Tag Archives: life

Out of State Love

The original prints of Out of State Love and many others are for sale now on my Etsy. Please check it out and share it with friends!

A Birthday Alone (repost) and Her Second Year There (new)

This is something new I’m starting, a series of flashes typed onto photographs that tell a continuation of a story. This set and many others are now being sold on my Etsy.

Henri Marie Raymond de Toulouse-Lautrec-Monfa

She slowly backed the car into a spot, then pulled up a bit, then backed up a little as he eyed up the row of artwork lined up at a yard sale.

“Would you park already!” he yelled playfully. She giggled and started pulling forward again just to get him riled.

“Hey!” he said, pretending to shove her. She laughed harder.

“It’s fine! Go on without me!”

“You know I can’t do that. Yard sale etiquette.”

She stopped the car and turned off the engine, but by that time he was already out the door.

“Come on!” she heard him say, muffled through the closed windows. She smiled; she couldn’t help but love him. She undid her seatbelt and joined him.

They were both pulled toward the same piece of art at the same time.

“Wow,” he said, picking it up. “I love this.”

“Me too,” she agreed.

The artwork was a dark blue silhouette screen print of a man with a big had, bushy beard and old-fashioned glasses. Next to the image was the name Lautrec in fancy lettering.

“I wonder who this is! I want it.”

“It would look great on our red wall,” she said as she pulled out her phone and started typing what he could only assume was the name on Google. He waited a moment knowing what she would say.

“Henri Marie Raymond de Toulouse-Lautrec-Monfa.”

“Well that’s a mouthful. Glad the artist shortened it for this print.”

She ignored him and continued. “Post-impressionist French painter, printmaker, draftsman and illustrator, wow he sounds interesting. Says he is as well known as Cezanne and Van Gogh.”

“Hmm…then why haven’t I heard of him, but I know them?”

She ran her finger up the screen. “Um…you have. We brought one of his back from Paris.”

“No we didn’t!” He thought for a moment. “Did we?”

“Yup. Look!” She showed him the phone.

“Funny. Who knew? I like Lautrec!”

“We do, honey. We do.”

He looked at the print once more then held it up to the purveyor of the sale.

“How much?”

La Nuit Française

“I’ve never seen a balloon cause so much trouble!”

“I know, right?” she said to me.

We had just finished watching the 1956 French classic Le Balloon Rouge, or The Red Balloon.

“That kid got into so much trouble!” she said. I nodded. “How did you know there was so little dialogue?”

“Someone told me.” I had come up with the idea of creating our own soundtrack to it, side two of Françoise Hardy’s Maid in Paris, then side one of the Serge Gainsbourg and Jane Birkin record.

“It made it more fun, didn’t it?”

“Oui!”

“Dork.”

She fell back onto the couch and started staring at the ceiling. “I’m glad we didn’t sell them.”

“Even though we could use the money.”

“Money can’t replace the beauty of those records.”

Someone had just offered me a shit-ton of money for my collection of record française. Yeah right, like I would part with them.

“Yeah right, like I would part with them. I lugged half of them all the way across Montreal, and most of the others, I left clothing behind in Paris for those. They are definitely worth more than money to me.”

“Me too. They’re half the reason I liked you at first.”

“Very funny.”

“Fine, that’s a lie, but on the first date it is how you lured me back to your place. French records, a little wine, you sure know how to make a girl melt.”

“You’d be surprised how often that line works. I have a nice collection of French records at my place…”

“Nice.” She frowned. “Wait, you are kidding, right?”

“Of course. I’ve never shared these records with another woman.” She looked at me. “What?”

“Never?
I thought about it and decided to come clean. “Fine, fine, I have tried. None of them appreciated them.”

“Not as much as me, right?” she said, grabbing my arm and pulling me into her arms.

“Nope!” I said as I kissed her. We made out for a bit until the needle started scratching against nothing, then returned to its arm rest.

