Money Signifies Worth; How much we Earn Defines our Value

“Celebration” 20 x 16 Acrylic on Gesso Board

I wanted to be a writer from the time I was in third grade. My first short story was written on a script tablet I used to learn cursive. By the time I reached high school, I won an award and was featured in our school’s “Whispering Pines” literary magazine. I loved the written word and the power it held over my heart.

It was only natural that I continued to write even after I got married and began raising my six children. Hidden moments were stolen during nap times, and ideas generated while ironing, serving as a chauffeur, cleaning and even bathing. There wasn‘t a time that I wasn’t imagining, phrasing, or constructing in my head.

When I finally started writing things down and actually creating, I had already started selling a few of my wares. I had read so many stories to my children as they grew up that I figured I could write a few of my own. Finally I was receiving validation for my hours of work. Until that time, my efforts were considered a waste of time by my family and friends who were ultra conservative and devoted to saving themselves by their own efforts and working in their church and community.

There is something to be said for volunteering and doing things for free. I was able to hone my skills by crafting stories, plays and scripts for local church and community groups until I developed my talents enough to write for profit.

Great things can come from the giving of your time and talents for a good cause. What can happen?

• Recognition; people become familiar with your face, your name, and your reputation for excellency and dependability.
• Opportunity; if someone is looking for a writer or an artist, they may think of you through past experiences together.
• Connections; exchanging of personal information, business cards, and shared work sticks in people’s minds. They will refer you to someone else when a job is needed.

“Bella Bellissimo” 16 x 20 Acrylic on canvas

I met a photographer at my church that saw my creativity firsthand at one of my events. He asked me to meet with him and that opportunity led to my writing of many, many scripts that were used in children’s education. Our divorce series (four films) won the New York Film Festival for “Best Series” that year. The photographer I worked with also introduced me to “The Learning Exchange” where I wrote some fun economic scripts for children on the history of barter and exchange.

Through another connection (that started when I was doing things for free), I was able to move into adult training and education scripts for a large insurance company; writing on subjects like “Structured Settlements” and “Claims Training.” By the time I finished these projects, I was getting referrals from other entities: major airline companies, and many school districts that were promoting education and safety.

By this time I had taken up drawing, illustrating and painting. My goal was to illustrate some of my own work. Getting paid had turned my so-called “waste of time activities” into making a real contribution to the family budget and becoming totally independent for my own sustenance.

It’s too bad that we allow our own self doubts, the  criticism of others or money to define us: “You’re not good enough, experienced enough, or talented enough to get paid for your efforts.” In the beginning, most of us must work for free. But don’t give up! Your generous heart will eventually be rewarded.

“Peaches ‘n Cream” 12 x 16 Acrylic on Gesso Board

Helping another Person, an Animal or a Worthy “Cause” Lifts us in the Process

For the most part human beings are a compassionate lot. We hate to see suffering of any kind, especially that of our four-footed friends.

When wildfires began to tear through the states of Victoria and South Australia, koala bears were the first victims. Arboreal by nature (tree living), these marsupials were literally “up a tree” when the blaze trapped them; a eucalyptus tree, specifically, where they breed and feed. Koalas spend most of their time high above the ground clinging to the trees with their claws. On the ground they are slow moving and cumbersome.

According to news sources, the “first fire victim was Jeremy the koala taken in by the Australian Marine Wildlife Research and Rescue Organization. Jeremy has become the poster bear for the koalas’ plight.”

Now four other organizations have teamed up to treat him and the other koalas they know are out there. Special mittens sewn from clean 100% cotton material have been made for Jeremy. They work like burn dressings and must be changed often.

“The International Fund for Animal Welfare is requesting koala mitten donations from around the world. If you’d like to help, here is a link for the Koala mitten pattern  which should be made from clean 100 percent cotton material, like old sheets or tea towels. Follow the directions carefully.

According to Josey Sharrad, “Just like any burn victim, koalas’ dressings need changing daily, meaning a constant supply of mittens is needed by wildlife care takers.  Some burned koalas can take up to a year to fully recover. It also doesn’t hurt that they look damn cute in their mittens!”

Donations can be sent to IFAW, 6 Belmore Street, Surry Hills 2010. From there, the IFAW will allocate the mittens wherever they’re needed most.

