Of Light and Shadow

When I first conceived this blog, I envisioned a repository for all my artistic inclinations, a virtual storehouse filled with brilliant poetry, elegant prose, sublime photography and splendid drawings -– and perhaps a dabble in fiction or two -– all in keeping with the spirit of plein air painting, my inspiration in both life and art.

Who knew the Teenager would provide such fertile fodder? Or my own foibles, such grand entertainment for my friends?

As I sit here this fine Thursday evening, editing my pastel drawings for posting, I cannot help but ponder the dim possibility of reconciling the vast cultural gulf between "“Red Roses #2"” and "The Nuclear Family Goes Skiing."”

This blog has clearly evolved beyond its original scope, as the talented Katherine Tyrell so kindly worded her comments.

Therefore, I am pleased to announce of light and shadow, an art blog of drawing, maybe some painting and photography, and perhaps the occasional poem or two. The author is the same, as is the intent, and while the result may appear as two entirely separate universes, I hope that you will embrace my split creativity with me.

Thank you all for your inspiration, your comments and, most of all, your friendship!

Cheers,

Elizabeth

Elbow deep in blue food and Mr. Clean

Before the Teenager-Formerly-Known-As-Pumpkin came into my world, my house was always clean. Spotless. Impeccable. So clean, in fact, that my friends hated coming over for dinner lest their husbands expect them to live up to the standard I’d set.

And then, my son was born.

Along with the joy and happiness of being a new mom, came laundry that was never done, floors that rarely got mopped, baseboards that were never dusted, clutter that was never picked up, and refrigerators that were never cleaned.

It's understandable that my housekeeping skills slid while my son was young, but what makes it so difficult now? After all, he’s a teenager, he drives, he has a girlfriend, he's in sports, he’s in theater, he’s hardly ever home to do much other than eat or sleep or talk me out of gas money.

This morning I woke up at 6:00 a.m. with just one goal on the day's agenda: clean the refrigerator. Hours later (ok, there was a lot to do), elbow-deep in Mr. Clean and blue food, the phone rang. It was my son’s orthodontist. Yesterday, while cleaning up after a theater project, the Teenager clocked himself so hard in the jaw that he nearly knocked four of his teeth out. His orthodontist wired his teeth back together and was understandably concerned.

“What did the emergency room doctor say?”

“Well, Dr. W., after we finished at your office, we went over to the ER only to find it packed to the gills, with ambulances lined up and down the street waiting their turn. Everyone else looked so sick, and my son looked fine, so we decided to just watch him at home for the evening. He looks great, you did a wonderful job!!”

“Oh no! You didn’t! Oh my, this is serious! He’s a strong kid, and if he was hit so hard that he blacked out, never mind nearly losing his front teeth, you really need to get him checked out immediately. He could have broken his jaw, or cracked his skull or his neck, who knows!?!”

Guilt rushed through my bloodstream like storm surge after a hurricane. I’m a bad mom, a terrible mom, my son’s face could fall apart at any moment just because I didn’t want to wait in line!

Dad-Who-Would-Be-Outlaw knew better than to argue. He raced the Teenager to the emergency room, and, as my penance, I was nominated to host the gaggle of teenage friends who had shown up for the weekend’s film project.

Several hours, a CT scan, a clean bill of health and buckets of teenage angst later, and it’s now 4:30 p.m. I’m again elbow-deep in blue food and Mr. Clean.

Maybe, with luck, I’ll finish by Sunday night.

Converting the world to wildflowers

The Phoenix metropolitan area, now a shadow of its former self, has evolved from a desert wonder into a sea of rooftops. Thirty years ago, only the big houses along Central Avenue in downtown Phoenix had manicured lawns and topiary hedges. Where I lived in North Scottsdale, the yards were filled with desert plants - sometimes planted, sometimes wild.

Our high schools had three disctinct groups - freaks, jocks and cowboys. Real cowboys and cowgirls who practiced things like calf roping and barrel racing in the afternoons. And many of us who didn't wear boots, tight jeans and wide-buckle belts to school, still had our own horses.

In the evenings after school, my girlfriends and I headed straight home to saddle up, then strode past yards filled with spindly creosote bushes and palo verde trees atop our chestnut quarterhorses until there were no houses or streets or planes in the sky, and we galloped through the open desert to both rider and horse's content.

Or we'd ride into the center part of North Scottsdale through the Drinkwater's Liquor Store drive-through and buy ice-cold Cokes.

Afterwards, we ambled home in the gentle glow of the setting sun, the clear desert sky wide and silent around us.

My, how things have changed.

