Gateways

"Gate to High Lonesome," 14 by 22 watercolor, sold.

Western gates fascinate me. I don't know why, except perhaps they hint of paths not taken, of mystery, of places to explore. I find myself including them in paintings. One of my favorites was by my Dad, of a cowboy opening a gate in the middle of a wile landscape, his horse waiting. He called it "Heading to High Lonesome." the painting is lost, but not the memory.
It's not by accident that I've painted several such gates, including "The Gate to High Lonesome."
The gates beckon to be opened, opening the imagination.

Losing a friend

I watched the vet insert the needle into the catheter, and begin depressing the plunger.
My friend lay heavily sedated on the table, his breathing shallow. He wasn't in pain, but he'd been losing weight steadily and was barely eating.
It hurt to watch him walk, as he got weaker and more shaky. He was spending more and more time sleeping, between getting up to sip water and consider food. He knew he was sick, and why he was getting the special attention of treats and more attention. But he'd still stop and look you in the eyes, never wavering.

My friend Max

For years he had greeted me when I came home, loudly demanding attention, a "Hello," a head rub or ear scratch. In the evenings, he'd jump up on the couch or bed when I was reading, and doze off.
He could be quite annoying, as good friends often are. He'd loudly wake me in the mornings sometimes, just talking.  If we tried to go on a trip, he was likely to curl up in the open suitcase on the floor. As he got older, he reminded me of myself as he shed more hair, and sometimes couldn't keep his food down.
But you could count on him to be there, to say "Hello," to share affection. His grace and agility matched his genuine loyalty, affection and intelligence.
So I kept my hand on his head, gently talking to him, watching his breathing lessen and then stop.
The house seems empty. I feel empty. Good friends are hard to come by, and losing a friend reminds  how much we share precious and interconnected life, and the certainty of mortality.

Deadline assignment for blogging class

Find something in today's New York Times http://www.nytimes.com/pages/todayspaper/index.html that is of interest to you, preferably on a subject related to your blog, and post a 150-word comment about it, including the link to the article, and a related image, if you can find it.
Like this:

http://cityroom.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/09/19/seeking-an-artists-touch-for-the-new-tappan-zee-bridge/?ref=todayspaper

Due by 10:45 today.

Monday meandering

The dew lies heavy on the grass this morning, before the sun rises. In mid-September, the leaves on the oak and black jack still have not begin to change, except for those long dead in the summer heat. There's no wind, and light cloud cover  colors the skies a quiet Confederate grey.

Silence is the main sound for a walk in Hafer Park. Yes, there's the muffled rumble of pre-rush hour traffic, and the moan of a diesel locomotive two miles distant, but only a few people venture onto the paths. The deeper in the woods you get, the more hushed the human sounds, the more you hear the chirp of a Robin or the call of a Cardinal. At the pond the ducks are stirring and muttering a little, but not in the raucous manner of the afternoon.
It's a great time to walk and think, to look at the leaves and the few remaining flowers, to see the seeds on the weeds and grasses.
A  couple of older joggers go by, nodding as they pass. A young woman with blond pony tail swishing from side to side breezes past, lost in an iPod and thoughts. The few walkers include men and women with dogs on leashes, out for a morning walk--a bulldog, a couple with labs, a few others. The dog people make eye contact and say "Good morning."
It is indeed.

The delicious taste of memories

The package fit snugly in the mailbox when I opened it the other day. The Texas postmark gave away the sender.
Inside the box that I hurriedly opened in the house were two small Ball canning jars, with a colorful label on the side and the firm, handwritten word, "Figs."
How long it has been... . Fig preserves from deep east Texas, but more than just east Texas. I opened one can, took a fork and put two of the figs and sauce in my mouth, awakening flavors I'd forgotten, and memories of times long past. And these figs are especially sweet to my taste and past.
Yes, in the past few years I'd managed to find fig spread in some stores here, and a few restaurants carry limited fig appetizers. I'd forgotten when I liked them so much.
Years ago when I was a kid, we'd make the long pre-Interstate drive from arid New Mexico to humid East Texas to visit my aunts and uncles and cousins. My mother came from a large family, three sisters and two brothers and more than a dozen children. We were the only ones who lived so far away, and thus our summer vacations were family reunions.
Thus the taste of figs. My mother's sister Gladys, her husband Clark Lutrick, and my cousins Charles and Sarah Beth lived in Houston where Clark worked for "Ma Bell." I was always fascinated by their neat brick house, surrounded by that thick-bladed and always green St. Augustine grass, which wouldn't grow where we lived.. And in the back yard was a fig tree. Barefoot I'd try to climb the tree and taste them if I couldn't reach one on the limbs, or if I couldn't reach them, uncle Clark would pick one for me. And inside the air-conditioned house (another novelty to us desert dwellers), there would be home-canned jars of fig preserves.
"Larrupin good," as my Dad would say. Cousin Charles was the first of the clan of cousins, and grown by the time we visited, but my cousin Sara Beth, her sassiness matching her red hair, was there and she'd find ways to tease my brother and I.  Those who know me today now know where my attraction for redheads comes from.
Over the years, we lost touch, as families spread out, like creepers on ivy, jobs and children and marriages and funerals leading in all different directions. But several  years ago, some of cousins suggested a cousin reunion, down on the Gulf Coast. As the only cousin living outside The Republic--following the genes of the other side of the family--I traveled the farthest. As we aged, the idea caught on, and we've had two or three more reunions now, and that has reawakened friendships and memories.
The most recent was just over a year ago at the home of my cousin Sarah Beth and her husband Bob Foote, near Plum Grove, Texas. All but one living cousin were there, and we had barbecue and photos and laughs and memories and more. I've started sending watercolor cards and gifts to some of the cousins, including Sarah Beth.
More than 20 years ago, her father brought a sprout in a gallon bucket  from that long ago Houston fig tree  and planted it on their place in rural East Texas, amid the St. Augustine grass. It has flourished, reaching more than eight feet in height. This year Bob pulled down those branches to stuff more than four gallons of figs into bags. Sarah has put up nine of the jars from one of the gallon bags so far and expects many more.
Since that reunion a year ago, Charles Lutrick has died. I'm so glad we made him get out of the car before leaving to take a group photo. I was thinking about that, among many more memories, when I ate some canned Lutrick-tree fig preserves on toast this morning.

Culp family cousins, 2011. Charles Lutrick and Sarah Beth Lutrick Foote third and second from the right, back row.