Watercolor Wednesday: Morning Bugle Hello! I can’t wait to share my newest painting, Morning Bugle, with you on this Watercolor Wednesday, but I owe you a quick explanation about where I’ve been: Where Have I Been? It’s been a minute since I’ve shared anything here on Unbound Roots, and I can’t tell you how many times I’ve sat down in the past couple years with the best of intentions to connect, but I wasn’t ready. The past four years have been A LOT! The COVID-19 pandemic, dealing with long COVID symptoms, a terminal diagnosis for my father, the death of my uncle, selling of our house, building a new home, the death of my dear father, a breast cancer diagnosis for my mother just two months after my father’s death, my mother moving in with us after falling very ill from her immunotherapy, the death of my grandfather (my mother’s father) when my mother was at her sickest, my mother moving back home after seven months (I still miss her daily presence in our home), and healing as we get back to our new normal. Life trials can be tough, and it’s amazing how they can zap any of the creative juices. Writing, painting, woodworking. Nothing felt right in the past four years. Instead, I was focusing on one-day-at-a-time and one-foot-in-front-of-the-other. Sleep (not easy), exercise, helping my children with their homeschool work, visiting with my dad before he passed, being there for my mother, seeing loved ones, preparing healthy meals, keeping a clean house, and working on the final touches on our new home were the only activities my brain had room for. All I can say is THANK GOD for the support of my husband and children, exercise, and daily devotions. These three things kept me somewhat sane over the past few years. It wasn’t until this past September when something began to change within me. On the Road to Recovery Two months after my mother moved back home, my little family of four took off on a long road trip through Montana, Wyoming, and Colorado in early September, 2025. I could go on forever about our trip, but I’ll keep it short. Mountain hiking, hot spring swimming, horseback riding, fly-fishing, rock-hunting, and wildlife viewing renewed something in me. I was able to focus on the present while we experienced new and wonderful things. I remember being home for a couple of weeks after our road trip and saying to my husband, Jake, “I feel happy and content. It’s been so long since I’ve felt this way.” Grief is a fickle thing. No one can tell you exactly how you’ll feel, when you’ll fall, when you’ll start to pick yourself up again, or what your new normal will look like. There is a general grief process (denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance), but nobody can prepare oneself for how this process will feel. I know my grief started the moment my father gave me his heartbreaking diagnosis of pulmonary fibrosis in early 2020. It was the same awful disease that had invaded his father and both of his brothers. We all knew what his outcome would be. The trials that came after that diagnosis in the next four years just compounded what I was already trying to process. It was ROUGH! In September, the fog of these trials began to lift. Painting, writing, and woodworking – I was starting to feel the pull again, and it felt SO GOOD! I was finally in a place where I could let joy back into my life. So, here we are! I’m ready to share my words and paintings with you all again. Morning Bugle “Morning Bugle” is the first painting I’ve wanted to complete in years. Yes, I’ve finished a few other paintings for myself and others, but this was the first painting I was looking forward to – the first painting I’ve felt inspired to paint in years. This painting was born from an experience in Rocky Mountain National Park in Colorado. Rocky Mountain National Park Thirty-seven degrees at 4:30 a.m. in Rocky Mountain National Park, my friend Jen had us up early trying to glimpse the ever-elusive moose. Jen is known as a moose whisperer, and the impressively large mammals seem to flock to her. I have never been lucky enough to see a moose in the wild, but I hoped to change that. We pulled into a parking lot next to a large mountain meadow. I knew we must be in a good observation area as wildlife photographers lined the parking lot with their huge, fancy lenses on tripods waiting for the first light of dawn to break. Promptly, we heard an eerie, high-pitched trumpet sound followed by a series of grunts. Sending chills down my spine, the bull elk’s morning bugle was emblematic of the wild, untouched landscape we were immersed in. When dawn began to break, dark silhouettes of the elk herd began to emerge. Their presence was special to our whole family, but I’ll never forget the beauty of hearing that morning bugle. The bugle that inspired my first enjoyable painting in years. The bugle that signified that healing had arrived. I introduce you to Morning Bugle – a painting that portrays my vision of what the bull elk must have looked like as he bugled in the wooded mountains of Rocky Mountain National Park on an early, chilly morning in September. Experiences Shortly after the morning bugle brought the sun up, two bull moose put on a show that had us all breathless. Powerful sparring between a younger, smaller bull moose, and a larger, older bull moose kept us captivated. Jen, our moose whisperer, was as enthralled as we were. After the sparring, the two moose sauntered up near where we were parked giving us all an up-close experience with the amazing animals. As Christmas and the new year knock on our door, I wish you and your loved ones a year full of grand
Family
A Season of Commissioned Paintings
