On Better Painting and Pink Floyd...

             I turned my head away from the window to try and catch a few extra minutes of dreams, as the sun crept over the horizon and mist rose over the tall grass outside, pulling long stalks from the earth, stretching them towards the sky.  I could hear tiny footsteps downstairs, Riley tiptoeing and whisper shouting to my sister.  The scent of fresh eggs- probably collected just this morning- cooking in the cast iron skillet in the kitchen made my stomach rumble.  I stretched my legs, practicing a yoga pose under the covers, and immediately regretted the decision, as the air was colder than I remembered it, and the warmth of the blanket only reached so far.  

            Groggy, I felt around the nightstand for my glasses, and peeked out the window.  The sun was up, and the early morning light was white, making the dew and the April frost appear to glow.  April is the cruelest month shot through my brain, from T.S. Eliot’s “The Wasteland”, and I remembered reading the entirety of the poem a million years ago in an English class, and then performing pieces of it intertwined into a friend’s play in college.  April is the cruelest month.  Shivering in the bed, I couldn’t help but agree- at least weather wise. No wonder I’m an English teacher, I think.  I can’t do anything without quotes popping into my head.  Glancing at Jeff on the bed across from me, still trying to hold on to the last bits of sleep, I decided to let him rest.  It was going to be a long day, culminating in a wine and painting party titled "Vino & Van Gogh" with Better Arts in the barn across the street, and he would need energy to watch the kids while I relaxed there.

            Downstairs, the morning was in full swing.  Folks moved around the kitchen, tossing wood into the black cast iron stove and stoking the orange flames.  Food was on the stove, the radio was humming, and the house was alive and warm despite my misgivings about the weather outside.

            “When does spring start?” I asked, shuffling into the kitchen, and received a half hearted “sometime around June” answer.  Nicole had her work to do, running a section of Thrillist.com’s website, editing and writing articles, and “a few conference calls later.”  But she promised a horseback ride for the girls, and we were going to feed the alpacas and chickens as soon as breakfast was done.  Chicken feeding was always fun, looping leftovers and scraps off the back porch to the waiting throng of clucking, preening birds.

            Music was already flowing from the miniature goldenrod boom box sitting precariously on the shelf by the sink.  Better Farm Radio was on, of course, and throughout the morning, DJs (housemates, visitors, and of course, my daughters) ran a steady stream of old vinyl and playlists from iPhones out of the room that used to serve as Uncle Steve’s office.  After the third time Riley put on Let It Go, it was decided that perhaps an adult should take more control.

            As a half joke, I suggested we put on some Wagner, wake up the ghosts of the place.  Halfway through the set, I heard the Ride of the Valkyries, and grinned at the photo hanging on the wall of my young Granny in her tennis shorts, standing next to Steve before the paralysis, his hair short, his eyes clear.  My vision blurred for a second from tears, a throwback to depressive days when our family members dropped like rain, one by one absorbed by the dirt at Valleau Cemetery.  I shook it off, choosing instead to hear their voices in my head- the lilt and booming joy, the scratchy, halting speech patterns, the raspy Texas drawl, and hoarse, throaty laugh- while through the radio, strains of Hojotoho shook the plates.

            The animals were getting restless, as were the kids, so Riley and Ella bundled into their fake-fur lined puffer jackets, boots, and mittens, and slid open the back door.  Riley launched pieces of bread and cereal out of the bowl with her right hand, crafting a strong softball arc that rained down onto waiting beaks.  Ella decided it would be a good time to put her plan of petting a chicken into action, and stuttered down the steps, chanting “here, chicky chicky” while feathers flew and the birds raced out of her reach.  The girls may choose to wear pink sometimes, adorning their heads with plastic gemstone crowns, wrists decorated with tattoos of Disney princess.  But today, they wore cowgirl and rain boots, collected chicken eggs and sprinted after alpacas, tracking through mud puddles with the grace of winged dragons.  Tall, wavy grass lapped at their ankles, and their feet made slap slap sounds against the ground.

            Ella raised a stick, and Riley raised another one, like tiny Valkyries letting their voices echo over the Rhine where maidens sing of cursed rings and Valhalla goes down in flames.  I’m not sure what that all means, but it jumped into my head, and I couldn’t shake it.  The side effects of The Ring being played through the speakers, I suppose, and the blue sky and the white clouds, a perfect child’s drawing hanging above the wild of the bramble bushes. 

