Both of the paintings on the two covers were made in an afternoon during one of the regular visits Anne and I made in the final years. I’d brought my oils along and paged through Dad’s old album for subject matter, finding two that interested me, plus a third one of a car. I set up in the living room and chatted lightly with Mom and Dad as I worked. When finished, I left the paintings with Dad, who always enjoyed my art, having been a painter hobbyist himself. They remained on the mantel. Mom, in her final years, suffered from macular-degeneration so I don’t know what she would have thought about the art. She was never without an opinion. It was after they were gone, in compiling material for this book, that I came across the source photo again and I turned it over to see if there was a caption. There was. In pencil Mom had written the very clear sentiment: “I hope a more terrible picture of Hy and me will never be taken. Sept. 16, 1935.” What an irony that this became the cover of the book. Sorry, Mom. But we often saw things different.

It’s been several months since this blog featured the ongoing saga of my parents. That’s because I stopped editing their material for posts and began compiling it for a book. And that book has just seen light of day.

I must say it was a labor of love for me as I combed through photos and memories and worked to match them up with the text. That text was supplied, thanks to brief autobiographies each contributed to a family reunion a decade or two back. Without that, there would have been very little to go on at all, but for vaguely remembered stories my parents would recount as folklore. Added to that were emails my mother would send me. She always said, “I could write a book.” Once I said, “Why don’t you?”

That never happened, but she was always a great letter writer, and as she’d get carried away to somebody recounting some aspect of her childhood, she’d forward a cc to me. So stories and many opinions from those sources also fill out the book in a colorful way.

Not that there’s color otherwise. The photos from those early days are all black and white, or sepia. So, whenever I did have a color photo to include, I toned the color way back to give the book a consistent look.

Many of the photos are from Dad’s camera, photography being one of his hobbies from early days. It was forensic delight finding photos I never knew existed. In some cases, when I didn’t have a photo, I’d make a drawing, just to help the reader visualize.

And who will the readers be? Anybody, really, as the book is available on this website and on Amazon. Of course its family who will find it most useful as the years go on. Every member of our family–our children, my siblings, their children–have a copy. My brother has researched the addresses of one hundred friends and other relatives still living and sent them a copy.

I must say all the time I put into making this book had an effect on me I didn’t anticipate. I’ve always known we had good parents (okay, Mom, there was that difficult stretch), but spending this time and digging deeper has brought me to appreciate these two individuals as just that–two people with interesting stories, a matter-of-fact overcoming, and an unassuming strength of character in all circumstances. I might have realized that anyway, but making this book has made me see it better. If you read it I think you’ll see the same thing.

For a look at a few of the book’s pages and how to get it, go to the “Store” then “Books” section of this website, click here.

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A partial array of sketchbooks filled over the years.

I’ve done it for years. It’s not just because I’m an inveterate sketcher and always needing to be doing something with my hands. Well, maybe that too. But my first sketchbooks were full of writing, not drawings . . . and they’re half that way now.

Carrying a sketchbook is a way to be traveling reflectively . . . whether or not you’re on a trip.

It’s so easy to do, and all the more for women who carry purses anyway. I just carry mine in my hand, or slip it my backside belt, or sometime a very small one in my pocket. I’m almost never without “something” to draw or write in.

Where, otherwise, does one put their thoughts when he has them?

Mornings, I start the day with the sketchbook near at hand. I make a few notes on whatever I’m thinking, have just thought, have just read. Sometimes they’re just ideas, sometimes mini-essays, sometime prayers, sometimes self-coaching. See last blog for an example of such.

Recently I met up with a friend with whom I used to work and had not seen for years. As I shared with him some sketchbook thoughts, he remarked, “Ah, the sketchbook; you have disciples.” He then named two people who use such sketchbooks, each now working in different parts of the world, both heads of organizations. Both, he told me, say they got it from me.

That’s not the point; rather that they’re using them for their thinking. Neither of them, by the way, are artists.

