Where I grew up , in upstate New York, if you were lucky enough to be a Girl Scout, you went to Girl Scout Camp Thunderbird for two weeks if you had sold enough cookies to qualify.

I loved, loved, loved Girl Scout camp. It was two weeks of heaven. I never got homesick, and came home looking and smelling like a small woodland animal.

I’m fairly certain that Girl Scout Camp gave me my love of camping, which I have only recently rediscovered. I am amazed to see how quickly the campgrounds fill up. In fact they are practically booked solid through August already. Young , old, singles, families, everyone is out there. It occurs to me it’s the most democratic recreational activity we share in this country.

Camping is still as popular today as it ever was, and if  you have not been in a while, I am here to encourage you to rediscover it . If for no other reason than the best part of camping – the campfire. It’s the very best part of the day, as it gets cool, dark, and everything revolves around the fire. You hunker down in your chair, cozied up to the smoke and flames as night surrounds you in a giant hug. And every camp site around is doing the exact same thing, having a similar experience. Sounds get quieter as voices and activity gets less and less till only the sound of crackling wood and flickers from campsite to campsite are left. Children have passed out from exhaustion and fresh air. Adults are in charge of nothing more than a stick to poke at the flames and wood and watch the fire as hours pass and embers die down.

If you are lucky, the stars will come out. If you are very, very lucky, you will have timed your trip during a full moon. The fire will be hypnotic.  The moon light is in fact, silvery. There will be a lovely comforting sense of order and whatever silly worldly troubles that consumed your day will burn away in the red coals of the campfire. It’s the cheapest therapy on earth. A bundle of wood and a match.

When morning comes, the smell of wood burning wakes you up, and the fire again is something to center you while coffee or tea taste a hundred times better in the fresh air than around the kitchen table. And I like how I feel after a couple days of camping- like a small animal again- closer to the earth, grounded and happy minute to minute, for the breeze to blow, the sun to rise or set, birdsong, stream rushing, fire crackling.

” Now I see the secret of making the best person: it is to grow in the open air and to eat and sleep with the earth.” Walt Whitman

Most people don’t know that there is a second Grand Canyon in the United States. Well, there is, and it’s in the northern panhandle of the great state of Texas.  Palo Duro Canyon,  the second deepest canyon, though nowhere near as vast as the Grand Canyon. Still, ancient and once filled with dinosaurs like it’s big brother, and home 12,000 years ago to humans.  One of my favorite sights in the canyon are hoodoos. Those crazy balancing rock formations that often resemble animals or forms that usually give way to their names – camel rock, lighthouse etc. These irregular rock pillars develop in areas of sporadic, heavy rainfall from rocks with different resistance to erosion by wind and rain. The softer layers give way underneath often leaving a cap rock of harder sandstone. They eventually disappear as they collapse from erosion. Sounds eerily like what happens to us in time doesn’t it?

Visits to these ancient places have a humbling affect on me. Knowing how much came before us, and how long it took for us to catch up with the past reminds me how small and powerless we are on this big planet. Unlike others, I find a great deal of comfort in that. I don’t mind being small and helpless in nature’s eyes. I like knowing my place. I like knowing nature gets the last word, and standing beside a hoodoo is a reminder of that.

” CERTAINLY , TRAVEL IS MORE THAN THE SEEING OF SIGHTS, IT IS CHANGE THAT GOES ON, DEEP AND PERMANENT, IN THE IDEAS OF LIVING.”    Miriam Beard

I’m on the second day of a ten day road trip heading into Canyon , Texas. Yesterday while driving through west Texas we passed a grand old homestead. At least it must have been at one time. Now it called out from the road to be looked at just maybe one last time. It was home to someone at one time, and it must have been beautiful before the ravages of weather time and neglect left it the sad, but beautiful memory of a home that it is now. It deserved to be loved and remembered one more time with a sketch.

Spent the morning at The Buddy Holly Museum, in Lubbock. Lubbock was home to Buddy as well as many other Texas greats. The museum is a lovely tribute to a hometown boy who was lost too soon.

Home. HomeTown. Homeland. You can’t go home again… Or can you? Driving on with nothing but the road ahead I am interrupted by news through the ethers that my wandering expat son, daughter-in-law and granddaughter have decided to … come home.  That is , from their adventure to live abroad in Ecuador. They are homesick , and want to come HOME. Music to my ears. Welcome home. To family . To friends. To your country . You were missed more than you could have imagined.

