If it wasn’t pouring rain today (again) and far too chilly for June I would be down at The Commander’s Mansion taking snapshots to post of the gorgeous terrace on which The Saturday Morning Ladies Drawing Club and I sat to draw this past weekend. Photos will follow soon but suffice it to say our last class for the season was held outdoors and we attempted to draw the landscape around us.

The Arts Center where the Club usually meets is on an old army arsenal surrounded by sumptuous park land in the back and a beautifully restored mansion where once The Commander of Something lived. You can now rent it for various functions. The ladies met me at the front door to the arts center and one or two were indisposed to outdoor activity this Saturday morning, one a tad tired, the other with a twisted knee. We explored the idea of cancelling our outdoor mission but all the rooms in the center had been taken over by another group of ladies and their quilts which now hung from every conceivable wall. So there was nothing for it but to carry on—so often the case in art.

I put the top down on my wee Miata. Dear A found it for me when my ancient Mercedes had to be sold for a pittance when it failed a few exhaust tests. I specified that I wanted my next car to be cheap, small, fuel-efficient and not black or grey—’something sporty.’ That last phrase went too far. I said nothing about topless but the chaps do like a cheap vintage red sports car. I’ve grown rather fond of it myself and with the top down the ladies were able to pile their portfolio bags into the passenger seat and I was able to drive our ’supplies’ over to the Mansion while the ladies proceeded on foot unencumbered by luggage which made them very happy.

I’d not scoped things out first. I tend to just wing it on such matters as this (and most others too). What a usprise then when I pulled up in the Miata and was met by a circle of black ladies executing some sort of loud cheering routine by the front door. So early in the morning with the grass still wet with dew. I immediately swung around the back to discover another surprise—a grand field complete with two huge and wondrous grape arbors. (Photos to follow in a day or two.) I decided to walk through one, a magical experience, and when I exited the other side the ladies were just arriving on the edge of the field. I shouted out that we were in England because it so had that feel.

Still, the thorny problem of where to sit now raised its head due to the dewy grass situation and only two portable chairs. With the cheering squad out front, my plan to use the front veranda was now squelched. But, again, note bene, artists do not give up and our party most gallantly walked around the back grounds before discovering, much to our collective delight, a side terrace complete with fabulous scrolled metal chairs and tables. By now the cheering squad had disappeared, presumably inside the Mansion. I collected the bags from the car and our small party began to settle into various chairs. Almost instantly a woman emerged from the Mansion to inquire who we were. We explained that our art class couldn’t meet in the Arts Center as it had been overtaken by quilters and that we’d hoped to sketch some of the surroundings here on the terrace. The woman said the Mansion had been rented for the day at great expense by a local college for a faculty retreat and that she’d have to ask if they minded a small party of artists on the terrace. They didn’t.

I expected the cheering had been inflicted on them by one of those retreat leader types because later in the morning several very nice women emerged onto the terrace for a few moments of fresh air and we thanked them for their kindness in allowing us to sit there and sketch. They said they were happy to have us—they were artists and writers too, teachers at the college. They understood.
So, there we all were. And I suspect that our party had the better deal. As their leader, I did not ask them to cheer but, I have to say, they are a wondrous and cheery group. Even after a bit of a prickly political discussion (we are naturally all very liberal and desperate for change) and the challenge of drawing the bigger landscape, which we all found difficult after so many weeks of focusing on smaller things. Still, our work grows stronger each time we meet. But, really, what I love is the way a bit of fun makes our souls shine brighter.

On that happy note, The Saturday Morning Ladies Drawing Club retires into other summer pursuits until September.

Well, that’s what blogs are for, right? All week I’ve been tripping over a wee black hole. It gets me by the ankles when I’m not looking and down I go. So, if you don’t mind, a brief bitchette—

First, the house painters took three weeks instead of three days and even though they were painting outside no matter what room I went into one of their heads popped up in the window making me feel—naked and exposed, which I do not want to feel with a bunch of strangers. Not to mention that they made a botch-up first round and my normal working life was disrupted. In other words, for three weeks not much got done but other household projects.
Then, yes, sigh, my memoir was rejected by agent. It’s just one agent, of course, and she was very, very kind to offer her thoughts. And, I get what she’s saying. Sigh again. Which means more work. Or giving up.

Woe. The giving up thing. It crops up rarely but when it does I see that the black hole is a gaping one and might just swallow me up. It has a voice too and shouts
things like ‘hopeless’ and ‘you may as well put yourself in orthopedic shoes and sit in a beach chair in the shade because you are past it now, woman.’

What to do? I do try to leap over these pits or just plain turn away but sometimes evil-minded pixies conspire to rattle the mind and they succeed. I pictured myself in the shoes. So wrong. But not for long.

Then, last night I made fabulous swiss chard omelette invented by my wonderful friend, Kelly. You saute half an onion and a quarter cup of chopped orange pepper on low heat for a few minutes then add a couple of handfuls of chopped chard, a pinch or oregano and thyme, a wee bit of sea salt, some freshly ground black pepper. When the chard is wilted down you add four beaten eggs, put the lid on and cook at VERY low heat for five minutes or so. We had it with some sauteed potatoes and a salad. Would have added a thick slice of tomato but we’d had toasted tomato sandwiches for lunch.

Good food can wipe out a black hole in no time. And once the cork came off a nice bottle of Australian shiraz the pixies took flight.

Dear A is a writer himself and a teacher of literature so our chat turned to my own literary endeavors and after a few bites of this amazing omelette I was seeing most clearly how I’d side-stepped a key issue in my memoir regarding the role of women in the blues. And with a glass of red warming truly the whole of me, body and soul, I felt the old strength return. Even with more work ahead. It’s nothing!

And I’m loving the piece I’m doing now—the pure freedom of fiction is just plain fun.

And I believe in the power of mind, that we are all capable of doing the things we dream of doing, that those dreams come for a reason and we’re here to make them manifest. I mean we always dream great things, don’t we? What a world it would be if our dreams came true!
The sun is shining today and the house looks pretty good. I still have to choose a color to paint the front door, then will post a snap. And I actually got half of the garage painted when the painters were here, the half that we can see when we sit on the deck eating omelettes and sipping red wine and knowing that our lives are blessed beyond measure. Smile.