But of course I do also use mine for sketching. It’s a great diversion and can add interest to any moment. And since any art requires practice, drawing as I go helps.

And it helps keep the mind active. I can draw while I’m listening to a talk, sometimes taking notes in the margin. I can draw while I’m waiting. And drawing is another alphabet when trying to explain something.

There are additional benefits. When you take the time to draw something you look longer, you see it better, see it deeper, appreciate it more more. You’re training your own perception.

I suppose carrying a sketchbook gets part of the credit for my brag that I’ve not been bored in 50 years. (Unlike when I was a teenager, when I was bored most of the time.)

By now I have a shelf of sketchbooks. Now and then I’ll pull one down and look at it; but mostly it’s the one I’m in that has the most interest for me. When one is filled and I set it aside for a new one, I even feel a little sense of loss.

By the way, it was pulling from old sketchbooks that embellished the writing in my book, It’s About Life.

Speaking of books, I’m about to release another, sketches from Italy.

But none of that was why I brought up the matter here. Rather it’s to encourage you to pick up on this simple tool. As a friend told me once, “God can teach someone who’s taking notes.”

So, carry a book, take notes: Its another way to keep the mind alive.

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Following on from the story about Jane last time, here’s a page from my journal/sketchbook, written earlier. It might be for you too.

The advice I gave Jonathan, the young man that came for life counsel for his un-begun career in art—

His sketchbooks full of drawings showing:
(1) that he can do it
(2) that he is doing it
(3) that’s there’s nothing finished enough to present formally.

After long listening and talking about many things
I challenged him to take four to six months
to prepare his resume (actually portfolio)
to present to a potential employer for a job.

Part of this would be to interview some prospective employer
for what he (or the industry) wants to see in an applicant.

Who knows if he’ll do it?
He’s young, and part procrastinator.
But he’s recently in love.
(When he’d asked me when I first “found myself”
I told him it was when I got married.)

But I’m thinking now, what with my (ongoing) juncture,
that I might give myself the same advice:

Take between now and New Year’s, or September 1
[my personal New Year’s]
and propose (to myself) what I’m going to do/not do
for this next period, career, epoch, whatever.
This, looking at realities, external and internal,
and the contribution I can make and want to make
under God.

That was it, a page from the journal, shared with you . . . for what you might get out of it too. Take the four to six months, have a date in mind, and set aside some time daily to think about it. Who knows, it could change your life.

And who can’t always be using that?

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Let’s call her Jane. But not Jane Doe. She’s a real person, a friend from years back; but due to moves and changes we’d lost touch. Then, a year and a half ago I came across a grave marker with her name on it.

How did she die, and when? The oddest thing was that I was in Papua New Guinea. Had Jane been there? I knew her from Texas. Had her family sent her body back there for some reason? It was a mystery.

Then, last week I was in Dallas for other business and someone mentioned Jane. “She’s alive?” I asked. “Of course. She still works here, she’s just left for the day.”

I learned that she’s now single; her two sons are reaching the age of independence, and she’s doing fine. I got her phone number and called her from the airport.

“Jane? Is that you? Then you ARE alive!”

I must say her hearty laugh was wonderful to hear as I told my story. It turns out that Jane had served in Papua New Guinea many years ago, during which time she suffered a miscarriage at five months and named the unborn baby after her. She said if I had looked at the date I might have figured it out. But no matter. I recalled Mark Twain’s saying that the rumors of his death were highly exaggerated.

We continued to laugh and then moved on with a brief catching up. She told me of the work she’d been doing, experiencing the richest period of her life, spending half of each year in Thailand teaching eager students to read. Moreover, she was able to design her own curriculum, something she’s highly capable of doing. Then the program ended.

So, being the self-appointed life coach that I sometimes am, I jumped right in and said, “Now that you’re not dead after all you have another chance to design your life exactly as you want it!”

It was all with a big laugh, but I meant it too.

