Apprentice of Wonder

The Annual Feast

All of Thanksgiving week was a wonderful family reunion, minus my sister from Atlanta who was doing her own in-law reunion and feeding a hungry group of 15.  Our gathering was much smaller. My mother's eyes are ALWAYS closed in photos, so from left to right is Mom, my husband Dave, youngest sister Lori who lives here in Denver, and Dad.  It's always a treat to have my parents with us, as we live 2000 miles apart.  Dave and I had more lonely Thanksgivings together than I care to count during our years in the oil patch of the Williston Basin.  I could write a book about some of the sorry Thanksgivings and Christmases we had in tiny prairie towns in the badlands of North Dakota and eastern Montana where, by Thanksgiving, it was already in the single digits even on warm days.  I've never had a big family, and am not sure what I'd do with one, so I savor and enjoy the too-rare times the Hagar family is able to celebrate together.  The last time was in September 2004, when my sisters and I took my parents to the King and Prince Resort for a week for their 50th anniversary.  Our condo's patio sat right above the beach on St. Simons Island, GA.  That is just one of countless things I've always intended to write about here.

In my family, the tradition of the turkey feast varies little from year to year.  The bird is always the central attraction, and each year seems to get tastier and tastier.  Except for Mom, who likes her turkey dry, we all agree that cooking it inside a bag is the way to go, though I've had a couple of turkeys soaked in brine that were excellent as well.  Anything that makes the dry bird moist is a winner in my book.   

Dad always carves the turkey, sneaking tasty bites when he thinks no one is looking; Mom always makes the gravy and the stuffing.  Everyone in the house gets to sample the bird before we sit down to dinner, which is always excellent, and way too filling.  I've never understood why we Americans feel we need to stuff ourselves silly in the name of grace and gratitude, but stuff ourselves we do!  Unfortunately for me, the tryptophan in turkey goes straight to my head, and the evening is over for me soon after dessert is consumed.  That's okay, as we leave early tomorrow morning for two nights in Estes Park.  These days at the YMCA of the Rockies cabins on the edge of Rocky Mountain National Park are always the highlight of my parents' near-annual Thanksgiving visit.

Some of Denver's Old Ladies

Some day I am going to drive or, even better, bicycle around the heart of Denver, and photograph some of the hundreds of gorgeous 100-year-old Victorian homes that sit like old queens in the middle of Denver's oldest neighborhoods.  Today while I began my Christmas shopping by visiting open art studios and craft shows in some of these neighborhoods, I photographed a few of my favorite old homes.  I've always dreamed of living in a home with rounded turrets like these, preferably beside the sea, from which I would stare out into the sky, water or wilderness and let pithy thoughts drop from my fountain pen onto my journal.  Or, just sit in the windowseat and daydream my life away.

There are hundreds of brick homes like this one above throughout central Denver, known as "Denver Squares."  Each is similar in style, and full of original woodwork and built-in cabinets, bookshelves, beams and wood floors.  These homes are highly coveted, and are rarely on the market for long.  This one, in Park Hill, has one of the hand-carved dead elm tree sculptures that have been cropping up in this neighborhood for the last 20 years.  I've never been able to find out who does them, but there are a couple dozen of them throughout Park Hill, and it seems a wonderful way to keep part of the ancient elms standing.

Another beautiful old neighborhood just south of Park Hill is Montclair, where this house below resides.  It is in perfect shape, and I admire it dreamily each time I drive past it.

I have never been attracted to new homes.  They've always seemed so sterile to me.  I grew up in a 1920's style Craftsman home with dark woodwork and beams throughout the house, and creaky wood floors.  The first home we bought in 1988 was a 1946 tiny brick bungalow, and that had none of the charm of the larger homes from that era.  The house we own now is a rectangle, built in 1960 and even that is far too new for my tastes.  Give me a decades-old house any day.

The mystery and silent stories of old trees in old neighborhoods shone through in this final photo of the day.

Happy Thanksgiving!

The kitties and I wish all of you the happiest of Thanksgivings.  I am taking all next week off to spend time with my parents for the first time in over a year.  We have all sorts of fun things planned, culminating in a weekend away at Estes Park to hike, ponder, watch elk, and focus on all the wonders that park has to offer.

I will return to the real world, and this blog, the last week of November.  Can it REALLY be late November already?

The Golden Goose

Last autumn I happened to catch this goose floating on a lake just as the sun was hitting it in all its golden glory.  It's my favorite of the hundreds of geese photos I've taken over the years.  It was one of those moments of wonder that take my breath away when I least expect it.  I've long wanted to paint this goose, but hadn't.  Until today.

In our painting class our teacher introduced us to fluid acrylics, which, unlike all other acrylics, are transparent instead of opaque.

She taught us a layering technique you could do in several ways, in several layers, using the fluid acrylics, which are transparent, a gel medium, and alcohol. I've never heard of fluid acrylics before. This painting was done using just 3 colors: turquoise, quin gold and quin red. 

It was funny, but I almost left after she showed us the technique because I was soooooooo tired, and just not into it. I actually sat there staring at my blank paper for a good 20 minutes before I went throught some photos and picked up a pencil. After I sketched in the 3 geese (from 3 different photos), I sat there again just not knowing where to start. The way I did it was to paint the entire painting in the acrylics. The first thing I did is the left-most goose, which is definitely the best (even though he actually looks more like a mallard). I love him. Here is the painting before I added the layer of acrylic medium. It lacks the depth and texture of the final painting.

