Tain't No Pelicans Here...

"PELICAN BAY"
Yellowstone Park, Wyoming
Oil on Masonite
9" x 24"
(Private Collection)

Tain’t no pelicans here…but there are plenty of other strange folk hovering about in gawky white vehicles. Thank God they don't have wings.

When traveling through Yellowstone in the summer months, it is best to sup on chamomile tea and Quaaludes... or whatever best enhances one's tolerance of narrow roadways bloated with mammoth-sized campers lumbering along like pachyderms. It is the spiritual pilgrim's opportunity to practice kindness and acceptance, ultimately to view the be-wheeled ones as but curious seekers beauty and be thankful they are not among the criminal element of the world. I was stuck again and again behind the impassable creatures. When freedom appeared, it was so very brief as the next backlog would soon appear and I was thrust into mastery school again.

Is it largely a human occupation, the notion of wanting to be somewhere other than where you are?

In Yellowstone, when vehicles are stopped roadside with no particular logic, you can be certain there is a photo worthy moment happening nearby; a moose innocently munching on willows, a bison taking a dump roadside, a bull elk calling out his territory. Along with it the possibility of an overly confident tourist being stomped on by them for venturing too close. Indeed you can purchase a book at any Yellowstone visitor center chronicling the many fatal tourista faux pas throughout the history of the park… the enthusiastic housewives who backed up just a little too far for that awesome bubbling cauldron shot, or wanted to pet baby Bullwinkle. Can you imagine the epitaph?

I pulled off by this bridge enroute to Jackson and Big Piney where I had agreed to cook for the long and grueling fall hunt. This was the last painting respite of the season and the remaining three months would be spent cooking for groggy hunters in high alpine winter conditions that arrived all too soon after Labor Day. Hunt camp is all consuming and there is simply no energy left over for creative pursuits. Besides, the paints would have froze to the pallette.

Here and now, I was content to paint in the warm sun, caressed by a light breeze while raptors drift and hunt above. A dreamy afternoon that ocluded time with very little awareness of traffic noise, RVs or people who may have stopped by. A small herd of buffalo wandered into the scene towards the end. One moment they were simply there. Such details have always been part of the invisible layers that never appear in the painting, my secret memory.

Several years later, “Pelican Bay” became the lead image for a one-woman show of my work and quickly sold. Someone inquired, “How long did it take you to paint it?” Honestly, I haven’t a clue. Once an image has me there is no awareness of time, and really no concern about it.

East Meets West

"LINE LAKE"
Beartooth Pass, Montana
Oil on Rag Board
20" x 16"
(Not for Sale)

My first taste of the Beartooth Highway revealed view upon breathtaking view and frankly, it lit me up in ways that the gentle eastern landscapes of Maine never managed to do. Here is but one turquoise gem set perfectly in the sweeping timeless jewel of this rugged landscape. (sigh)

This was the great difference between the wild open landscapes of the American Rockies, and Maine where the forests are thick and the views mostly intimate and close. I never could have comprehended the feel of this place without experiencing it first hand. Some find the openness too exposed and disconcerting while others become smitten and take root.

The western landscapes inspired a feeling of expansiveness that set me to writing and painting with a near insatiable intensity for a span of years. This was the profound effect of the open horizons, soaring mountains and extraordinary color palette -- a virtual feast for the wanderer's eye and there were barely enough hours in any given day to express it all. I so tried to take root here and though I remained over a period of eight years, the way to sustain it financially never appeared. Always seemed like I worked twice as hard for half the result, and there was not enough purchase in the thin rocky soil, or perhaps I was better use to the world somewhere else.

In the end, I returned east to be with family and put down some roots. Though I found new appreciation for the subtle beauty of Maine, years later I still feel the call to wander west for a good dose of big sky now and then. It tends to get into one’s blood, under the skin, wedged up under the fingernails like the most stubborn dirt.