Now, we all live on tiny little lots that can barely support a dog, much less a horse. We drive on six-lane wide boulevards filled with SUVs that race through red lights at 60 mph and planes, both large and small, buzz constantly in the skies above us. The very idea of walking anyplace, much less riding a horse, sends shivers down our spine. Our once clear skies are filled with brown haze and regular pollution warnings keep both the asthmatic and healthy indoors.

And Drinkwater's Liquor is now Sportsmen's Liquor and sports the largest collection of fine wine in the area. Teenage girls atop chestnut quarterhorses can no longer buy ice-cold Cokes at the drivethrough, not that they would dare brave the roads to get there.

Arizona changed, but I didn't change with it. I am the neighbor that causes all the other neighbors to wring their hands in despair, "Will she ever trim those bushes? Will she EVER pull all those weeds?'

My yard is filled with desert shrubs including a mutant brittlebush. Brittlebushes usually grow about two feet tall, three feet at best. Mine shot up to six feet tall within two years of planting, and explodes with brilliant yellow blossoms from February through August. I rarely trim it, much to my neighbor's collective chagrin, lest I lose any of the blossoms; the flowers attract hoards of monarch butterflies during their migration.

I can hardly bear to go to work during the migrating season; I dream of sitting in a lawnchair in my driveway sipping iced tea and watching enormous orange and black butterflies dance around my bush for days on end.

Every year like clockwork I get a letter from the HOA saying the weeds in my yard have gotten out of hand.

And every year like clockwork I send a letter with copies of pages from Sunset's garden book explaining that these gentle little sprouts are not at all weeds, they are desert wildflowers and are SUPPOSED to randomly fill my yard until they grow and bloom into yellow desert marigolds or brilliant red penstemons or flood my yard with gentle pink mexican poppies.

And every year like clockwork someone from the HOA comes to visit. They don't believe me.

And every year like clockwork they end up speeding straight from my house to the garden store with pages from the Sunset garden book clutched fiercely in their hands to purchase their own desert wildflower garden.

My goal in life: to convert the world to wildflowers one HOA inspector at a time.

Happy Easter from Arizona!

What’s that part about ME again?

Since turning 13 (in 2002 - a watershed moment in my life) the Teenager leaves the table, as soon after dinner as he can get away without risking a sound smack to the back of his head, and settles in for an evening of IMing, web surfing and blogging.

I didn’t know he was sporting kelly-green rubber bands around his braces for six entire months.

He acquired a girlfriend, lost her, acquired another, lost her, acquired a third and kept her for two whole months…without ever saying a word.

He learned HTML, without any help from his mother, without even so much as asking a word of advice, without ME.

He studied the entire SAT test preparation book and got an “A” in his writing class AND his calculus class, WITHOUT MY EVEN KNOWING!

Me, the single mom totally devoted to my one and only son – wasn’t it me and The-Teenager-Formerly-Known-As-Pumpkin against the world from the very beginning of time?

Last week, he promised to be home early for dinner so that we could spend a little time together before he went out. I lovingly prepared his favorite meal only to wait for hours until giving up, feeling more lonely than a jilted lover.

Lost and neglected, I watched his wild hair grow ever longer and bushier lit only by the dim glare of his computer monitor wondering all the while, who is this alien in the body of my son?

So I turned to you, my newfound friends in the blogosphere, and a joyful time it’s been! But now...I fear, the tables have turned.

Last night, as I was composing my evening’s blog entry, the Teenager wandered into the kitchen:

“Where’s dinner?”

“In the refrigerator,” I answer without looking up, the dim glare of my laptop lighting up my face in the dusk-filled kitchen.

Shocked, he practically shouts, “WHAT? You mean it’s not READY yet?

Barely registering his dismay as I clack away at a particularly clever turn of phrase, I answer, “Sure it’s totally ready, you just have to heat it up."

He ponders the situation - has his mother turned into an alien? “But…aren’t you going to MAKE me dinner?"

I glance up briefly to note his crestfallen face and answer soothingly, “I did make dinner. It’s wonderful, honey, you’ll love it! You just have to heat it up.”

“But…but…but, aren’t you going to stop and eat with me?” he asks in a painfully pitiful voice.

After picking myself up off the floor, I looked at him blankly and said, “You mean…you WANT to eat with me?”

“YES...YES, of COURSE I do…but you never do anything but BLOG anymore! What about family? What about having dinner together? What…what…what about ME!”

parenting teenagers daily life humor

The Feeding of Teenagers

There is a theme emerging in the blogosphere this week: the feeding of teenagers.

Could it be the waning moon?

First, Bonnie Wren, of Ballpoint Wren, writes about the adventures of living with four cavernous maws.

Could it be we, the collective parents of teenagers, have all gone broke in a single week, and thus must publicly lament both our empty pantries and our pocketbooks?

Because next there’s Kait, of Kait’s Chaos , who writes about her nightly adventures in the kitchen, which sound to me more like “Nightmares in the Feeding of Teenagers.”

