Sketchbook Project

Well it's 46° and sunny right now on my Island. I know it's just a big tease! But, we'll enjoy it while we have it. Kevin is in Denver where it's 53°.   That's just wacky.

I finally finished a sketchbook that I have had in  my hands since last June. I took it with me when I sat with Rose during chemo and other doctor appointments, fully intending to draw in it while we visited and she received treatment. Yeah, that didn't happen.

Then, all hell broke loose and our plans changed so very dramatically. 

The Sketchbook Project was a great diversion. Rose gave me some good ideas. She was definitely MY daughter. We had so much in common. (Micah is giving me some of her paints and other art supplies) Part of her is infused in the pages of the book.

Anyway, here is a link to my sketchbook.   http://www.arthousecoop.com/users/JeannieYovetichBurham

Honest to God, I am so blessed by a wonderful Family and fabulous Friends. We are all over the place right now: sad, grieving, hopeful, exhausted, anxious, faithful, frustrated, lonely, comforted, joyful, peaceful, strong, and sometimes just a big puddle. 

One step at a time. We keep working, painting, writing, playing and living. And loving the stuffins out of each other.

A Short Fairy Ride to Camaro Island

I am a good speller. I can read a written word and know whether it’s spelled correctly or not (even if I don’t know exactly how to spell it). Spelling is an art form to me—a carefully balanced puzzle with letters dancing in order and harmony. So when the arrangement of letters is thrown off-kilter, it really bugs me. I try very hard to use proper grammar, punctuation, capitalization and spelling. If you notice any errors in my writing, I meant to do that.

Misspelling can lead to weird pronunciation, misunderstandings, confusion or serendipity. That’s how we ended up living on Camaro Island. We moved to Redmond, Washington from Kalispell, Montana in 1987. Even spelled correctly, Redmond was a mystery for many of our family and friends back home. We tried explaining that Redmond was near Bellevue and Kirkland. 

~blank expressions~

Then, we tried the “east of Seattle, across the floating bridge” description. 

~more blank looks~

We’d get out the maps and Thomas Guide and point out exactly where our new home was (in the midst of the newly emerging Microsoft Land) and finally would just say we lived in the Seattle area.

Perusing the maps, I eagerly sought new places and towns to explore with our three sons who were ages 3, 7 and 9 at the time. Canada was a short drive north (and no passports required in the ‘80s). The San Juan Islands seemed so remote and intriguing. Whidbey Island looked like a great first adventure. While plotting the journey and figuring out the ferry schedule, I discovered Camaro Island.

It was a sign!

In 1973, I bought my first car. $2000 cash got me a 1969 Camaro—baby blue with pinstripes. She was the love of my life. Then, Kevin and I decided to get married. To help with our wedding and “getting started” money, I sold my dream car to my sister. I didn’t feel bad since I would be driving Kevin’s brand spankin’ new Datsun 240Z.  Oh, yeah.  But that sporty, quick, groovy Camaro always held a special spot in my heart. (The first one always does, right?)

I soon realized that the name of my future home was actually Camano Island, but that didn’t deter me. Even in 1986, I knew we would someday live there—without having stepped foot on Camano’s sacred shores. Years passed and along the way several other names were butchered in spelling and pronunciation:

Kingdom (Kingdome)

Came Brian (Cambrian)

See Quim (Squim)

Poolyup, Pully Up, Poo Wallop  (Puyallup!)

In the summer of 2002, Kevin and I finally visited Camano Island. We stopped by a charming arts festival, Art by the Bay. We plunked our kayaks into the salt water at the State Park. We drove completely around the island and stopped at the realtor’s office before heading back to the east side of Seattle. The next day, I gave my one-year notice at work. We returned to the realtor’s in April 2003. All we asked for was a comfortable house near the water with a view of the mountains. That July, one year after our first visit, we moved into our west side home, overlooking Saratoga Passage toward Whidbey Island. 

I took approximately 10 bajillion photos of gorgeous sunsets that year. Sending them out, I wrote on the backs of the pictures a description of our new location: an island, north of Seattle. Most of our family and friends are familiar with the area, but some wonder why we would live in such a remote, unknown area. (Hello!) We’ve offered our pals the opportunity to visit us anytime. There’s plenty of room, cold beverages in the fridge, and time to relax. Just make sure your passports are up to date. It’s easy to get here. 

