On the Death of a High School Friend who shared my youth.......

One of my High School friends, Kathy O'Brien Fox, fondly remembered as OB, died this week finally succombing to Alzheimers disease. One of her greatest joys was sailing and so her daughter, Lisa Ann, read this poem to us:

What Is Dying?
Bishop Charles Henry Brent

Written on the death of his wife

____________________________________

I am standing on the sea shore.

A ship sails to the morning breeze and starts for the ocean.

She is an object of beauty and I stand watching her until at last she fades on the horizon, 

(I think she added here how horizon and sky came together until only a small spec remained and then disappeared ...)

and someone at my side says, 'She is gone' Gone where? Gone from my sight, that is all.

She is just as large in the masts, hull and spars as she was when I saw her, and just as able to bear her load of living freight to its destination.

The diminished size and total loss of sight is in me, not in her.

And just at the moment when someone at my side says, 'she is gone' 

there are others who are watching her coming, 

and other voices take up the glad shout, 

'there she comes.'


That is what dying is.
An horizon and just the limit of our sight.
Lift us up O Lord, that we may see further.

-------------------------------------------------------------

I could see Kathy's twinkling eyes in the eyes of her children and hear her laughter in the Heavens as she shared her last Hurrah at the Irish wake afterwards - ... I'm sure you all heard her laughter too as she flew across the sea toward the horizon, "at first a tiny spec, until you could see her no more"... None of us knows when, the hour or the day. But we can rest assured, 

She waits for us there.

I truly look more forward than backward these days, to when we can all be seventeen again and close - like then - forever and a day.

Three of us old classmates drove down to the beach to watch the pounding surf at Grand Haven whipped by the gale "winds of November come early." It rained all day and the roaring of the sea still crashes across my mind. 

I thought, "this is what she saw; this is where she lived, this is what she loved. She had a grand life and lived it widely. MayGod grant her eternal peace and may her soul find rest in Thee O Lord.

'till we meet again.........

Northern Michigan Landscapes

View from Bill's Farm Market Toward Lake Michigan

Walsh Farm

Field of Sunflowers on Levering Road

Petoskey State Park Dunes

Haying at Bill's Farm Market

Summer Dreams Along Lake Michigan

FOURTH UP NORTH

There is nothing better than the FOURTH UP NORTH - 

Come early and feast your eyes on Northern style, "Art in the Park," in Harbor Springs. Stand in line to grab a "Guerney's" sandwich, stacked with piles of fresh roasted turkey, deli sauce, and homemade bread. The homegrown, INGENIOUS Harbor Springs parade begins at 1:00 so set your chair up early along Main Street. 

Then jump in the cool clear waters of the Harbor Beach to chill out from the summer heat. Afterwards, head back south 20 minutes to Petoskey to watch another parade, led by the award-winning PHS band. Catch a 4^th of July party along Mitchell Street for a bird's-eye-view - from Bill's Farm market veggie truck to fire engine soakers (relished by the audience in the melting 100 degree heat). Enjoy brats and dogs roasted by hosts in back-yard patios accompanied by neighbor's and friends' potluck surprises. Sparkle in the comraderie of friends and new acquaintances. 

As the warm evening fades, gather along Little Traverse Bay with the crowds that stretch for miles on the waterfront greens to watch the sunset and await man’s attempt to match nature’s fireworks. Outside the Perry Hotel, the Petoskey Steel Band fills the night air with drumming. Above, candled balloons float up from the pier like winged chariots of fire. 

A black sky suddenly ignites with fire. First, Harbor Springs explodes casting deep red, white, blue and green reflections across the blackened Bay illuminating flotillas of yachts and boats of every kind and their reveling gazers. Then spectacular booms from Petoskey's fireworks draws a chorus of “oohs” and “ahhs” from the hoards of people who silently gathered in the darkness like a flash mob erupting without warning or sign.

Then the grand finale illuminates minds with the cost of freedom and our obligation to protect our liberties. Independence Day, a day of light, laughter and an awakening to America that freedoms must be defended despite the cost.

