My studio is full of friends and adventures, with sad and silly smiles waiting, as I lay out my paints. Painting unlocks little boxes of memories stored in my brain. My paint brush is the key to these adventures in my mind. Never sure what I'll surround myself with as I lay out my colors and secure a panel to my easel. A snow scene to fit the season seems like a likely subject. With it, a memory from the past comes into my head as I lay out my composition of a creek in winter. Joey Lions falling through the ice on a hike with the scouts. No need for a reference, Walt's Creek at the far end of my paper route is always there for me. Walt's Creek and a small black puppy, crying and shivering, come to mind as I pick my paints and brush.
Snow blowing and feet frozen, nearing the end of my paper route. The icy road is perfect for a sled ride, Walt's Farm on one side of the road, and one last house to deliver a paper to on the other side of the road. The creek was black as ink and the trees seemed ready to grab me. Their limbs like arms reaching every which way. I was certain Ichabod Crane and the Headless Horseman were waiting in those shadows. My Dad had read that story to us, giving us sleepless nights. I knew it was just a story but still… there could be someone behind a tree hiding in the woods... Jumping on the sled I was sure I could out race the Headless Horseman's horse. With sled, heading towards the creek side of the road, I rolled off into the snow bank. Face now frozen with the icy snow.
Checking for cars, I pulled my sled loose and made my way in the dark to get that last paper up to the porch of my last house. Cinders and sand kept me from gaining any speed but gave me good footing, still I slid my feet along. The bully living at that last house on my route made getting the paper there more of a challenge. An ice ball was that bully's weapon of choice. The idea of getting one of his ice balls in the face made my feet move faster. He always aimed for one's head. There they were - a pile of ice balls on the end of the porch, right next to the box where the paper went. Knocking his ice balls off into the bushes I completed my mission of getting their paper in the box with no sign of Billy the Bully.
Passing back over Walt's Creek, I heard a puppy crying . A black puppy stuck in the deep snow along the creek's edge was crying for help. Sliding down the embankment to rescue the puppy, I forgot about Billy the Bully and Ichabod Crane. Forgot about being cold and having frozen feet. Reaching down I pulled a small puppy out of the snow and tucked him into my coat. I sat in the snow telling him it's OK. Watching the warm lights in the distance going out in Walt's barns, I waited for Mr. Walt to call out for this little feller. No call came for him. Two milk cows and a dozen chickens were the only animals left on the farm. I never ventured to their farm. Too scared of what might be waiting in the woods there. Everything seemed black suddenly, the creek itself seemed to have black water dancing around the snow covered rocks. Not realizing then that this scene would stay with me the rest of my life, I struggled over to Walt's house and knocked on the door. They took my little friend in and had me warm up a bit. As I paint the memory of that night, it all comes more in focus and my painting takes on more detail. The stream gets wider and the trees taller.
My next painting begins to form as I look back on that old farm house. Cleaning up my palette I remember struggling to get my frozen trousers off in our basement that evening. Dry socks and dry trousers hanging over the saw horses near the furnace. Dad asked where I'd been. My wanderings had held up dinner that night.