“Should I flip it?” she asked. “Or should we maybe watch the movie again with the real audio, just to see if the effect is different?”

I smiled and picked up the remote to start the movie again. The balloon once again floated down to the little boy and I laughed as he was once again told he could not bring it on the bus, thus being late for school again.

“I’ve never seen a balloon cause so much trouble.”

Years Later On the Beach

I am now selling digital prints and ORIGINAL one-of-a-kind prints of my typography stories on ETSY. Please stop by the shop and check them out!

Read a Comic in Public Day

He was sitting on the bench on his street reading The Walking Dead when the stranger approached him.

“Hi there. Reading a comic, huh?” she asked.

“Yup.”

“In public?”

“Yeah, that’s the general idea.”

“You know Read a Comic in Public Day was yesterday, right?”

He looked over his copy of The Walking Dead and raised his eyebrows.

“You’re a day late,” she said with a sly smile.

“I worked all day yesterday. A double. And it doesn’t have to be Read a Comic in Public Day to read a comic in public. Maybe I sit here every Sunday and read. Maybe I read novels, literature, classics, and everything else on Sundays. Maybe this week just happens to be a comic.”

“Maybe,” she said with a hint of doubt, “But I doubt it,” she finished as she sat next to him. “Walking Dead, huh? Like zombies?”

“Who doesn’t?”

“True, true. So what did you read sitting here last week? War and Peace? Great Gatsby, perhaps?”

His face turned the slightest hint of red. “The Last Man,” he mumbled.

“Thought so,” she smiled.

She riffled through her bag and pulled out an earlier copy of The Walking Dead.

“Mind if I join you? I worked a double yesterday too.”

“Sure.”

She opened it to page one. “Just don’t tell me what happens. You’re ahead of me.”

He continued to read, but now with a big smile on his face.

The World’s Largest

It was September of 1966, and the girls were too excited to sleep, concentrate on their homework, play in the yard or even watch their weekly shows.

Grandpa was coming.

They hadn’t seen him in over six months. He’d bought the camper after mother passed and had been seeing the world ever since, fulfilling her dream of wandering the country trying to see all of the best places.

National landmarks? No. Famous museums? Nope. Skyscrapers, cities, overlooks, natural wonders? I only wish.

She wanted to see all of the sideshows.

As a little girl, her father had a business venture out in the middle of nowhere, and due to reasons never fully explained to me, there was one time that he had to bring a young version of my mother with him. On the way home, he was particularly exuberant due to such a successful meeting that, in his good mood, he detoured at a sign that said, “Come see the world’s largest frying pan.” And that’s when she caught the bug.

I always thought it was about the rare moment she shared alone with her father. Her mother never really left her father’s side, which is why I’ve always been curious as to the events that lead them to this trip without her. But she always told me it was about the sheer size of it, the fathoming of how a job that large could even have been completed. The pan was the size of a house, she’d said.

Anyway, she spent so many years talking about traveling cross-country to see these monuments to human wastefulness, but they’d only seen about seven or eight; father was all about the history of our great country, not oversized objects. So he started this adventure and spent a chunk of their savings on a camper to see as many of them as possible, I think out of guilt.

So now, my girls, who love their grandpa very much, who have spent the last half of a year missing him, are excited at the prospect of his arrival.

Every car that drives down the street calls them to the window.

“Is it him?” I would ask.

“Nope,” Linda would say with a dejected look on her face.

“Uh-uh,” Nancy would respond, slumping back onto the couch.

“You know, girls, he may not even get here today. He’s driving a lot, there’s traffic, accidents, and he’s old, he needs to sleep and rest sometimes.” They hated hearing this.

It was the next day when he finally showed up, and the girls were distracted by a new board game I’d set out for them. It was the loud bang of the camper’s old engine that made them jump up and run to the window. “He’s here!” Nancy shouted as she ran to the door, Linda’s little legs trying to keep up with her big sister.