Grand Finale

Longing

In Memory of Dylan

My granddaughter is grieving today over her cat which was hit by a car. Tread marks cross over her delicate white lines amid masses of orange. She was a sweet thing. Her voice barely audible, always sliding up for attention or playfully scratching when she was hungry. Never demanding. Now that she is gone, I realize as we often do how much I took her for granted, expected her to climb into my bed at night usually laying across my pillow like a luxurious blanket waiting for some tiny show of attention.

This sense of loss is fodder for good story telling. The experience excavates a deep sense of incompleteness and the need for love which can never be completely fulfilled until we reach our destiny in Heaven, Nirvana or whatever you want to call it. Often however our dissatisfaction with husbands, wives and children that we too often take for granted evaporated in our agony over their departures: the child's 1st day at Kindergarten and his subsequent waving goodbye as he goes off to college bring about the reality that they are never really ours to possess but gifts to treasure and let go. Our hope is that they return again never mind the petty battles over buying new Ipads or cleaning your room or leaving the car a mess.

Somehow I write to fill this hole left by grown children, lost pets, and departed loved ones. Recently my friends have been tragically touched by death. Maybe it's the age. It doesn't matter why, it always hurts - deeply and profoundly - changing our lives forever. Is it better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all? I can easily answer that question for myself. My life is better for having known these courageous people and their lives are forever imbedded in my soul.


Jodi Picoult in a recent edition of "Carpe Articulum," states that : "Longing is the foundation of the human condition — don’t we all want what we can’t have? Whether it’s the greed that is the cornerstone of a villain or the unrequited love of a star-crossed couple, the hole that a reader sees gnawing away at a character echoes personally.

The great irony, of course, is that we expect that missing piece to be the thing that brings happiness — and it rarely is. For many of my characters, this learning curve comprises the character arc — and the final revelation that they were wrong all along is part of the book’s twist at the end. Like Dorothy in THE WIZARD OF OZ, we usually have the tools we need for happiness right in our hands, but are too blind to see it."

So as Wordsworth said so eloquently "Though nothing can bring back the hour of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower, we will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind. ...

The Trillium, a Lesson in Courage

Take a lesson in courage from the Trillium. The trillium is the first flower of Spring here in Northern Michigan. Like the Icebreakers on Lake Michigan, she pushes up through the Spring Snow. Unafraid, countless white wings soon cover the forest floor. Take a drive down the Michigan shore in early Spring between Harbor Springs and Cross Village and you'll see her symphony of white against the dark hardwoods.

Just Do It!

As the commercial suggests, "Just do It!" is an action command we could all benefit from to overcome self-doubt, procrastination, and stagnation in our writing, art or whatever task we fail to fulfill. Today, I sent out two query letters to agents and a story to a Children's Science Magazine. Not much can be accomplished if we don't put out our best foot forward and take that baby step toward achieving our goals. Dreamer that I am, it's always more comfortable to watch the clouds roll by and the waves wash the sands, but to really define who I am, I need to put it out there into the world and let it land wherever it may. The same is true for my painting and art. So many stories, so many pictures linger in my head waiting for ACTION! So take the advice of the commercial and "Just do It!". We owe it to ourselves!

Procrastination

Everything is a blessing if you look for the lesson. While cleaning the yard and weeding today, a heavy wooden platform landed on my toe. The pain sent me into panic mode. It suddenly occurred to me that my procrastination about finishing my novel and painting was totally out of control. What did breaking my toe have to do with procrastination? Everything. I became aware that at any moment we are all vulnerable to accidents, disease, and toe jams that can knock us off our feet and end the incredible gift of time we squandor. Not wanting to waste another moment, I put the ice bag on my foot and drew the stunning flower I had picked 3 days ago intending to immortalize it. And that brilliant sky this morning? I knew the Master Painter could never be upstaged on that symphony of color and brilliance.

Poetry

Tropical Depression

                                                                        By Ann Carolan

Driving wind and rain

Across plains of shallow gulf waters

Recently bared by low tide; now swept, revealing mud inches below

Flats beside saw grass rising into low brush

Once haven for tall cedars and spreading live oak,

Ancient, hundreds of years, of slow growing creation

            Cut down.