Line Lake rests upon the Montana/Wyoming border -- a sheepherder's trailer sits waiting with basic supplies and shelter, the wind blows, as it always does and during short windows of time we humans get to visit this towering wilderness before Mother Nature asserts her complete and undisputed possession of it. And it is good. Perfect really. What could possibly improve upon this flawless beauty?

This image appears on the back cover of my first book, Confessions of the Hired Spatula, so rather than sell the original, I have indulged myself in retaining it for "the artist's private collection."

Color Me Blue...

"GARDNER LAKE"
Beartooth Pass, Wyoming
Oil on Rag Board
19.25" x 22.25"
$800 USD Unframed


At nearly 11,000 feet there is little but sparse tundra vegetation clinging to fierce craggy soil and hard scrub bracken bordering the small glacial lakes. The Beartooth Pass offers but two seasons; winter and almost winter and the latter is extremely short. It is not a place for those who fear heights, cold weather or lightening and the nearest cozy lodging can be found 20 miles down the mountain at Red Lodge, Montana.

I began this painting the previous day but quit when an imposing storm system rolled in. Today another dark thunder cell loomed with howling winds and plummeting temperatures that quickly settled into my bones. Even the paint on the palette was nearly too cold to mix and a less boneheaded individual might have given up completely. Just then a voice behind me said, "Hello, say do ya mind if we interview you?" A big fuzzy microphone and camera were then thrust at my surprised face – every blue frozen inch of it, no doubt looking dangerously sexy and perfectly suited for prime time.

Say hello to Doug McConnell and his traveling film crew from the Backroads series, here on special assignment filming a segment on Yellowstone and the Tetons, all of them looking marginally pleased to find an artist painting on this forbidden stretch. Sure, why not? I have a sense of humor and I was already running high on adventure, having recently escaped the last cooking job at the Flying Resort Ranches in Idaho. I was basically traveling through the mountains painting and camping before determining where to go next. Officially, I was footloose and fancy free with no legal address. The date of my last hot shower was also in question.

With fierce winds brutally whipping us, the cameras rolled, Deborah squeaked her little story (so cold the mouth was barely cooperating by then), a quick shot of the painting in progress was included, and off they went, those magnificent men in their filming paraphernalia. The producer was funny, and kind enough to send me a copy of the segment. The painting was ultimately completed. And revisiting these images, I would gladly be there again, if only…

I searched up the Backroads show and learned they had just concluded a 23-year run due to lack of funding in August '08. However you can find them at http://www.openroad.tv/ where portions of the Yellowstone and Tetons segments are posted. As for my little 15 seconds of fame, it fell to the editors cut. S’okay… it is part of this image, frozen right there in the paint.

Sweet Music in the Mountains

"ISLAND LAKE"
Beartooth Pass, Wyoming
Oil on Rag Board
(Private Collection)


Sweet sanctuary can be found in the Beartooth Pass by this small glacial lake. Island Lake Campground is located just to the left, and it is one of the more stunning camper's havens discovered during the wandering years. A well-used trail borders the lake and connects to an extensive network of trails that wander far into the back country. Looking at it now, I might have explored the trails a little further, but traveling solo, recall a certain amount of caution about hiking in bear country alone with no common sense equipment. Instead I stayed close to the lake, and one afternoon set out to paint the view.

At some point, a fellow stepped out of his RV nearby and began playing the sweetest violin, which continued for what seemed like hours as I painted quickly, racing the nightfall. When it came time to fold up, the violinist quietly put away his playing and disappeared into his trailer. Never a word spoken, none necessary. But this painting certainly reveals the collaboration with the melodies imprinted into every stroke of the brush, the softness of the edges and the feeling I remember of being there.

A Fear Of Flying

"CHAIN LAKE"
Beartooth Pass, Wyoming
Oil on Canvas
8 x 10
(Private Collection)

Since we're meandering around the Beartooth Pass, I may as well put this one in and admit the full spectrum of my humor during the earlier years spent dancing on the edge.