After returning from my family’s trip to the Southwest, I began a season of commissioned paintings. From the end of October to the end of December I painted – not for myself, but for others. Families were planning their gift-giving for upcoming birthday and Christmas celebrations, and I was honored to be chosen to paint four commissioned paintings that were to be given as gifts. Commissioned painting is a term that I actually don’t love because it sounds impersonal. In reality, these paintings are some of the most personal paintings I create. They are moments or stories that others feel so strongly about that they want them captured and displayed for others to see. The stories behind these paintings are what inspire me to paint. My season of commissioned paintings began with a subject that I’ve never painted before – an angel. The Guardian The Guardian depicts a male guardian angel standing in a never-ending field of daisies grasping a small bouquet of five fresh daisies. This painting was given to a mother by her three adult children and their families. The children wanted to surprise their mother with this painting of a guardian angel. Guardian angels have been important to their mother since she lost her husband too early in life. The husband had loved gardening, and daisies just happen to be the flowers that adorned the couple’s wedding. The wife also carried a beautiful bouquet of daisies down the aisle. So, I decided that the guardian angel should be carrying a small bouquet of five daisies. Each flower representing one member of the family. I like to think of the field of daisies as all of the grandchildren, great-grandchildren, etc. that will result from this couple’s love. *Note – most of you know that I usually paint animals of some type, so I added in a tiny ladybug on one of the daisies in the foreground for fun. The Spirit of Love The Spirit of Love was the blending of two sweet stories. This is what I remember of the stories I was told: An elderly couple lived for many years in a home where they were often visited by their children, grandchildren, and a furry little chipmunk. This chipmunk came to visit each summer, ate from the hands of the family, and didn’t mind being pet in the least. This chipmunk brought happiness to all. Last spring, the elderly husband passed away. His wife was not able to care for the property on her own, so she moved into a senior living facility. Leaving the chipmunk was difficult on the entire family. After the woman moved to her new home, she enjoyed walking on the nearby nature trails. She noticed that on almost every walk she took a monarch butterfly followed her. The woman was comforted by the thought that the butterfly was her husband’s spirit coming to visit her on her daily walks. In this painting, it’s almost as if the chipmunk recognizes the spirit of the man in the butterfly. I thought the title The Spirit of Love encompassed all aspects of the painting, and the stories that were behind it. Doug Doug is a portrait of a fluffy white and orange cat. This painting was a gift from two parents to their son. Doug just happens to be a therapy cat and is very special to the entire family. I had so much fun painting Doug’s fluffy fur and clear chartreuse eyes. I was told that he often gets hair cuts because his fur can get a little out of control, but I sure thought his fur was beautiful in the photo that I used as a reference. Painting white animals is something that I’ve started to enjoy as there are so many colors in both the shadows and highlights. Chloe Chloe is a portrait of what I believe to be a beautiful Australian shepherd. This portrait was gifted by a mother to her adult daughter after the daughter had lost her dog. I was told by family members that Chloe was like a child to the daughter. Losing a pet is like losing a family member – it’s never easy. I hope this painting of Chloe laying in the green grass in front of some late-summer black-eyed Susan flowers will ease some of the pain of losing her whenever the owner sees it. A little bit about the painting of Chloe: Chloe’s fur was soft and graceful looking and I wanted this to stand out in the painting. So, I tried a new layering technique for the grass and background flowers that I had learned in a recent workshop. This technique involved laying down a light wash of color, using masking fluid over the paint after it dried to keep those areas that color, and then laying down a darker shade of color followed by more masking fluid. I kept repeating this until I achieved the correct colors in the grass and flower area. Once everything was dry, I removed the masking fluid, which revealed all the layers of color. I was very happy with the texture of the grass and flowers, and how it counterbalanced the softness of the fur. After a Season of Commissioned Paintings All of the recipients of the commissioned paintings have been gifted their paintings, so I am free to share the images with you. I hope you have enjoyed seeing some of the paintings I have completed as of late, and were able to connect to the stories that accompanied them in some way. Even though we all have our own experiences, stories, and feelings, I think we all find family, love, relationships, and happiness (and all the other feelings) to be important aspects of our life. I also think this is why we can enjoy a piece of art that doesn’t necessarily belong to us. I know that creating paintings for others has brought great joy into my life, and I feel so lucky to
Traveling the Southwest: Salina, Kansas
Driving to the Southwestern U.S., we stopped in Salina, Kansas for a night and were delighted to find the Central Kansas Flywheels Yesteryear Museum.