I was so touched by this tragedy and the sweet photos of these adorable marsupials that I had to do my part by spreading the word!  There is nothing in the world more satisfying than helping others and that includes these helpless animals.

As I was raising my children, I nursed baby birds, turtles, dogs and kittens back to health. Sometimes I succeeded, and sometimes not. We lost a wonderful black dog named Buttons because he ran into the street chasing after my son. When he was hit by a car it broke all of our hearts. We buried him in our back yard.

Wild creatures have special needs and sometimes do not respond to our efforts to heal them. Gladly, professional teams of experts have the required knowledge to know and understand the specific needs of each species.

In Florida, professional teams have rescued and healed pelicans, sea turtles, manatees, dolphins and whales. Even with expert knowledge, a few fail to thrive. It is encouraging to see the interested people who crowd the beaches when a healed survivor is released. The earth belongs to all of us, and we should do our part to protect these defenseless creatures.

Cruelty in any shape or form should never be accepted. Intentionally starving, neglecting, or torturing an animal in anyway should not be tolerated. How we treat the innocent and unprotected says a lot about us as individuals. All life should be respected and cherished.

“Bella Bellissimo” 16×20 acrylic on canvas (SOLD) Commission a dog portrait in oil, acrylic, pastel

My Love-Hate Relationship with Cats

“Playing Dress-Up” 20 x 16 mixed media on canvas

Now before you cat lovers fly off the handle, let me say that I once loved unconditionally all cats, the ugly, the scraggly, and the mistreated. I’ve never really hated cats, I just lost my affection for them for awhile in a rebound love affair with an adorable dog.

As a child, I lived in an upstairs apartment over my grandmother and grandfather’s old Victorian mansion that sat on a visible corner lot in an older part of town. Out of respect for my grandmother, I was allowed to have a bowl of gold fish, nothing more. Suffice it to say (forgive my triteness), a fish simply did’nt cut it!

Soon, I began dragging stray cats home. They were love hungry and eager to please. My mother indulged me for awhile. She provided a cat box in a recessed corner of the kitchen where an old pot-bellied stove once stood in the days when my grandpa burned coal in the furnace.

I adored dressing my cats in doll clothes and pushing them around in a doll buggy. They were patient and indulged my every whim even tolerating a doll’s bonnet with a bow tied under the chin. They had been so deprived that nothing I could do would turn them away.

I was in cat Heaven. But no sooner had I brought one cat home than it managed to vanish before another was brought into the house. My mother feigned ignorance at their disappearance. Once she did admit she had given one away. She declared it was happier “out on the farm.” I believed her.

One cat may have disappeared in a vent hole we had on the side of the two-story brick house. I never knew for sure, but my mother insisted she had seen it go inside. I never heard a distress meow and it never came when I called. I was suspect and questioned her motives.

Finally she allowed one cat to stay, at least through the winter. I slept with the cat, kissed it goodbye before I went off to school, and smothered her with affection when I returned home. Of course, my mother was left with the cat all day, and she was less than fond of it.

One day before school while eating my breakfast, I watched the cat use its box. My stomach gave a nauseous gurgle. When I turned away, I faced the gold fish bowl on top of the big buffet. The shiny spangled fish was also doing its job, trailing a string of brown excrement.

When I went off to school, my enchantment with pets had fizzled. My queasiness grew worse on the bus. To make matters worse, while munching on an after school snack, I watched the cat leave a sizable tape worm in its sandbox. I wasn’t ready for such reality. That was the last stray cat I brought home. Eventually, the cat box permanently disappeared.

I did try owning many cats after that: a kitten won by my first son, Chris, in a Cub Scout Soap Box Derby that was a part of a friend’s litter; a found kitten that must have been part of a feral cat litter, and climbed my living room drapes with claws like a tiger; and a black cat my third daughter, Paula, named “Demetrius” that marked everything in our house with his territorial markings as a warning to our dog Pooky.

Later when we had to sell our home and move into smaller quarters, Pooky was given to a friend, and Demetrius was taken to the Humane Society; not because we didn’t want to keep him, but that we learned Paula’s younger brother, Quinn, was extremely allergic to cats!

I bawled like a baby when I left Demetrius in the care of the shelter. I knew there was a chance they would put him to sleep if he wasn’t adopted. I prayed for his well-being and asked that a loving owner would love him and want him.