There is but one road that accesses the Beartooth Mountains, and it is a rare adventure through 12,000 foot peaks where the snow accumulates upwards of 30 feet in the winter, glaciers remain through the summer and you can get stormed off the pass on any day of the year. Twenty-foot poles border the road, and these are to guide snowmobilers during the thick of winter. It is a steep drive up, no matter which end you start on and one hopes both the transmission and brakes are in good order. At the mid point it features one postage-stamp sized little convenience store called The Top of the World, which has no phones (really, they're not holding out), a few cabins, and a rescue service for those who get into trouble. Up the road is Island Lake Campground and just yonder this little gem called Chain Lake. I perched by the side of the road to paint here, just me, the picas (little rock varmints that make a funny "gneeee" sound) and the cars passing by.

At one point, a woman approached, presumably to peek at what I was painting. She had a German accent, we exchanged pleasantries, and I soon discovered her true intention, which was to verbally unload a great fear of heights, now fully activated driving through the Beartooth Pass, which is really no place for a person known to be afraid of heights. But she and the husband had driven it 20 years ago, and presumably enough time had passed that she dared try it again, or she imagined the mountains had gotten smaller, or perhaps she had better drugs.

At its highest point, the Beartooth Highway reaches 10,974 feet and rests above tree line with a series of hairpin turns on both sides of the pass that would raise the hair on even the most calmly disposed neck. Looking downward, one can easily imagine one's swift demise, bouncing and plummeting down 1,000 foot jagged rock slides and cliffs, coming to rest as a mere stain at the bottom. The few species that seem to have mastered this terrain include the Mountain Goats and Sheep, which leap straight up the side, and the Grizzly Bears, who do whatever they damn please.

What exactly was she thinking? And just why was she pestering me about it -- must have a magnet somewhere...I continued painting while Nervous Nellie embellished on her fears. Suddenly that sick humor, which I could easily blame on my father, kicked in, and out of my mouth came, "Well ya know... there's only one way to cure that problem..." Honestly, I had no idea how to cure that problem, and no clue what I was going to say except that her mouth was now hanging open in rapt anticipation. "Just drive up the road a piece and find a nice little high point... then make like a bird!" That was a lame attempt, even for me, but it did serve a purpose.

Terrified, she gasped, "Your painting is lovely, but your sense of humor is HORRIBLE!" As she began collapsing fully into the drama, the husband appeared quickly with a protective arm and whisked her away, hissing admonitions at the demon artist as they went. Might not have been funny to them, but in the moments that followed I nearly peed myself laughing. Just me and the wind and the place to myself again.

In retrospect, having settled some business in my own interior and finding a greater compassion for the human comedy, I realize how often the things we fear are sometimes those that fascinates us most. The hypnotic flame that burns the curious fingertips, the edgy bad boy relationships that end in predictable heartache... and it does take a certain amount of consciousness to catch yourself, choose things that make you happy instead of taking yourself for a white knuckle ride. Above all, if you're going to dance on the edge, best to learn not to complain about the inevitable wreckage because you know better, and it only annoys the pilgrims.

Here's a cool site about the Beartooth Highway http://gorp.away.com/gorp/activity/byway/mt_beart.htm

Define Blue?

"PILOT PEAK"
Beartooth Pass, Wyoming
Oil on Canvas
9 x 12
(Private Collection)



This story must be told. For one, because it is a good reminder of how personal one's perception of color and reality will always be, and two, for the simple fact that I behaved myself, when I was certainly given enough fodder to unleash the inner brat in all manner of colorful ways.

Pilot Peak sits at the base of the Beartooth Pass, north of Cooke City and the Silver Gate entrance to Yellowstone. Years ago, I stood at this place on a windy September day, thunderheads grumbling and rolling overhead, aspen glowing vibrantly on the mountainside. As I began laying the groundwork for this image, an elder gentleman came along and quite matter of factly announced that I was using the wrong color blue for that mountain. Really? The wrong color? According to who?