Black Ice – Beauty, Surprises, and Adventure
Black ice – no, not the type that forms on the roads from car exhaust on frigid winter days. It’s the kind that forms on lakes with very few impurities. So few that the ice is clear and appears black because the water below absorbs almost all of the light. Black ice is a treat to walk on and explore. Even though I dread the onset of our long winters here in the Upper Midwest (read my mournful post and poem here), there are things my family and I look forward to every year. We enjoy sledding, cross-country skiing (read about one of our favorite trips here), snowboarding, playing board games on cold winter nights, and taking our daily walks on a frozen lake down the road. One week ago, our family cautiously stepped out on that very lake as we had seen other footprints appear on the lightly snow-covered ice the week before. We walked out about ten feet, brushed off what little snow had blown down the lake, and peered into the ice. We were thrilled to see that the ice was clear. We could see little air bubbles trapped in the ice more than 8″ down – it was safe to walk on. My husband and I gave the kids the okay to run and play, and we had the dogs sit so we could let them off their leashes. The dogs’ tails revealed their excitement as they sat waiting to hear the click of the leash that would tell them that they were free to run too. In an instant, two black fluff balls took off after the kids – running, bounding, and knocking into one another as they played along the way. Not more than a minute later, Brook, our almost 13-year old pup, came to a screeching halt. Ayla, our 1-year old, was too late. I had to laugh when I saw her hit a glossy, black sheet of ice. She tried to dig her nails in, but that didn’t work. She tried to brace herself by getting low, but that didn’t work. She also tried to run off of the evil slick stuff, but she lost her footing. Ayla went for a sprawling slip ‘n slide across the inky, smooth lake ice. Once Ayla found the reprieve of snow again, she stood up, looked at what had taken her for a ride, and proceeded to run after the kids again – this time avoiding each and every black ice spot on the lake. The kids spent the next half hour slipping and sliding on the ice while the dogs played and tracked animal scents they found throughout the cattails. After the kids had depleted their energy, the whole family began doing what we love most – exploring. My family and I went from black ice to black ice to see what we could see. The ice held many beautiful treasures, and wonderful surprises. Intricate fern-like patterns graced the surface of the ice. Bubbles of all sizes sat suspended in the ice giving the ice depth and character. Large cracks had powerfully ripped across the lake, and we could see all the beautiful ripples, fissures, and lines in these breaks that spanned the full depth of the ice. I wish my camera had been able to adequately capture all that our eyes had seen. Aside from the beauty that the ice held in itself, it revealed other surprises too, such as fish, snail shells, and weeds that expelled their oxygen in thousands of little bubbles. My daughter also found a little honey bee curled up on the snow as we walked. She told me that she found the warmest spot to lay it on – a black rock. Several holes in the ice that were tucked into the cattails were found by my son. We can only imagine that the local muskrats are keeping exit and entrance holes into the water open. They must stay busy! My family has spent hours on the lake each day for the past week. We walk, talk, explore, throw tennis balls for the dogs, slide on the ice, take pictures, and take in as much fresh, cold air as we can. As much as I dread our long winter spell before the cold hits, I love our cold-weather adventures once winter does finally set in. What are your favorite winter activities? If you don’t have cold winters where you are, what would you like to experience most if you could visit our cold winter wonderland?