Demetrius was the last cat, the last pet, I ever owned. While I couldn’t break “Demi” of walking on my kitchen counters (a spritz of water in his face didn’t do the trick), and his footprints every morning on the shiny formica where I buttered our toast turned me off, I still loved his affectionate rubbing against my legs and the way he jumped into my lap and began to purr as I caressed him.

My life is pretty hectic right now, but if I ever lived alone again, I might consider the warmth and closeness that only a cat can provide.

FUNNY CAT DANCING VIDEO:

http://youtu.be/kKzfUusizv4

Dogs I have Known and Loved

“Winston” 9 x 12 oil on canvas

As a child, my family lived in an upstairs apartment over my grandmother and grandfather Larsen’s big corner home. Black walnut trees hovered like giants over my head, and two tall pine trees spread their prickly branches killing any vegetation beneath. It was a great place to hide once I found entrance.

I was not allowed to have a pet except gold fish, but I didn’t let that stop me from dragging home every stray cat in my neighborhood, but I’ll save that for another article.

My first experience with a real pet was as a young mother when a chiwawa named, Penny, spent six winter months with us. My two toddlers were delighted. Penny was my Uncle Wilford’s best “bitch.” He was a breeder, and called me one day saying that Penny was in need of a rest and would I mind watching her for a few months.

I knew Penny from my visits at my aunt and uncle’s house Southwest of town. This was more than a hobby for them, it was a second job that both devoted time and love into. I agreed reluctantly as our tiny rental home was already crowded, and the cement floors in winter were moist and cold.

Penny turned out to be a delight and never any trouble whatsoever. She slept on our enclosed back porch which was freezing cold, but she snuggled in a box full of blankets and seemed to sleep warmly, even though we could see her breath and ours before she came back inside.

Skipper came next, a free rescue dog we obtained in Phoenix that was part Schnauzer and part unknown which became apparent later when he turned into the ugliest, scraggly haired dog I’d ever laid eyes on. By this time we had four kids who loved every bone in his scrawny body. Unfortunately, a new job in New Jersey and a long move across country demanded that we give him to another loving pet owner.

Lady and Buttons joined our family several years later in Kansas City. My husband found two strays running along the highway and fearing for their safety brought them home. It was love at first sight for the children. Lady was a white and black spaniel and Buttons was a mix of terrier and mutt. They never had accidents in the house, but spent much of their time in the backyard.

One day while picking beans in our small garden, I noticed that the pods were covered in dog hairs. The dogs had been chasing squirrels and black birds out of the garden while I praised them, but in the process had ruined the produce in the process. Have you ever tried to wash dog hair from a fuzzy green bean? It’s almost impossible and requires each bean be washed separately.

My husband wasn’t pleased. He was also disappointed in the children who were supposed to learn responsibility by taking care of the dogs. He never gave them a warning or a second chance, just stuffed the dogs into the car and took them to the pound, leaving me behind to explain their fate, mop up my children’s tears and comfort their hearts. 

A cruel and thoughtless move I felt. Those of you who know and love dogs will understand. I’m surprised the children were given another chance to experience animal companionship. But after another move brought us to Minnesota, the door was opened for yet another waggley tailed pup that wound itself around our hearts.

My son, Chris, won a Soap Box Derby at a Cub Scout event, and the prize was a little black puppy; part of a litter from a Lhasa that belonged to a friend. My youngest son, Quinn, who cried the hardest when Lady and Buttons were sent away, adopted the pup immediately. They were like two peas in a pod.

He called the dog Buttons after the one he had lost. Buttons was smart as a whip. He’d jump up in the air to catch popcorn and seemed to understand many human words. He was lovable, loyal, and playful.  He followed Quinn everywhere.

One day, Quinn was playing outside. Buttons knew he was out there and whined and whined to be let out. By chance, Quinn’s dad was working in the garage and accidently left the kitchen door ajar as he went back to work. The main garage door was open. Buttons slipped through the door and ran to where the sound of his beloved master played. A car going down the street at just that moment tried to brake, but it was too late. Buttons was injured beyond repair and died instantly.

We all mourned that beloved pet. We tried a replacement with Pooky, a tiny Shih Tzu, but Quinn refused to bond and continued to mourn Buttons for a long, long time.