You don’t even need a fairy. 

chemo

Arsenic? A cure? Are you kidding?

Autumn Flannel and Spider Webs

Autumn! My favorite time of year. Of course, October is My Birthday Month. September is Our Anniversary Month and November is a Month of Gratitude.

The horses are getting fuzzy and wooly. Deer are settling into the pastures and sharing the grass with their horse pals. Even a black bear has been sighted in the woods. (Or was that the neighbor's black lab?)

The daytime sun is warm and the air is crisp. Honey crisp—just like the apples. At night, the open window in the bedroom lets in the fall wind. My face gets cold, but I'm warm underneath layers of flannel and heavy quilts.

Walking with Rusty, the good collie, leaves crunch under our feet, apples and pears litter the ground and spider webs glisten in the sunlight. In fact, I walk through so many webs that I don't need to use hairspray—the webs keep my curly hair in place.

A Horse—a Tortoise—of Course

A horse and a tortoise—what do they have in common?
Hard shell/hard hooves, soft skin, four legs, a face, a tail, sunbathers and grass grazers.
Exactly the same only different.

Our Eagles

 June 23, 2011

Yesterday was a gloomy, gray, windy first day of Summer. (Enough, La Nina! Time for you to La Amskray)

On our first walk of the day, Rusty the Good Collie and I heard the call of our resident bald eagles. Looking up, we saw the family (Mom, Dad and the Twins) soaring in circle formation high above the tree tops. Spiraling gracefully, they held their suspension in the cloudy sky without one single movement, not one flap of their wings. I took a deep, cleansing breath, pulled my shoulders back to stand up straight and started over on our walk at a brisk pace this time. No more gloom and doom. Thank you, Eagles. They don’t care about the weather. In fact, they like this wind very much. Time for me to have an attitude adjustment.

Eagles are a totem to me. A sign. A spiritual message. Several years ago, our youngest son was in a devastating accident. Our drive home from the hospital was tense and traumatic. Kevin and I tried our best to think positive, to pray and just stay upright.  When we pulled into the driveway, a juvenile eagle was soaring above our home. He stayed there, circling above us until we were inside. A rush of peace went through us—the confidence of knowing that our son would be OK, that we were strong enough to make it through this. I believe the eagle was an angel. Our son is doing very well, healing and creating amazing art.

Later, on our evening walk, the Twins surprised us. They did a fly-by, swooping through the neighbor’s yard and zipping past us so close I could hear their feathers rustle. One of them dipped his wings to the side and  veered off to the fir tree. The other cocked her head and winked at us. In a blink, they were gone. Rusty and I just smiled. How cool was that?

We have several wild neighbors that wander down the alley; raccoons, coyotes, deer, rabbits and an otter family. There are also flocks of colorful goldfinches, pine sisken, robins, juncos, sparrows and hummingbirds that we keep fed, fat and sassy. And the crows are funny, obnoxious residents that act like they own the place. They keep the eagles on their toes, constantly scolding them and harassing them in the sky. We hope they keep the eagles away from their nests and the cute little bunnies in the yard.  

We seem to be on the eagles’ flight path this year. We often see one of the parents sitting in the tippy top of the fir tree, watching and calling to the kids. There have been several training missions with fish parts dropped in the alley. The eagles toss bits and pieces back and forth, then speed straight up in the air and tangle with each other on the way down. It makes me think of our three sons and how they would wrestle in the house, knocking over tables, banging into walls and grab-assing and laughing loudly. Kevin was usually in the mix, too. (Somebody told me that mothers of sons have a special place in Heaven. Oh heck, yeah.)

One afternoon last summer, there was a commotion down near the bluff. A chicken crashed through the window of one of the cabins, landing on the kitchen counter. We checked with Wendy, but their chickens in the coop were all accounted for. We speculated that one of the eagles had dropped their prey, maybe after a wrestling match with another eagle. It was a mystery where this chicken came from. Did somebody else have a chicken coop nearby?  What kind of chicken was it? Ameraucana? Sabelpoot? Little Red Hen? 

