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UNCLE BILL'S PASSING
I didn't know my Uncle Bill very well. But we had struck up a correspondence in the last year that I really enjoyed. I especially liked his sense of humor, exuberance and range of interests. He sure could tell a good story.
One of the last mailings I received from him was a "recycled" Thanksgiving card. The greeting and note from the previous sender had been blocked out with "whiteout" - a lot of it!
It was a joke between us. Last summer I had sent him a card because I thought he would enjoy the painting of the Pike Place Market on the front. Unfortunately, on the inside of the card was a "Merry Christmas" wish - and this particular day happened to be the middle of July. I just crossed out the "Merry Christmas," wrote a quick note and mailed the card out. I never thought anything of it.
Imagine my surprise when Bill responded with delight that I had discovered a way for him to recycle all the cards other people had sent him and to save him money at the same time. I began receiving previously used cards from him with all the original writings whited out. I have to admit, I thought it was pretty original of him. And I didn't mind at all being the recipient of "used" cards.
It's a small thing but in all the letters I received from him I don't think he ever crossed out a mistake. Even recently he always used white out to correct his errors.
I was having difficulty reading Bill's handwriting as his eyesight deteriorated. But I really appreciated the effort he made to write to me anyway. I didn't really care that I couldn't understand everything. I looked forward to his little stories and quirky comments. I have saved what I got from him - all of it. And I will keep it in my files. I don't get many letters these days, since everyone seems to use email. There is something so tangible and personal about receiving a piece of writing in someone's own hand.
Uncle Bill spent his career as an engineer after he graduated from Stanford but took up painting later in life. He worked hard at it and became pretty good. I wish he and I could have had more conversations about painting. I'm sure they would have been interesting. He sent me a photo of one. I will see if I can dig it out of my files and post it.
I will miss my Uncle Bill and I will miss his letters.
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BABY SEAL
I saw the baby seal on my walk in the rain early this morning. Unfortunately, it was dead. It's body was rolling in the incoming surf. It must have died recently because his little body was still limp. Dogprints in the sand.
The experience made me sick. My reaction reminds me once again how emotionally raw I am.
Well, the Seattle Parks Department can now take down all the pedestrian barriers, warning tape and informational signs about not disturbing the seals that have been up these past weeks.
That little seal hung in there for nearly 2 months. I guess we all thought that he was old enough now that he was going to make it on its own. Fortunately or not, that little stretch of beach had become his "safe spot." But in reality the beach is in an area that is so heavily utilized by pedestrians and dogs that it was only a matter of time before "something" happened. It really wasn't a safe place. In the end, I'm not sure our protecting him really helped.
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"Red Braille"
A while ago my eye doctor told me I would be blind in three years. He said I had an unusual type of glaucoma that wasn't treatable. "Come back in a year and we will see how things are going." He was very matter of fact and cold. Not at all comforting or supportive. He didn't seem to care about the enormity of his statements to me. He certianly must have understood the consequences of what he was saying because it was his job to take care of people's vision. So the only conclusion I could come to was that he didn't really care.
I spent a year trying to figure out how I was going to live the rest of my life without my eyesight. Of course, being a visual artist, my sight was the sense I relied on the most to do my work. And every day I was aware that my vision was deteriorating. I tried to be grateful for every day that I could see anything at all.
When I went back a year later for my check up they had me sit in front of a large white disc. Every time I saw a small light flicker I was to press a button. Little lights blinked on and off all over the disc. I wasn't worried so much about the lights I could see as much as the ones I was sure I couldn't.
Sitting in the waiting room was agony. The past year had been agony. And I had mostly suffered in silence. The thought of going blind was so horrific that I had been unable to share it with anyone.
I passed the vision test with flying colors. Or, I should say my eyes did. It had all been some kind of terrible misdiagnosis. A year long nightmare. The doctor never apologized for scaring me. Come back in five years he said.
Well, I now suspect that that eye doctor is a sociopath. I wonder how many other people he has scared like that. I've been mistreated by enough professionals now to know that such behavior really isn't all that unusual.
But the experience did motivate me to think about what it would be like to learn how to read in Braille. It would have helped me read even though I wouldn't have been able to see paintings any more.
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MY FRIEND BRIAN
Another one of my friends died this week. Brian was a "walking friend." I never knew his last name or that much about him. But I would see him walking the beach in the afternoons when most other people were at work. He was much older than I was, and retired. He was always so well dressed - often in a proper wool sweater and a shirt with button down collar. When I first met him many years ago he was what I would call dapper. I use that term because it fits his Irish personality.
Brian grew up in Ireland. He loved to tell me stories about riding his bicycle for an entire day across the Irish countryside just to watch a special soccer match. Then, he and his friends would ride back home to a hot bowl of soup. I don't think Brian was well off when he was young. But it sounds like he had fun.
At some point - I don't know when - he moved to the New York area - where he worked, married and raised a family. After retirement, he followed his boys out to Seattle.
Many times I would encounter him walking with his wife Mary. Mary didn't have a very good memory and never knew who I was. She also had very beautiful and very sensitive "Irish" skin. So she couldn't stay out long. Brian seemed very devoted to her and was always proud to introduce her to me. Over the years we talked about his work, his boys and his dogs. These conversations always occurred when we bumped into each other during walks. Frankly, Brian talked a lot and even though I was very interested, it often got to be a bit much. It was hard to disengage because he was so enthusiastic. He seemed to be so grateful to have someone who would listen to him.
