I took the train (safely) into Manhattan and changed clothes into something ~ well, . . … let's just say a bit nicer than my ripped up worn in worn out denim jeans, beat-up running Tretorns, turtleneck and flannel (‘my usual uniform'). My friend hadn't wanted to go along with that evening for what I had planned, but she gladly lent her apartment as a place to change. We had an opportunity to catch up on what was going on in each of our lives. I was busy with my medical training, so there wasn't time for much else. . . not a whole lot of time for friends, no time for many of the things I had loved. (Background: I was informed by my parents, when I was in college, that playing the piano was not 'a real career.' It was a hobby. "You can play on the weekends when you have some free time!"
I had had to find a "real career," and so I did. But my heart was not really there. My heart was definitely not there.)
(Present. NYC) Then, the inevitable query ~
"So let me get this straight," she said, looking at me still a bit confused by it all. "You got a series subscription to the Metropolitan Opera? WHY on Earth?!!”
I smiled. "Because I LOVE it!"
"Really?" she responded, still quite confused. "What exactly do you love about it?"
"It has literally EVERYTHING! great stories! Great music! Great costumes! Great stage sets! Great voices!" I paused. And then a bit mischievously, "and really… really GGG-G-GREAT DRAMA!" I added a bit dramatically, suddenly not sounding shy at all! (I was very shy)
We both smiled.
I wiggled out of my denims and into a tailored dark wool sleeve, stood up, put on my stilettos and a large shawl with gold thread running through it, which I draped across my shoulders - of course with great flair - and we both laughed. Then off I went...
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
[A reminder. We Are Free! Did you know that if you stand in just the right spot in front of the Metropolitan Opera in New York City with your back towards the building, you can see the Statue of Liberty?] There are many people people who've attended the opera in NYC many times, and they are not aware of this little known fact. There are even a lot of New Yorkers who don't know this!! But it's true …
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Octaves. Up and back. Up and back. Up and back! Watch your fingering! Watch your timing. Listen to the metronome. UP AND BACK! (Rosamunde taught at Juilliard. But I took lessons in her home. She was a character. She offered carrot juice to a four year old. I didn't want carrot juice. UGH!! She was also a relentless drill Sargent.) Faster! FASTER!! Determined. Focused. Obsessed. Up and back. Up and back down. I practiced daily for several hours a day. I was going to NYSSMA and playing at the highest level of the competition. I was competing against Russian and Chinese children even younger than I and equally focused and determined. Rosamunde would not settle for me coming in Second Place. (I didn't) UP AND BACK. Again and again and again. Definitely a drill Sargent. But I was disciplined, even when she wasn't around. Siblings complained to my mother that they were unable to practice before their weekly lessons, because I never left the keyboard. It was true. I never did.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
NO PIANO! Arnold wanted me to continue to play violin with the Orchestra. That was where I had been introduced to the music. Vivaldi, Haydn, Handel, Corelli, others. There weren't that many of us in the Orchestra as it turned out, so even the loss of my admittedly very, very limited (cacophonous?) skills would have been devastating to a string section of only three. And in fact, I did not want to leave. I loved the music. But I also had other plans. So when Arnold told me there was nothing available for a solo pianist, I took my limited skillset on the strings and my violin, and my reeds and clarinet, and high-tailed it for the Band Room down the hall. They were a significantly larger group and - as it also turned out - way cooler. They marched at the football games! And what high school student doesn't want to be one of the "cool kids?!" Mr. Norton welcomed me to his growing marching band. Shortly thereafter, Mr. Arnold came to me with a proposition. There was a work by Leroy Anderson, and he was wondering whether or not I would be interested in the part for a solo pianist? WAS I EVER!
A short while after, I was standing off stage, preparing for my debut! Soloist. A dream come true. Yes, I was shy. I was not one of the "cool kids." But once I took the stage and my fingers touched the keys, I was transformed. I melted into the music. The audience melted away. I was alone on the stage with only the music. That piece was who I was… I felt it in every note. I became lost in the notes. I was grounded. And at the same time, I was also flying. It was a simple but lovely piece by Leroy Anderson, and I played it with just the right amount of emotional tenderness warranted. It required a gentle hand. I was a gentle hand. It was hauntingly beautiful. It was called
. . … Forgotten Dreams.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
[I was the quandary. . . … Nobody could figure me out. I didn't fit into the boxes. My brother-in-law's question?: What sort of man do you see yourself with? The answer was simple and required little thought. One who loves kids -- lots and lots of them, because I love kids and want lots and lots of children….. and a man who loves the outdoors and OF COURSE a man who loves animals. One who can hang out with me on the farm or in the wilderness during the day, wielding an axe to chop the wood, working around the farm in our overalls & boots, hiking through the mountains, herding the animals into a pen, roughhousing it later on with the children and with the big dogs - YES!! Several big ‘ol dogs!! . . . So far, simple enough, right? And then that same guy, that very same guy! - putting on a tux and escorting me in the evening to the Opera! TA DA! 'My brother-in-law looked at me for a second, shook his head, and replied, “Good luck trying to find THAT!' He was correct.