Eventually I learned that the fellow had painted this view himself and was simply aching to show it off, but for lack of a better method, persisted in insisting on "the correct" way to paint until finally in disgust, there was nothing left but to show me what real art looked like -- and with that darted off to the van to find his painting.

I was taught always to be polite, and at 31 hadn't yet realized that it was okay to tell people to bugger off. When Mr. Helpful finally did leave, the irritation of the encounter lingered. I consoled myself with fantasies of mixing the perfect blue and chasing him all the way back to the van while doinking blobs of it on his person. The very thought of it made me chuckle, and it still does. The incredulous dolt is surely part of the memory time capsule of this image, wherever he and his hemorrhoids may be.

In art, there IS no right or wrong, there is only what pleases you and conveys the intention, and what doesn't. However in life, there are certainly shades of etiquette which may bear consideration, especially when approaching unknown entities painting by the side of the road. Annoying pests, approach at your own peril.

So tell me, do you think I used the right color blue?

And Some Ya Bleed For...

"MORSE MOUNTAIN"
Phippsburg, Maine

Original Oil on Canvas (NFS)

Roland Giclee Ltd. Edition
$275 USD (unframed)

16" x 16"

Tucked away on Route 216 is the entrance to a rare jewel simply known as Morse Mountain.

Though the mosquitoes are thick, it is worth the two-mile walk to behold one of Maine’s most enchanting secrets – old growth forests thick with ancient moss, glacial granite monoliths and marsh corridors leading to a broad sand beach bordered by marsh rivers on each end. Only a few cottages and old homes sprinkled along the way. The high point is Morse Mountain, which offers this lovely view of the marsh corridor below. Little evidence remains of the Navy installation that once presided over this view, except for the road itself, for which we are most grateful. Because Morse Mountain is a bird sanctuary, dogs are not allowed on this hike. Apparently the biting pests have full license to roam, and roam they do.

I hiked into Morse Mountain one day, weighed down with paintings supplies in the backpack, canvas stretchers in each hand and most definitely the wrong pair of shoes. The morning trip in wasn't so bad with the sun high and the swarm moderately well behaved. I painted the image called Popham which precedes this post. On the way out, I could not resist the lighting and exquisite beauty of the overlook, so in that daft, tunnel-visioned artist glaze, I set up and began to paint. Out in the open and protected by the breeze, the afternoon was sublime. However when it came time to walk out... oh dear, dear, dear.

Envision bone tired woman (painted brains out) hiking with heavy pack, wretched shoes and a wet painting in each hand and no one to swat mosquitoes for this poor fool. The little darlins attacked every exposed centimeter of skin, and then some. One moment I felt the sting in my outstretched palm (remember the canvas) while another little sucker landed on the other vulnerable palm. Shrieking, I thumped the first little bastard with the corner of a canvas, and then the other. Miraculously, neither painting was smeared.

If only I had wings. Where is the Navy when you need them? This would be the last time I ever attempted two canvases at Morse Mountain. I still have scars to remember that day from months of scratching, along with these particularly satisfying images to revisit now and then.

More than anything, when I stand atop this hill it is the feeling of the people who came before us that overwhelms me -- the ones who vanished in our wake. I can see them, navigating the marsh, gathering shellfish by the ocean, living simply in a way that we seem to have evolved completely out of... and just who is going to save us poor fools?

At Morse Mountain, the sun rises, the sun sets. The wind blows ever constant. The smaht ones hike in during the off seasons.

A Windswept Roadside Attraction

"OLD ROADS AND WATERWAYS"
West of Whitehall, Montana

Oil on Rag Board

9.5 x 19.25"
$700 USD unframed

I remember being here in the cool sunshine and wild winds that threatened to both topple my small production and freeze my tookus in the process. But the view so barren in its windblown subtle tones became rich in a way. And it was worth the discomfort, even the cool stares I received from hardlined ranchers driving by who must surely have wondered, who is this fool on the side of the road?