Guess again. 

Apparently, someone down on the beach has been regularly feeding the eagles a fresh chicken—a perfectly plucked and cleaned, fresh from the grocery store, plastic wrapped, roasting chicken! Maybe Draper Valley? Foster Farms? I hope it’s local. 

Well, if our eagles are well fed, then maybe the bunny rabbits are safe. 

Weather. Or not.

June 16, 2011. 8pm. 55° Gray. Wet. Yucky. 

This has been a miserable winter and spring in the Northwest. At the slightest hint of sun, all of us depressed, pale residents run to our yards and gardens—anywhere in the great outdoors—to revel in the warm, welcome heat of the elusive sun. Even that is not much of a respite, because we all tend to go overboard and end up with sprains and strains, sunburns and heat exhaustion. 

It seems like hell has indeed frozen over. Or at least flooded. So, how wet, cold and dreary has it been? Well, our son and his wife report ducks living in their front lawn. Their house is nowhere near a pond. Trees and shrubs are clinging to their leaves and blossoms, hesitant to open in the cold and rain.  They, too, over-do it when the sun shines. Everything blooms and rejoices at the same time with a vengeance, sending heavy clouds of pollen into the atmosphere. Puddles appear in basements and garages from water seeping up through saturated yards. Roads have washed out.  Yesterday, I saw fat and sassy snails racing across the alley with healthy, ginormous slugs cheering them on. 

I finished planting my vegetable garden on June 10th, over a month later than usual. The tomatoes that I planted then started as robust plants. Two of them have mildew. Weeds have taken over part of the flower beds. Kevin cracked. He couldn’t take it anymore. Weeding every week is not his idea of fun, so he laid down sheets of landscape fabric and bark. We don’t like it, but we hate the crop of milkweed, dandelions and other noxious weeds that were taking over. We drop the alternative “F” bomb frequently: fungus. Kevin wears his fleece jacket all the time, even indoors. I refuse to light the wood stove, even though neighbors burn in their fireplaces regularly. I will not turn up the heat! It’s frickin’ June! (Pardon my French.) But, it’s cold. How cold could it be? I saw a woman walking her dog last night—the dog was wearing a fleece-lined raincoat and the woman was wearing and knit cap and mittens. 

How wet was it?

It was so wet that our wooden flagpole disintegrated!!!!!!! Oh no, it melted! No kidding. We looked out the window and saw that our flagpole was leaning on the neighbor's house. The top brass finial barely missed smacking into their second floor bedroom window. Paul and Wendy heard a big thump against the wall at 4:30 in the morning. Wouldn't that just make your heart skip a beat? 

Kevin tipped the pole back into place and then over. It hit the ground with a miserable thud and broke into sections.  Rotten all the way through. ugh. The wood was like mulch covered in white paint. It was a tube of compost held together with a skin of latex enamel. Kev wrapped up the cord and the flag. No screwdriver needed to remove the cleat. It pulled off easily. 

The sections of the flagpole are piled up in a heap along with other grass and yard waste. Back to Nature. It won’t take the flagpole that long to get there. Rest in peace/piece old driftwood. 

I have a bad case of S.A.D. Look at me sideways and I’ll burst into tears. I am beyond pale. I’m now glow-in-the-dark white, tinged with green. Winter blues. And I hate blue, especially the gray-blue hues. I don’t sleep well. I’ll eat an entire batch of chocolate chip cookies in one sitting. I woke up this  morning with a case of vertigo. I might have OD’d on anti-inflammatory meds. This weather wreaks havoc on my rusty, arthritic knees. Enough! Kevin at least has the opportunity to get out of this crapola. He travels for his job and Los Angeles is one of his favorite places to go. He’s happy to sit in traffic with smog and congestion. At least it’s sunny and warm.  

I demand a  weather do-over. I’m looking for sunshine, lollipops and rainbows, not this winter in a dark cavern in the land that time forgot. It’s the Solstice in a couple of days, for crying out loud. It better be a good summer or my new name will be Jeannie Weenie Screaming Meemee.