that the fruit was all one color. At least to the person who does not “see”. They “look” and they see one color. If you really look you will see that the lemon is not really yellow but all sorts of colors. So that’s what I did. I drew what I saw. All sorts of colors.

It was fun because I decided that I was not intent on impressing anybody but myself. Just like I said before. I did not care about the outcome.  After a couple weeks one of my fellow students came up to me as I was drawing and said “Your drawing gets up off the page and SINGS.” What a compliment! I put red next to green, yellow next to purple.

So with landscape I’m going to try this same strategy. Color!

Once I get my legs under me I will move up to complicated landscapes. It won’t take long. I really don’t care if I goof up.

I used color straight from the tube for almost all parts of the painting except where I needed a pastel hue and then I added a bit of white. White also helps with opacity. Just for your information I never use black. Until I get better I’m going to give life to my paintings by only using color. You can use purple or burnt umber instead of black.