by Lucy
on February 4, 2014
As a young wife back in the 1970’s, I occupied myself with needlepoint projects while my husband watched hours and hours of sports on television. Ron was only remotely interested in what I was doing until I started a canvas for a backgammon board (a game he loved), and then he bugged me with “hurry-hurry” to complete the project. During half time of a football game, there was an interview with football player Rosey Grier — and he shocked the sports world by telling how much he enjoyed needlepoint! That’s all Ron needed to capitulate; he took the project from me and finished it himself! When any of his Army aviator buddies challenged his new hobby, Ron would tell them about Rosey!
Through the years, I have been interested in the therapeutic effects of needlepoint. I always travel with a project that is in my lap most quiet evenings or snowy afternoons. Hours can be whiled away with the simple motions of adding textiles to the canvas and admiring the results.
Recently, I read that English prisons have been promoting a project called Fine Cell Work where male prisoners are trained to do needlepoint. Their projects are sold by local charities and the prisoners get some of the funds. While our western culture links needlework chiefly to women, history tells us that it was, in fact, originally done by men who spent years mastering their craft.
Just this week, my business partner’s father died. In the obituary, I read that Mr. Nalls liked to needlepoint. How I wish I had known that about him when we first met several years ago. There is something special about a man who is not emasculated by the simple act of working with needle and thread. This is an image of a needlepoint done by Mr. Nalls.
Rest in Peace: Emmett Lester Nalls
(January 20, 1926 Miller County, GA – February 2, 2014 Tifton, Tift County, GA)
by Lucy
on January 5, 2014
I know for sure that these are my woods … though not today’s scene.
Maybe as they will be in tomorrow’s forecast snow storm??
Living on a hill in the woods is mostly fun. There’s a creek hidden at the bottom of this ridge, behind the snowy rhododendrons. It’s a metro thoroughfare for coyotes, urban deer, raccoons, and the occasional fox. Tall trees are home to “my” hawk, Harriet and “my” owl, Hortensia. The understory hides bunnies and a gazillion chipmunks. (Chickmonkeys, as my Brazilian housekeeper used to say!)
When it snows here in the woods, the ground beneath the trees becomes like a blank white page. Watching from the windows of my solarium, high upon the hillside, I can see a story being written on the page — by animal feet! Foraging, playing and chasing, and the occasional conquest.
by Lucy
on December 25, 2013
When I hear the song, “I’ll be Home for Christmas“, this is the picture that comes to mind. It’s the casita where I spent many of the 22+ years of either Christmas or Thanksgiving holidays in Santa Fe.
The pleasant little courtyard connected rooms and casitas with the main hacienda. Early in the morning, fresh snow crunched under my slippers as I slipped across to fill my mug with hot coffee from the kitchen’s carafe.
The French doors to the courtyard let in the clear white light that makes New Mexico such a favorite with artists. Many afternoons were spent with watercolours spread out on a little table drawn close to the doors. Evenings were usually spent in a deep cozy chair beside the blazing little piñon fire — with a bottle of red wine and a great book.
Midnight Mass at St. Francis Cathedral was a special Christmas tradition. The hacienda was only a short walk from the cathedral, and sidewalks were dotted with people going to worship. The music was heavenly and the service was a fantastic blend of Hispanic, Native American, and Anglo traditions. Walking back to the casita in the dark starry Christmas morning was always a most joyous and reflective time.
Santa Fe was my Holy Place.
by Lucy
on December 21, 2013
Who parked this old car beside the little creek and walked away from it? What roads has this old car explored? Did it carry gangsters on the run-away from some bootlegging crime? Did lovers elope in this car when the finish was still shiny and the windows kept out the rain? Did a father and mother load their children into the back seat for a trip to church? Did it carry those who were grieving to a cemetery and wait quietly under rustling trees for the mourners to return?
After miles of mystery, it seems that this old car has outlived its usefulness now. So, it’s come to rest in a quiet valley of grazing ponies — under the watchful eye of the Rocky Mountains. Mice living in the remains of seat cushions. Birds nesting on the dashboard.
by Lucy
on August 17, 2013
I have always been confused by the definition of “black”. White is supposed to be the presence of all colors — but black absorbs light and is a total absence of color, or so say the scientists. In hexidecimal values, black is 000000.
I think they have it backwards.
Scientists have obviously never seen the fur of a black cat in the sunlight! You could not begin to count the rainbow of colors that are visible. The coat of a black cat fairly glitters with color in sunlight.
There is a whole culture of associations with black. The cloth of mourning. Black magic. The elegant little black dress. Ethnic black power. The printed word is described as “in black and white”. Cartoon art is trapped in black.
Henri Matisse reportedly said that when he did not know what color to paint, he chose black — because it was a ‘force’.
There’s a great chemistry with the pigments for making black — lamp black (soot from an oil lamp), ivory black (ivory or bone material burned and mixed with oil), and mars black (made from synthetic iron oxides).
Love: India Ink, black velvet jackets, jet beads, black suede shoes, Maria pottery, moonlit black nights, noisy crows … and black cats. Mostly, black cats.