Clearly, the feeding of teenagers is, what they call in both storytelling and religion, a universal need.

Feeling nostalgic for my son’s voracious appetite at the ripe young age of 13, I revisited something I published several years ago:

“The first sign of a real advantage to harboring a 13-year-old, arrives in the form of the first evening feeding. He prepares this himself and carefully times it for my anticipated arrival. Today, it was roasted pepper and jalapeño tamales. An hour later, I served our second dinner – black bean enchiladas, rice and beans. An hour after that, I served our third dinner – this time a plate full of boiled Chinese potstickers and white rice, followed by a bag of Pepperidge Farm Chocolate Chip Cookies (yes, the entire bag) and a glass of milk.

At this point, you likely think I’m exaggerating…I’m not.”

It was then I realized that was several years ago, and this is today:

“Hi Mom, What’s for dinner?”

“How are you sweetie?”

“Great! What’s for dinner?”

“Your favorite, Spinach Pie!”

“Wonderful! When?”

“Oh, about ½ hour?”

“Is it ok if I have a little snack then?”

Two 2-qt. size bowls of mashed potatoes and an entire chicken pot pie later, we sit down to dinner. My spinach pies, filled with rich ricotta and parmesan cheese, plenty of eggs and just enough spinach to lure you into the belief that health will ensue, are his favorite dinner. Half of a single pie and a 1 lb. sweet potato later:

“What’s for dessert?”

At this point, you likely think I’m exaggerating…I’m not.

How little has changed in three years.

parenting teenagers daily life humor

Where did we go wrong?

My son actually talked to me. I was so shocked that, had I been driving, I would have driven into a wall.

It began as a meaningful conversation. About a school activity, no less. He showed me a film he had created. And it was good. Very good, actually. REALLY good! And he talked to me about how he scripted it, his ideas, his goals, his dreams!! And the film was about stopping teenage drinking and driving!!! My son, the future Stephen Spielberg and every mother’s DREAM, all in one package!!!!

Then, I learned the truth. We’ve created a monster.

Queen Mom: “Sweetie, we’re looking into sponsoring a teenage drinking and driving program here at the hospital, and I’d love to show your film to the people in charge!”

The Teenager: “Well, if you use it, you realize it will cost you.”

Queen Mom: “Well, um, honey, I don’t know if they’ll use it, I just thought they might get some good ideas from it. We’re looking at how to reach teenagers.”

The Teenager: “Ah, so you want to steal my ideas. My book on filmmaking warned me about that.”

Queen Mom: “Well, er, um, sweetie, I just want to show them how you reached out to teenagers.”

The Teenager: “Ah, so what you really need is a marketing plan. My consulting fee is $90 per hour.”

Queen Mom: “Um, well, dear. Can’t I just show it to them? Promise…we won’t do anything else with it unless we talk to you.”

The Teenager: “Ok, well, then it’s ok if you show them the film, but you’ll have to agree to my Terms of Agreement. I’ll e-mail it to you.”

The e-mail came within minutes:

>>>

Dearest Mother,

By opening and/or downloading this attachment, you hereby agree to the
following terms:

1) You and/or the company you are associated with will not duplicate, replicate, use, distribute, reverse engineer, rebroadcast, modify or deconstruct any and all of the property contained in this attachment.

2) This attachment and the associated property, known as Stay Alive at 25, is a produced documentary film, whose sole ownership lies with Pulse Productions and its producer.

3) License to the above rights is available solely from Pulse Productions and its producer, who can be contacted by simply replying to this message.

4) Any deviation from these terms will result in a federal and/or state
lawsuit from yours truly, Pulse Productions and its producer.

Love ya!

Justin

>>>

At this point, I headed straight for the wine rack and opened a bottle of Zinfandel just as The Teenager bounded into the kitchen looking for his pre-dinner snack (usually an entire bowl of mashed potatoes).

The Teenager: “Mom, you shouldn’t be drinking you know.”

Queen Mom: “Honey, it’s ok, I was just going to have a little glass of wine before dinner.”

The Teenager: “I hope you don’t plan on driving ‘cause I’m hiding your car keys.”

parenting teenagers daily life humor

The Gospel of Mark

I never met Mark in person. I first came to know him through photos and stories shared by his mother, Sue. Sue is tall blonde and fabulous, with a smile as brilliant and complex as her home state, California, and a heart as big as the sun, so it stands to reason her son would have a spirit larger than life. And he did.

Though I’d seen Mark, his own tall blonde good looks and brilliant smile, in photos, I first saw his physical body surreally buried up to his waist in a rich wood casket, dressed in a football jersey with a rosary clutched to his chest, surrounded by family all barely holding back their tears. Mark had fought a brutal and courageous battle with cancer. And lost.

