Spring time...

Shadow and Light, in the old horse barn

Spring is here - yet there is still snow in the air. The violets and colts foot are just now bravely putting out their little faces from underneath the debris of a previous year. The squill is making the grass in one corner of the acre turn blue as the sun peeks out from behind the shreds of clouds and coaxes them to open their little buds that had shut tight for the night...the ground is soggy from Friday's storm, there are twigs on the ground - I have entertained the notion to go around with the wheel barrow to collect them, but then remember that my lower back filed a formal complaint on Friday morning after I spent time in the dentist's chair for a new crown (being in a dentist's chair three times in the last two weeks is a bit much - I joked with the kindly assistant that I'd rather be at the gynecologist, unfortunately, I wasn't in a position to see her face when she quietly replied with her agreement.)

Deer Skull

Springtime and old barns

My slow progress with editing Drinking from the Fishbowl is what it is...methodical. I'm on chapter 23, working backwards, paragraph by paragraph, not necessarily catching grammatical missteps, but tackling where my brutal editing from before had carved out canyons of empty places - Georgia is currently having a revealing conversation with her mother-in-law that is now so vastly improved, that Quinn Muldoon's small role is now as it should be...I'm happy. I'm beginning to feel like Donna Tartt, taking 10 years or so to finish a manuscript. (I'm looking forward to picking up her new release this fall!)

The Little Monster, in his cute phase (it didn't last long!)

We've acquired another cat a month ago, his name is The Little Monster, and he truly lives up to that name. He's a TNR (Trap n' Release) that imposed himself on us during a raw weather spell, and then I got bit while feeding him, so we had to quarantine him for 10 days, and he's been in our bathroom living in a large, comfortable cage ever since. We think his neutering was recent, he acquired all the tomcat features and attitude, so he might be awhile working out all that testosterone in his system...I've read it can take up to two months before we'll notice a change in his aggressive behavior. Since we brought him inside and started the TLC with hefty doses of PATIENCE, he's slowly becoming a "good kitty". He's unpredictable. Sweet and purring one minute, then gnawing on the nearest appendages with a twitch of his restless tail. He's cute, but not so cute, we're concerned that he might not get on well with our resident boy cats who are all neutered and sweet...if he doesn't adjust and get along, we'll have to find a special forever home for him with someone we can trust.

Rusty Remains

I'm getting to know my new camera (SONY NEX 7) that I bought with money made from the sale of my paintings to ProLiteracy. Gosh it's nice...tho' I'm annoyed with myself that I need to wear my reading glasses to see if I have the image in focus...(naturally, I tried to blame the camera for the blurry photos.) Dang it takes some mighty pretty pictures. It's shocking how many images I can accumulate just walking around my acre. I still try to post an image daily on my Tumblr site http://laurajwryan.tumblr.com/ 

Frost on Last Year's Debris

March Ice

Shadows and Light, concrete

I'm still traveling back n' forth to my parent's house to clear it out, it's taking forever, but slowly things are dispersing, AND I KEEP FINDING MORE PHOTOGRAPHS! I've been spending time in our father's darkroom clearing out and organizing all of the bits of this and that, packing up things to keep, throwing out what needs to go. I expect to make one major move of larger items.

A tin-type photo of an unidentified relative with an amazing ruffle of chin whiskers - I think he's from Mom's side of the family, likely Gram VanDusen's side of the line (Brewer/Farnsworth/Woodworth?)

Questions come up such as: "What does one do with baby teeth?" I haven't found mine yet to know.

Would it be weird to keep my father's old bridge? (Just sentimental reasons.)

How the devil will we get that pink upright piano out of the cellar? (How did they get it down there in the first place?)

Yes, I did say it is pink. Painted pink, somewhat faded over time. It was once a player piano.

Another question - who in their right mind would paint a piano pink - and why - why - why - why - why (so many questions that fail to have answers - it makes my head hurt.) Before we move it - I'm going to photograph the shit out of it.

None of these questions need to be answered - I'm just sticking them out there just because...dealing with the past is just fascinating at times.

I am vexed.

I raked together a few words...a bunch of them, or so it seems...just did it tonight, I suspect they've been rattling around inside my head for a long time...perhaps I'm just channeling my little folksinger Dusty Waters when I do stuff like this...these Poe-emz of mine...they're always raw and far from refined, still fluid in such a way that I will continue to add to it or subtract from it, and probably will only make sense as spoken words rather than read on a screen...maybe one day I'll attempt that...not tonight. It's name is "Vexation", and it goes like this...