Wild Spirits: Watercolor Wednesday
Since the day my daughter was able to walk, she ran. When she was able to run, she flew. In her day-to-day world she is a hawk, mountain lion, tiger, jaguar, snow leopard, or a bull. Her imagination soars, and whichever animal suits her mood on that particular day, wins. But, on most days, she is a horse. Going by names of Apple, Pepper, or Candy, she gallops down the side of the dirt road as fast as she can while giving out a few whinnies, neighs, or snorts while kicking up dust in her wake. I wonder if my daughter ever catches me looking at her with extreme love or admiration – I hope so. She is full of wonder – she is a wild spirit. My family is fortunate to live just four doors up from a horse boarding stable, so when we moved to our current house in 2012, we started visiting the horses on our daily walks. We bring baby carrots or apples from our apple trees to feed the horses. If we don’t have any snacks at home, the kids love to pick the long grass just outside of the horses reach by the weathered wooden fence. When we leave to continue on our walks, my daughter always chooses a horse to hug – her love for them evident. For my daughter’s 8th birthday I told her I’d paint her a picture of anything she wanted. Without hesitation, she picked a photo I had taken of her and one of her favorite horses. A horse that she had affectionately named Taffy. Taffy is a beautiful buckskin mare with a sweet disposition. I had taken the photo with my phone on one of our walks about a month before her birthday, and without her knowledge. I loved that my daughter had Taffy in her arms as she closed her eyes to enjoy the moment. I loved that Taffy stood still for as long as my daughter wanted to hold her. I loved that their hair was blowing in the warm summer breeze. I loved that my daughter’s brows were furrowed with strong feeling. I loved that Taffy’s ears were alert and happy, while her eyes were content and warm. I loved that they seemed connected for the moment – wild spirits. How on Earth could I paint this special photo? Could I do it justice? I needed to try. It took me a few weeks after her birthday party to start the actual painting – I was nervous. I had never painted a person, and horses are not easy to draw or paint. I wanted the painting to convey the feelings that I knew were behind this moment. In preparation for the painting, I read books on painting portraits and figures, I watched YouTube videos of artists painting skin, hair, and horses, and I studied my photo. My first step was to sketch out the photo on my watercolor paper. A simple background was the first paint to be laid on the paper. I didn’t use any detail in the background because I wanted the viewer’s eye to be drawn to the detailed figures only. From there, I painted the face because I figured that if the face didn’t turn out right, I could easily start over without wasting too much time or paint. Satisfied with the face, I continued on to the hair and the horse. My daughter had snapped the picture above while I painted the horse. I must have been zoned in on my painting as I found a surprise on my phone a few days later. My favorite part of painting animals is painting their eyes. I feel that if a good eye can be painted – the rest of the animal will fall into place. After a few days of painting, I was happy with the look of the sunshine on my daughter’s hair, the shine on Taffy’s coat, the way the highlights and shadows made the facial curves just right, the soft look of the muzzle, the sparkle in Taffy’s eye, the windswept hair, the course-looking texture of the mane, and the wrinkles in my daughter’s shirt. My daughter’s 8th birthday painting was finished – it’s one of my favorites. Wild Spirits is the name that came to mind when I looked at this painting. My daughter wholeheartedly approved. My daughter said that she loved the horse’s eye, how their hair was flowing in the wind, and all the details of the painting. I love that my daughter’s feelings of love, passion, connection, and yearning are evident. Happy 8th birthday, my dear daughter! May your wild spirit live on forever.
