My art instructor, Robert Armetta, won second place in the Portrait Society's annual competition. We're all very excited for him. His portrait was one of 1,300 submissions and he had very stiff competition. Robert is not only a phenomenal artist, but a truly gifted teacher and a warm and compassionate human being with a great sense of humor. He's also very humble. Last Saturday when he told us he wouldn't be there for art class, he didn't tell us why -- only that it was because of something unavoidable and he apologized. It wasn't until yesterday that we finally learned the real reason; he had to go to Washington to accept his award from the Portrait Society. It's about time he finally got some recognition for his hard work and great talent.

The portrait that snagged him the award is of a model we once drew in our figure class - a rather homely looking guy who, I hear, is now homeless. He's wearing a pair of blue pants but is shirtless. It's a great character study (check it out at www.robertarmetta.com under gallery/portraits). For me, the art of portraiture is about capturing the personality of the subject. Right now I'm struggling to learn how to paint flesh tones. I've drawn people for years but learning how to paint them is going to take a while. Once I've accomplished that, then I can worry about capturing my subject's personality.

While I'm here posting, Happy Mother's Day to all of you mothers and mothers to be. Once a mom, always a mom - even once they're out on their own. Today my two sons are away. Derek is on the Appalachian Trail somewhere in Virginia and Sean is up at SUNY Oswego getting ready for his finals. Doesn't seem so long ago that they were tiny pink bundles I brought home from the hospital. I miss them terribly but, at the same time, I'm happy to watch them making their way in the world. Creating a well adjusted, independent adult is, after all, one of the goals of motherhood.

May in Virginia

My AT hiking son, Derek, has made his way into Virginia. Last Sunday when he called home he was in Pearisburg, outside of Blacksburg (where Virgina Tech is located) -- almost one third of his way to his destination. His biggest enemy so far has been the weather. As the weather warms and the humidity levels increase, I suspect the enemy will morph into insects-- especially the notorious black fly. Black flies, as I recall, are renown for taking enormous bites. They're sort of the vampires of the insect kingdom.

The local newspaper that Derek's been writing for, The Suffolk County News, called yesterday. It seems their owners (I think the paper has been bought out by some conglomerate) are trying to become more solvent and so they're downsizing. Translation: they can no longer afford to pay Derek his whopping $50.00 per article salary. Not like it was a huge amount of money but it did help keep him afloat while out hiking. The looming question is now whether or not he'll want to continue writing his articles. I think he will. He's established a local group of readers. I know the Boy Scouts read his articles aloud at their meetings (Derek is an Eagle Scout). Our friends and neighbors read them, too.

By the way the Suffolk County News may now (finally) be accessed online at the following address: http://www.suffolkcountynews.net. It is free (yay!) but you do have to register, for some weird reason. His latest article is under the news division. I think it's on page 8. Check it out!

The Purple Splot

A few days ago, as I was passing back sign-out cards to a class of second graders, a boy named Frankie raised his hand. "What is it Frankie?" I asked.

He pointed to a spot on the table. "Something's on the table." I took a closer look. Something certainly was. The spot was about the size of a quarter, round, purple and looked like wet ink.

"Okay," I said. "As soon as I finish passing back these cards I'll take care of it. Meanwhile, just don't touch it!" I warned him. He nodded.

A few minutes later, the boy sitting across from Frankie -- a kid named Anthony --- called out. "Mrs. Michel, look at Frankie!" I looked. The purple spot was now a large purple smear that he'd managed to spread all over the tabletop. In addition, his top and his hands were covered in purple ink -- or whatever it was.

"Frankie! Why did you do that? I told you not to touch it."

He looked down and shrugged. "I was trying to help. " I sent him to the bathroom to wash his hands and took out my trusty bottle of Fantastik and cleaned the table. I blamed myself. I should have taken care of the purple spot before continuing with the cards. I should have known that a wet spot of purple ink was just too tempting for a seven and a half year old boy who was a little A.D.D.

It struck me later that sometimes a piece of writing can be a lot like a splot of purple ink. Sometimes the more we try to fix it, the worse we make it until we've turned the little problem into a big ugly smear.

Libraries and Librarians

I haven't blogged about libraries yet because it's a topic so near and dear to my heart that it's hard to keep it short and manageable. And, sniff, I'm still smarting from a hurtful blow that happened nearly a year ago.

For reasons not quite clear to me (except that it had nothing to do with me), I was moved from the library where I worked for the past 13 years -- a library I'd rescued from something akin to a coma and nurtured back to health -- to a library in a different school with an automated card catalog but, alas, hardly any books. A lot of people said, "Well, that's nice. You'll be out of that basement. You'll finally have an automated catalog instead of those cards." People who don't understand libraries didn't get it. The computers aren't what makes a library wonderful and special. It's the collection -- the books. Books and literature are the reason I went into library work and over the years I'd built up one great collection. No bragging, just fact. I read book reviews and a wide variety of professional journals to cull out the cream of what was published each year. A lot of those books -- like Ted Hughes's book, The Iron Giant, or Barbara Cohen's book, The Carp in the Bathtub -- are out of print now and can't be easily or inexpensively replaced.