I told my own story of taking a mid-life risk, the initial courage required, the guidance that followed, and the resultant happiness (and sometimes usefulness) since.

She was listening.

“You could devise something like Jane’s Mind Opening Literacy for Thailand and Beyond dot Org!  Or whatever.”

I went on with how it’s important work, that it’s not being done, not in the way she could do it, not with the people that only she could reach. And there are ways to make it happen, including the financial part.

Besides, she’s at a moment in her life where she’s free to do it. She’s ALIVE!

It’s great fun to design someone else’s life when no courage is required on my part. But I believe Jane has the same amount of courage as anyone else: about one mustard seed’s worth.

In the end I said I’d call her again in six months . . . just to see what she’s thinking. These are important things to think about.

(Let me know if you’d also like a call from me in six months.)

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Here are 15 of the 16, all in action all the time.

We do this every two years, and not at Christmas. Not anymore. Although we did do a “mini-Christmas-in-July” for the kids—with gifts and even a tree—but that was just one of the events.

It’s our family reunion, and this time it was in Kansas City, MO where our daughter Tamara lives. It was for five days with families coming in from Seattle, Palo Alto, Chicago and from here in Dana Point/San Clemente.

We do it to keep up. And to make sure the cousins know each other. We had outings and field trips and what with a nice pool in Tamara’s backyard, there was always something to do.

For me, one of the great highlights is what we’ve come to call “the sharing.” Every evening, once the children are fed and settled in with a video in another room, one couple takes a turn updating us on their lives.

The questions were the same this year as in the past. What of significance has happened since we were together last? How has God been apparent in the life? And something positive about their spouse. That’s then followed with response of further questions, affirmations, and general good will.

Of course, there’s lots of laughter or, when called for, lots of empathy.

It’s a picture of a family, and as such, nothing’s perfect at any one time. A big one for us, of course, is the absence of Vernon. Allison was with us, as up beat as ever, and hopeful, but Vernon continues to languish (I can’t think of another word) in limbo (can’t think of another word for that either) in the care home he can’t leave.

But that wasn’t to be the focus of this blog. Rather it’s an example of how life is, with neat parts and messy, joy and pain.

The ongoing financial support of Allison by the rest of the family members is heartening for me. I look at it and say, “That’s how a family should operate.” I’m grateful, even in the midst of the plight.

I’m tempted to continue my rejoicing in the spread of talents and occupations among us. I even took a paper towel and wrote a list to share at our final time together. I think it was later used to wipe up a child’s mess, but included were the likes of:
Scientists and artists
Entrepreneurs and managers
Computer wizards
Designers
Electrical Engineers (one a PhD and another a candidate for same)
Photographers (three professionals)
An accountant/comptroller
A pastor/theologian
All teachers, in one way or another
A model
All great parents
Generous and ready to serve
Thinkers with heart

There was more but, like I said, the towel went to other uses.

Mainly, at least for me, it was “values” that we were celebrating, encouraging and affirming. All the rest is details. Details matter, and make each life unique. But if the values are there, and strong, then being a ditch digger is as good as the rest.

So that’s what we do. We keep family alive, we help each other, we keep central things central . . . and of course we have a great deal of fun.

Such should be every life.

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Here are a couple of pages from my Italy sketchbook, (above) a statue in stone, a tribute to one of our brothers, and (below) from a photo I snapped of the most exuberant beggar I’ve ever come across. (Click on the drawings for a larger view.)

I shouldn’t have been surprised with beggars on the streets, their hands out, or small cups, as we toured Rome, Florence and Venice. Actually there were fewer in Venice, that being an expensive place to live, and requiring a boat fare to get there. What I did find somewhat surprising, however, and a little disturbing, was how so few gave them any notice.

We tourists were there in throngs. Many of the places were like a crowded day at Disneyland. We didn’t mind. These cities are wonderful and it’s no surprise that so many have spent so much to get there, to stay in nice hotels, and lavish upon ourselves super great meals. It was all so worth it.