I never did.]
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
No sound of laughter in the yard.
No farm and broken fences needing repairs. No sheep or goats to be herded.
No farm. No red barn.
The years they came and went, and I don't know where they went.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Bert Collins is one of the best pastelists in California. I was invited to sit in on her class. (How that came to pass, Dear Reader, is another story!) But for now, suffice it to say, I just sat there looking off into space. Not knowing what to paint. Bert sided her wheelchair next to me at the table. 'Just paint something you love. And then you can do a series. Do the same thing over and over until it starts to improve. Until it appears. Or changes. You can alter the palette. You can alter something in the subject. What do you dream about?' I continued to stare blankly. Was it possible that I'd entirely stopped dreaming? My mind went blank. I couldn't think of a reply. What do you love? What do you dream about?
I had had cancer at an early age. Children, many children, …. a huge family, a dream I no longer entertained… suddenly every other dream had lost its meaning too… my mind searched for an answer but I couldn't think of anything… I hadn't really given it much thought at all until Bert asked me that one question … and I couldn't think of an answer
Bert looked at me. It shouldn't be that difficult. Just tell me, if you could paint anything at all, what would you want to see manifest itself on your canvas board. Show me, . . . . What do you love?' And that's when I remembered my childhood dream - when I grow up, I want to live on a farm… lots of children…. lots of animals… a big old barn that I was going to fix up…. My Farm ~ and a Red Barn
Morgan County Historical Society
2025 Charity Auction ~ May 31st
** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **
FARM #5 (My Farm, Red Barn Series)
there are six paintings in this series ~
(Custom Frame)
IVER, The Cow
Everything was possible.
I took the train (safely) into Manhattan and changed clothes into something ~ well, . . … let's just say a bit nicer than my ripped up worn in worn out denim jeans, beat-up running Tretorns, turtleneck and flannel (‘my usual uniform'). My friend hadn't wanted to go along with that evening for what I had planned, but she gladly lent her apartment as a place to change. We had an opportunity to catch up on what was going on in each of our lives. I was busy with my medical training, so there wasn't time for much else. . . not a whole lot of time for friends, no time for many of the things I had loved. (Background: I was informed by my parents, when I was in college, that playing the piano was not 'a real career.' It was a hobby. "You can play on the weekends when you have some free time!"
I had had to find a "real career," and so I did. But my heart was not really there. My heart was definitely not there.)
(Present. NYC) Then, the inevitable query ~
"So let me get this straight," she said, looking at me still a bit confused by it all. "You got a series subscription to the Metropolitan Opera? WHY on Earth?!!”
I smiled. "Because I LOVE it!"
"Really?" she responded, still quite confused. "What exactly do you love about it?"
"It has literally EVERYTHING! great stories! Great music! Great costumes! Great stage sets! Great voices!" I paused. And then a bit mischievously, "and really… really GGG-G-GREAT DRAMA!" I added a bit dramatically, suddenly not sounding shy at all! (I was very shy)
We both smiled.
I wiggled out of my denims and into a tailored dark wool sleeve, stood up, put on my stilettos and a large shawl with gold thread running through it, which I draped across my shoulders - of course with great flair - and we both laughed. Then off I went...