I found out about Brian's death from the newspaper's obituary page. I hadn't seem him for maybe two years and had been wondering what had happened to him. I wouldn't have noticed the announcement at all except that I spotted his face looking out from the page along with all the other people who had died.
I guess Brian had been living up at St. Vincent's old folks home because that is where they held his memorial service yesterday.
I thought for a while that I might go up and attend his service, although his family wouldn't know who in the heck I was. I decided to go for a walk along the beach instead - in Brian's honor. His obituary said that the one thing Brian really liked to do every day was to take his six mile walk along the beach. I could attest to that. And since that was the only way I ever knew Brian, taking a walk seemed like the most respectful thing I could do.
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FRANCINE PORAD
My dear friend, poet and artist, Francine Porad passed away last week. Francine wanted to be remembered first an always as a committed wife and mother of her six children.
In addition to her family activities, Francine was an internationally renowned haiku poet and painter. She was funny, brilliant and prolific. She was my mentor and confidante. I am so grateful that I had a chance to hear her stories. In the past few years Francine and I would get together for lunch and a good chat. I would pick her up at her apartment and we would head to the nearby California Pizza restaurant. Over tortilla soup she and I would share stories of our lives. I told her things I never trusted with anyone else. She told me things about herself that I never suspected.
Often, after we ate, we would go back to her apartment where we would eat candy and she would show me her work. Up until the end she was still painting and entering shows. We would talk about what paintings she should exhibit and how to frame them. The week she passed away she was scheduled to exhibit a painting in our Women Painters of Washington Annual Membership Show.
I met Francine over 25 years ago when we were both on the Board of tne Northwest Watercolor Society. At the time, I was a new painter who was trying to master the techniques of traditional watercolor. Francine, who had been painting far longer than me, expressed a more adventurous and experimental viewpoint. Her paintings were abstract, vibrant and energetic. She was the lone voice encouraging our group to enlist show jurors who would be open to accepting nontraditional paintings into our shows.
While I wasn't yet ready for abstract work myself, I listened to Francine's encouragement to think in new ways and to stretch my vision. Over time and with her urging, my natural curiosity and willingness to take risks led my work into new areas.
There is nothing more important to me than a good friendship. But developing a friendship takes time. And I don't seem to have much of it these days. However, I will never regret the many days I took off to drive to visit my friend Francine.
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WALKING FRIENDS (DON)
September 21, 2006, 9:51pm
My "walking friends" are people I have seen for years early in the morning during my walks along the beach. By now I know most of their names - at least the friendly ones. There are still one or two who refuse to look me in the eye or who scowl suspiciously.
This morning I ran into my walking friend Don at Loreen's Bubble Tea/Espresso stand. Our paths cross maybe once a month, but sometimes it is a much longer time between our chats. By then I have forgotten his name as well as his dog's name. He's forgotten my name too.
Don was a motorcycle cop for many years until he was injured in a major traffic accident and had to go on disability. Nowadays his chief activity is walking his dog and being friendly. Don says he lost half his brain in the accident - the bad half that was mean and angry.
Every time I talk to him he explains that he has lost his memory. That he can't remember people or names any more. That he can't remember me either. So we go through the same routine of reintroducing ourselves and commiserating about our poor memories. I always call his dog "the one who is a character in that Fraser TV series." And he says, "yes, Kelsey." Then he asks my dog's name again.
Today he made an interesting observation. He said he never lies anymore. He realizes there is no point. Since he can't remember what he tells people, he can never keep his stories straight. Don may have a bad memory, but he is not dumb.
He also said that he has never been happier in his life. He doesn't worry any more about anything. He can't remember what he is supposed to worry about.
And, today, like at the end of every one of our conversations, he reminds me that the next time I see him he won't know who I am.
He says that with a big smile. I love seeing Don in the morning.
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BABY SEAL
September 21 paintings and doings
I experience something new every morning when I walk the beach, even though I take the same route day after day.
Right now, part of the beach has been blocked off by the Parks Department to protect a baby seal who has been resting on the sand during high tide. Many people don't know that the mother seals leave their babies on the beach while they hunt. The babies are protected from hungry sea lions in the water who are ready to pounce while the mother seals are distracted hunting for breakfast. That strategy works fine in the wild where there are no people to interfere. Here in Seattle, however, when walkers see a baby seal on the beach, they think it is stranded and try to rescue it. They don't know that if a baby seal is touched by a human, the mother will abandon it.
So, whenever a "stranded baby seal" is reported, the Parks Department comes out and puts up barricades and signs to keep people out.
The past week I have been peering over the bulkhead railing looking for the baby seal who has been happily rolling around or flapping his flippers. Unfortunately, this morning, what I saw was fresh human footprints in the sand, a flipper trail, and no baby seal. Well, I can speculate as to what happened I guess.
I'm learning that my speculations are almost always wrong.
As of April 15, 2007, I have moved my Alki Beach Walks posts to a new blog "Alki Beach Walks"
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