Generally, people are shy and thoughtful at funerals. But not at Mark’s. The hospice spiritual minister, who had come to know Mark in his final days, lead the service and after opening with hymns, Bible readings and thoughtful words, he turned the service over to the people attending. One of Mark’s nephews played a heartbreaking song, and Mark’s stepsister, her grief shining through her red-rimmed eyes, spoke of his sense of humor, his great heart and his love for football – he’d wear the jersey of nearly any team all for the love of the game. Others close to the family spoke, then the minister invited anyone attending to speak.

The first speaker, a vibrant dark-haired young man in his 30s, bounded up to the lectern. He was one of Mark’s many best friends and, in a booming voice, told of Mark’s penchant for nicknaming everyone he met – after all, who needs a name when a nickname works so much better? He described how Mark always came to work twenty minutes before start time so he could back the biggest, baddest, blackest truck into the best parking spot on the lot.

Another spoke, then another and another – each story more eloquent than the one that came before. Finally, a gray-haired man walked to the lectern to tell of Mark’s relationship with his best friend in high school, the man’s son. Their nicknames were “Mutt” and “Jeff.” They played football together: Mark was the tall, strong and talented first-string player, while “Mutt” was the short, scrawny third-string player; but Mark always protected “Mutt” no matter what was going on in the game. Sadly, “Mutt” had also passed away, just a year ago. And his father believed the two were up in heaven together playing football as he spoke: “Mutt” and “Jeff.”

So young, Mark was just in his 30s so his friend had been young, too. One woman had to get up and leave, she was crying so profoundly; even the men lost control of their tears at this point.

Finally, the last speaker stood up to talk, another of Mark’s many vibrant handsome young friends. I’d noticed him earlier; he seemed a little out of place, a little uncomfortable about being there, as though he didn’t know many people. But he had an engaging smile and a booming voice and shared all kinds of funny anecdotes about Mark. After the heart-wrenching story we’d just heard, it felt good to laugh. Finally he ended his talk by explaining how he knew Mark; he was the “vending guy” at Mark’s place of work. And he’d come up to talk about Mark partly to share his anecdotes, but also so he could tell us: “And if the vending guy comes to your funeral, you know you’ve led a great life.”

So, here is what I learned from Mark Lucas:

1) Ministry is the people in your life.
2) Enthusiasm is everything.
3) There really is football in heaven.
4) Who needs a name, when a nickname will do.
5) If I can get the vending guy to speak at my funeral, along with 50 of my closest family and friends, then I know I’ll have lived a great life.
6) Owning the biggest, baddest, blackest truck on the lot gets you to heaven.
7) And, last, but not least, everyone in Mark’s family and all of his friends should know that Mark’s life will live on long past his passing from his earth.

faith catholic Spirituality Diary

Dumb and dumber

As dumb as people can be, I, for one, can be dumber still.

Back when I was a newbie director in my company, I took a class on "Effective Presentations" with twenty of my peers, a group of people I sorely wanted to impress.

We sweat blood and tears for two solid days as we presented speech after speech, unscrupulously critiquing each other and wresting from our presentations every disconnected comment, stray gesture and unconscious "um." We bonded over our fears, our foibles, our foolishness. Best friends we became.

The big day arrived: our final presentations. I stayed up until 2 a.m., practicing. Mine would be brilliant, charming, adorable, filled with witty anecdotes and clever diatribes.

I strode confidently to the front of the room wearing my favorite orange jacket, a dashing scarf, my best black skirt, a brand new pair of nylons, and, of course, my lucky underwear. I'd even had a perfect hair day.

My subject: throwing an elegant dinner party. I spoke of growing up in stylish Weston, Connecticut, joked how Martha Stewart learned all her tricks from my mother, gave delectable recipes and insider tips on where to go for the best flower arrangements or the freshest fish. I was never more witty or charming, tossing my hair and revelling in my own fabulousness.

At the end, I asked if there were any questions. One of the directors gestured me towards her, leaned into my ear and whispered softly, "Elizabeth, there's a bit of a tear in your skirt."

I gracefully closed my presentation and sashayed outside the room (never let them see you sweat!), took a casual glance at my clothes and gasped. There it was: a gaping gash in my skirt stretching around my backend from hip to hip revealing...well...everything.

After screeching home at 80 mph, I arrived back in fresh clothes and slunk into the classroom, red-faced. My newfound best friends glanced up uncomfortably and stopped talking as I entered the room.

I cowed in a corner chair, it was worse than I thought. They'd seen...EVERYTHING.

Filled with pity and desperately wanting to be comforting, one friend sat down next to me, touched my hand gently and whispered in my ear: "At least you were wearing pretty underwear, dear."

daily life Writing work life humor