Invasive species pushes out native plants

Like invading Europeans displacing indigenous tribes

Armed with righteousness false

In truth, not understanding earth’s hidden secrets

Rather, out of tune,

            Dis-ingenuous,

                        Dis-engaging,

                                    Dis-astrous.

Consequences to humans, to wildlife, to ecosystems

Taming life

Yet to every life

            Now threatened

                        Living in terror

Of greenhouse effect, melting ice caps

Of bombs;

Of weaponry

Mad men seeking power

Follow instinctual trek of hunters

Now better-armed

Tribes of modern men invent more weapons,

            more killing fields

To protect the money god.

Driven by strange doctrines

Yet, gentler, gatherer tribes farm, nurture, grow.

Propagate the earth haven.

Sent from heaven, stewards of creation

Follow the WAY of peace, harmony,

            in tune with nature

A gentle people inherit the earth

In the End.

A Writer's Life

Today I've been following the Catholic Writer's Conference online. A week-long event, it is a smorgasborg of information for writers, Christian or secular. For a mere donation, you can sit in your easy chair and learn about pitches, blogging, writing tips, etc and even participate in online critiques with established writers and editors. REAL pitches to REAL publishers. Such a deal. It is well managed by several writers including Karina Fabian (see: fabianspace.blogspot.com), one of the top 50 bloggers! The most recent post in the chat room really encouraged me to post daily on my blogspot. I was concerned about shifting topics, but that doesn't seem to matter. So I'll try to post under different topics each day, but I'm sure I'll diverge as I'm a born multi-tasker, multi-thinker. Perfect for a middle-school teacher, albeit retired now. I've been working on my novel, Deported! and just returned from a meeting of the newly formed Citizens for Immgration Reform (CIR). It's exciting to be a part of the formation of a group like this who are dedicated to preserving our Constitutional rights for all people. Currently Latino immigrants are the target of racism. Do we really need more people in our Jails whose worst crime is the color of their skin? My novel is about the way these people are treated and the sufferings they endure as they strive to overcome abject poverty, prejudice, fear, and racism. Here is my "pitch" for the day:  

PITCH:

Deported! a Young Adult Novel

16-year-old Maria must grow up fast when her parents are deported to Mexico. With one brother stealing and another joining a gang, Maria is at her wits end trying to keep her family together. When an eviction throws her into the dangerous streets of Detroit, shy Maria must find the courage and resilience to face homelessness and ridicule at school. The parish church and a charming young man from the youth group offer her family sanctuary, hope and finally redemption. With immigration making today’s headlines, this action-packed Young Adult novel is sure to hook readers looking for multi-cultural topics of current interest. Through her faith in God and the recognition of the nobility of her people throughout centuries of hardship, she is able to rise above hopelessness and despair.

Recent Paintings

Highlandville, Iowa

NE Iowa, Where Time Stands Still.....

I am always enamored of places where time has stood still; even in ruins, they bear the marks and imprints of days gone by when life's engines moved at a slower pace. My parents went to Cuba forever ago and their stories and pictures remain imbedded in my memory. My mother loved Latin music and dancing, nightclubs, and full-skirted dresses. If the international community had been allowed to create another Miami in Cuba, it would have destroyed their culture.

My husband, Terry, and I recently visited another historically preserved area in NE Iowa. Iowa, one of those places where progress moves slowly (thank God) and much of the past remains. Terry was born and raised in Decorah, Iowa, a Norwegian settlement. It is cut out of the high limestone bluffs of the Upper Iowa River. Much of the original town has been restored including the beautiful Vesterheim Museum which houses artificacts from the original settlers including stunning painted Rosemaling and magnificent scrolled hand carved furniture. We also visited the Laura Ingalls Wilder museum in nearby Burr Oak. Surrounded by rolling farmland, it was the perfect setting for her early books and the hotel remains where her family worked and lived for a few short years.

We stayed in the large Victorian house where we lived for a few years in the 70s. It's now called The Old Hospital Lodge, now restored into a B&B in Highlandville on the Little Bear, a popular trout stream in Iowa. Not much has changed. The large wooden structure was well cared for and the inn business was thriving for a town of under 100! An RV park had been added next to the only existing store. (The only other store is now for sale.) Adjacent to the house still stands the 100 year old brick bank building currently occupied by a friend from the old days who is currently renovating. What drew her back from Oregon and California, I wondered. And why does it feel so peaceful to return to this land that time has forgotten?