Nancy threw the door open and ran out to my father, who was coming up the drive. “Hello my princesses, how I’ve missed you!” he exclaimed, reaching out and wrapping his arms around the two of them, lifting them off the ground to a chorus of giggles. “My how you’ve grown!”

As he put them down they blushed and then became shy.

“I hope you girls are ready, after dinner I’m going to put on a slide show!”

Oh no. A slide show. My parents had been putting us through those for years, and they were one thing I didn’t miss. And to think those were shots of historical landmarks and beautiful, picturesque landscapes. The last thing I wanted to see was a photograph of the world’s largest artichoke.

“I even got one of the world’s largest artichoke! Well, it’s a photograph of a photograph, of course, but it’ll do.”

The girls ran around a bit and as they tired themselves out I approached.

“Hey dad. How are you?”

“Couldn’t be better! When’s dinner? I’ll get the slide projector set up for after!”

Dinner came and went, a bit too fast for my liking, when dad got up and went out to the camper, returning with a brown paper bag. “We’ll do the slide show in a moment, it’s still a bit light out. But first we’ll do gifts!”

The girls got excited and started smiling as he rooted through the bag.

Stephen, at the head of the table, was the first recipient. “Okay for my favorite son-in-law, a t-shirt!” It was a shirt that had a drawing of a man leaning against an artichoke that was almost his size, and it said “I Got Choked Up at the World’s Largest Artichoke, Castroville, CA” and he smiled.

“Wow, thanks Bill,” he said, barely containing a laugh.

I got a mug that had the words “Come Say Your Prayers at the World’s Largest Rosary” and it had the rosary around the lip. “Wow dad, this is great. Where did you see this, again?”

“Oh it says it on the bottom, Newport, Rhode Island.”

I smiled.

“And for my special little granddaughters, I got you these!” They were two stuffed strawberries.

“World’s largest strawberry?” I asked.

“Yup, Strawberry Point, Iowa. Stood on top of a pole. It was a statue, of course. But quite large, even for a statue!” He looked out the dining room window. “Well, kids, it’s dark enough, everyone get ready for the show!”

We assembled in the living room on the couch as he doused the lights and turned on the projector. It started with a shot made from a titling set we bought him before he left. “World’s Largest” it said.

“Clever title, Bill,” my husband stated dryly.

“Thanks! Okay here we go!”

And thus started a cavalcade. A stuffed steer that almost reached the ceiling. A statue of a sharptail grouse (I didn’t even know what one was until then) that he’d driven all the way to Canada to see. A doorknob (I’m not kidding). A dog dish (again, not a joke). A shot of a penny with Lincoln’s head larger than my father. A potato. Yes, a potato. Followed by a huge pierogi statue on a fork. The shots went on and on until about an hour later, when we were finally saved by that giant white light of emptiness in the slide cartridge.

Stephen and I clapped, the girls snored.

The next morning as I served breakfast he had a surprising announcement.

“I’ll be heading back out after breakfast.”

“Oh I’m sure whatever you need we have here, dad,” I responded.

“No, I meant back on the road.”

I looked at the girls, who both teared up.

“But dad,” I said to him softly. “You just got here. We were going to take you to the pool today. The girls-“

He looked down at the eggs I’d placed in front of him. “I’m sorry, dear, but they’ll understand one day. This is something I have to do.”

After breakfast he brought his already-packed bag down and had his camera.

“Come on, girls, let’s ask your mother to get a photograph of us outside of the camper.”

We all went outside and while the girls checked out the inside of his vehicle, he hugged me. “Sorry darling, but you have to understand. I still have a lot to see before-”

I didn’t want him to finish so I hugged him again. Stephen came up and shook his hand.

“Girls, come out and let’s get your photograph with grandpa.”

They came out and posed with him in front of the camper as I took the shot. They looked a bit sad to see him go so soon, this man whom they adored.

“Drive safe,” Stephen said to him.

“Always,” he said, gave me one last hug, then picked up each of the girls and giving them a kiss.