Accomplishment, Cooperation, and Love: A Day of Working Together
My family arrived at Westfalcon Farm just after noon – the sun was shining, a slight breeze was blowing across the open fields, but not hard enough to turn Mr. Squeaky (the 103-yr. old windmill that my children named), and temperatures were holding steady at 70F. The day had come – 2,000 three-year old Christmas trees had arrived, bare root, and ready to plant. We all slipped into our work boots, grabbed our water bottles, and headed for the trail that would lead us to the old hay field. Long grasses, sumac, birch trees, and white pines lined the foot path that had been recently mowed by my father in anticipation of the arrival of his helpers. The kids ran ahead with the dogs after hearing the distant hum of the tractor. I heard my mother exclaim “Well, look who’s here! How are you?” as we entered the clearing to the field. The kids replied “Hi, Grandma! We’re good.” and the dogs started whimpering with excitement as they love seeing Grandma and Grandpa. “Boy am I glad you all are here.” my mom said as we neared the table where my mother and aunt were working diligently at trimming long tree roots, and dipping them in root gel. “Where do you want us? We’re ready to work!” I greeted them with a smile. Truth is, I had been looking forward to this day for the past month. I want, more than anything, to be a part of starting this Christmas tree business on the farm that my ancestors homesteaded in the late 1800’s. From the time I was a little girl, I have dreamed of living in the country – working hard on a farm. Thanks to my parents, I get a little taste of that. “We really need stompers.” my mother said. I looked out over the dusty field and saw my grandfather on top of the ’62 Massey-Ferguson tractor, waiting for my father. My father had been riding on the mechanical Christmas tree planter behind the tractor planting trees, but had stopped to help my uncle straighten the trees that had been planted, and stomp the ground around them in order to secure the roots. “You got it.” I said. Our family ran out to the old red tractor and began stomping. With additional stompers we were able to keep up with the tractor and the mechanical transplanter as my father plopped the young trees into the holes that the machine was opening up in the earth. Seeing the ease with which trees could be planted astounded me. A whole row could be planted as quickly as just a few trees planted by hand. As I tended to the trees, I had time to think about my great-grandfather and his family farming this very land. In one of my great-grandfather’s memoirs, he reflected on working on the farm and wrote: We children were very active as we planted all the potatoes. We would take a one-row walking cultivator and one horse and walk behind that for weeks. I started plowing on a 25 acre field using a Janesville walking plow. I was rather short and the plow handles would knock me over when I hit a rock – being just 12-years old. I would sit down on the edge of the furrow and cry. Soon I had mastered the job and loved to plow, although walking all day behind one would tire even a kid. When cultivating season was over and the last hilling done, we would walk up and down the rows of potatoes pulling the weeds that had escaped the cultivator. Usually we planted 25 acres, but the year of 1914, we planted 42 acres. We kids picked all the potatoes and it was a heavy crop. At harvest time, we dug about 22 acres with our Hoover Digger, and 20 acres we dug with a fork. I can’t imagine the awe my great-grandfather must have experienced as he transitioned from the hard manual labor of the early 1900’s to owning his first John Deere tractor in 1950. There is one entry in his memoirs where he mentions this exact thing: I think as I look back that the lives that had the fate to be lived during this period 1900 to 1974 have been blessed with the richest experiences of any lives. Because in this time, we have seen the first automobile, the first phonographs, and the first airplanes. In other words, all major improvements have come within these years. After half of the field was planted, my mother drove back to the house to prepare lunch for the planting crew. By this time, my brother and his wife arrived to help with the trees too. Within a half an hour, my mother had returned with a potato bake, fresh fruit, coffee cake, and more. The adults sat on chairs surrounding a large wagon, and the kids climbed right on top of the wagon and sat right next to the food. “Mom, I love that you brought the food out to the field – thank you!” I remarked. “Oh you’re welcome! That’s how they