So, We're a Crafty Bunch of Artists...

My daughter, M.H., stopped by this afternoon. She couldn't stay long, but she did want to drop off some stuff, as well as pick up a few things. Nothing earth-shattering.

Sometimes, though, she'll drop off craft stuff, or we'll go out and pick up a few odds and ends. It's always kind-of fun to figure out what crafty, artist-y things we'll end up with. I'm still wondering what kind of painting she did on the black canvas she picked up last month; I know what I'd paint on a one. (Note to self: Must pick up a few black canvases ASAP.)

Artistic talent runs in our family. Mom was a writer, though her writing output seems to have dwindled over the past few years. But when I was a kid growing up in New York (state, not city) decades ago, she had an old typewriter on a desk in a small out-of-the-way nook in the kitchen. I'd watch her write, then, later, as she started fixing dinner, I'd write stories on the same typewriter, hunting and pecking away. One of my job-search cover letters starts out, "I am a writer. According to certain relatives, I was born, not with a silver spoon, but a pencil in one hand and a stack of paper in the other. It took me a while to crawl to the typewriter. (Mom and Dad may have exaggerated a little.)" The apple - or writer - doesn't fall too far...

She also did quite a bit of painting over the years; I have two of her watercolor paintings of flower arrangements on my wall. Years earlier, she'd worked in oils.

Mom and I have two cousins, a brother and sister, who are also very artistic. D. had a small studio in his parents' basement for painting; his sister was also so inclined.

My paternal grandfather's artistry tended toward the mechanical workings of radios, which he repaired in his electronic repair shop for years. But on my dad's side of the family, there are definitely artists and craftsmen. (Check out Art-N-Time Creations.)

My oldest son, J.A., also has a painting hanging on the same wall as his grandmother's watercolors. It's a really cool oil painting of a sunset, and looks like it's of the Southwestern U.S. I've had numerous people admire it; they're almost always surprised upon hearing that J.A. was 13 when he painted it, it's that good. He's now trying his hand at craft beers, with thoughts of eventually starting a microbrewery. (Butternut squash ale, anyone?) I wish he also kept up with the painting, too. He also wrote a lot; I keep running across old notebooks of his with stories and drawings in them.

My younger two, who still live at home, also write. A lot.

Getting back to M.H...When she discovered that some of my old acrylic paints were no longer usable, she decided it was time for us to get some more. Ditto on stuff to make Sculpey creations.

Note: For anyone who is unfamiliar with Sculpey, it's a type of polymer clay that is hardened in a regular oven. I first heard of it from my ex-, who used to make beads with it, then hand out bracelets to various people. I've also used it to make all sorts of creations. (Here is one of the sites for Sculpey.)

The next thing that M.H. and I have to pick up is a bucket of sand; since M.H. lives near the beach (remember the Tampa Bay (Car) Triangle fiasco?), that shouldn't be a problem. Between that and a bunch of shells (both whole and in pieces), we'll be making a bunch of sand candles. We won't get into my photography and videos (you could check out http://robinshwedoproductions.weebly.com).

Sand candles, Sculpey creations, paintings, writing, ale, time piecs, photography, videos...we're just a crafty bunch of artists.

Aging, with Attitude

I've noticed something lately: I'm becoming my parents, while my offspring are becoming, well, me (though a much younger me).

For starters, there are the aches and pains. When my kids were little, and I wanted to take them to the beach or park so that they could get rid of some excess energy (and I wouldn't have to think about the housework), I'd call my grandmother up.

Now, mind you, I called both of my grandmothers on a regular basis. They were very different from each other, but definitely cool, each in their own way. But while Dad's mom lived in New York (state, not city), Mom's mom and I lived in the same Florida county; therefore, it was Grandma Hallock I'd call for the weather update.

After catching up on the pleasantries, I'd mention that I was planning to take the kids out. "The meteorologist on Channel 8 said that there's a forty percent chance of rain today, something about a cold front coming through, so I'm wondering if it's safe to head for the beach."

"Well, hon, my arthritis is only bothering me a little," she'd tell me. "I think you should be fine today, but maybe not tomorrow."

Funny thing is, her arthritis was almost always right. Go figure...