            Once inside the house, Pink Floyd coursed out of the speakers- Comfortably Numb and flashes jumped into my head of guitar strings and steady hands, sitting on a floor and singing in unison while picking out a pattern in the carpet so I didn’t have to meet someone’s eyes.  Looking up, I saw soft tufts of hair spilled forth from my girls’ heads, curling as they spun dizzy circles onto the floor and dropped, giggling, to stare at the ceiling and the shelves and shelves of books towering over them like mountains from the gods.  Ella begged to sit in the yoga swing hanging from the ceiling, and wrapped herself in the red and orange fabric, a living firecracker hiding in the soft folds of fabric.  The wind and my sister and I regaled the kids with talk of Princess Leia and Supergirl, badass bitches who bucked the trends until they rumbled the universe.  Talky Tina sat mute in the corner, her batteries dead, the black and white of her body a stark contrast to the colorful bindings on the books.

            With Jeff awake and on hiatus from DJing, we decided to take the kids on a hike down the street.  After much confusion of where the Indian River Lakes trails were, and where, more specifically, the Grass Lake Overlook trail started (including Nicole taking a brief respite from work to drive down and point us in the right direction), we set off.  The quiet was almost eerie.  Coming from the suburbs, the busy street on which I live, a classroom where kids are always talking, or clicking on their computers or phones, silence is not to be taken lightly.  And in the early afternoon sun, I could close my eyes, and literally hear nothing but the songs and quotes in my head. I can not explain/ you would not understand/ This is not who I am.

            Traipsing through tall stalks of yellow grass, over downed trees, and around rocky slopes forming the path, the stillness was broken only by the sound of our breath, the occasional calls of birds.  Steve had been an avid birdwatcher, and I’d heard tales of how he’d taken his motorized wheelchair out to the various trails, binoculars resting on his lap, while his caretaker’s dog Sadie plodded along beside him.  One afternoon, the wheels became stuck in thick mud, and a search party was sent out looking after the caretaker realized Sadie wasn’t there to eat her dinner, and surmised they must be together.  They were found at dusk, Steve bundled in a blanket and a bit cantankerous at the situation, Sadie cheerful at the rescue and prospect of food.  They were chilly but none the worse for wear. 

            I held Ella’s mittened hand in my own, her tiny fingers tucked inside, warm from the bitter chill.  Her feet clunked down on branches, cracking them with her winter snow boots, an act of minor destruction she relished.  Our cheeks were red from the cold, but the view at the top of the cliff, looking out over Lake of the Woods and Grass Lake, was worth it.  It was a Bob Ross-inspired vista, all happy trees, blue sky mirrored in the lakes below, and the beginnings of spring offering sprigs of green along the horizon.  Plopping down on the bench erected for tourists, the girls hammed it up for the camera, grinning while they pulled their hats down on their heads to keep their ears warm. 

            Back at the farm, the horses were saddled, and the girls strapped into their bike helmets.  “Don’t walk too close behind the horses,” Nicole warned, and I took a wide berth around Storm to get to Riddler’s side.  We lifted the girls up, and instructed them to hold tight to the saddles.  They giggled, enjoying being taller than everyone else, and we set off down Cottage Hill Road, a parade of horses and people, waving to passers by while the girls hopped up and down in their saddles.  Each time a car passed, I held my breath, and kept a hand on Ella next to me, so that if the horse got spooked, I could grab her and keep her safe.  In retrospect, I’m not sure how effective I would be next to a hundreds of pounds animal rearing up, but it made me feel better at the time. 

            After cantering around a bit, we lifted the girls down, and decided to swing me and Nicole up to wander the backyard ourselves, and introduce the horses to the alpacas.  “Just be careful getting up- stand on a bucket, because if you put your foot in the stirrup, and the horse moves, you could snap your ankle.”   Nicole demonstrated, mounting Storm with ease. 

            Perfect, I thought, trying to steady myself on the cracked white plastic bucket.  After two attempts (both of which involved me slipping off the bucket), I set caution to the wind, stuck my foot in the stirrup, and hurled myself over the horse.  Safely (?) on top of Riddler, I felt a moment of calm, mixed with the odd anticipation of panic.  We posed for a few photos, wandered a bit, and after a brief moment of discussion how the horses would react to the alpacas, I jumped off Riddler into Jeff’s arms so I could watch the introduction of animals from a more responsible distance.  The introduction was a nonevent, some sniffing and brief barking from the dogs as they circled the larger animals, who seemed to bond over their “did you get a load of these noisy things?  I think I could squish them if I wanted” attitude. 