It's All In The Eye Of The Beholder...

"THE THUMB AND THE TEAKETTLE"

Sedona, Arizona

Oil on Board

11 x 14

$500.00 USD

I first landed in Sedona in the fall of 1993, a neophyte wanderer in a foreign land. The red rocks lent an intensity that I had never experienced in the northeast, and like many a hick before me, I was somewhat besotted with it. The long neglected red and orange hues fairly clamored on my pallet and it was a refreshing change from the pastoral tree lines and fields of Maine. I nearly painted my brains out, and it was here that I began to channel impassioned poems and essays, from where I couldn't have said.

This auspicious rock formation was one of the first sites upon entering town via Oak Creek Canyon. One friend who lived virtually beneath this monolith referred to it as Little Penis... which anyone who has lived here for any time immediately understands with a knowing nod. I didn't quite have the balls to title the painting as such, so opted for the generically acceptable Thumb and the Teakettle. Still, you have to admit... there are interesting resemblances.

Sedona's world famous energy vortices and passionate red canyons attract travelers and new age seekers from near and far. Its alluring beauty captivates them, and some become so obsessed as to rabidly return home, sell everything, quit the job, divorce the spouse, kick the dog and move on in part and parcel with breathless anticipation of a new and beautiful life, only to find the eids of Sedona do not yield success so easily. The especially love sick remain, determined to find some means to survive, often working two and three jobs, paying ridiculous rent only to be a part of the place. Couples who move here often blast apart. Others cry uncle and leave feeling decidely screwed. The locals watch and shake their heads. Dos locos.

Sedona is basically a huge cosmic amplifier, like the speakers on your sterio. Whatever internal program you plug into it is what gets broadcasted loud and clear, thus unresolved emotional issues are soon screaming back at them, usually in the form of chaotic situations, painful lessons with local "shamans," damning bad luck and explosive relationships. UNCLE already!

Years later I learned something of the ancient wisdom of the place and it made sense. The native peoples acknowledged this land as a sacred site, traveling into it for ceremonial purposes only. They understood its essence as too powerful to live in, and the remains of their dwellings are conspicuously found on its perimeters. Leave it to us white folks to mess with ancient wisdom.

First came the early settlers of the 1800s. The town's most current name is after Sedona Schebley, a settler woman. Eventually came the gentle earth hippie types throughout the 50s, 60s and 70s. Some of them even lived in a big cave atop a cliff in a far canyon. Then the world found out and during the 80s and 90s in marched the resort and hospitality businesses, restaurants to please every taste speckled along the strip along with crystal shops, vortex tours, pink jeep adventures, yellow bi-planes and rainbow striped balloons to provide the ultimate red rock experience. Resorts were built in sacred canyons, despite the objections of native peoples, only to go broke repeatedly. One development was scrapped completely and never got built due to repeated misfortunes and mysterious breakdowns. Still that giant sucking sound and the near deafening *ka-CHING* of fortunes being made and lost continued undaunted.

My take on Sedona? It is a marvelous feast of the senses, a wonderful place to visit, hike, get your aura photographed, palm read, chakras cleared, colon blown... view overpriced mediocre artwork, eat some good food and check in on the mirror of your life. What's working? What isn't? Then go home with a sense of gratitude for what you already have.

As for the Little Penis, it keeps watch over the balance of things here. Regardless of how people struggle to stay in Sedona, they seem to roll in and roll out much like the coastal tides with nearly as precise timing and regularity.

A Little Grit Never Hurt Anyone, only Smarted...

"BEYOND ANTELOPE CANYON"
Navajo Nation,

Page, Arizona

Oil on Canvas with Grit
(Private Collection)

Every painting holds a piece of its circumstances. Some more than others...
From its conception, this image was a challenge. Living in Sedona at the time with a man whom I was busily completing my masters in "ridiculous relationships," we drove to Page, Arizona for a creative retreat. While he was setting up a photo shoot in the famous slot canyons (along with hundreds other tourists) I settled in nearby to capture this image with the brush.