After the acrylic was dry, I painted over the whole thing with a layer of semi-gloss acrylic medium. When that dries it adds a plasticy coating, which seals in whatever is beneath it, and allows you to continue to paint over it. I repainted the water with watered-down acrylics and then, while the acrylics are still wet, you spray alcohol on it and it creates cool patterns in the paint. Sort of like salt, but different. In this case it worked well with the water. Here is the final (at least for now) painting.

What you can't tell in these photos is that there is shiny gold metallic paint on top of the geese, and it really shines out in the original. It is currently in a gold frame, which pulls out the shiny gold of the geese.

Last Rays of Sunlight in Foliage

Okay, I lied.  Well, I didn't lie; I just had big ideas, and didn't realize that it wasn't going to be possible for me to post an entry each day about last year's trip to Chile.  I do want and intend to do this, but have been stymied this week by beginning a slew of new drugs prescribed by my doctor at my annual physical on Wed.  I have several minor health issues, the foremost one being I'm on a serious quest to find out the reasons behind the cough I've had for seven months, of which I am VERY TIRED and have tried almost everything to get rid of it.  I'm taking quite a cocktail, and it's caused my energy level and focus to decrease even more than it already had.  And so, I will post what and when I can, but it probably won't be every day.  Going back through my Chile photos and travel journal takes a lot more time than I'd expected.

And so, for today:  some photos taken as the sun was beginning to set at 4:15 p.m. today at the Botanic Gardens.  The light was tinged a low, lovely, reddish-golden and I couldn't help myself from photographing what still remains of the autumn foliage.

Ever since my four years of prairie living in western North Dakota, I have loved long tall golden prairie grasses, and there are many at the Gardens.  I find them especially beautiful when lit by the last rays of sunlight at dusk.

I found an oak tree almost as lovely as the one I photographed two weeks ago, and am especially fond of these two shots of its foliage.  I love the thick, hardy oak leaves that sometimes stay crispy on the trees all winter long.

Like the huge cottonwoods, these leaves talk to me all winter long in their rattly old voices brought to life by the wind.

The leaf-colored sunlight on this Asian Gardens gazebo took my breath away, and made me long for the afternoons when I would come here to write with my writing buddies Liz and Linda.  We haven't met weekly to write in so long I don't even remember the last time.  My life these days is less about words than it has ever been, but it's rich with color in my art and photography.   

As I was leaving the gardens in the last rays of sun, this Apprentice of Wonder was greeted by her favorite birds as they too basked in the color and light of autumn's end.

I do believe this middle photo is a painting-in-waiting.

 

Our First Full Day in Chile

Our first full day in Chile was wonderfully relaxing.  All that wonderful beef last night, the pisco sours (Chile's national drink, made of Pisco [a sweetish wine liquer], sugar, egg white, squeezed lemons and ice blended together) and much vino tinto excelente, and I slept better than I have in years.

Our day began with the usual light breakfast on Rene and Martita's lovely patio, the first of many we would have, consisting of various types of pan amasado (ovals of handmade baked bread) with thin slices of cheese and ham.  The fresh-squeezed orange juice brought tears to my eyes.  All of this was even more special because the instant we sat down at the table, their helper, Orietta, appeared with the food already made.  When we finished, the dishes disappeared within moments.

Rene and Martita were hosting a big Sunday dinner that night, of grilled tenderloin and hot sausage, so after breakfast, we accompanied Rene and his youngest daughter Catita to purchase the menu.  "Jumbo" is a supermercado the size of Costco, but much much nicer.  And much cheaper, as was EVERYTHING we saw in Chile.  We bought a bottle of Pisco ($3.50) and two bottles of excellent reserve wine, all for less than $15.  We waited in line for an HOUR to pay, but fortunately the people-watching was endlessly interesting on both ends.  Between Dave's unusual 6'1" height, my girth, and our comparatively pale skin, I don't think I've ever been stared at as much as we were throughout Chile. 

By the time we returned, Carmen, Jorge and their son Enrique had arrived with Debby and Bob, and the pisco sours were brought out immediately, along with succulent empanadas still warm from the oven.  As the wine flowed, tongues loosened and for the second time we discovered what a good lubricant to break language barriers wine is.  The two families we are staying with both speak English better than my broken Spanish, but wine made our mutual "Spanglish" understandable to all.

The four tenderloin roasts grilled by Rene were some of the best beef I've ever tasted in my life.  A fabulous dinner was had by all, not the least of which was a foamy strawberry mousse-like dessert that was almost too pretty to eat.  But of course we did eat it. 

After a wonderful meal with much vino, of course, the others left and we took a walk with Rene and Martita along a paved bike path in their neighborhood, with the foothills of the Andes rising on all sides.  In a blend of Spanish and (mostly) English, we talked about divorce, passion, marriage, and Chile, and took photos of each other. 

After dark, Rene, Dave and I talked for hours about running, passions, philosophy, ambitions, lovers, with Rene insisting one MUST have a lover, and not necessarily a sexual one.  Rene adores his wife and three daughters, but his passion is running.  When he talks about the way he feels when he runs, everything about him glows with joy and intensity.  I wish I had something I felt half as full of passion about as he is about running.  For most of my life I felt that kind of passion for writing, and photography, and yet here it is a year later and I am only beginning to write about it.  I do feel a deep sense of adventure and contentment every time I travel.  Each trip changes me in some way, and I know this one will do the same.