I am vexed. It is all commonplace at first glance—as it should be—
The sky is blue—or gray depending on the weather—there is snow
now—grass will come later—the bare bones of trees have
buds waiting to burst, but when I take a careful look
around—I know better than that.
I could wake up screaming some times,
but I don’t. Screaming solves nothing. What will be—
will be. Indeed. Where do I dare to look?
No blood.
There or there. No—wait—
wait for it—maybe? Ah, no, I’m wrong.
It’s a photograph of trauma—the latest life drama
right there on the front page—right there on the television
and there on the latest gadget screen. Where to look first?
Don’t blink.
Don’t look away. Dang, it’s another train wreck of yet
another individual
blowing their wad—their existence—
constituted misery—making a mess for others to clean up.
So much loss happened long before the aftermath.
Someone dropped the ball between here and there.
Shit, they didn’t look both ways. Don’t you know by now?
Stop – Look - Listen for the two sides to the story.
Don’t you see? Can’t you see?
Amend—make amends—amendments—
Adjust yourself—ourselves—
in keeping with the situation.
Running around putting out fires,
it’s all gone before you know it—
before you knew you had it.
Don’t blink
or you’ll miss it.
Just a moment—a moment of being. Be.
I wonder ‘how come’. What the fuck, right? Seriously.
Some days I feel like I’m running a marathon while standing still.
Beleaguered. Belabored. Be. Been.
The cold Winter wind that lingers on the Spring equinox breath
is disheartening. My feet are chilled, but I’ll get over it.
Some are sure it’s just a phase we’re in—adjusting.
The world is appalling to me—these days
I am vexed
by it all. Tired. Dead dog tired
of the latest ‘it’ thing. It is—it was—it will be—
It and the many things ‘it’ is—or possibly
can be.
My head can just about pop off my body from thinking—
listening to it all. Whose side are you on—you chose.
Right or left—wrong or right. My country ‘tis of thee—
What happened to my sweet land of liberty? Of thee I—
Of thee... See? I can’t even sing the words—my vexation runs deep.
So I chose to laugh at the way things are—shake my head
in wonder of it all. Disbelief—how come—how now,
dear old brown cow.
I hope to be safe
here on my acre of the world—my home sweet home—
the one place I can call my own—
there are no guarantees of that either—no matter what I do—
staying out of it while being in the middle of it all.

No wonder I’m so vexed.

LJW 3/20/2013

Dusty Waters, A Ghost Story

Four years ago I was editing, proofreading, making changes, reading, making more changes, having my Fred run it through InDesign, the font was selected, formatting line by line, chapter by chapter, and then a PDF came into being. Which of course meant more reading, more fussing over formatting, more proofreading, more changes... somewhere in the midst of all this, I dug out old photos I took of the Fox Sister's house in Hydesville before they tore it down, and used them for the book cover... then finally, a file was created and the first paperback came in the mail a few days later. Of course there was more to do to it...other odd formatting problems, a couple of misspelled words...a word that wasn't misspelled, but was just the wrong word...and then eventually a block of ISBN #'s were purchased, and one more file created, another proof came, it was examined page by page, and then, it was done. I never looked back, never regretted that I didn't try one more time to go the traditional route...


Four years after its publication, I still love this little book of mine, and have found the reactions of readers very interesting—no surprises—it’s one of those ‘love it’ or ‘hate it’ sort of books, I guess. It still amazes me that I wrote it, and I'm always grateful when someone tells me they loved it and what their favorite part was, or what made them cry...

It just makes me cry that I was able to write it...it took years to write it...I carried much of it within me since I was quite young, before I knew what to do with any of it...they were stories I made up, told to my friends, and then got into trouble over them because...well because they weren't true. I was called a liar for making such things up. (Imagine that.)

Dusty Waters, A Ghost Story is a literary fiction novel, it is not the usual ghost story with a haunted house—oh, yes, Tanglewood is very haunted—but it’s a ghost story as much about life as it is about death. It’s a coming of age story and a story about coming to terms with the past. Dusty Waters, as a little girl with a gift of seeing ghosts, is haunted by the spirits drifting in the hallways of her ancestral home, and haunted by the past encompassing a family history, a nation’s history, and a generation’s history, as well as her personal story. Dusty Waters, as a woman, standing well over six feet tall, wild curly blond hair with big feet and a big nose, is a folksinger in the tradition of folksingers of the Boomer generation with a growling voice like Janis Joplin, but her guitar is tuned with the Punk edge of the Gen-X kids who show up at her concerts looking to hear songs about the truth of “what was” and presently that “it goes like this.” She pulls no punches as she belts out her songs, but in her own personal life, she’s barely scratching the surface of being honest with herself. She’s scared to go home to face the ghosts that haunt her there, and scared to live without them. Coming home at last, she has steeled herself to sit down with her friend, Katharine, to tell her story for the official biography of the folksinger—but there are parts of that story she will never tell a soul—except maybe one, but she lost him along the way and needs to go find him.