used to do it back then.” She responded. “Serving the food on the side of the field makes sense. It would take a lot longer to get the crew to the house, have them eat, and then come back out. This saves a lot of time.” I commented. Everyone finished eating in no time, but grandpa had taken off somewhere, so I turned to my dad and asked him “Do you trust me to drive the tractor, Dad?” “Absolutely!” he responded. After a quick lesson, I was the one behind the big black wheel. The Massey-Ferguson jolted a couple of times as I eased off of the clutch a little too quick the first time. I looked back, crinkling up my nose, and yelled “Sorry, Dad!” He smiled and gave me a thumbs up as he braced himself on the
“Home”: Watercolor Wednesday
Spending a week or two at my great-aunt and uncle’s farm every summer is one of my fondest memories. Waking up each morning to the sun shining in the upstairs farmhouse window, playing in the open fields, caring for the horses and ponies, and enjoying delicious homemade food made it a little girl’s dream, but the best was just being around my great-aunt and uncle. Both were happy, loving, and gentle people – the kind that everyone liked to be around. But, this post is dedicated to my great-uncle. The man you see below with that fantastic smile – a smile he wore often. My great-uncle was the one responsible for igniting my horse passion. He taught me how to care for his horses and ponies – feeding, brushing, and spraying the coat to repel flies. He also taught me how to saddle up Danny (the pony I learned to ride on), adjust the stirrups, and control the reigns. It takes a patient kind of pony to let a learning child take control. From the awkward first saddle tightening to letting me braid his mane into several dozen braids (tying each of them with red ribbon) – Danny was just as patient as my great-uncle. My great-uncle sure loved his horses and ponies, but he also loved his tractors. At about the same time my great-uncle trusted me to take Danny for a ride on my own, my great-uncle talked me into driving his tractor for the first time. I remember the gentle, yet thorough, explanation of how to work the tractor. I also remember his giant belly laugh as I lurched the tractor forward in a not-so-smooth manner. My eyes must have been the size of saucers. My great-uncle urged me to go faster – so I did. He laughed the entire time I was on that tractor. Not ceasing until I parked it back in front of him – relieved, but safe. A few years ago, I was up visiting my great-aunt and uncle, and my great-uncle was proud to show me his tractor that he had restored so perfectly. The 1950 Ferguson TO-30’s gray paint was flawless, and its low rumble continued without a hitch. He even had a small replica of the exact tractor wrapped up in a small blanket and placed safely into a small compartment under the hood – that smile of my great-uncle’s never faltered. That was one of the last times I would see him. My great-uncle passed away this past winter, but he wasn’t alone. Just two days before he passed, Danny, his pony, passed away too. I believe God had a hand in that one. I picture them both in the country – my great-uncle on his tractor and Danny in a field of long grass. After attending my great-uncle’s funeral, and learning of Danny’s passing, I felt the need to paint a picture for my great-aunt – one that I hope will make her smile for years to come. Here is my great-uncle and Danny at “Home”:
Port Aransas, Texas: From Minnesota to Texas and Back Again
I’m happy to report that since my last post, almost all of the snow (18″) that was dumped on us here in Minnesota on April 15th has melted away. Mother Nature gave us what seemed to be an epic ending to our winter weather as spring has finally arrived. The scilla in the garden have bloomed and the daffodils are close behind. Relief! The same feeling we had after we decided to drive south during the cold and snowy winter of 2014. The winter we drove from Minnesota to Texas and back again. We left our house on the morning of February 27th, 2014 when the air was frigid enough to freeze exposed skin in 10 minutes or less… …and arrived at our destination – I.B. Magee Beach Park in Port Aransas, Texas within 36 hours. I.B. Magee Beach Park is located on the northern tip of Mustang Island in Port Aransas. The park consists of 167 acres, and offers 75 modern camping sites that include electric and water, plenty of primitive camping space just feet from the warm Gulf of Mexico waters, extremely clean bathhouses (if you know me, you know I can’t do dirty public bathrooms – I’d rather find a wooded area), fishing, birding, shelling, swimming, and