I'm always looking the wrong way. At dawn, it’s not the sunrise I see, rather what the sunrise brings to life. Those warm yellow-greens hiding in the lilac bushes and the red plums peeking from the shadows of their protective leaves. Watching the pale ghostlike blue dew melt away from the pumpkin patch as the sun comes up in the East.
Songbirds looking for a mate are first up, accompanied by the sound of milk bottles clinking. Today I am searching for the past in the present. Racing across town to beat the sunrise, to a red barn I hope to capture on canvas. A stream of headlights coming towards me tells me how fortunate I am. Turning on the last gravel road in the township, I see the sun hasn't risen enough to be lighting up my little red barn. My dad used to take us for our Sunday drives down this road. He taught my brother how to drive a stick-shift on it. Back then there was a house with that barn and a vegetable stand in front. “Ring the bell,” the sign said that hung on the white stand, now gone. Now just a memory waits for the morning sun.
A rough oil sketch will be the reward I am hoping for, those morning rays are too quickly gone. Memories of grinding gears and dad saying, “Leave the fence post alone!" as my brother heads the car for them. Other memories come to mind as I set up and begin to mix colors. Mr. Tossing's red gumball machine filled with Spanish peanuts passes by as I load my brush with red for my barn.
Mr. Tossing was a mechanic who sometimes worked on dad's car. It was usually something that needed welding. I remember it being an old beat up shed with coffee cans about, and grime everywhere, including Mr. Tossing. Little strips of metal from one coffee can and soldering iron from another. “We will have to weld the frame,” he told my dad. When the actual welding began I was given two pennies worth of peanuts and told to stand outside. If I were lucky a steam locomotive would pass by. The train tracks were just a few yards away.
With two hours of the past and present on canvas, I hold the oil sketch in my hands. I wonder if Mr. Tossing’s shed would make a good subject for me to paint and what memories it might stir up. The wood pile he had might be another. Mike and Aileen had a wood burning stove. More ideas flood in as I wipe off my palette.