The day was clear and beautiful, however, the wind proved daunting as it barreled down the canyon in angry gusts, forcing me to clutch onto the easel and painting for dear life while the maelstrom passed. Little did I know that a storm cloud was gathering in the slot chambers where my companion was becoming frustrated with traffic passing through "his" photographs, kicking up dust, bumping into him. In a brave moment, I dared release hold of the painting to step back for perspective... and the wind exploded in force, sending my easel, pallet and painting flying.

Just as a peanut butter sandwich must necessarily land face down, so too do wet paintings. My beautiful new canvas now encrusted with lovely red sand. Crestfallen but maintaining humor, I retrieved it and began to pack up. Better to let the painting dry and recover it later.

It would be several years before I would touch that image again. Long enough to find some perspective in the horrendous hours that followed its symbolic fate... long enough to forgive myself for getting into that relationsoup, along with owning the ridiculous choices that led up to it... long enough to appreciate the good things of that day like the warmth of the Arizona sun, the beauty of the place... and certainly the freedom to find my own wisdom and make mistakes.

Sometimes we have to push life to the limit in order to know where the boundaries are and in painting, as in life, this may require that we pick ourselves up on occasion, dust off the grit, and continue finding our own true path.

Did Someone Say Clouds?

RIMROCK II

Wood River Valley, Wyoming

Oil On Canvas

11.25 x 6.5

$450 USD Unframed

$650 USD Framed

Towering rim rock mesas along the Wood River Valley opalescent in the afternoon sun… should have paid more attention to the clouds creeping up behind them -- Wyoming is famous for its fast moving storm cells that quickly overwhelm the landscape.

I continued into the mountains and set up camp where my visiting brother was scheduled to arrive. First came rain, then temperatures plummeted to sleet then snow -- I held out until the all hope of a dry night faded, then quickly stuffed wet gear into the car as nightfall settled in. I would be lucky to get out on the wet clay roads.

Driving in the blinding snow, car tires slithering and bucking in protest up the hill, dark forms appeared on the road ahead, so large that I wondered if it was cattle. Instead it was a rockslide where fortunately one very critical rock was movable. The car fishtailed but I squeaked through and continued slogging onward, gripping the wheel as white snow bombs blotted the windshield. Half way out I spotted headlights and it turned out to be my brother’s truck. Even more fortunate was the little hotel 30 miles away that had a vacancy. We were lucky indeed. The following day it was bright sunny and dry again. Weather is like this in the Rockies, a storm cell appearing out of nowhere and gone just as quick. No sense in fighting it as nature always wins and we are but small specks in the natural world.

The Hula Girl

"BREMEN LONG ISLAND"
Bremen, Maine

Oil on Canvas

"18 x 18"

$900 USD

By some act of divine providence, a friend was bartending for a private soiree' on Bremen Long Island and I wangled an invitation to tag along and paint.

While guest sipped fine wine, I schlepped my gear out to yonder point and undertook this image. Time was short and it was a one shot deal. To add to the challenge, a formidable wind threatened to send the canvas flying at any moment, whipping my old yellow paint skirt back and forth, earning me the nickname of “the hula girl” – the guests apparently quite entertained from a distance and probably moreso with the passing of more liquor. Oblivious, I painted like a madwoman, the brush working every corner of that canvas, racing the inevitable tide which crept in stealthily, and the sun, which slipped down all too soon on the horizon. With wind burned eyes and a feeling of utter exhaustion, I headed back to find a little place to recoup among the guests.

The Summer Host of Characters

"LOW TIDE"

South Freeport, Maine
Oil on Canvas
12" x 12"

SOLD

Oh the stories about this place.