He pulled himself up into the driver’s seat with some difficulty, shut the door, started the engine and then rolled down the window.

“Where will you go, dad?”

“Circleville, Ohio. World’s largest pumpkin, which they then made into the world’s largest pumpkin pie.”

He smiled a huge smile, waved and drove off.

A Perfect Sunday

As he sat in his moon chair listening to the rain he realized what a perfect Sunday it was.

Peaceful.

Relaxing.

He felt the excited/trapped feeling people get sometimes in storms. Moments like this had been his favorite since he was a child.

It was nearly perfect, but something was missing. As soon as he recognized what else the day called for, he ran to his record collection, moved a lamp close by so he could read them in the cloudy darkness, and pulled out all four of his Smiths records. He put one on, turned the sound down to a three, and returned to the moon chair just as A Rush and A Push and the Land is Ours started up on the player.

Perfection.

The Big Blue Toe

The big blue toe peered up at her from his flip flop.

“So what did you do to it?”

“I don’t know,” he said to her. “But it’s throbbing right now.”

“Maybe you kicked the leg of the bed again. You tend to do that when you make the bed. Did you make the bed?”

“Psh, I haven’t washed my sheets in weeks.”

“Gross,” she said, wrinkling her nose. He laughed in response. “So what DID you do yesterday?”

He looked away. “Nothing of consequence.”

“I know when you’re hiding something. Worst liar ever. You went out with her again, didn’t you.”

“Nope.”

“Yes you did. You know, most people think it’s rude to go out with your ex when you’re with a new girl.”

“I didn’t go out with her. You’re crazy.”

“Look at me when you say that then.”

He exaggerated looking at her, widening his eyes. “I didn’t go out with her.”

“Okay you’re not lying. But let’s see…did she come here? Technically that’s not going out.”

He didn’t answer.

“And if that’s the case, you’d be in bigger trouble than you would be after going out for something like coffee or a drink.” She got up and went to his bedroom, returning in a minute or so.

“Anything else to say?” Now she looked pissed, and her emotion was reflected in her voice.

“Nope.”

“I just Sherlock Holmed your ass. Your sheets smell like dryer sheet. So my only assumption can be you lied about washing the sheets, you had her over, had sex, and your dumb ass figured you’d better wash the sheets so I wouldn’t find out. Then you smacked your toe on the leg of the bed, like you always do, and got caught. Ass.”

She slammed the door on her way out.

Words given to me by Christina.

Striking Her Pose

She knew it was time for her big debut, the photo shoot of a lifetime. After painstakingly going through her vast wardrobe, she found her favorite outfit, a flowing off-white sundress with purple and yellow stripes, her favorite colors. After making sure she was not being watched, she slipped out of her jumper and into the dress, carefully looking both ways as she did so. It wouldn’t be right to expose herself to her fans like some common starlet.

She went to her three-way mirror and started applying makeup, careful to keep it sensible yet beautiful. She wanted to draw attention to her best assets, her beautiful brown eyes and her pouty lips that brought her so much fame. Finished with that, she looked up and down her shoe closet, and decided after much thought to go barefoot for the shoot.

Now for the pose. She put her hand on her chin, tapping away at her cheek as she always did when deep in thought, and looked around the room for the perfect spot. They would be here any minute, and she wanted to show how professional she was by being completely prepared. Her eyes landed on the merry-go-round horse she’d been given by her first co-star, a famous actor who would remain nameless to avoid tabloid speculation. Footsteps could be heard, and she knew she only had a moment to prepare as she jumped on the plaster animal and struck the perfect post against the pole.

The door opened and a man in white walked in, surveying the scene. He carried, not a camera, but a small cup of water and some pills. She suddenly looked around the room, realizing she was sitting on a bedpost and wearing only a white sheet with purple and yellow stripes.

“Time for your medication, Miss Doe.”

Photograph by Adam Courtney and model Suzy Lanza whose blog is can be found here.