Me at my first book signing on May 2, 2009 at Fat Cats in Johnson City, NY

Look at that smile—and those poor old tortie glasses bit the dust long ago, I loved them until they fell apart and were beyond repair—oh, they got me through many hair-pulling edits of that little ghost story I’m holding in my hands—I just loved writing this book and have enjoyed meeting people to talk about it and although I'm so small time being an indie on my own, I can't complain, she sells one book at a time.

Four years later...here is a lifetime I can hold in my hands and share.

Moving along...

I thought I would post a little something tonight...here's the crew...they keep me entertained...

The three ginger boys...Tiggy-Pooh (the oldest at the top), Butters (the youngest, holding still for once), Popeye (the handsome one-eyed fellow sitting on the floor)

Little old Tiggy Pooh with his buddy Charlie Chowder

I'm down to four tabbies...the house feels odd...not quite empty as the boys are a busy lot, especially Mr. Naughty Mittens, Charlie...

Charlie in a bag

...he's relentless. That bag didn't last long...
 

Wee Butters when he first came to us, a foundling, I'm so glad he got to know Willy Big and Fatty Woo Hobbes, he took to the old boys right away, and they didn't mind him at all.

Butters sleeping, yet another photo of him holding still, blurry photos of this guy are too common. Butter-Roo is only two, but to look at him...what a pudge!

 

Popeye...a very big, good-natured fellow, presently the last drop off we received

Crouching Tigger-Hidden Pooh at age 14 (he turns 15 in April) the last of the original barn kittens, Litter of 1998.

Tiggy-Pooh has been mourning, the drooping tail is slowly coming up again...he misses Fatty Woo Hobbes and Willy Big, they've been buddies and brothers for a lot of years, he needs time...and I hope he has plenty of more time!

The best of Good Boys Max, the snow bunny

This old dog, now 13 years old, has been this girl's best friend since he was two, and it makes me like snow a little more because he loves it so much, even tho' arthritis is slowing him down, he still makes snow angels and slides down the driveway on his side. Silly dog. (I hope he will stay healthy and happy for a little longer!)

Me and my shadow dog

 So, that's them...the fuzzy-face crew...

The Long Tail of Willy Big...

 The Long Tail of Willy Big…how he was once Willy Little and was always Willy Soft, Willy Sweet, and Willy Good. He just got Willy Old and it was his time to go. He will be so missed by those who loved him. July (?) 1997-December 30, 2012

Portrait of Willy Big

Willy Big with his older brother Fatty Woo Hobbes

Tiggy-Pooh loved his buddy Willy Big

BFF!

Willy Big, son of the feral tortoise shell barn kitty, Miss Charlotte, half-brother to Fatty Woo Hobbes, cousin to Crouching Tigger-Hidden Pooh (aka Tiggy-Pooh), and good friend of Max, Charlie, Popeye, and Butters passed away after a long life on Sunday, 12/30/2012 at 11:37PM, he was 15 years old. Predeceased by Miss Charlotte (disappeared in 1999), his litter brother B.B., (hit by a car in 1998), his litter sister, Miss Molly (RF, 2004), and his older half-brother, Fatty Woo Hobbes (old age, 2012).

The Big Three on the bed

Looking outside...all three together

When you have a multiple cat household there’s certain personalities who demand attention (even if it’s bad attention) all the time…and then there are those quiet individuals who are like little ghosts, you don’t see them, and sometimes the question pops out “Have you seen…?” Willy Big was always a quiet, pensive fellow, he had the manner of a poet, and he had a rich rumbling purr. He had exquisitely plush smoky gray fur with four white paws, a blazing white bib and fluffy white belly, a small white stripe in between his green eyes and a white tip at the very end of his tail. It is the legend, that when they were passing out the white markings, he got the tip of his tail mixed up with his paws and dipped it in the white marking bucket.