            After dinner and some extensive reading and writing, it was time for the wine and painting event in the art barn.  Better Arts was hosting, and my birthday present was a spot in the class.  Walking back and forth across the asphalt to bring cheese and crackers to the barn from the house, I shivered.  I can’t wait for summer, I thought, when we can all track lightning bugs, the tiny glows illuminating the darkness while a cacophony of crickets and cicadas serenade us.  In the chilly April air, though, I raced upstairs and tucked Riley into her bed, her long legs curling into her chest under the patchwork quilt Nicole made years ago.  Squares of red, purple, and yellow scrunched up around Riley’s arms while she smiled.  Nicole read the girls stories of a milkmaid counting her chickens too soon, and a mean baker who turned into a goat, One Minute Bedtime Stories from our own childhood.  “Good night, Mommy.  I love you,” Riley said sleepily, turning over.  I brushed her hair out of her face and kissed her forehead while I rose off the creaking bed, returning the sentiment. 

            Walking outside towards the illuminated barn, I paused, breathing deep remember rem-EM-ber as I gazed up at the stars lighting the unspoiled sky with such precision.  When was the last time I looked at the stars?  Pink Floyd was back in my head.  You are only coming through in waves/Your lips move but I can't hear what you're saying.  I’m back in my head, back in the philosophical discussion of the time- that at any given moment, everything is happening at the same moment, and you can reach out and touch the others.  I so badly want this to be true.

            In the art barn, space was scarce.  Dozens of women, and a handful of men, chattered away, lifting glasses of wine and bits of homemade sourdough bread.  I could see, on the chair at the front, a print of Van Gogh’s Starry Night sitting primly. I smiled, excited at the prospect of creating my own version of my favorite painting.

            On tiny paper plates and pieces of recycled cardboard, red, yellow, and orange tempera were distributed along with water glasses to cleanse the brushes between colors.  I seated myself near the back, listening as the instructor held up a piece-a multicolored background with a black tree in the front.  “This is what we’re going to be painting tonight.”

            I felt a quick wave of disappointment that Starry Night wasn’t to be our inspiration. I stole a glance at the Van Gogh, like it was some old lover I wanted to connect with but didn’t want the rest of the world to see.  I could remember it hanging in my bedroom the summer after freshman year of college, a print I’d bought impulsively from a salesman in the campus center along with posters from Empire Strikes Back and The Princess Bride.  I’d loved it since my English teacher had explained it in a Humanities class years ago, and it resonated through my college years, its tumultuous waves of mountains and swirls of sky an inspiration through recklessness and adventure, and its softly glowing light a calming comfort.  I realized, looking at it across the room, that I still loved it, despite the print’s relegation to my mother’s attic, behind an old box of letters and papers from high school.

            “Feel free to make it your own,” the instructor was stressing.  “Just layer on the paint, starting with the warm colors, and try to keep the yellow near the center- it’s the color that will draw the eye because it’s the lightest.  I started with red.”

            I always start with red, I thought, noting that in paint and in life, I’m rarely subtle.  It’s been my downfall a number of times, but also led to more vibrant memories and stories.  Fuck it, I’m going with the Van Gogh, I thought, deciding that I could still follow the main points while bringing in the passion that made the piece resonate. 

            The paint curved and chortled, sloshing its way off the brush and onto the canvas with bold strokes as though it had been consuming wine with the rest of the art barn’s patrons.  Practicing impasto, I added the prescribed layers: orange onto red, blue on black, yellow on green.  Gesso was used for thickness, different brushes and sponges for texture.  We moved through the color wheel from warm to cool, heat to ice, before adding the black.  I was egged on by the women around me who appreciatively commented on the movement of the clouds in my work. I stole glances at the print and smiled.  It might not be the original, but I still had a piece of it.  Is that enough? I asked.  That should be enough, I answered.

           That’s what Better Farm does.  It takes me away from the everyday, quiets the mind until it has no other recourse but to think.  Memories spouting out of the April chill, reminding me of my core.  At a yoga class recently, the teacher had us put a hand on our hearts, and ask ourselves “what nourishes you?”  Painting in a barn, surrounded by strangers, discussing books and art while my daughters slept peacefully across the street, my husband manning the radio station, and my sister seated beside me- definitely nourishing. 

            Later that night, I curled my legs in to my chest, pulling the blanket around me tighter to shut out the cold sifting through the walls and the window frame, where dozens of ladybugs waded on tiny legs across the condensation.  The air drifting up from downstairs smelled like the wood stove, soft embers drifting through the house.  I could hear music still on, and I closed my eyes, remembering the many nights of invention and reinvention. In my head, Pink Floyd’s Comfortably Numb played on repeat, “There is no pain you are receding/ a distant ship smoke on the horizon.”  I fell asleep remembering youth and fire, summer heat and winter snow, guitar strings and starry nights.

*this is relatively on par with what was experienced on my spring break trip to Better Farm- though for the sake of the piece, I combined the days into one to make it flow better.