is pet-friendly. We pulled into the park at 10:30 pm – the park was dark and quiet, but we could hear the lapping of the waves on the sand. We couldn’t see a thing on that moonless night; however, I opened the windows and asked the kids “What do you smell?” My 5-year old son replied “Fish!” and my three-year old daughter asked “What is that smell?” as she wrinkled up her nose. “That, my dears, is the smell of the ocean.” I replied as my husband and I started to laugh. I guess maybe it’s an acquired smell. As we pulled up to the park office, friendly staff members were awaiting us in the lobby. We were quickly checked in, given a park map, and guided to our campsite. We tried to be quick and quiet with our set-up as campers surrounded us. Luckily, my parents were our neighbors to the East as they were spending the winter in Texas volunteering at the Santa Ana National Wildlife Refuge. So, they took the kids while my husband and I set-up the pop-up camper. Within an hour we were all settled and ready for bed – excited to explore the island in the morning. When we awoke the next morning, we found that my parents had gone into town and bought a variety of bakery treats to greet us with. Eating outside in the sunshine with green grass beneath our feet was a gift. Bakery goods were a regular treat that our family shared up at the family cabin on summer weekends for decades, so my parents thought they’d bring that special tradition to us on the first morning of our trip. Immediately after the kids finished their doughnuts, they made a bee-line for the ocean – through the campsites, over the bunkers, and out to the sand they ran. They couldn’t wait to see this large body of water we had discussed before our trip – the thing that incensed the air with the smell of fish. Ha! The Beach I.B. Magee beach was expansive, offering a lot of play room for our family. Picnic tables lined the backside of the beach, and a fishing pier could be seen on the north side of the park. The sand was soft and clean with very little seaweed littering the ground, and the ocean waters were warmer than expected in the middle of winter. Our first morning on the beach was quite cool and windy, but it didn’t stop my daughter from making sand angels (which turned out to be much different than the snow angels she was used to making at home) in the soft sand that was warmed by the sun, and turning our dog, Brook, into a sand pup. My son was most excited to try out his new metal detector on the wide beaches. He found fish hooks, tent stakes, old cans, and a few treasures – coins that had been eroded by years of salty water and sand washing over them The next few days were warmer, so the kids braved the ocean waters, and even gave it a little taste. As you can imagine, we got a laugh out of seeing more wrinkled noses as they figured out just how salty ocean water is. The beaches at I.B. Magee were relatively empty at the end of February. There were a few walkers here and there, a couple of surf fishermen and women in the evenings, but for the most part, we had miles of open beaches to ourselves. This was perfect for treasure hunting, dog walking, shelling, sand castle building, and exploring the wildlife on the beach. Oh, and for my three-year old daughter to pretend that she was hunting the seagulls. At least, I think she was pretending. Port Aransas offers much more than stunning beaches, and we didn’t wait long to continue our explorations. Aransas Pass Ship Channel Two days into our stay we took a walk to the north end of Mustang Island where the Aransas Pass Ship Channel runs. The walk to the channel was full of wildflowers… …fishermen sitting in lounge chairs with their poles in hand, and kids flying kites. Our favorite observations were the brown pelicans flying by… …the massive shrimp boats of different shapes and colors moving at a snail’s pace through the channel… …and the playful dolphins swimming alongside the boats hoping for a shrimpy treat. I bet you’re wondering if we were lucky enough to eat some fresh Gulf shrimp. We sure were! Into Town Downtown Port Aransas is what you would expect to see in a small island town. Businesses and small homes of bright island colors paint the town happy. Funny signs greet
Watercolor Wednesday: Rainbow Trout
Due to my new-found love of watercolor painting, I have decided to devote more blogging posts to my paintings, so on the first Wednesday of every month I will feature a new painting along with the story behind the painting. Without further ado, today I am featuring a painting that my son requested as part of his ninth birthday gift – a rainbow trout.