The library they put me in has a lot of junk -- every Goosebumps book, every Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew etc. but few books of real substance. No books on the Civil War and few of the award winning books. Not even a thesaurus. Certainly no Iron Giant. I've nicknamed the collection "Series Are Us". The previous tenant was more obsessed with computers than books and so, sadly, this is her legacy to me and the children of the school where I now work.

Anyhow, above is a photo of my old library that I took before I left on my last day and took my plants with me. Yeah, I know it was in the basement and had those ugly pipes running through it (it was an 85 year old school) but I loved that collection! And that library was bigger than it appears in this picture.

So, now I'm sort of starting all over again. The PTA donated over $3,000. to help rebuild the collection. It was very generous of them but I'm afraid it's going to take many years as well as thousands of dollars to bring it up to snuff. Still, hope springs eternal. And it is spring, right?

Anticipation

Back when I was slightly younger there was a song I used to sing along with on the radio - "Anticipation" by Carly Simon. Later (but before it became a Heinz Ketchup commercial) I even went out and bought the album. Carly Simon's lyrics seemed to mirror many of the feelings I had growing up and she quickly became one of my favorite recording artists.

Unlike most of the topics explored in Simon's early albums, anticipation is one feeling I still haven't outgrown. It always feels good to finish a painting or a poem, a story, a chapter -- to take something as far as I artistically can. The problem comes with getting ready for the next story, the next chapter, the next painting. I get fidgety and high strung like a sprinter waiting in the starting blocks for the crack of the gun. If I'm getting ready to paint I might clean around my easel, scrape down my palette and squeeze out a fresh array of colors, sharpen my pencils in anticipation of a future drawing or go for a walk. When I'm getting ready to write, I'll assemble the reference books I might need, spend extra time on my background notes or character sketches, work a little more on my rough outline - anything to delay the act of putting my butt in the chair and writing. Once I settle in, however, I'm usually fine.

Maybe it's the transition that's hard to deal with -- the anticipation of change coupled with the hope that maybe this will be a breakthrough painting or a defining chapter in my character's story. Maybe it's the fear that I'll fail miserably. Not that failure is bad. I just finished a portrait that I refuse to share with anybody outside of my painting class. It's dreadful and far below my standards but I did, I admit, learn a lot by doing it. It was, to put it nicely, a learning experience.

Nearly everything we do by our own creative energy should be a learning experience. And if it isn't then what's the point?

What Is a Real Mom?

Linda tagged me so here is my response to "What is a real mom?"

As every mother knows, there's more to being a mom than giving birth. Being a mom to me means:
1. Telling them no sometimes. No, you can't have a tv. in your room. No, you can't have your own cell phone. No, I am not your friend; I am your mom.
2. Teaching them that good manners don't cost anything.
3. Checking the closet for scary monsters before bedtime.
4. Helping them with their homework even after you've worked all day and you're tired and your body is screaming for a nap.
5. Reading Sylvester and the Magic Pebble - again. Or The Little House - again. Or Goodnight Moon - again.
6. Giving up your free time to take them to cello lessons, soccer practice, Cub Scouts, the spring concert, the holiday concert, violin lessons, the library etc.
7. Using a diaper bag in place of a purse for the first few years.
8. Finding it hard to watch your son's wrestling match, even when he's winning.
9. Having a game of catch on a soft summer afternoon.
10. Getting up in the middle of the night to clean up vomit.
11. Worrying when they get their driver's license.
12. Sending them care packages when they go away to college.
13. Never forgetting the moment you held their tiny bodies in your arms for the first time and marveled at how perfect and beautiful they were.

These are just a few of the things that came to my mind -- things I won't forget about being a mom.

A Night On Bald Mountain and the Trail Angel

My mountain man, Derek, called this morning from Erwin, Tennessee. Two nights ago he'd hiked up to a shelter near the top of Bald Mountain (elevation 5500 ft.). The temperature, he said, had plummeted to about zero and so his water had frozen and his shoes -- and even his Snickers bars -- were blocks of ice. He had to hike a lot of miles before he finally warmed up.

While at the shelter, he looked at the log book. Sometimes the hikers leave messages for one another or comments about the scenery, weather conditions, things to look for, thoughts to ponder etc. There, spread across an entire page, was a message about an Easter Dinner that a so-called "trail angel" was hosting for the AT hikers. It was all you can eat- for free! So, Derek copied down the phone number and, when he came to a place with good phone reception, gave the kind angel a call. She picked him up in her truck and brought him to the church where he and about 60 other hikers had gathered for dinner. And eat they did! When you're hiking 12-20 miles a day, you work up a healthy appetite.

Apparently there are many trail angels along the route, people who pass out sandwiches, fruit salad, and even omelettes to the hikers passing through. What a generous thing to do. In a world crowded with too many ugly stories about war, hunger, savagery and neglect it's nice to hear of people performing selfless acts of kindness for total strangers.

Angels don't necessarily wear wings or halos. Sometimes they can look like our next door neighbors.