My maternal grandmother , Catherine Feldman, lived with us when I was a girl. I was in second grade when she  moved in, shortly after her husband died. And there she stayed as a household fixture until she had a stroke and was cared for at  The Brother’s of Mercy Nursing Home, right up the street from our family home. Her bedroom was upstairs and right next to mine. She had a view of Main Street and a little wire cart with violet plants in front of the window, and a little black and white television that she watched the six o’clock news on with her one cigarette of the day. I can picture her still in that room, where I had everything on her dresser memorized. On the occasion I had bad dreams, I would sneak into her room and crawl into bed with her . This was a huge violation of my parents household rules, but she never ratted on me. She had a bed with a built in bookcase headboard and there resided a lovely painted ceramic Virgin Mary that played Ave Maria. She would wind it up and I would fall safely asleep. It remains one of my most favorite hymns and I still tear up when I hear it. My sister was good enough to hang on to that treasured object and pass it to me years later, where it resides on my home altar, in a place of memory and honor.

My Nannie, as we referred to her, pops up often in my life in treasured objects. Her recipes always tug at my heart when I come across them. Her recipe for marrow dumplings for instance, which I have not had since she died. Her amazing Continental Frosting that I still love but cannot make. My mother dutifully makes that frosting for me when I request it. I still make her soft molasses cookies on some Christmas’. But I came across the Hot Milk Cake recipe a day or two ago and even though I had no intention of making it,  I kept it out.  I found as I would move around the house, from kitchen to studio, studio to kitchen I could not seem to put it down. Finally I just sat down with it and studied it, like you would a love letter – word for word, front and back,  the sound of her voice on the scrap of paper and a clear vision of  her sitting at the kitchen table writing it out for me. I loved unfrosted cake, and I had to laugh as I noted at the end of the recipe, she wrote as an afterthought – Frost as you wish

My Nannie, who I was named after, was a very religious woman, and I thought about her a lot when I was making FORSAKEN. ( see ART tab for this piece ) We are never forsaken by our loved ones…even when they are gone , they are with us so often, in the smallest of things and seemingly  most insignificant objects of memory. Love just goes on and on.

There was a time in my corporate career when I traveled extensively, both here and abroad. I suppose it was primarily why I endured the commercial art world as long as I did. Plus, it was a great paycheck and I was more than happy to be employed at least in an arts related field. I learned so much about how much I did not know, as well as how much I did not particularly want to know. As they say, it’s all good. I put in my time and have no regrets.
Back to travel and the here and now. My son, his wife and my granddaughter recently moved to Ecuador where they are in the process of immigrating. So I fired up my traveling engines and found a good deal to go see what their new life was going to entail. Like I said, I have traveled extensively, so I’m not particularly scared of international travel, but there is no denying the fact that travel has become a bit of a drag. And I’m not nervous about traveling alone, as that was my previous experience, and I decided long ago that I would travel as often and as much as I could till health or finances dictated otherwise.
Ecuador has a growing expat community of a combination of retirees from many countries looking to stretch their retirement income out and young people who are floating around the globe looking for experience and adventure. The vibe is so reminiscent of what we were doing in the 60’s. Living off the land. Heath food. Living simply. The contrast between the two types of newcomers in Ecuador is worth noting. You have the idealism of youth and the retired baby boomers taking advantage of their years of working and knowledge of how to keep the party going where it is affordable and simple. The young people consider us sell outs to our 60’s values. They can hold that view because they have not been through their 30’s, 40’s and 50’s yet and traveled the roads we have been on. Life is challenging, and meant to be so I believe. Decades of life can wear away at idealistic thinking and beliefs. The world is very, very black and white when we are young. Right and wrong seem clear. Experience, age, and life has a way of putting a thousand shades of grey (as well as some beautiful colors) in between as we march towards later years. I would have gladly taken off on their adventure given the opportunity, and in fact almost did once. Our family almost moved to Haiti had not Baby Doc become deposed leaving the country unsafe for travel. So I am in no position to challenge, criticize or impede their dream.
I often relate one of my pieces of art work from this body of work specifically to what I am blogging about, but as it turns out, almost every piece relates to this. But if I had to choose only one, it must be BUFFALO SUN. Because there is a little pioneer in all of us. We need to give ourselves time and space to play, and space in which the unpredictable can happen. And to reference others; they are expanding their world through travel, finding their happy place, determining what they are willing to give up, seeing the wonder around them, embracing the horror, and in the end…looking for what we all have in common.
Still, I miss them horribly. I regret being at such a distance to not be a fixture in my granddaughter’s life . But in the end, I admire and respect the adventure, after all, I was the role model.

TEACH YOUR CHILDREN WELL.

A poem by Elizabeth Coatsworth

To think I once saw grocery shops

With but a casual eye

And fingered figs and apricots

As one who came to buy.