We were fortunate to visit on a Saturday night when many college students were on break and attending a dance at the old schoolhouse. The Highlandville dance was one of the few large social events we enjoyed years ago. Whereas in the past, grey-haired farmers played the fiddle and honky tonk piano, now the band was comprised of people our age. Our generation had taken their place as the elders. We still own 8 acres and plan to build a small energy-efficient log cabin as a get-away there. It would be a great place to write and paint. No electricity or plumbing, no phones, few distractions.

There seems to be a renaissance occurring in NE Iowa. The Vesterheim has fostered a rekindling of arts and crafts through workshops. Homemade quality yarn goods and carved wood abound. The beautiful grounds of Luther College appeal to young people who are also drawn to the natural beauty and low-stress life style. Perhaps the area is a roadmap for city folk back to a slower paced, gentler lifestyle that beckons us to live more simply and return to healthier lifestyles free of pressures to build bigger and better.

It was peaceful there. We no longer carry the burdens of ambitious dreams; we're more content with our lives as they are. There is a secret there amid the castle rocks and tiny hamlets, the secret of a simpler life and the joys of old friendships and quiet walks amid the streams of life as we grow older and wiser.

Already, I long to return.

Paintings by Ann Carolan

Ireland Remembered

Ireland, land of mystics and dreams, poets and writers, leprechauns and druids, and best of all the gentle Celtic people. They are a mixture of friendliness and wit, but most of all, I love their music. It colors everything about this land and moves your feet to dance and your voice to sing. In the lilt of Irish laughter, you can hear the angels sing, as the song says.

August in Ireland

Soft rains paints the Irish landscape in vibrant greens. The music and speech of the gentle Irish people lifts the spirits above the grey skies coloring the evenings with joyful tunes. Ireland is everything they say and more.

Street vendor clutches her handmade dolls in the main square.

San Miguel d'Allende

San Miguel d'allende, Mexico, is an extraordinary place designated as a "World Heritage" historical place by UNESCO. Historically and architecturally, it is a world treasure. During the colonial period, it was the heart of New Spain, a "model of extraordinary human settlement" and was the center of the Mexican Independence movement" according to UNESCO. It is also the center of the Mexican Independence movement and a "crucible" for the mixing of cultures. Founded in 1555, it possesses one of the most important representatives of 18th-century architecture. According to Lopez Morales, "Its buildings are a testament to the peak of the aesthetic development of novo-Hispanic architecture during the 18th century....retaining its authenticity and the integrity of its buildings, as well as the proportions of composition and color."
As a Spanish Colonial town with centuries-old preserved architecture, narrow, cobbled streets and a bustling art community, it is vibrant and alive with art and shops. Everywhere you turn, the brilliant colors and textures worn by the ages are amazing. The owner of the Casa Calderoni is a wonderful artist. We visited our hostess' art studio yesterday in a converted garment factory. It was fabulous! incorporating all the old Spanish iron work, leaving forging furnaces and factory features intact as part of the "decor"; stunning walls painted by time, preserved without taint. Huge windows flooding high-ceilinged factory rooms with warm orange hues reknowned in Mexico.
There are over 40 artists in the "Arts Fabrica". Merry Calderoni, our hostess at the casacalderoni.com, has taken the textures and colors and incorporated them into the art even mixing and crushing the old stone rocks from the buildings into her paint to give it body and texture. Recently she went to the newly-discovered Aztec pyramid near the city and was allowed to study with the archaeologists the fragile Aztec paintings. She has tried to duplicate the subtle blend of orange, red, and purple pigments and themes into her work, thus preserving and "honoring" their work.

Writing logs

The three day blow howls through the trees, cleanses the spirit and renews the mind like a freshly cleaned whiteboard. The canvas awaits a direction. I pick up the brush and begin to mark the surface. Baby steps. Setbacks. Then a dot moves across the pages forming lines and shapes. Spelling words and sentences. Keep moving one step follows another until the first paragraph is made, the first chapter, the second chapter the manuscript.