The lonely farmer -- who roars up on his tractor to boast of his “big barn,” complain how women run the minute they hear about the 10-year old son, meanwhile eyeballing me for dating potential. Lately, I am not too proud to duck for cover every time I hear the farm equipment coming.

The kayaker -- who insisted on putting in at low tide (Read: Bonehead). Quite the showman as he hefted the kayak and proudly strode to the water... then for the next 45 minutes dug and kicked and panted to get out beyond the mud flats, then gave up and dug and kicked and panted to get back to the parking area. (Its true, I have pictures). By then he was fuming -- black clouds forming overhead as he huffed back to the car with considerably less flair. And in that fateful moment the tide turned... water gushing generously into the inlet, which only further maddened the erstwhile studly who sped off in a cloud of dust, oblivious to my chuckling.

The clammers -- who leave mysterious tracks in the flats that catch the sunlight like silken ribbons. Yet none who exit the mud look so elegant as that.

The swimmers -- who appear on sunny days at high tide and cannonball off the bridge. The air is filled with their sounds and it is pure summer glee at its best. Osprey hovering and hunting in the distance.

The fishermen -- who appear like ghosts just when the stripers are running, little fish flicker and jump to elude the big ones who chase them. Sun dappling on the water.

The campers -- who lumber along in towering land yachts to weigh anchor at Recompense Campground just beyond the bridge. A virtual paradise for summer visitors and the biting pests who are all to happy to serve them.

In the winter, I remember these times and feel warmed by them. Several winters ago the temperatures plummeted and held low for weeks. This entire outlet froze with over a foot of ice that rose and fell with the daily tides. At low tide, it sat on the flats and I roamed the edges and inlets, dressing warm against the wind and cold. Free form art sculptures formed by tidal ice activity dotted the shore. This was my moment to walk on water, and even though it was frozen, I felt like an adventurer.

Somehow, amidst the robust development trend of southern Maine this beautiful farmland remains open and relatively unscathed. We truly hope it remains so.

In Case You're Desperate...

"THE TURNING POINT"
Scarborough, Maine
Oil on Canvas
15" x 30"
$1,200 USD

Interesting things can happen when you're standing along side the road painting, not the least of which are the characters who drop by for a visit. First, the lady who screeched to a halt and sprinted back up the road waving her gallery card and screeching "Do you have gallery representation?;" and let us remember the husband and wife who wanted to own it for their home nearby, but didn't want to pay much (sorry folks, you'll find that sort of art work at Wally World) and of course, the truckers.

I must say a few words about truckers. Either they are be depraved by nature, or they are all art lovers at heart, because apparently few can restrain themselves from laying on the horn whilst barreling by. Have you ever had a semi truck horn go off at close range behind your back? Talk about getting your crackers scattered~

After the umpteenth blasting, I mused that a specially designed trucker's horn might be the key to my wealth. Why I would simply design and patent a horn that would convey their truest base sentiments, ....blaring Ssssseeexxxxxxxxx! Maybe several optional sounds, for instance TITSssssssssss.... Assssssssss.... HOOTERrrrrrrrssss! Several friends were appalled; they thought this highly sexist of me and offered that I might be sued. However, I am convinced a fine trucker's horn would sell like HOooooooT CAKKKKKKKkkkkkkkkkes! No doubt I would quickly become a millionairess.

The most comical and enduring chuckle regarding this painting is the woman from Freeport who wanted to buy it in the worst way, but was not authorized to spend such a sum as her husband, in all likelihood would have divorced her. And so she did what any sane wife would do, and offered me half the asking price. Naturally I declined. I am no flea market art seller, and until the the right buyer comes along, I am enjoying this particular piece in my office. Looks rather lovely I might add.

Not one to be easily dismissed, this dear woman called six months later to inquire if the painting had sold. "No... I'm looking at it right now, and its a BEAUTY!" Again, the half price offer. Again the decline. She warned, "OK, but if you get desperate, remember me." I countered, "Ohhh trust me, if I get desperate... I will surely remember you.