To think I never dreamed of how

Bananas sway in rain

And often looked at oranges

And never thought of Spain.

And in those wasted days I saw

No sails above the tea,

For grocery shops were grocery shops –

Not hemispheres to me.

———————————————————————

It’s not what you look at…its what you see.

Are you a book reader?  For me it’s both adventure and wonder on paper.

I just finished reading Philip Caputo’s , The Longest Road – Overland in Search of America, from Key West to the Arctic Ocean. I was drawn to the book  not only because is it a travel adventure in a vintage Airstream trailer, but it’s also  a quest to discover how the United States stays united. From Key West, Florida to Deadhorse, Alaska the author poses this question to travelers along the 6000 plus mile journey ; how does our country stay united?

Willa Cather, another fine writer said in her marvelous novel, Death Comes For the Archbishop,

               ” Men travel faster now, but I do not know if they go to better things.

It’s not news that our country seems increasingly more divided, at least on the political front of late. But there was a time we worked and played together as a country to move it forward. Right now we seem unquestionably mired down in the muck of not agreeing how to move forward together again. Extremes have illustrated how deeply we feel about what and who should take us to a better future. People are finding the discord very unsettling and while some jump into the mix, others run for shelter and avoid the whole mess. I think these times are important. How will we know the proper way forward unless we dig deep and uncover the important truths? I don’t mind the mess or the fight. I am eager to hear all sides and remain very HOPEFUL that through the fog of confusion we currently reside in, we will find a clear path out and move forward again. 

I won’t do a book review, but I will leave you with a little spoiler that left me feeling , well, hopeful.

It ends on an observation that HOPE has been not just what keeps us together, but what brought us together. And maybe we can start moving again by agreeing to be hopeful.

At Christmas time, the followers of Christ are called to be “in” the world, but not “of ” it. Being “in” the world means that we have a calling to support, celebrate, and participate in those things which are good and positive, while simultaneously avoiding the bad. So let’s move at the speed of light towards the good and see how quickly we can come out of the fog.

Merry Christmas people.

An old friend asked me this morning,

“Of all the places you have ever lived, regardless of who you were living with or what was going on in your life, which is your favorite?”

I have lived in many places. Some for years at a stretch, some for shorter periods and have to say there are things I liked and disliked about all of them. I have discovered in all my ramblings that there is no perfect place, but there is what I call, your ‘happy’ place. And there may even be more than one.

I loved Kansas City, where I went to art school and made some of my longest lasting frienships. It was a city filled with art and culture  and a place I grew into adulthood.

I loved Vermont. There is no where on earth more beautiful than fall in the Green Mountain state.

I loved Utah, and it’s rugged beauty.

I loved Colorado and it’s  magnificent mountains and scenery.

I loved New Mexico, and always will. I rejoice when I am there, and cry every time I leave.

I loved New York – NYC – there is no city in the world more exciting.

And I love Texas … as they say …. I wasn’t born here, but I got here as fast as I could

But if a place has winter, I can’t last very long.

Winters with ice and snow that last for 6 months. It’s my lifelong burden … my abhorrence of winter. It started the first time I ever went to Florida during the wintertime in Buffalo , N.Y. I knew there was only one way out of winter, and that was to physically move away from it.

For years I lived where either school, jobs, or fate blew me. Most of those places, by life’s cruel hand were serious winter havens. Places like Colorado Springs, Colorado. Burlington, Vermont. Providence, Utah. Taos, New Mexico. Buffalo, New York. Hamden, Connecticut. Many of these places you will recognize as a skier’s dream. Not for me. I’d rather chew on aluminum foil than go skiing. So it was a shame to waste those long winters in those otherwise lovely places.

Winter and fleeing winter has been my lifelong challenge. I like to think that my discovery of Texas was meant to be, because it came along at  a time in my life when I least expected to move, or to find a partner in life again … and suddenly along came both.

Where you start out in life, may not be where you end up, so it’s wise to stay open to other places and what they have to offer and teach you. I have learned and loved things about all the places I’ve lived.  We are driven to find that ‘HAPPY PLACE”. 

   That place that says to your heart, “I was meant to be here.”

(featured image, canvas collage – HILL COUNTRY HOMAGE, by Catherine Massaro)

Wall Street Journal  – dateline Sat/Sun November 30-December 1, 2013 . REVIEW section, front page feature article , THE BOOMER BUST, by P. J. O’Rourke – essayist.

P.J. O’Rourke has a thing or two to get off his chest about  being one of and observing the 75 million odd baby boomer generation. He seems to be deeply troubled by our  existence and wallowing in baby boomer’s remorse  while he speaks for ALL of us. His musings embrace  his own self- loathing and our collective one as well. Thanks for worrying about us  P.J. O’Rourke.