But how is it so few had anything to spare for those among us at the bottom of the ladder?

I’m not saying I did so well; but I tried to have at least something for maybe two-thirds of those I encountered (or encountered me). God knows if I’m exaggerating this; I might be. But, in fact, in the whole three weeks I only saw one person, a woman, double back and put a coin into a sidewalk beggar’s cup.

What’s with all the rest of us?

It’s not like we’re not rich. By comparison to this lot, we’re super-so. I don’t get it.

When we lived in Guatemala years ago I developed the habit of never going out without some coins in my pocket for such need. They’re just coins, sort of a nuisance in the pocket anyway, why not spare them? On this trip, there was a time or two the recipient would look into the cup for what I put in and be pretty unimpressed. I could judge his lack of gratitude, but I’m afraid his judgment of me would have better basis.

I know we get suspicious of these folk, think they’re somehow deceiving us, taking advantage of our naiveté. It may be so sometimes, but so be that. Let God be the judge.

One of the students from the art school we were traveling with mentioned how he had been prevailed upon for a hand out and wondered if he should have given . . . if he was only encouraging such lifestyle. I suggested to him that neither he, or any of us, would change these things by holding back. But sensing a hint of a soft heart on his part, the next morning I gave him a small handful of change and told him to give it away by the end of the day.

That night I saw him and asked how it went. He gave a few details, including some questionable characters, but it was all with a smile.

Maybe on God’s face, too.

As I thought about it later, it may be that God is putting change (or dollars, or very many dollars) into our hands, in part, to see how we might distribute at least some of it among the rest of his children.

It’s a thought.

_________

PS Not that it will have anything to do with the above subject, but I will be speaking this Sunday. That’s at Heritage Christian Fellowship in San Clemente, 9:00 and 11:00. All invited.

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It was near the last entry on the Italy sketchbook, the solitary artist who likely knew a lot more about his craft than marketing (can we relate?) The piece we purchased had been there on his table with the others. Click for larger view.

One of the things we tend to do, Anne and I, when traveling, is to purchase some small memento. It’s not that we set out to do it, or even necessarily think about it as we go along, it’s just something that happens.

These pieces serve as a record of where we’ve been, as well as add to the general interest of things around our house. By now, after a lifetime of travels to many places, our house is fairly rich in such physical ephemera.

These artifacts, by the way, are never found in tourist stores, more likely in out of the way corners that our path might open onto.

This last time, it was in Venice, on our last day in Italy. We were among throngs on the streets, but we happened by one little opening with nobody in it. It was something of a gallery, with interesting art on the walls and an array of small original sculptures in bronze or terracotta.

It turned out to be temporarily rented quarters for a show and sale for one Ilarion Voinea from Romania. He was the sculpture, his brother Marcel, back home, was the painter. We had little language in common; he didn’t speak English, we don’t speak Romanian, and neither of us had much Italian. Other than that, however, we had lots in common.

We particularly liked his terracotta pieces and in the end, purchased one, literally emptying both wallet and purse of our last euros. He had no bag or wrapping paper for us to carry it out, but, being small, it wasn’t a problem. By the way, almost all the artifacts in our museum/house are of a size that will fit in a suitcase.

Now the new stately woman of Romanian roots stands proud in our house, a memory of a moment, and a nice piece of original art. But she doesn’t stand alone. As I mentioned, these things become part of collections, little families of intrigue . . . for us, and for any who come by.

The grouping, normally spread around, gathered together for the photo. Click for larger view.

Here’s the menagerie from over the years. Left to right are some pieces from an anniversary trip to Patzcuaro, Mexico, some European figurines passed on by Anne’s mother, the white ones are from Chinautla, Guatemala (a country we lived in for two years), and then some great little action figures I spotted on a trip to Cape Verde off the coast of Africa. Standing in the background is the new terracotta from Romania via Venice. And in the middle, on a bamboo pedestal, is a solitary piece we still have that Anne made in high school. Such great company they’re all in . . . and such great company we’re in.

