The New Me, Swans and Painting-by-Numbers

It seems like a lifetime since I last sat down at the computer to write. I didn’t even take a break from posting when I was in the hospital with broken ribs so this transition from posting twice a week to once a week is going to take some getting used to. Figuring out how to allot my new found time is going to effect the entire rhythm of my life except for Wednesdays. Wednesdays have long been my favorite days in the week because I get to play Mahjong and I get to publish new posts on my blog. I missed you all!

Things that happened since last week’s post:

Eight baby swans have hatched and are now swimming close to their mama in the lake here at continuum care campus. If I had a lake view apartment I’d probably get too invested in their little lives. For the next few weeks those residents who do have the prime views will be alternating between watching the babies grow and watching the snapping turtle pluck them off one by one, then giving the rest of us reports over lunch. Last year I saw one of the babies get pulled under by a dinner plate sized turtle and after that I couldn’t walk down to the lake until after they got too big for the turtles to mess with. The parent swans only got raised two of the seven they started out with last year. 

We have a guy living here who retired from a high ranging position in the Department of Natural Resources who says, “Think what a problem it would be to have that many swans on the lake. It’s the circle of life and the turtles are doing their job.” Back when my brother was a teenager he and his future brother-in-law entered that circle of life one summer and caught some of those huge turtles and cooked them on a hot plate in our backyard at the cottage. My mom wouldn’t let them do it inside and I thought it was cruel to kill them and I wouldn’t try the meat even though I was told it tasted like chicken. Ohmygod, I’ll bet they taste that way because they eat water fowl!

I’ve started taking a painting class here on the campus. It’s four weeks long, (three hours per session) taught by the same woman who micro-taught the one I took over a year ago. The class only costs $10 including the canvas, oil paints, all the other supplies plus the use of the CCC’s good quality brushes. Too cheap to pass up. Some of you may remember the drama that went on during that first class when the instructor said something dump/silly to one of the ladies and Ms Hurt Feelings left and didn’t come back. She threw her canvas in the trash and said she was keeping the #10 filbert brush “…because I should get something for my money.” 

This year’s class we have four of us returning and two newbies. The Scottish singer/resident alcoholic is one of them and he’s as blind as a bat so it should be interesting to see what he does. The other newbie is a lady who has never held a brush before and I talked her into taking the class. She really wanted to but was afraid of making a fool out of herself. I assured her the instructor’s (high-handed) hand-holding teaching methods is perfect for her. There’s no room for individual creativity in her classes but she does teach beginners useful techniques for mixing paints, how to do brush and palette knife strokes and the proper care of brushes, that sort thing. 

No one in the class knows I have a degree in art, or rather that Jean 1.0 has a degree. Jean 2.0 lost her skills, knowledge and confidence. In the dementia circles the experts say we need to meet people where they’re at and so that’s what I’m doing with myself. Yup, the discontinued model of myself couldn’t even finish a simple pasture of cows I started last winter so I’m meeting the Jean 2.0 at the bottom and working my way up. Trying to chase my former self was freezing me up and now I’m hoping to just enjoy the process without the stress of trying to live up to the artist I used to be 30 years ago. She’s gone.

Jean 2.0 even bought three paint-by-number kits to start at the very bottom where Jean 1.0 began as a kid. Two of the paint-by-numbers are customized from photos that I sent to the company. They should arrive this week. I can’t wait to try them. I have relatives who are into Mid-Century Modern decor and no self-respecting home of that era was without a paint-by-number on the wall. I picked photos with them in mind should they turn out well. One thing Jean 1.0 did that I’d like to duplicate is giving away paintings as I finish them. 

The other paint-by-number I’ve already got started on. (photos at the top.) Thankfully, I still have a steady enough hand to paint within the lines and a good magnifying glass to actually see them. (I did a little research online and learned that ‘painting’ with toothpicks in the tiny areas works fantastic.) As a kid I did a lot of paint-by-numbers until my mom found me a couple of after school art classes down at the art museum which must have been a pain for her to drive me to. We only had one car so on those days she’d have to take my dad to work and pick him back up again. He worked nights so that meant he got picked up in a bad neighborhood at midnight. If Mom was still alive I’d thank her for all the things she did for me that I took for granted, then I'd apologize for not living up to the potential she saw in me. Do we all judge ourselves through the eyes of our mothers?

Last and least…at lunch a woman asked if I was signed up for the Mother’s Day Breakfast and I told her I’m not a mother but she insisted that aunts are welcome, too. Didn’t matter, I don’t want to go. I’ve never been to a Mother’s Day event but imagine them to be a place were they compare kids and their accomplishments. Finally, she says,”You’re going!” and she marched over to the concierge's desk and signed me up. When I got back home I hoped on our community app and canceled the reservation. It made me mad that at my age someone would think they can make decisions like that for me, then I proceeded to wonder if that’s what I did to the friend about taking the painting class? After debating with myself I gave myself a pass because she initially expressed an interest in going and she herself called to register. No amount of badgering on my part would have made her call if she didn’t really want to do it. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Until next Wednesday….  ©