The baby boomers have an exact definition. Did you know that? A precise demography we are told in his essay.

‘We are the children who were born during a period after WWII when the long-term trend in fertility among American women was exceeded.’

This definition is further broken down into the following catagories.

Seniors – those born in the late 40’s.

Juniors – those born in the early 1950’s ( your’s truly)

Sophomores – those born in the late 1950’s

Freshman – those born in the early 1960’s

This time span from the late 40’s to the early 60’s was  generally characterized by a profusion of opportunity concurrent with a collapse of traditional social standards. Mr. O’Rourke opines that this perfect storm of opportunity and social standard breakdown led us ‘en masse’ to become …” greedy for love, happiness, thrills, fame, inner peace and money.”

Furthermore, we are ‘NOT a generation who listens to anybody, including God.’

We are ‘the generation who insisted that a passion for living should replace working for one.’ All we cared about was our ‘personal universe.’

                                    Hey! Baby boomers…are you feeling BAD about yourself yet?! 

P.J. concludes his essay by pointing out that we now must come to the obvious conclusion that in our dotage, ‘everything you were told , was wrong and we must despair!’

I will hold off on the despair for just a bit while I make some of my own observations… from a Junior’s point of view.

We were most definitely born in an age of wondrous opportunity – certainly more than our parents ever could have imagined for us. We were, however, just children born into that time with no knowledge that it was a ‘golden ‘ era of prosperity or that we were destined to be the gigantic know- it -all generation of selfish leeches on society that according to P.J., we have become. Anyway… as we were growing up, mysteries did still abound. Like, why did our father’s spend hours on the couch watching old black and white movies about Hitler? Why would you watch that when the Three Stooges could entertain you so much better? Hitler was boring, and we had no way to relate any of that piece of history to our young, shiny, hopeful lives that our parents had born us into. They wanted to shield us and move us on from that dark time in both our history and the world’s. It was a new day and we were destined to move it forward with their help. We added hope to our ‘personal universe’.

Much like many of my generation and the seniors before me, our parents did not go to college. Yet they were not so uneducated that they did not see the great value it would be to us in the new world we were born into. So off to colleges we marched in great numbers, as much to get educated as to spare their young sons the horror of fighting in the Vietnam War. A war, as a generation, we questioned. We added education to our ‘personal universe’, with a healthy dose of questioning authority.

Now equipped with fine college educations, hope, and a questioning mind we went on to advance technology, medicine, religion, sexual equality, racial equality, women’s choices, career stereotypes, music, arts, literature, science , and the quality of life for 75 million people – just here in our country alone.

My goodness…what had our parents wrought? We were certainly NOT the Greatest Generation. We know who they are and what they did and sacrificed for us, and they deserve that title. The Greatest Generation gave us the age of opportunity and we embraced it whole heartedly. I’m frankly mystified by what perfect world we were obliged to create to satisfy P.J. O’Rourke’s viewpoint of our wasted lives. We have clearly been negligent to his thinking.

It is my contention that the best thing we learned and then shared as a generation was to QUESTION EVERYTHING. We questioned authority endlessly and on every front until we got answers that led us to a better understanding of our world and those on the planet that we shared it with.

                                   I believe as a generation, we learned to’ live in the question’.

And in doing so, we have kept an open and hopeful mind to the future. That is personally what I believe I have passed on to my son and his generation.

I do not share P.J. O’Rourke’s snarky, sad viewpoint on the 75 million baby boomer’s impact on society over the last 67 years. Perhaps his own personal expectations and achievements have led him to this rather dark and unfulfilled viewpoint. All I can say is, cheer up P.J., and peace out.

( featured image , WHAT HAVE I LEARNED? , canvas collage by Catherine Massaro)

From Black Elk Speaks – Oglala Sioux holy man 1863-1950

” You have noticed that everything an Indian does is in a circle, and that’s because the power of the world always works in circles, and everything tries to be round… the sky is round, and I have heard that the earth is round like a ball, and so are all the stars. The wind in it’s greatest power, whirls. Birds make their nests in circles, for theirs is the same religion as ours… Even the seasons form a great circle in their changes, and always come back again to where they were. The life of man is a circle, and so it is in everything where power moves.”

And so it is with this body of work, TO END IS TO BEGIN. Piece after piece was conceived and worked around circles. Circles of life changes, circles and patterns of nature, lessons hard fought and learned from beginning to end. When these  canvas collages were completed, they continued to reveal story after story, bringing me full circle to where I started – beginning again.