Come by and visit sometime; we’d love to have your company.

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With sketchbook work encouraged, and me having propensity for such anyway, I filled a 116 page book with 150 drawings, covering many subjects, using many styles. Here’s a pen and ink (ballpoint) of one section of majestic Florence.

We were three weeks in Italy and I didn’t blog but once, and that wasn’t about the trip. There was too much else to do.

We were part of a group, most of which were students and a few faculty from the Laguna College of Art and Design. Every day was planned, mostly around art, which included occasional lectures. There was also an emphasis on sketching and a little bit of painting when there was time, which there pretty much wasn’t.

Even now, two days after returning, I can’t put together in words all we saw and did. Anne kept a journal, complete with bits of collected ephemera, to which we can return and remind ourselves of details. She also posted occasional photos on Facebook. See here.

Back home, taking in some air around my neighborhood, I got to thinking about the differences between here and the three cities we visited—Rome, Florence and Venice. There I carried two pocket cameras, sometimes a third, and took hundreds of photos—per day! On my little stroll, I didn’t carry a camera. Why would I?

And I got to wondering where the art museums are. They’re around, I know, somewhere; but there we visited two per day, sometimes three if you include massive churches, also overflowing with notable work in paint and stone and marble.

Of art we saw some ten thousand pieces, inside buildings, outside buildings, and right on the streets. Here, on my little walk, I didn’t see any . . . nor do think I would if I walked a very long ways.

There we often did walk a very long ways. And so, it seemed, did everybody else, filling the sidewalks. On my little contemplative stroll at home I didn’t see anyone at all.

Of course, I don’t mind not being among throngs of tourists. The day were we in the Vatican Museum there were 50,000 others, slowly plodding, sometimes bottle-necking in very narrow passages, often looking up. In the central square in Florence, I had to hold onto Anne lest we get separated permanently in the crowd. In Venice, the same, but with the threat of falling in. (Not really.)

And everything was so charmingly old. Driving home from the airport we stopped at a grocery for milk and I noted a single antique picture on the wall. It was of the store’s early days, probably in the 1930’s. In Venice and Florence it all dates back over 800 years; and parts of Rome, a couple of thousand.

It was all wonderful, even with the crowds. These are like theme parks without the rides . . . unless you include the gondolas.

It’s no wonder so many go see these sights; they’re like no place on earth.

But there’s another there’s no place like . . . where I returned and took my little walk.

Home.

We’re grateful for it all.

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We’re in Italy. Seems there should be lots to write about, but for the moment, let’s just call this blog “Blank Mind.”

While we’re dealing with an overload of art sensations in Rome, daughter Allison has done us the favor of hanging art in our gallery back home.

That’s her photo of the hammer and level, which I’ve rotated in an attempt to suggest a map of Italy. Sorry if that’s pushing the metaphor too far.

Allison, however, has drawn some nice comparisons with the rearranging of art and the adjustments of the mind as she enters a new season with still-institutionalized Vernon. Check it out here.

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Here’s us, just a couple years into our marriage, on one of our extended trips into deep Mexico. I was blessed to have such an adventurous boat-mate. Still am.

You’re in a sailboat and you’re out on the water. Here’s your question: Are you headed for safety or adventure? It’s a small metaphor that could have significant implications.

The way you answer that questions has a lot to say about you.

Of course, it may have a lot to say about your present situation too.

If you’ve got a hole in your boat, you’ve probably got all the adventure you need right now. It doesn’t matter where your boat is going . . . as long as it’s not DOWN. Fixing that hole is all that matters.

But given that there’s no hole, that the wind is steady, that you’ve got provisions enough for the while, where are you going? Back to the harbor, or something new?

It’s just a useful question to ask ourselves from time to time.

______

PS  Rushing off now to Phoenix and a public painting at the Convention Center. Will report back on that later.

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