Willy Little in the middle, siblings George on left, Miss Molly on right, August 3, 1997

Back before he was “Big”, when he was Willy Little as a wee kitten, he was discovered one August Sunday morning cautiously toddling out from under a wood pile by our shed. He was born to a feral tortoise-shell lady named Miss Charlotte late summer of 1997. He was a bitty fellow, smaller than a grape leaf on the vine that twined around their little home; fuzzy gray with white markings, including a few white hairs at the pointy tip of his tail, and his pale cornflower blue eyes had blurry vision at best, he hissed at me when we first met, but soon enough we became friends. Then at the tender age of 6-8 weeks old, he had one of those nasty maggots living underneath his skin in his side and we had to run him to the vet on a chilly Sunday morning, and after a bit of finagling, the critter was removed from his side and he, along with his four wee litter mates (five total, four boys and one girl) were put into our studio so that he could recover…Miss Charlotte, was nowhere to be found for a few days, but suddenly returned, waiting at the door, she chose to come inside to nurse her kittens, and then leave as soon as she was done (funny how she knew right where they were being kept.) As we were dispersing the litter to any takers, I insisted on keeping Willy...as I paid a pretty price for having that grub removed from him, I wasn’t going to part with him willingly. Willy recovered from his trauma, and grew to be Willy Big.

The Long View of Willy Big...

Willy Big had a wonderful life...my most favorite memory...on Christmas Day, many years ago, Willy caught a cherry pie that he found on the stove…when my mom and I came out to prepare dessert, we discovered him, coveting the pie on the floor, it was still firmly wrapped in foil and saran, and he was growling at the other curious kitty cats who wanted a piece of that pie…but Willy was very proud of his catch, and did not want to share it with them…we were pleased that not a crumb was touched and no damage done…my mother famously said: “We won’t say anything about it, he didn’t get into it.” After that, she’d always inquire “How is Mr. Cherry Pie?” These last few days, I’ve talked to him about his greatest catch, and he’d purr...

On my writing table by the window...

He was always a dramatic sleeper…

A very soft and plush bit o' belly fuzz!

...sprawling in interesting positions...

One basket wasn't enough...he needed to spill into the second...

Willy sleeping with the dog's toy piggy

…somewhat undignified...

Why do the biggest think they can fit in small boxes?

 ...for one so solemn and proper.

Waiting...so patiently...easily mistaken for a plush toy...

...our quiet, sensitive little boy had a sense of humor whether he knew it or not...he was my little buddy...and he loved to watch television in the living room beyond the French doors (the cat free zone), snuggled on any available lap...

Such Pretty Green Eyes

Willy Big, who was once Willy Little, and then later became, Willy Old...he had many names...

A Willy Big baby in the high chair...

Mr. Cherry Pie
The Little Hippo (just because of the funny way he would run...)
Bunny Feet
Willy White Whiskers (Willy White Tip, Willy White Mittens, etc...)
Willy Soft
Willy Quiet
Mr. Plush
Mr. Pensive
Willy Mouse (or The Mouse...he was a very good mouser...it wasn't just Cherry Pies he could catch!)
Willy the Gray
The Poet
The Thundercloud (the rumbling purr)
Dust Kitty (or Dust Ball, or Dust Bunny)

On Thanksgiving, Willy was "helping" me find my dust cloth by being the dust kitty caught in it...

Sleeping in the sunshine for the last time. 12/30/2012

the Willy White Tip...and a Willy White Sock...

Members of my family...

circa 1900, we think this is my mom's father, Gordon VanDusen...back when jumpers were the rage for little boys and girls alike...what a little sweetpea!

I've been working on organizing and scanning the family photographs...I grab a few and do some...it is a little bit addicting...it's too bad so many have no dates, no names, but some I recognize just because they're unforgettable faces...

This interesting postcard is of a shirttail relative, Albert Young a funeral director and licensed embalmer in Williamson NY, Yes, he embalmed his dog "Spot".

Gordon VanDusen on a jackass... (his word choice)

a baby taking a bath...could be Gordon...

 

My Aunt Mimi with her horse Ginger and Great Uncle Leslie VanDusen (Gordon's brother)

Mimi and Janie VanDusen (Janie is my mom.)

Mimi was a ballerina...studied in NYC with Martha Graham, and tried out with the Rockette's but was too short to be one of the dancers at the end of the line...

Janie was a beauty queen...c 1949

This must be Hazel May (Brewer) VanDusen, no date, my mother's mom

Sylvia Demaris (Woodworth) Farnsworth...this would be my great-great granny...Hazel's granny

The Pritchetts...Gordon's mother's folks

my great-uncle Charles Brewer (Hazel's little brother)

my great aunt Mabel, (Hazel's little sister)

Hazel and Gordon VanDusen on Janie's Wedding Day

 Lovely photos...I'm really enjoying seeing these treasures and taking care of them...