An Easter Gift: The Ukrainian Gift Shop Experience
“I can’t wait to go to the egg store tomorrow!” my son exclaimed as he glanced at his calendar before settling into bed. “Mom, can we read Rechenka’s Eggs one more time before we go to the egg shop?” my daughter asked. “Of course.” I replied. “Climb on up on your brother’s bed.” The whole family cuddled together as we read one of our favorite Easter books. Rechenka’s Eggs by Patricia Polacco is about Babushka, a sweet old lady who lives on her own in a tiny house. She is well-known for her fine Ukrainian eggs (or pysanky) that she decorates. All through the winter, Babushka lovingly creates the eggs so that she can sell them at the Easter Festival in Moskva. When Babushka is not decorating eggs, she loves to walk and enjoy the simple things. She can be heard whispering “A miracle!” when she sees caribou or calves being born. On one of Babushka’s walks, a goose fell from the sky, injured, so Babushka brought the goose home to nurse her back to health. Babushka named her Rechenka. Soon after Rechenka’s injury healed, the goose knocked over Babushka’s bowl of pysanky. Babushka was crushed and Rechenka felt horrible, but the following morning Rechenka had laid the most colorful, elaborately decorated Ukrainian egg (pysanka) – “A miracle!” When I was in elementary school, I remember making Ukrainian eggs with my classmates. The process seemed arduous, but I was so proud of my egg. I wanted my kids to have the experience of making pysanky – the time was right. As I searched for a place to purchase pysanky supplies on the Internet, I came across a small shop named “Ukranian Gift Shop”. The shop had been in business for over 70 years, but the family story that was lovingly showcased on the site gave me chills. It read: When she was six years old, Marie Sokol moved with her family from her birthplace of Dobrochyn, in the Sokal region of Ukraine, to Yugoslavia. Eight years later at the age of fourteen Marie decided to follow her two brothers to America. She traveled alone by ship through Ellis Island to join her brother Paul in Pennsylvania. Marie stayed with Paul on his farm for a year before she ventured out once more by herself to Winnipeg, Manitoba in Canada, where her other brother Kirylo had settled. “With a few dollars and a small suitcase containing all my possessions I set off for Canada. The train stopped in Minneapolis for the night at the Milwaukee Depot. I decided to go out for awhile. It was a cold night. I remember asking a policeman if he knew of any Ukrainians living in the city. He directed me to Seven Corners. As I walked up the street I could see the frozen Mississippi River glistening in the moonlight. It was very pretty. I came to five houses, all of them dark and quiet. The third house seemed like the right one, so I knocked. A young couple answered the door. ‘Do you speak Ukrainian?’ They answered ‘Tak, Tak’ and invited me in. They told me of a young woman who was living with them. To our surprise and amazement we discovered the woman staying with them was my second cousin! Was it not God’s will that led me to this house? I had no idea that in all of the United States she was living in Minneapolis. It was a miracle. We cried and laughed at our reunion. I did not go on to Canada. It was right for me to stay in Minneapolis.” “I remember my first Easter in America and how homesick I felt for the traditions of the holidays which I once knew. I recalled my mother and grandmother decorating the colorful eggs and taking them to church to be blessed and decided that I could not let the Easter season pass without at least trying to make a pysanka (Ukrainian Easter Egg). So I made a writing tool (kistka) from the metal tip of a shoelace. I bought crepe paper at the drug store and made dyes by soaking the paper in boiling water. My first attempts were crude, but I did it, and made my first Pysanky in America!” Marie opened the Ukrainian Gift Shop in 1947, and it is still run by the family today. On the first day of spring, my family piled into the car, and off we went to the Ukrainian Gift Shop. When we arrived at the small shop, we were greeted warmly by Elko, Marie’s grandson. “Welcome! How can I help you?” he asked with a friendly grin. “Hi! We would like to get supplies for making Ukrainian eggs.” I replied. “I think I can help you with that.” Elko said. As Elko went to gather supplies I noticed that both kids had found a special table – a large table filled with hundreds of beautiful pysanky. “Look with your eyes – not with your hands.” I called out – I could feel my stomach tighten with nervousness. Just then Elko returned with the supplies. “Thank you so much.” I said. “You know, my children have been enamored with the book Rechenka’s Eggs, and that book is what brought us to you today. Do you know the book?” “I sure do!” Elko responded. “And, I have a fun story to share with you about that book.” “Really?” my husband and I replied at the same time as the kids scooted over to listen. Elko continued, “Back when George Bush – the second one – was president, he invited Patricia Polacco to the White House Easter brunch because of the book Rechenka’s Eggs. Patricia called my mother and asked her if she would decorate a large ostrich egg to gift to the White House. My mother agreed. But, she not only decorated the ostrich egg, she also crafted 12 goose eggs for the 12 cabinet members and a chicken egg for the president