I'd heard from both grandmothers and their friends that the weather would change soon because "I can feel it in my bones." My younger self used to think that was old people crazy talk, but over the past decade or so, I've been noticing how true it seems.

A couple of mornings ago, I woke up with a painfully stiff, sore neck. I didn't have a headache or a fever, which was good; it's always nice to rule out anything serious. Most writers tend to be a bit neurotic. I'm not as neurotic as, say, Woody Allen, but on some days, many of us could give Woody a run for his neurotic money.

I grabbed a tube of BenGay and slapped some on. I have several tubes of it, as well as Tylenol's version of it (Precise). A certain offspring, who could easily be on Extreme Couponing, had sent them to us several months before moving to Florida when she'd picked them up for mere pennies. So, after putting BenGay on my neck, and popping a couple of Tylenol and four baby aspirin, I eased into the kitchen to start the coffee.

But the neck continued to hurt throughout the day. When it did ease a little, my left knee...well, you get the general idea. The cold front that had come through had decided to settle in. While it wasn't a seventy-five percent chance of rain sort of thing, it did tell me that the weather would be this way for a couple of days.

An aside: I've been known to laugh in late August, early September when the meteorologists on TV say that there's a cold front coming through in the next few days. I live in Florida. While it does occasionally get down-right cold in January or February (temperatures in the teens are cold, as far as I'm concerned), cold fronts in Florida in August or September might just bring the temperature down a degree or two to a nice, brisk 79 or 80. Brrr! Not! But it did get into the high 50s last week...

Another thing I've noticed, heading into the end of my fifties: I tend to have a lower tolerance for some things (like, um, manure) than I used to, while things that used to absolutely drive me nuts hardly phase me.

A while back, I was riding with my friend Kevin, who happens to drive cab. We first met when we both drove for the same cab company. I'd started first, then he showed up maybe a year later, then quit for maybe a few months before climbing back into a taxi. Kevin's a few years younger than I, and he describes himself as a grump or grouch.

One morning, Kevin was driving me some place or other. It was a couple of weeks before Christmas, when people sort-of forget how to drive. It's like, they're in the right-hand lane, thinking of turning into this group of stores coming up to buy something, when suddenly and right now, they realize that the bank is on the left and they need to hit it up before shopping. We were behind three-lanes-and-half-a-block-worth of people driving like this.

So, Kevin had been grousing for the last couple of minutes as we ease south along Forty-Ninth Street that the other drivers are idiots, that you should have seen that guy plow into that pick-up truck this morning, the fact that we were only his third call of the day. His second call was a regular customer, but his first call was one that prompted him to tell M. and me, "You won't believe the call I got at 6:30 this morning. I hadn't even gotten my coffee, the address they gave me didn't exist, and after ten minutes of looking for him, he ran out from between a couple of houses and told me to hurry, he was late for work! I think he'd already been drinking..."

Finally, I looked over at him and said, "Kevin, you are such a grump!!!" As I said that, a car from the left lane cut across all three lanes of traffic, nearly hitting both us and the car in fron of us, before ducking into a strip mall, all the time waving Sorry, thanks! at everyone he'd cut off or almost hit. "What's with this (expletive)!" I practically yelled.

As we eased up to the light, Kevin looked at me slightly askew and, smiling, said, "And you call me a grump?"

Another story: My daughter, M.H., and I talk quite frequently. Once, several years ago, when we were on the phone, G. was doing something or other that she'd been told not to do. Let's face it: most kids do that, especially when the parent who said not to do it is on the phone.

At one point, M.H. told G. to "stop that right now." G. didn't, so M.H. said, "Don't make me count to three!"

By now, I was smiling, but trying not to let a snicker come across the phone. This sounded too familiar.

"Okay, that's it!" I heard. "One, two, three!" Then, to me, "I'll be right back." As she put the phone down, I could hear, "You're going to your room!" She was immediately informed that that was fine, G. had a TV, VCR and radio in her room. "Not any more, you don't! I'm taking them out right now and you can stay in your room until you apologize and make it right!" A stream of I'm sorrys followed this, along with much crying and wailing. But M.H. held firm.

When she finally picked up the phone, my daughter had one question for me: "When did I turn into you?", to which I responded, "When you became a parent!"

Life goes on, we age, and, if we're lucky, we manage to mantain our sense of humor.