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
[A reminder. We Are Free! Did you know that if you stand in just the right spot in front of the Metropolitan Opera in New York City with your back towards the building, you can see the Statue of Liberty?] There are many people people who've attended the opera in NYC many times, and they are not aware of this little known fact. There are even a lot of New Yorkers who don't know this!! But it's true …
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Octaves. Up and back. Up and back. Up and back! Watch your fingering! Watch your timing. Listen to the metronome. UP AND BACK! (Rosamunde taught at Juilliard. But I took lessons in her home. She was a character. She offered carrot juice to a four year old. I didn't want carrot juice. UGH!! She was also a relentless drill Sargent.) Faster! FASTER!! Determined. Focused. Obsessed. Up and back. Up and back down. I practiced daily for several hours a day. I was going to NYSSMA and playing at the highest level of the competition. I was competing against Russian and Chinese children even younger than I and equally focused and determined. Rosamunde would not settle for me coming in Second Place. (I didn't) UP AND BACK. Again and again and again. Definitely a drill Sargent. But I was disciplined, even when she wasn't around. Siblings complained to my mother that they were unable to practice before their weekly lessons, because I never left the keyboard. It was true. I never did.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
NO PIANO! Arnold wanted me to continue to play violin with the Orchestra. That was where I had been introduced to the music. Vivaldi, Haydn, Handel, Corelli, others. There weren't that many of us in the Orchestra as it turned out, so even the loss of my admittedly very, very limited (cacophonous?) skills would have been devastating to a string section of only three. And in fact, I did not want to leave. I loved the music. But I also had other plans. So when Arnold told me there was nothing available for a solo pianist, I took my limited skillset on the strings and my violin, and my reeds and clarinet, and high-tailed it for the Band Room down the hall. They were a significantly larger group and - as it also turned out - way cooler. They marched at the football games! And what high school student doesn't want to be one of the "cool kids?!" Mr. Norton welcomed me to his growing marching band. Shortly thereafter, Mr. Arnold came to me with a proposition. There was a work by Leroy Anderson, and he was wondering whether or not I would be interested in the part for a solo pianist? WAS I EVER!
A short while after, I was standing off stage, preparing for my debut! Soloist. A dream come true. Yes, I was shy. I was not one of the "cool kids." But once I took the stage and my fingers touched the keys, I was transformed. I melted into the music. The audience melted away. I was alone on the stage with only the music. That piece was who I was… I felt it in every note. I became lost in the notes. I was grounded. And at the same time, I was also flying. It was a simple but lovely piece by Leroy Anderson, and I played it with just the right amount of emotional tenderness warranted. It required a gentle hand. I was a gentle hand. It was hauntingly beautiful. It was called
. . … Forgotten Dreams.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
[I was the quandary. . . … Nobody could figure me out. I didn't fit into the boxes. My brother-in-law's question?: What sort of man do you see yourself with? The answer was simple and required little thought. One who loves kids -- lots and lots of them, because I love kids and want lots and lots of children….. and a man who loves the outdoors and OF COURSE a man who loves animals. One who can hang out with me on the farm or in the wilderness during the day, wielding an axe to chop the wood, working around the farm in our overalls & boots, hiking through the mountains, herding the animals into a pen, roughhousing it later on with the children and with the big dogs - YES!! Several big ‘ol dogs!! . . . So far, simple enough, right? And then that same guy, that very same guy! - putting on a tux and escorting me in the evening to the Opera! TA DA! 'My brother-in-law looked at me for a second, shook his head, and replied, “Good luck trying to find THAT!' He was correct.
I never did.]
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
No sound of laughter in the yard.
No farm and broken fences needing repairs.
No sheep or goats to be herded.
No farm. No red barn.
The years they came and went, and I don't know where they went.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Bert Collins is one of the best pastelists in California. I was invited to sit in on her class. (How that came to pass, Dear Reader, is another story!) But for now, suffice it to say, I just sat there looking off into space. Not knowing what to paint. Bert sided her wheelchair next to me at the table. 'Just paint something you love. And then you can do a series. Do the same thing over and over until it starts to improve. Until it appears. Or changes. You can alter the palette. You can alter something in the subject. What do you dream about?' I continued to stare blankly. Was it possible that I'd entirely stopped dreaming? My mind went blank. I couldn't think of a reply. What do you love? What do you dream about?
I had had cancer at an early age. Children, many children, …. a huge family, a dream I no longer entertained… suddenly every other dream had lost its meaning too… my mind searched for an answer but I couldn't think of anything… I hadn't really given it much thought at all until Bert asked me that one question … and I couldn't think of an answer
Bert looked at me. It shouldn't be that difficult. Just tell me, if you could paint anything at all, what would you want to see manifest itself on your canvas board. Show me, . . . . What do you love?' And that's when I remembered my childhood dream - when I grow up, I want to live on a farm… lots of children…. lots of animals… a big old barn that I was going to fix up…. My Farm ~ and a Red Barn
MR GREY, ATHENA, CALLIE & HANS
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Forgotten Dreams ?
. . . ahhhhhhh, but the fat lady has not yet sung!
Anything is possible!